Beach, Ruth and the Senator got to talking again about shipwrecks.
“What about the Margaret B. Rouss?” Ruth asked, after the Senator had been quiet for a long time. “That shipwreck ended pretty well for everyone.”
She offered up this ship’s name carefully. Sometimes the name Margaret B. Rouss would calm the Senator down, but sometimes it would agitate him.
“Jesus Christ, Ruthie!” he exploded. “Jesus Christ!”
This time it agitated him.
“The Margaret B. Rouss was filled with lumber, and it took forever to sink! You know that, Ruthie. Jesus Christ! You know it was an exception. You know it’s not usually that easy to be shipwrecked. And I’ll tell you another thing. It is not pleasant to be torpedoed under any conditions, with any cargo, no matter what happened to the crew of the goddamn Margaret B. Rouss.”
“And what did happen to the crew, Senator?”
“You know full well what happened to the crew of the Margaret B. Rouss.”
“They rowed forty miles—”
“—forty-five miles.”
“They rowed forty-five miles to Monte Carlo, where they befriended the Prince of Monaco. And they lived in luxury from that point forward. That’s a happy story about a shipwreck, isn’t it?”
“An unusually easy shipwreck, Ruthie.”
“I’ll say.”
“An exception.”
“My father says it’s an exception when any boat sinks.”
“Well, isn’t he a smartie? And aren’t you a smartie, too? You think because of the Margaret B. Rouss it’s safe for you to spend your life working on the water in someone’s lobster boat?”
“I’m not spending my life on any water, Senator. All I said was maybe I could get a job spending three months on the water. Most of the time I’d be less than two miles from shore. I was just saying I want to work on the water for the summer.”
“You know it’s exceedingly dangerous to put any boat on the open sea, Ruth. It’s very dangerous out there. And most people aren’t going to be able to row any forty-five miles to any Monte Carlo.”
“I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“In most conditions, you’d be dead from exposure by then. There was a shipwreck in the Arctic Circle. The men were in lifeboats for three days, up to their knees in icy water.”
“Which shipwreck?”
“I do not recall the name.”
“Really?” Ruth had never heard of a shipwreck the Senator did not know by name.
“The name doesn’t matter. The wrecked sailors landed on an Icelandic island eventually. They all had frostbite. The Eskimos tried to revive their frozen limbs. What did the Eskimos do, Ruthie? They rubbed the men’s feet vigorously with oil. Vigorously! The men were screaming, begging the Eskimos to stop. But the Eskimos kept on vigorously rubbing the men’s feet with oil. I can’t recall the name of the shipwreck. But you should remember that when you get on a boat.”
“I’m not planning on sailing to Iceland.”
“Some of those men on the Icelandic island fainted from the pain of the vigorous rubbing, and they died right there.”
“I’m not saying that shipwrecks are good, Senator.”
“Every one of those men eventually needed amputations.”
“Senator?”
“To the knee, Ruthie.”
“Senator?” Ruth said again.
“They died from the pain of the rubbing.”
“Senator, please.”
“The survivors had to stay in the Arctic until the next summer, and the only thing they had for food was blubber, Ruth.”
“Please,” she said.
Please. Please.
Because there was Webster, standing before them. He was coated in mud up to his skinny waist. He had tight curls sweated into his hair and dashes of mud across his face. And he was holding an elephant’s tusk flat across his filthy, outstretched hands.
“Oh, Senator,” Ruth said. “Oh, my God.”
Webster laid the tusk on the sand before the Senator’s feet, as one would lay a gift before a regent. Well, the Senator had no words for this gift. The three people on the beach—the old man, the young woman, the tiny, muddy young man—regarded the elephant tusk. No one moved until Cookie rose up stiffly and slouched toward the thing with suspicion.
“No, Cookie,” Senator Simon said, and the dog assumed the posture of a Sphinx, her nose stretched toward the tusk as if to smell it.
At last, in an apologetic and hesitant way, Webster said, “I guess he was a small elephant.”
Indeed, the tusk was small. Very small for an elephant that had grown to a mighty size during 138 years of myth. The tusk was slightly longer than one of Webster’s arms. It was a slim tusk, with a modest arc. At one end was a dull point, like a thumb. At the other end was the ragged edge of