The Great Wide Sea (2 page)

In that motel room, my mind started playing the other tapes—over and over. And the first scene was always the same. My mind saw the phone just before it was going to ring. It was lying beside Dad on the sofa, white against the dark blue. I knew it was going to ring, and I couldn't stop it.

It was April, early afternoon, and Dad and I were watching the ball game together on TV. Our team was ahead, but the game was slow and I felt sleepy. Gerry had already fallen asleep on the sofa, his hair still damp from his swimming lesson. Dylan was upstairs. His birthday was next month and he was studying telescope catalogs. At least that's what he told me later.

Mom had left in the car about twenty minutes before to get ice cream.

Then the phone rang.

Sometimes when you read a book or watch a TV show, you see the people and you think,
Don't do that. Don't open that door. Don't answer that phone
. You know everything is about to change. “Stop!” you want to say. “Rewrite the story. Rewind the tape. Don't let it happen that way.” But you can't. The people always open the door or answer the phone. The bad thing always happens, and there is nothing you can do about it.

So Dad answered the phone.

“Yes?” he said. Then, “Yes,” again. “Oh, my God.” A longer pause. “Of course. Right away.”

He put the phone down.

Everything had changed and there was nothing we could do about it.

Two blocks away, a guy had run a red light. He had killed Mom. Her clothes were still in her closet. Her lotions were still in the bathroom. You could still smell her little sachet things when you walked into the bedroom.

But Mom was gone.

I felt like slamming my fist through the motel ceiling above me. I felt like I had bad breath. I felt like I stank. I felt if I didn't sleep soon, I'd explode like a white-hot star, and everything would disappear—Florida, the boat, my brothers, and Dad, everything—sucked into the deep, black hole that was me.

CHAPTER TWO

MY MOM'S NAME was Christine Emily Byron and this is what I can tell you about her. The last time I hugged her, I was exactly as tall as she was. Your own mom always seems so big, and then one day you have this shock of realizing you are as tall as she is. Then you see that after all she is small.

Mom had dark hair that she always kept in a ponytail. She wore jeans, never skirts. She took care of the house and she worked in the garden and she teased Dad, especially when he quoted poetry at us. Like, maybe we'd be taking a walk in the woods by the lake in the fall and Dad would stop and sweep his arms toward the trees and say, “ ‘Margaret, are you grieving over Goldengrove unleaving?'” And Mom would say, “Jim, how many times do I have to tell you—my name is Christine.”

When Mom died, everyone wanted to help. Dad's sister flew down. The other professors at the university took over Dad's classes. My friend Andrew even wanted to take me to a game, but I didn't go. I stayed at home with my brothers while Dad sat in the dark and read poems. He'd be quiet for a while and then read us a line. “Listen to this, boys,” he would say. “‘Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.' ” Then he would cover his face with his hands. After a while he would say, “Isn't it time for you guys to be in bed?” So we went to bed and we didn't come back downstairs. We didn't want to surprise him. It was too easy to catch him crying.

When it was time to dress for the funeral, he went into his room and shut the door. Usually he helped with our ties, but this time I had to do it for everyone. When we were walking to the car, he stopped and looked at us.

“Did you tie your own ties?” he asked.

“Ben did it,” Gerry said.

“He did a good job,” Dad said, then rubbed Gerry's head.

“You messed up his hair,” I said.

“He didn't,” Gerry said.

“Not much,” Dylan said quietly.

“I like it this way.” Gerry held his hands over his head.

“Be quiet,” Dad said. “All of you. Get in the car.”

We got in the car, and I sat in the front seat.
Mom's seat,
I thought, and closed my eyes. When we got home, I was so tired I wanted to go straight to bed, but all these people were at our house, standing around talking in low voices and eating sandwiches. I went to the kitchen, and there was Aunt Sue, loading another platter.

“Where's Dad?” I asked her.

“He's upstairs.”

“He belongs down here.”

“He'll be down soon,” she said, and put her arm around my shoulders. She squeezed me a little, then stepped away. “Give him time, Ben. He'll be all right.”

