The Peripatetic Coffin and Other Stories (13 page)

Later, they talked about Robert’s mother. “She thinks I put us in danger,” his father said. Robert nodded. “I don’t know what she told you and your sister. But I want to tell you I didn’t do that. She’s wrong about that. I was maybe not as careful as I could’ve been. But look, I got us out of it, right?” Robert nodded again. “No one’s hurt.” They were playing Rummy-Block on the foldout table in the main cabin. The wick on the kerosene lamp was low, and the light was soft.

“I figure as long as we avoid the pirates, we’ll be fine from here on out,” his father said. He cocked an eyebrow.

“That’s lame, Dad,” Robert said, putting his tiles on the board.

“Not true!” his father said. “I heard them, just last night. Rowing around the boat, singing yo-ho-ho. I didn’t want to wake you. I didn’t want to scare you.”

“I wouldn’t be scared of
that
.”

“Oh yeah, tough guy? What would scare you?”

Robert felt like he’d been kicked, caught by surprise. He wasn’t ready for this. He’d thought about it, but thinking wasn’t the problem. He wanted to say, being alone. He wanted to say the kids at camp this summer, so sure of themselves, scared him. But he couldn’t. What could his father possibly say? These kids, they had hated him for no reason he could think of except that he was there by himself and hadn’t, like them, signed up with a group of friends. He wanted to tell his father that when these kids had lured him deep in the woods, and tied him to a tremendous oak and left him, he’d been scared. It wasn’t when they were there, though, laughing, and pulling his shoes off, that he’d been truly frightened; that deeper fear had only come after they’d left, and there was almost no sound in any direction, nothing for him to grab onto at all, and he’d understood he was lost. It was an isolation he’d never felt before. When he’d finally untied the knots, it was getting dark, and he still didn’t know which direction the camp was; he’d sat at the base of the tree and cried until a counselor had come to find him. He hadn’t moved, just like he’d been instructed to do. No one apologized, but he hadn’t wanted anyone to apologize. He’d wanted to disappear. He’d wanted to just be blown to the ground and stepped on as if he wasn’t there. He’d told no one. Not his father. Not his mother when she came to pick him up at the end of the week. He kept it to himself, hardening his memory of that long afternoon until it was diamond sharp. It had happened to him, and it couldn’t be changed.

“Not pirates,” Robert said.

His father let him win the game, and then they turned in.

T
he next day at Wower, Robert woke early. He’d slept in his clothes, which made him aware of his mother’s absence and also made him feel older somehow. His father wasn’t in the opposite bunk. He went topsides, rubbing the crust from his eyes and squinting at the morning sun. The air smelled fresh. His father sat in the cockpit, reading Louis L’Amour and drinking coffee.

“Want some?” he said. Robert nodded, and his father poured coffee from a thermos into a cup. The cup was made from red plastic, and across the front
BOSUN
was written in maritime font. His father drank from the
FIRST MATE
cup. Robert never drank coffee at home, and having it this morning with his father felt like a secret between them. He went below and came back with his own book, a Gary Paulsen novel he’d already read about a young boy surviving alone in the wilderness, and sat next to his father until the sun was high enough that it didn’t feel like morning anymore.

When his mother and sister had been aboard the days had been crowded with shore exploration and card games and elaborate hunts for pirate treasure, but the four days with his father had been punctuated only by occasional conversation and eagle spottings. The hours unraveled, and then it was time to eat. Or time to pull up the anchor and brush the deck down. Robert preferred it this way. It wasn’t that he didn’t miss his mother and sister. It was just different without them. Quieter. Grown-up.

His father stood. “You want to help me wash her down?” he said. Robert shrugged. “Get your stuff, then,” his father said.

After he changed his clothes and put on his life jacket, he handed the bucket of soap water to his father, who was sitting in the dinghy, holding on to the toe-rail. Then he turned and climbed backward into the dinghy, searching blindly with his foot for the seat. He felt his father’s hand on his back, felt the seat with his toe, and let himself down.

