One for the Gods (The Peter & Charlie Trilogy) (46 page)

“Come on, Peter. Cut all the camp talk, for God’s sake,” Charlie said shortly.

The unfamiliar use of his name told Peter that his mood was blacker than he had realized. Men surrounded them when they stopped to inquire about the site of the ancient city. There was much talk of food and they gathered they should take something to eat with them. They were escorted to a bare little shop where they bought bread and cheese and a bottle of wine and a tin of sardines. Back out in the street, they found donkeys awaiting them. Before they knew where they were going, they were astride and being led off, plodding daintily, by a small boy on a third donkey.

It was the sort of expedition they usually liked—impromptu, haphazard, novel, stimulating to the eye, with a nice touch of the absurd to keep them guessing—but it failed to lift Charlie’s spirits. He made a few comments on the island landscape, high hills and glimpses of sea everywhere, and relapsed into silence. The mood lasted through a long donkey-ride, a visit to the ruins where Peter refrained from making any further references to the dancing boys, their meager lunch under an olive tree, the long ride back. Since he could think of nothing he could have done to cause it, Peter allowed him to brood in private. Charlie would tell him about it when he was ready.

When they returned to the boat at sunset, they found the Kingsleys finishing off a shaker of martinis. Peter saw Charlie pointedly snub Martha when she started to tell him about their day.

“That fucker Jack is really drunk,” he said when they were below changing their clothes. His tone was ugly.

“Not much more than usual,” Peter said placatingly. “Anyway, we don’t need him to get out of here.”

They returned to the deck and set about casting off without consulting the Kingsleys. When Martha saw that they were ready, she started the motor.

For the first time, Jack was definitely unsteady on his feet. They went forward to raise sail. The day’s northeasterly wind was dying. When they had the sails up, Jack swung the helm and cut the motor and headed south. Charlie and Peter stayed forward watching the sun set on the curiously menacing circlet of rocky outcroppings.

“It’s really spooky,” Peter said. “I’m glad we got off before it blew up. Did it depress you? You’ve seemed sort of funny all day.”

“No, I’m OK.” He saw some breeze coming in from the west. He started to call back to Jack, but it was so clearly visible that it would have been bad sailing manners to mention it. When he decided he couldn’t wait any longer, it was too late. A puff of wind hit them. The great boom swung in a heavy arc across the boat and crashed to the other side in a wrenching jibe. Charlie raced back along the deck, crouched down in case the boom swung again. He flung Jack out of the way and seized the wheel.

“You drunken bastard,” he shouted, trimming the main and getting the boat steadied. “Where do you expect to find another mast around here? Christ Almighty! Why don’t you stay below where you belong.”

“Really, Charlie—” Martha began.

“You shut up. Get the jib in.”

“Don’t you order her around,” Jack protested, sitting on the bench where Charlie had shoved him, looking dazed.

“I’ll’ fucking well order her around if I fucking well feel like it,” Charlie roared.

Peter had come aft and was staring at him with startled, protective eyes. Charlie turned to him. “Get us drinks, will you, baby? We all might as well get drunk.”

Peter was blushing as he hurried below. He returned with bottles and glasses and poured them whiskies and sodas while the Kingsleys watched in silence. Charlie drank thirstily.

“Good. Maybe Jack has something. We’ll go careening all over the Mediterranean. How about getting the mizzen up, baby.”

“What is all this faggy ‘baby’ stuff?” Jack demanded nastily.

“That’s us—a couple of fags. Still, we’re probably better men than you’ll ever be. If you only knew.”

“I think we’d better go below, Jack,” Martha said hastily. “Charlie’s in a nasty temper.”

“I’ll go before this goes too far,” Jack said, “but I think there’d better be a serious talk when we get into Heraklion.”

“Any time, any place, but preferably sober,” Charlie snapped. He finished his drink in another swallow and handed Peter his glass for a refill. Martha stood and waited for Jack. He stumbled slightly as he crossed the deck. They disappeared down the companionway. Charlie pulled Peter to the wheel without saying anything and left him there to work in the stern. When he had the third sail set, he returned to the wheel and elbowed Peter out of the way. Peter sat on the bench near him, waiting for him to speak. He had no clue what to expect next; he had never seen him quite like this. He knew his temper on the rare occasions when he lost control, but now his control seemed to be still operating. He seemed disgusted rather than angry; Peter felt outside it and was still content, therefore, to bide his time. They sat in silence as darkness gathered in around them. They finished their second drink.