I picked up one of the sandwiches. “It's not fair,” I said, and squashed the sandwich in my hand.

“Ben! Don't do that.” She unrolled my fingers, took out the sandwich, and dropped it in the trash. She handed me a cloth to clean my hand, then picked up the platter of sandwiches and left.

I wiped my hand and turned to lean my forehead against the refrigerator. It was cool and vibrated slightly. It would have been good, I thought, to disappear right then. To disintegrate. Then the refrigerator cycled off. I stood up straight and turned around. Gerry was standing in the kitchen looking at me. He held Blankie bunched up against his mouth. He lowered it a little. “Are you okay, Ben?”

I nodded.

“I'm okay, too,” he said.

I sat in a chair and pulled him into my lap. He leaned his head against my shoulder. That close up, I could smell Blankie. It smelled like sleeping and yesterday and all our lives before today.

I picked up a corner and pressed it to my nose.

“It smells good, doesn't it,” Gerry said, and I nodded.

CHAPTER THREE

THAT FIRST MORNING in Key West I woke up with Blankie half under my head and Gerry breathing in my face. Dylan was looking out the window. When I sat up, he turned toward me.

“Dad's gone to see the boat and do some shopping at the marina store,” he said.

“Great,” I said. “What time is it?”

“Lunchtime,” he answered.

We called for pizza. When I ate the last piece, I balled up my napkin and tossed it in a perfect arc into the trash can. “Three points,” I said. Dylan smoothed his napkin on his thigh. I grabbed it and tossed it in too. “Three points again. The champ rules!”

Nobody said anything.

“What is the name of this boat again?” I asked.

“
Chrysalis
,” Dylan said.

“Does it mean anything?” Gerry asked. He threw his napkin. It fell on the floor.

“It's a scientific term,” Dylan said. “It's the cocoon stage of a butterfly or moth.”

Gerry picked up his napkin, sat down, and threw again. He missed again.

“Then why don't they just say ‘cocoon'?” Gerry asked, and tried his napkin again. Missed. It fell on the bed.

“Sounds like a girl's name,” I said. “Should be a perfume or something like that.”

Gerry picked up his napkin, threw it again, and missed. “Sounds like Mom's name to me,” he said.

“For Pete's sake!” I snatched up the napkin and threw it toward the trash can. “Make the shot, will you!” But I threw too hard. The napkin sailed right over the trash can and fell on the floor.

“Missed,” Gerry said.

“Shut up.” I lay back on the bed. I closed my eyes.

Wind Racer,
I thought. Now that was a good name. Or
Sea Hawk
.
Wave Dancer
or
Free Time
or
Summer Dream
. All of them were good names. All of them were much better than
Chrysalis
. Even no name at all would be better than that.

The boat we had sailed on the lake at home didn't have a name. We just called it “the boat,” and we sailed it every chance we got. Dad even talked about sailing it around the world. When I was little, I believed him. He made up stories about sailing through tsunamis and living off the land in Tahiti. We read
Kon-Tiki
and
Dove
and
Alone Around the World
. Then after Mom was pregnant the last time, he didn't talk about it anymore. I decided he had never really meant it, and I was glad, because I wanted to play baseball and go to summer camp and get a car.

But he had meant it, and he did not forget.

About two months after Mom died, we got home from school one afternoon to see a FOR SALE sign in the yard. “Don't worry,” I told Dylan and Gerry. “This house will never sell. Mom always said it was too small.”

That night I called for Chinese again and the guy brought all the wrong stuff. I was just starting to make Gerry a peanut butter sandwich when Dad came home.

“I guess you guys saw I listed the house for sale,” he said. “I was going to tell you first. I didn't know the sign would go up so fast.”

“Why would you want to sell the house?” I asked.

“It's a surprise,” he said. “I'll explain over dinner. Sit down.”

“I'm making Gerry a sandwich.”

“Gerry has to learn to eat what's on the table,” Dad said. “When we're on the boat, our diet will be very limited.”

