68 Knots (16 page)

“It was totally easy,” Logan said. “Not to mention delicious.”

“Easy?” Crystal said with a sneer. “I didn't see
you
diving eight feet down and sticking your hands in those fucking traps. I'll do some more diving, but no one had better think it's easy!”

“Sorry,” Logan said. “I didn't mean that it wasn't—”

“Yeah, okay,” Crystal interrupted. “Anyway, I'm game to do it again. Only this time, I'll wear my bathing suit.”

Marietta laughed. “Good idea,” she said. “Do that underwear thing again and all four guys will dive with you.”

Marietta steered the ship into a long narrow bay. Logan and Jesse rowed Crystal out to a cluster of lobster floats, and in less than an hour, they were back with a dozen large lobsters.

“We can keep this up all summer,” Logan said. “I wonder if you can actually get tired of eating lobster?”

“Not a chance,” Marietta said, releasing the wheel to fuss with her running shorts. “It would be like getting tired of flying to Europe or driving a Porsche.”

Joy boiled the lobsters for dinner that night and served them with her usual outstanding side dishes. Now that supplies were on board, the crew began to feel that theirs was a life of luxury. During the days, they sailed along the coast of Maine, exploring inlets and islands, discussing which mansions they would own if they were rich, and mastering the steering of the ship and the setting of the sails. In the evenings, once anchored, they sat on deck or around the dining table, sipping drinks and sharing their thoughts and dreams. With increasing frequency, Marietta placed herself at Arthur's side, wherever he was. She even traded bunks with Logan so she could sleep close to the captain's quarters; despite the six other people in the room, it somehow seemed
more intimate. For his part, Logan began to volunteer with increasing frequency for whatever mission Crystal was on. Joy passed time by writing lengthy letters to her boyfriend back home, and BillFi and Jesse often engaged in long conversation with sparse words. Jesse continued the work on his tattoos, adding colorful swoops and swirls to his right arm and his feet and calves. BillFi drew patterns on his back.

When she wasn't on duty, Dawn spent a lot of time alone. She would take a notebook from her duffel, sit on the aft rail or the cushions on the windward side, and make sketches of the scenes she saw. Or she would lie beneath the mainsail, her head leaning against a cushion, and meditate, chanting and bringing her soul into greater harmony with the wind and the ocean and the birds and animals around her. And sometimes she would watch Arthur and Marietta for signs of disillusionment.

“Jeez,” BillFi said one afternoon as he and Jesse took the bow watch shift. “It's freezing out here. It's really freezing. I mean, it's really cold. I never thought Maine would be this damn cold in July. I mean, it's really cold.”

Jesse nodded. “It's cold,” he said, his strong voice vibrating through the sea air. “I like the cold. Makes you strong.” He searched the water ahead for lobster floats and rocks. All clear. He pulled a red marker out of his pocket and took off his pants. He began an elaborate design on his right thigh.

The sky was gray, and the water below the bow was rolling pewter. A chilly wind was blowing from the northwest. The dullness and the cold made BillFi think of the Bronx and the cinderblock pillbox he called home. About twenty kids in the foster-care system lived there in between home assignments. BillFi had moved in three months previously, when his latest foster parents were arrested for cocaine possession. He didn't
mind. Even though it was scary, the shelter was more home-like than the foster home he had been sleeping in. Those foster parents—George and Janet Carroll—were weird. They looked okay on the surface, but they stayed up all night long and never seemed to keep a job. They pierced each other's ears and navels, and they let people come in without knocking whenever they wanted. Billy—that's what the Carrolls called him—found himself longing for the rigid schedule and predictable food of the shelter even more than he feared the aggression of the other kids.

He had been back in the shelter for a few weeks when the guy who ran the place showed him the Leadership Cruise brochure. “We have some grant money for sending kids to places like this,” he said. “Wanna go? I think you'd get a lot out of it.”

Billy shrugged. He was always “going.” He deeply wanted to know what “staying” felt like, but he had long ago stopped fighting the Foster Machine. Besides, the other kids in the shelter made him nervous. He was never relaxed there. He didn't dare. “Sure,” he said. “Sure. I'll go. Sure.”

BillFi scanned the leaden waves. “Did you ever wonder,” he said to Jesse, “why your guardians sent you here? Did you ever wonder? I mean, Frank at the shelter told me it would be a lot of fun. He said it would be fun. But I think he also sent me here for a reason. Some kind of reason. There has to be a reason. Something he thinks I need. He must think I need something.”

Jesse nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Me, too. Don't know what, though.” He drew a concentric orange maze on his knee.

BillFi looked out across the water through the tinge of his thick glasses. “I know my folks wouldn't have sent me here. They really wouldn't have. I know they wouldn't have. They didn't care if I learned nothing or not. They really didn't care.
My dad only wanted me around so he could have something to smack. That's all he wanted me for. Something to smack. And my mom didn't care if he did or didn't. She didn't care. Really. She didn't care if I was around or not. She doesn't even know where I am now. She really doesn't.”

“My mom, either,” Jesse said. “She's dead, remember? My dad's in Florida. He's the one that gave me to the shelter. So he could move to Florida.”

BillFi smiled. “Wasn't it great the way McKinley just got himself out of the way? The way he just left, right when we wanted him to? Wasn't it great? Wouldn't it be great if our folks did that? Just left, died, right when we wanted them to? Wouldn't it be great?”

“No,” Jesse said, tattooing a jagged black line on his upper thigh. “I love my dad.”

Three days later, Crystal was doing chin-ups on the starboard rigging, her wiry muscles rippling beneath a tight white T-shirt, when she stopped in mid-pull. “What the hell is that?” she asked.

The others were lounging around the ship, enjoying a warm and peaceful day. They straggled to their feet and looked to the east.

