B Negative (6 page)

Who does that leave me?

The Man Formerly Known as Dad.

I realize I've stopped using a name for him. I think of him and I see a picture in my head instead. A short solid guy with a close shave and a beige windbreaker. The guy no one else cares about except me and Martha. And Earl, I guess, at least when he doesn't show up for work. It's like he's an icon on my computer desktop now. Not a real person, just a symbol representing a function.

John Armstrong might not be my father but he's the only person I've ever been able to count on. Maybe I'm an idiot for thinking something's wrong, and maybe he really is just taking a couple of well-earned days off. But the truth is, I don't believe that.

My guess is he's sitting somewhere, staring into space, looking at his life, too, and feeling just as bad as I am.

I'm going to find him.

I have no idea where to look but I'll figure it out.

I get out of the car. I peel the grimy T-shirt off my hand and throw it in the garbage can outside the gym. I wrap the clean white towel around it.

I remember him in his uniform showing me how to make a sling for a broken arm.

I think Navy.

I think ship.

Then I think boat.

His new boat.

He's on the
Julie-Anne
. I hate to think I inherited Anthony's intuitive side, but who cares? I know that's where he is.

And anyway, I've tried everywhere else I can think of.

I jump back in the car and slam the door.

Where did he say he moored the boat?

Herring Cove.

No, but it's close. The name of some fish.

Salmon? Mackerel? Tuna?

Halibut.

Halibut Cove. I get the map out of the glove compartment. Good old Chief Petty Officer Armstrong. I'd never have bothered getting a map for myself, but he made sure there was one here, neatly folded, when I needed it.

I spread it out with my good arm. Halibut Cove is about where I thought it was, only farther out. It'll probably take me an hour.

I check the time on the dash: 7:36 pm. No wonder I'm so hungry. I put the map back, only not as neatly, and find the energy bar he also left in the glove compartment for me.

I don't know if it's the “28 nutrients” in the bar that do it or the feeling that I'm on a mission, but I'm feeling okay.

It feels good to worry about someone else for a change.

Chapter Sixteen

I don't know what I'm going to say to him.

Maybe worse, I don't know what
he's
going to say to me.

I turn on the radio and just try not to think about it. But all the songs are about love, or making love, or cheating on someone. I turn the radio off.

I look at the scenery instead. The road runs along the ocean. At least that's pretty. I hope it will distract me.

There's a ship out on the horizon.

I can't tell from here if it's a Navy ship or a container ship, but it makes me think of Dad and what Mom did while he was away. I can't even look at the ocean anymore. I turn back and stare at the road.

To take my mind off things, I start to sing. I hum that little riff I was working on. Then remember what the song was going to be called.

B negative.

I snort in a way that could almost pass for a laugh.

I make myself think about Christie. She's a lot prettier than Tara. Better body. Nice smile. I try and hang on to that image of her and the thought that this time tomorrow night I'll be sitting across from her at the Nectar House.

But I can't.

Thinking about Christie, me and Tara makes me think of Anthony, Mom and Dad. And that makes me think of who I thought I was and who I really am and how I got to be that way.

Everything makes me think of that. I'm never going to be able to forget it. My whole life is poisoned.

I drive and drive and drive, and the same things just keep going round in my head. I suddenly understand how people go crazy.

By the time I get outside the city limits, I'm talking to myself. Fighting with myself. Telling myself to grow up. I'm just one step removed from those homeless guys who shuffle along the street, screaming at their invisible friends. I'm even starting to smell bad.

I pass a sign saying
Halibut Cove,
Next Exit
. It snaps me out of it. I feel something sort of like relief. I don't know why. Maybe I just want to get it over with.

I turn off the highway. It's getting dark, and there aren't as many streetlights on this little road.

I drive for a while, and then the car starts to jerk and sputter.

I'm an idiot.

I slam the steering wheel with my good hand.

Gas
.

I was supposed to get the light fixed on the fuel gauge weeks ago.

The car lurches. I manage to pull over to the side before it stops. The very first thing I think is, How many times did Dad tell me to keep my equipment in good repair?

I'm going to be embarrassed to tell him what happened.

I've always hated to disappoint him.

Then it dawns on me that he's got bigger things to be disappointed about than a busted fuel gauge.

Chapter Seventeen

I lock the car door and start walking. I try hitchhiking, but only two cars go past and neither stop. I can't blame them. I don't think I'd pick up a big guy with a bruised face and a bloody hand on a dark road either.

There are only a few houses along the way and they're pushed back from the highway. One has a light on, and I think of ringing the doorbell and asking for help, but I don't. Somehow I don't feel like I'm in such a hurry anymore.

The closer I get, the more scared I am. It's like I'm walking into a big black hole.

The road is really steep and I'm tired. My head throbs. My hand feels heavy. I make myself keep moving anyway.

I get to the top of a hill and look down.

That must be Halibut Cove stretched out below me. Even in the dark, I can see the white cabins of the fishing boats on the black water. One of them could be the
Julie-Anne
.

My heart starts up like a metronome.

The
Julie-Anne
. Some guy probably named it after his wife or his girlfriend. I wonder if that's why he sold it.

Would I still be sailing the
Tara-
Marie
?

I get this sick picture of Anthony climbing aboard the
Maura-Louise
while Dad was away at sea.