They spent a good half hour washing the port side, his father inspecting every scratch and wondering aloud if it had been there before the storm. It was hot and his father pulled his shirt over his head and threw it on deck. When they got to the bow, his father told him to sit down and then grabbed ahold of the anchor chain and pulled them under. As they moved under the chain, Robert looked up from the bottom of the dinghy, where he’d been watching sand swish back and forth in an inch of seawater, and toward shore. Standing at the tide line was a man in a red flannel shirt. His arms were crossed, and though he was more than fifty yards away, Robert could feel he was staring at them.

“Dad,” he said.

His father turned. At first, the man did nothing. Then his father cupped his hands and said, “Hello?”

The man slowly raised his hand. He was the first person they’d seen in the islands since the storm.

Robert’s father stood still in the boat, watching the man. He reached for the toe-rail and missed it, reached again and grabbed it to keep them from drifting.

“Thank God you came!” the man said. He didn’t shout. His voice carried over the water. It sounded like his voice was coming from behind them. The man’s hair was brown and disheveled. Something about the way he stood struck Robert as odd, as if one leg were longer than the other.

Robert’s father looked over his shoulder, scanning the bay to see if he’d missed a boat. He laughed. “We came?”

“I’m wrecked,” the man said. “On the other side. Of the island. You’re the first boat I’ve seen.”

His father asked him if he was all right. The man said yes.

“Do you have a radio?” his father said. “Did you radio it in?”

The man said nothing. Then he said, “Yes, it’s a little frazzled now though. I never got a time, but they said they’d be coming.”

“The coast guard?”

“The coast guard.”

His father turned and put his hand on the rail and then turned back to the man. “You need help?”

The man dug his boot into the sand. Then he laughed. A rough sound, more like coughing. He kneeled down, picked something out of the sand near his boot, and as he stood, put whatever it was in his shirt pocket. “Clearly,” he said.

Robert’s father looked at his son, and then back to the man. “Okay,” he said. “Hold on. We’ll be right there.”

His father told Robert to climb aboard and tie the dinghy. Then he heaved himself aboard as well. Robert tried a buoy knot his father taught him, but it didn’t take, so he tied a square knot. He looked at the man, who was standing perfectly still, and then followed his father below.

“Are we going?” he said.

His father was looking at the ship-to-shore radio. He sat for a while not saying anything. Then, finally, he told Robert to get some food from the cabinet and put it in a paper bag. He packed some Doritos and crackers. Some cottage cheese. As he was reaching for the soda, his father said, “Sort of came out of nowhere, didn’t he?”

Robert nodded. “Maybe we should call someone,” he said.

His father didn’t respond. Robert looked out one of the cabin windows but couldn’t see the man. He went farther stern and looked out another window and then saw the man standing near one of their stern-ties, inspecting it. “Well, let’s go,” his father said.

R
obert sat in the stern of the dinghy as his father rowed toward shore. The dinghy pulled left and every five strokes or so his father glanced over his shoulder and corrected their path with a few port strokes. Robert held the stern line in his lap and practiced tying bowlines so he wouldn’t have to look at the man, who was waiting for them on the beach, standing almost perfectly still. When they landed, he made no move to help them.

“Father-son thing, huh?” the man said.

Robert climbed over the bow, and he and his father pulled the boat over the sand until it was above the tide line. They found a rock and looped the bowline around it.

“You got it,” the father said.

The man looked at Robert. “I think it’s okay to take your life jacket off now,” he said. Robert flushed and fumbled the clasps. The life jacket was too big for him and made him feel like a child. He dropped it in the dinghy. “What’s your name, my man?” the man said.

Robert looked at his father. “Robert,” he said.

The man smiled. “Robert,” he said. His eyes were deep brown. His face was like bark. “Robert.” He took a breath. “Like the poet.”

Robert said nothing.

“Like his uncle,” his father said.

“Like, his, uncle,” the man said. Then he turned to Robert’s father. “You can put the Doritos down. I have food. You get caught in the storm?”

Robert’s father set the bag down at his feet. “Yup. We were moored. At Alma Russell, farther in.”

“No shit. I know that island.”

Robert looked at his father, who was shifting his weight around like he couldn’t get comfortable. The man’s forearms, crossed on his chest, were gigantic. Robert guessed he was over six feet tall. “Well, didn’t that wind come out of nowhere?” he said. “One minute, sky’s clear to Japan. Next minute the furies. Least you were in a nice boat, though. Those Valiants. Nice boats.”