“I suppose we ought to eat something,” Charlie said finally. His voice sounded normal but tired. “Would you go see what you can find?”

“Sure, darling.” Peter stood and moved toward Charlie and put a hand on his shoulder. Charlie held his knee and leaned his head against his hip. Peter could feel a tremor in the body resting against him. “I’ll fix you another drink.” He did so and went below. He was back in a moment. “Martha’s bringing us some sandwiches and soup.”

Charlie didn’t speak. Martha appeared in the hatch and lifted food onto the deck. Peter went to collect it, but she came on up and moved aft to the cockpit.

“Do you think it was a good idea to go quite so far?” she asked.

“There’s just one question I want you to answer and then you can go below,” Charlie said coldly. “Did you have that normal fuck with Jack we talked about?”

There was a long silence during which he could feel her struggling to decide whether or not to lie. “Yes,” she said at last. “I had to. We haven’t been able to talk seriously about the future. You haven’t known what you wanted. I had to think of the child. I thought I might have to convince Jack that he was the father. I haven’t known what to think. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me.”

“No, you didn’t wait. You’ve got yourself covered all the way round. Very smart. You were right, of course. I never pretended you could count on us. Anyway, that settles it. Get the hell below.”

“Settles what? Please, my precious—”

“Shut up, goddamn it,” he roared. “You’ve done the one thing I told you not to do. I was sure you would. As it turns out, it doesn’t matter a damn, if that’s any comfort to you. Go below. I don’t have anything more to say to you.”

Her eyes glittered in the moonlight. Tears? She hestiated and then her shoulders sagged resignedly as she turned and went.

“Jesus!” Peter said when she was out of sight. “How are we going to go on with them after this?”

“Who said we’re going on with them?”

“We have to. We can’t ditch them now. What’s the matter, for God’s sakes?”

“You know what’s the matter. Jack for one.”

“There’s more to it than that. What were you saying to Martha?”

“You heard me. All that crap about being in love with me and she lets Jack fuck her just to be on the safe side. It makes me sick.”

“That’s not all. There’s been something wrong since this morning. Please tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell. Drop it, for God’s sake.” How could he tell him of the extent of his failure? He had already said too much about the hopes he had pinned on Martha. Now that they were dead, they seemed ludicrous and perverse. He longed to blot everything he had said about her from Peter’s memory. He didn’t want her in their life: he didn’t want their child. He had known it the minute she had mentioned marriage this morning. If marriage hadn’t been touched on before, he could understand it better, but she had only been echoing his own words. He had been entirely responsible for the whole situation. Every minute all three of them had spent together should have told him that his vision of their living together could never be realized to the satisfaction of any of them. Why had a chance, harmless word of hers opened his eyes at last? He had battled with himself all day, clinging to his vanishing hopes, but the image of Peter alone at the wheel vanquished reason—or perhaps restored it to him. His dream of fatherhood was dead. The baby would be the Kingsleys’; he had renounced his own child. All his natural instincts were blocked by a beautiful, effeminate young man. Not effeminate, some more judicious corner of his mind corrected. His beauty and exquisite youthfulness set him apart from other men, but there was nothing effeminate about him. There was nothing effeminate about the way they had both taken Martha. It would all be more understandable, perhaps, if there were. He was raw with failure. He had failed in whatever he had been trying to attain with Peter; now that it was all over, he hardly knew what it had been all about. The grand design was wrecked and blurred. His attempt to be a man like other men had failed. He hated the way he had spoken to Martha. He thought of what he had done on the beach the day before and hated Peter for driving him to it. He hated himself.

“Give me another drink, will you, baby?” he said quite calmly. “I’m sorry if I sounded cross with you. I’m not.”

Peter sprang to do his bidding. As he passed the drink, he leaned over and kissed Charlie on the top of his head. “Don’t worry about it any more. Jack’s drunk enough so he probably won’t remember anything about it tomorrow.”