We all looked at Dad, but he just kept on serving himself.

“Boat?” I finally asked.

“That's the surprise,” he said. “But first, presents.” He pulled three books out of his briefcase, set them beside his plate, and then handed me the one on top.
Boat Engine Basics
, it read,
With an Emphasis on the Most Common Diesel Models in Use Today
.

“Ben,” he said. “You like cars. Your job is to learn about engines, particularly diesel engines.

“Dylan,” Dad continued, “you like the stars. You can learn navigation.” He gave Dylan the next book.
Navigation
was all the title said. Dylan took the book and smoothed the top with the palm of his hand.

“Gerry,” Dad said. “Every boat needs crew. You can be crew.” The last book was a kid's picture book:
Sailing for Children
. Gerry's chin started to quiver.

“It's okay, Gerry,” Dad said. “I'll tell you a story. Once upon a time there was a man named Jim and his three sons. They loved to sail.”

“I don't like to sail,” Gerry whispered.

“That's because you don't know how,” Dad said. “You will when you learn.” He went on with his story. “One day, they all went to live on a sailboat.”

“Dad,” I interrupted, “this is a stupid story.”

“Okay, Ben.” He breathed deeply. “It's not a story. It's the truth. I'm going to buy a sailboat. I'll be captain, you'll be crew, and we'll all go sailing. For a whole year.”

“Dad,” I said. “We can't afford that.”

“That's what I've been getting to,” he said. “We can if we sell the house.”

I stared down into my empty plate. I saw I had the flowered plate that had been Mom's favorite. “But what about your job?” I asked. “You can't take a year off.”

“Yes, I can,” Dad said. “My department head thinks it's a great idea. ‘Go,' he said. ‘Relax. See some of the world.' And you guys get to miss a whole year of regular classes. I'll be your teacher. No schedules. No deadlines. For twelve whole months.”

“But what about the boat on the lake?” I asked.

“Oh, we'll sell that too. It has to be cared for. And besides, we'll have the good ship
Chrysalis
.”

“The good ship
Chrysalis
?” Dylan asked.

“
Chrysalis
,” Dad repeated. “She's docked in Florida and she's going to be ours. It's like Christmas in June, boys—a big, beautiful sailboat and a year to cruise the Bahamas.” He paused and took a long breath. “Everybody I've talked to thinks it's a great idea.”

“But you haven't talked to everybody,” I said.

“Who else?” Dad asked.

“Us,” I said. “You haven't talked to us.”

CHAPTER FOUR

WHEN DAD GOT back from the marina store, he couldn't stop talking. He had seen
Chrysalis
. “Get up,” he said. “Get moving. We're going sailing right now.” The owner was already waiting for us when we got to the boat. Dad hopped right on board and shook his hand, but Dylan, Gerry, and I just stood on the dock and stared.

Dad was wrong.
Chrysalis
was not big or beautiful. She was only a few feet over thirty. Her white hull was scratched and dull, with a long red streak running almost the whole length of the port side. Sun and salt had bleached and roughened the teak. The joints were caked with black gunk. And there on the stern was her name,
Chrysalis
, in fancy, looping letters. It was awful.

Dylan and I finally climbed on board, but Gerry wouldn't move. “Come on,” I said, but he just stood there holding Blankie until I lifted him over the lifelines onto the deck. Down below, Dad and the owner hunched over the radio. “Open the hatches,” Dad said without looking around. Dylan and I went to work while Gerry planted himself on the starboard settee, his legs drawn up under him and Blankie bunched over his mouth.

I opened the hatch in the head, but it was too small to air out the tiny, damp closet that doubled as a toilet and shower. Then I helped Dylan, who was struggling with the corroded latch on the large, overhead hatch above the forward V-berth. Several big orange sail bags lay piled on the berth mattress. The biggest sail, the number one genoa, was hanging half out of its bag. The smallest, the working jib, wasn't in a bag at all, and the spinnaker bag had rolled onto the floor. I picked it up and threw it on the pile.