“We were lucky.”

The man ran one of his hands through his hair, got stuck halfway through, and tugged it out. “Well like I said. I got wrecked on the other side here. Just been waiting for someone to swing by. You’re the first boat I seen.”

“Four days ago?”

“I suppose so. I suppose that’s what it would be.”

The boy’s father looked over his shoulder at
Pamier
. They’d left the hatches open. “We were about to pull anchor,” he said. “We’re heading south. We could tell someone. Call it in on the radio.”

The man shook his head. “I just gotta move some stuff ship to shore, if you know what . . . two people could do the job, easy. It’s a”—the man paused to watch something in the distance—“portable generator. Some food. That’s all. The boat’s wedged on a shoal. Just can’t do it by myself. Half an hour, tops.”

“We’re on a tight schedule.”

“Half an hour,” the man said. “Tops.”

T
hey followed the man up the beach. On this island the woods hugged the shore and began near the high-tide line where sand gave way to rock. The trees were dense, their green branches enormous and windblown. At their base was a thicket of brush and bushes, grown together and knit closed by years of weather, a natural wall that appeared impenetrable to Robert. The man walked quickly until he’d led them above the tide line and over driftwood. When they got to the edge of the beach he stopped, turned to Robert’s father, and said: Ta-da. The opening into the woods was obscured by dead branches. It was less than ten feet from where they’d had their fire the night before, a small, almost invisible, seam in the growth. The man bent over and picked up a desiccated buoy in their path and hulked it into the woods before continuing up the dirt trail, motioning for them to follow.

He led them at a slow pace, stopping now and again to kick a branch out of their way or sometimes for no reason at all. They stayed close behind him. Sunlight filtered through the oak canopy and mottled the ground at their feet. It was at least ten degrees colder inland. Robert felt like he was now walking through a Gary Paulsen novel, bushwhacking the wilderness. He focused on the man’s feet in front of him. His boots were brand-new, barely scuffed. He and his father were both wearing sneakers.

After ten minutes of silent hiking, the man suddenly stopped and turned. He put his hands on his hips and looked at them, as if he were considering something. Then he grabbed Robert’s shoulder and said, “If you look up, you can see an eagle’s nest.”

Startled, Robert stepped back but was held in place. He looked up. He didn’t see anything but trees. “Right there,” the man said.

“Where?” his father said. He’d been a few feet behind Robert, but moved now, and put his hand on Robert’s other shoulder.

“In the trees,” the man said, releasing Robert and pointing. “Top of that one, there.”

Neither Robert nor his father saw anything that looked like a nest. The man shrugged. “Take my word for it,” he said. “Eagle nest.”

“Okay,” Robert said. “Okay.”

The man turned back up the path. “You ever see an eagle catch a salmon?” he said after a few minutes. He seemed interested only in talking to Robert. His father stayed close. He had fallen behind them a number of times as they weaved through the woods, but now he stayed close.

“Yeah,” Robert said, even though he hadn’t. He’d seen eagles, plenty of them, flying while gripping salmon, but hadn’t seen an actual catch.

“Water, then air,” the man said. “Imagine it. Just imagine.”

“Something else,” his father said. “For sure.”

On the map, the island hadn’t looked large enough for a forest this size. They walked for fifteen more minutes, scrambling over debris felled by the storm, Robert’s father helping him by keeping a hand on his back. They walked through ferns and over moss. They passed fishing buoys lodged in the crotches of trees. Robert pointed out to his father what looked like a flannel shirt and a pair of pants draped over a bush, as if hung there to dry. His father nodded, and then looked at it like he was working something around in his head. Finally they broke through the other side into the sun, and Robert was filled with relief. In front of them was a huge cropping of rocks, and below that the water. The beach itself was piled with driftwood, sun-stained logs rolled tightly together like bleachers.

The man turned to them. “Down this way,” he said.

“What way?” his father said.

“Around.”

His father stood there. “Four days?”

The man looked at him. “About,” he said. He pulled himself up to his full height and smiled. “About.”