“So much the worse for him. I don’t know why he hasn’t sunk the boat long ago.”

“Don’t you want me to take over for a while? You should rest. You haven’t slept since I don’t know when.”

“No. I’m fine. The wind’s coming around more southerly. We’d better get the sheets in.”

When they had trimmed the sails, Peter crowded in on the seat behind the wheel. He felt no response in Charlie’s body, only the tremor he had felt before. Something was still wrong. He couldn’t imagine what had affected him so deeply. Was it possible that he cared more about Martha than he had supposed? He had the impression that the brief, cruel exchange with her just now had been a farewell. He couldn’t be sorry about that but he didn’t want Martha to be needlessly hurt. He felt a surprising possessive tenderness for her. Even he had given her a few moments of ecstasy. She had been his girl. It created a tie. He was beginning to see some sense in Charlie’s plans. Of course, they couldn’t have her in the house but they could keep in touch with her, watch the child grow up at a distance, do things for it. There was something special about being a father, after all. To his astonishment, he found himself getting an erection as he thought about her. He switched his attention back to Charlie. Should he insist that he go below and get some sleep? He must be on the edge of total exhaustion after all the weeks of brief, interrupted sleep. Peter put his arm around his chest and hugged him close, trying to soothe the odd tremor he felt in him.

The wind freshened and whipped up the sea. Sailing close to the wind, the boat heeled like a racer and leaped through the water.

“The old tub is really moving again,” Charlie said after a long silence, with only a faint echo of the excitement he had always displayed when he was pleased with the boat’s performance. An almost full moon gilded the plunging sea. Charlie went on drinking slowly and steadily, taking slugs directly from the bottle. The alcohol contained his emotions and gave weight and depth to his depression. Peter could feel a stubborn determination building up in him that told him he would never get him to rest now. He kissed the side of his face and stretched out on the leeward bench and slept.

Charlie was a machine attached to the wheel, swaying with the movement of the boat and driving it on. He had no idea how many hours he had been holding it when he became aware of a solid shape outlined against the pale sky on the distant horizon. He could see no lights. He had noted on the chart a tiny island off Crete to the east of their course for Heraklion. The wind had been pushing them eastward. If this was the island, it was getting on toward dawn and they had made good time. He was heading straight for it. He looked for the heights of Crete behind it but could see nothing. He decided to get in closer before taking the long tack back to get into position for the approach to Heraklion.

He watched the rock grow bigger slowly as he seemed to rush toward it. He began to make out a line of white at its base. He recognized this as the foaming sea breaking against it. It caused a little tightening of his nerves and he shifted in his seat. He had never liked sailing too close to land. In this case, it was perfectly safe, he reassured himself. The wind would blow them off it. He probably had nearly an hour before he would be really in close. By then, if this was the island he thought it was, he should be able to make out the headlands of Crete and establish their position.

He began playing a game with the boat, heading it up with every small favorable shift in the wind to see if he could pass to windward of the rocky mass in front of him. It would be nip-and-tuck. His hands gripped the wheel hard as he saw them being flung up on what appeared to be steep cliffs if the wind played tricks on him at the last minute or he made the slightest miscalculation. This was silly; games weren’t for boats. Even if he could make it to windward, the risk was unjustifiable. Good sailing sense required that he regard it as an obstacle and keep well clear of it. He held the helm steady. The cliffs drew him. The thought of running up on them recurred and its terror slowly passed. Why not? An easy end to a sad story. The Kingsleys were sleeping. They would never know what hit them. His unwanted child would be obliterated. He savored the peace he had found before in the thought of death. Peter couldn’t live without him. They would all go in one great smash. He thought of the magical moments of the last weeks—the nights at sea under starfilled skies holding Peter close against him, the kiss exchanged unashamedly on the beach at Siros, Peter naked on another beach, his voice clotted with love, saying, “This is what I’m all about, no matter what.” Moments filled with a joy he knew could never be recaptured. His failure, the collapse of his grand design, had crushed some vital element in him. He was tired, so damn tired, tired deep in his marrow. He could never care about anything again. End it. End it all.