We can fuel up in an hour. I just called the port captain.
Well done, I say.
I put the bit to my temple like it’s a gun. Just to make her smile.
I can’t go on, I say. I can’t!
Don’t do it! she says on cue. Think of the children!
* * *
—
I close the logbook. Fatigue overtakes me. Fatigue, and a grief so concentrated I swim in it. A grief that makes my arms heavy. A grief that makes my back slump. A grief that makes me close my eyes. I want to sleep like the unborn and the dead. I want to sleep so deeply that I see him again. I want to confront him. Who were you? I want to say. Why do you talk to me now? I want to shake his inert body.
But what’s the use? Our losses will never be done with us. They have endless patience.
I toss the logbook to the back of the closet.
I put my chin on my knees, and for a long time, I just sit there.
I should push the old fucker into Cartagena Bay.
April 4. We sail today. It’s early. I just have a couple minutes. But I want to write down a dream I had last night. Dad was in it.
In my dream, Therese & I are at our Aunt Joan’s house. We’re kids. We’re sitting on the floor playing w/ a Lite-Brite. There’s a big party in the other room. We can hear the adult talk & laughter. Therese is being very gentle w/ me. Which is unusual because she was v. bossy most of the time. We take turns plugging in the colored bulbs one by one. I’m filled w/ a feeling of gratitude & love for her. It’s as if I am remembering in one moment all the times she took care of me in little ways. Reaching cereal boxes on high shelves for me. Jerking me back from intersections. Getting me soup when Mom was laid up in bed after Dad died.
I hear my father’s voice from the other room. Not specific words, just the sound of it. In the dream, I know he’s going to die. Even though I’m physically a child, I have this adult knowledge.
Emotion closes in on me. Should I tell Therese what I know?
Therese, I whisper. I have to tell you something.
But she says, All finished. Like she didn’t hear what I said. Should we turn the lights on, Mikey?
Then she looks over my shoulder.
Who’s that? she says.
I turn around.
In the doorway, there is a man. A stranger. He looks like just a normal Ohioan, parted hair, clean slacks, but I know who he is. He and I stare at each other.
My dad’s in the other room, I tell the stranger. That way.
The stranger nods, and goes in. The party falls silent.
I wake up.
* * *
—
A pain in my neck wakes me. I have fallen asleep in the closet, my head kinked over on a stack of shoeboxes. Someone has spread a blanket over me. I blink hard and rub my eyes.
Good morning, whispers my mother.
She’s sitting across from me. She wears her reading glasses, and the same clothes from yesterday. Sunlight falls across her face in the striped pattern of the closet louvers. Michael’s logbook lies shut beside her.
What time is it, Mom? I say, using the word before I’m awake enough to stop it.
It’s six, she says. The kids will be up soon.
How long have you been here? I ask.
She shrugs. Long enough.
I smile at her. Well? I say. What do you think?
It doesn’t matter what I think, she says.
It does to me.
Well, you have to tell the police where Harry Borawski was. He was in Cartagena, looking for you.