I grind my eyes closed. Thinking stuff like that doesn't help. I shake my head, open my eyes and keep going until I get down to the water.

A dog barks somewhere off in the distance. Otherwise the place seems deserted. The little parking lot is empty and the asphalt's crumbling. Scraggly trees hang over the driveway. Doesn't look like Halibut Cove is used much anymore.

There's a rocky beach, which is slimy with seaweed, and an old wharf.

I climb to the end and almost fall through the rotten boards. I squint out at the water. Three boats are tied up in the bay. In this light I can't read any of the names. I can't even tell what color their hulls are now, but I notice a tiny red light on one of them.

It's a cigarette. Someone's sitting on the deck, smoking.

I cup my hands around my mouth. I call out, “Hello? Hello?”

I don't know if the person hears me or not, but there's no answer.

I've got to get closer.

For a second I think of swimming out, but that would be crazy. The water's calm, and it's not that far, but with this arm I'd never make it.

I climb down from the wharf and look around. There's only one streetlight out on the road so it's hard to see. I fumble around the parking lot. There's an old metal shed, rusting away at the edge of the woods, but it's locked up tight. Someone seems to have dumped some garbage over to the side. I find part of a life-saving buoy under the wharf, but it would never hold me. I toss it back in.

It hits something. I lean in to look. There's a little upended aluminum dinghy. I don't know how long it's been there or how seaworthy it is, but it's better than nothing.

I pull it out and turn it over. There are even oars, though one of the blades is broken.

Good enough.

I drag the dinghy down to the water's edge. I slip on the seaweed and go under. My bad hand bangs against the oarlock. I can feel the pain right up to my teeth. I swear, get up, then slip again. I sit in the water up to my armpits for a good thirty seconds before I can make myself move.

Somehow I don't think this ever happened to John Armstrong.

I brace myself, steady the boat and get in. I start to row. My hand is practically useless. I have to keep giving a couple of extra strokes on the right side just to keep more or less in line.

My plan is to pull up alongside the fishing boat and ask the person if they know anything. I turn my head to see how much farther I have to go. I'm close enough to read the name.

Julie-Anne
.

The man on board takes another puff on his cigarette.

“Dad?” I say.

“Nope. Sorry,” he says. “I think you got the wrong man, son.”

Chapter Eighteen

He doesn't even help me aboard. He's too drunk. I can see that immediately.

But he's also too drunk to stop me. I pull myself onto the boat and just try to ignore the pain slicing up through my arm. The boat tips from my weight, and bottles roll across the floor. He must have been here for a while.

He doesn't ask about the blood. He says, “So what are you doing here?”

I don't have a chance to answer. “Hope you're not here for your next child support payment, because I got some bad news for you, buddy.” He flicks his cigarette into the water. “I closed that bank account.”

“Dad,” I say. It's just instinct.

He wags his finger at me. “Now that's got to stop. I'm Mr. Armstrong to you, boy.” His voice is slurred.

He lights another cigarette. A little wave knocks the boat. A beer bottle hits my foot. I kick it out of the way. I'm suddenly mad at him.

Mad at him for drinking. Mad at him for taking off on me.

Mad at him for not being my father. Or at least not still acting like he is.

He takes a long slow puff on his cigarette, the way people do when they're wasted. It lights up his face for a second. I can see he didn't shave today. His hair is hanging over his eyes. I barely recognize the guy.

I realize what a prick I'm being. How can I be mad at
him
?

“Look,” I say, “I know what you must be feeling.”

“You do, do ya?” he says and laughs. “You know what it's like to be at sea, thinking you've got some sweet little wife waiting at home for you? You know what it's like to spend all your life and all your money looking after some kid who ain't even yours? You know what it's like to be taken for a fool?”

He raises his beer like he's toasting me. “Congratulations! Always knew you were a smart boy.”

He downs it in one gulp, then belches. “I used to figure you took after my mother's side of the family. She was a schoolteacher, you know.”

I nod. “Yeah. Granny Armstrong taught me the alphabet.”

“
Missus
Armstrong,” he says. “Granny's just for family.”

He pulls another beer out of the box by his feet. Then he says, “Sorry! Where are my manners?” He tosses it to me and pulls another one out for himself.

“Manners. Maybe that was my problem! I've never been that cultivated a fella.” He pops off the lid and tosses it into the water.

He winks at me. “I think maybe that's what your mother was looking for. Someone a little more, shall we say, refined. A little more educated. Maybe even a little taller. What do you think?”

I think he knows.

He stares at me and runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth.

“Well,” I say, “I don't really…”

“Shut up!” He's never screamed at me before. “Speak when you're spoken to. I've had enough of you.”

He sits there, staring at me. He's so drunk he's wobbling in his chair. He guzzles down his beer.

“Your mother and An-thon-y were in a play together once. Did you know that?” He's pretending to be polite. “I fortunately didn't get to see it. I was in the Persian Gulf, I believe, serving my country. I remember coming home and thinking how it kind of changed your mother. It worried me at the time. Thought I might lose her. But then I found out she was expecting a baby and I figured we'd be fine. Ha bloody ha, eh?”

He fumbles around for another beer. His eyelids are drooping so low I'm amazed he can see what he's doing. He manages to pull one out.