There, not far away, was a small raggedy sailboat. At least it seemed to be a sailboat. It was short and squat, with a stain-streaked sail that seemed far too large for its stumpy mast. In the stern was a woodstove that wheezed dark smoke into the air; the smoke trailed behind the sluggish ship like a cloud of anemic bees. The sailboat's deck was a chaotic mess of wooden crates, large metal barrels, and tangled clumps of rope.

In place of the standard spoked wheel at the helm, this boat had two cables dangling out of a stanchion. And at the helm, tugging on the cables like a horseback rider tugging reins, stood a fat shirtless man wearing a sombrero and clenching a soggy cigar in his grinning mouth. He waved at the
Dreadnought
crew and continued toward them. The name
Chamber Pot
was painted along the boat's side.

“That thing is leaving some kind of slimy trail on the water,” Logan said, pointing to the tiny boat. “Peeee-uuuu.”

“It seems to be coming this way,” BillFi said. “I think it's coming toward us. Right toward us. What should we do? Who is that?”

“A friend we haven't met yet,” said Joy. “Let's be polite.” She was at the helm, so she turned the
Dreadnought
into the wind so it would slow to a stop.

A moment later the
Chamber Pot
sagged to a stop alongside the
Dreadnought
, and the paunchy man boomed out a greeting. “Ahoy there!” he shouted, a lot louder than necessary. He had to turn his head sharply upward to look at the
Dreadnought
crew on the deck above him. “Permission to come aboard? You don't see many such fine-looking ships these days.”

The stench from the
Chamber Pot
bloated its way skyward until the entire
Dreadnought
crew had suffered its gifts.

“Oh, Goddess, help us!” Dawn said in a loud whisper to the others. “What on earth is that smell?”

“For your sniffing pleasure today,” Logan offered, in a whispered British accent, “I present to you the essence of rotten salmon, with potent overtones of cheap beer, kitty litter, and pickled pigs' feet, all finished nicely with a glaze of armpit sweat and underwear that has never,
ever
been washed.”

“Shit!” Crystal said. “Check it out. That's not a cigar! This freak is sucking on a sausage!”

“Permission granted!” Arthur called down. The others looked at him in amazement. “Beats visiting on
his
boat,” he whispered.

The man dragged his bulky mass up the
Dreadnought
's ladder and flopped down onto a stack of vinyl mats. He took a moment to catch his breath, then he took the sausage out of his mouth. “Howdy, fellow sailors,” the man puffed. “My name's Fletcher Dalyrimple. Fletcher Dalyrimple the
Third
, as a matter of fact. Please call me Smudge. My friends all call me Smudge. Don't know why—they just always have. One of those things that just sticks to a person, you know? All my friends from when I was a kid—Spinky, Bucket, Freaks, and the gang—we all had nicknames. Some good ones, too. Sometimes a nickname would just happen, you know? It would just appear and stick itself to a kid and stay there for life. That's the way it is with me. Name just jumped up and latched onto me like a tick on a horse's ass.” He laughed loudly, put the sausage on the other side of his mouth, and farted. “Oooo-weeee!” he laughed again. “Seven-point-two on the Richter Scale! Hope I didn't break your boat! Snakes and scorpions! We'll need a typhoon to get rid of that one!”

The
Dreadnought
crew didn't know whether to laugh, cry, hurl over the side, or run for cover. Logan clearly liked this strange new stranger. Marietta clearly didn't. The others fell in between, mostly amused at this bizarre guest.

“So, Smudge,” Arthur said. “That's quite a boat you have there.”

A serious look crept across the man's face. “Ah, the
Chamber Pot
. As fine a ship as was ever built. Crafted by Neptune himself.
She can spit in the devil's eye and laugh when she tells the tale. She's tough as nails and pretty as the finest gal at the party. She's been my home and my companion for six years now, and we just follow the breezes and peddle our wares. Never hurt anybody, always have a laugh, and we'll lie to our grandmothers and blow kisses to the ladies all night long. If I ever lost the
Chamber Pot
, I'd put granite in my pockets and go for a long swim.”

He was silent for a moment. “Say,” he added, brightening up again and rubbing his enormous stomach. “I just mentioned how I peddle my wares. I've got some great seashells that I found all up and down the coast, and I carve animals out of driftwood. I even glue rocks together to make interesting conversation pieces. Care to see 'em? They don't cost much, and they add joy to every living day.”

“No, thanks,” Marietta said sharply.

“Ah, well. Can't fault a fellow for asking. Learned that from a cat I had a while back. She'd ask for her dinner, and then she'd ask for half of yours, and you couldn't help lovin' her all the same,” Smudge said with a belch. “Well, if you're not interested in some fine New England folk art, maybe I can interest you in a story. I know some of the best stories ever told around the sea, and I'd be happy to tell you one or two of them now. Of course, I don't accept money for telling my stories—wouldn't be right, you know—but I might let you talk me into trading one for a sip or two of rum. You
do
have some rum, don't you?”

Before Arthur could respond with a prudent lie, Logan jumped to his feet. “I'll fetch you some, Captain Smudge,” he said. “Be right back.”

With a very full mug of rum in his hand and an audience of amused teenagers sitting around the deck, Smudge took a drink and a deep labored breath—and began.

“This takes place down in the Chesapeake Bay, down in Maryland, you see,” Smudge said, wiping sweat from his neck. “If you've ever been down to the Chesapeake, you know what I'm talking about. Along the western shore there, the road goes gradually up a long gentle hill. The farther up that hill you go, the houses keep getting bigger and bigger, with more and more columns and verandas and flower boxes on the front. And the yards keep getting bigger and bigger, turning into pastures and stables and polo grounds. And the cars get more expensive the higher up that hill you go. And the people get better dressed, with nicer and nicer hairdos and worse and worse manners.