The Starboard Sea: A Novel (20 page)

On the same day Aidan was found on the beach, a baby in Texas had tumbled down a hole and got trapped in a well. News from the outside world usually didn’t penetrate our campus bubble, but when the electrical power returned on Thursday morning, all anyone wanted to do was watch TV and the only thing on TV was coverage of this little girl in Texas. Baby Jessica the newspeople called her.

A group of guys sprawled around Whitehall’s TV room and placed bets on whether or not the baby would make it out of the well alive. “They can hear her. She’s like talking to them.” “She can’t talk. She’s a baby.”
“How stupid do you have to be to fall down a well?” “She’s not stupid. She’s a baby.”

No one spoke of Aidan or seemed aware of what had happened.

Word came down on Thursday night that Windsor was calling an emergency Chapel meeting for Friday morning. Chester walked in on me tying knots and asked me what I thought the meeting was about. “Are we supposed to have some prayer vigil for the baby in the well?”

I’d been avoiding Chester. He was the one person I was tempted to confide in, and I didn’t want to risk saying anything about Aidan. In my grief and denial I believed that there was still a chance that Aidan was alive. That saying anything about her half-buried body was a form of betrayal. I stared at the scar blistering Chester’s jaw. He’d been picking at it, making it worse.

Chester looked at the hunter’s bend and jury rig knots I’d been making. “How did you learn to do that?”
“A trick of the trade.”
Knots are a form of control. The halyards, sheets, painters, and lines all run because of knots. I schooled Chester on the parts of a knot: the live end, the standing part, the bight. Showed him how the live end of the rope holds all the action, it is what a sailor uses to make his knot. The standing part is the section of rope under tension and the bight is the bend. “Then there’s the bitter end. The terminus of the rope. The funny thing about a knot,” I said, “is that it actually weakens the rope.”
“What do you mean?” Chester asked.
“When you tie a piece of rope, you take away some of its strength. Most of the time you’re using the knot to connect two things to make them safer. But when a rope eventually breaks, it always breaks at the bight.”
Chester picked up two coiled ends of rope and practiced the bowline knot I’d shown him. He tightened the knot and placed his hand inside the small loop. “So binding something together doesn’t make it any stronger.”
“No,” I said. “Not in the long run.”

At Chapel on Friday, I felt a strange electricity in the air. Usually everyone went right to their seats, but that morning students just jammed the entryway lingering, chatting. Though I’d put on my jacket and tie, almost no one else was in dress code. Stuyvie and Bristin were snuggled together. She had on a pair of tight jeans, her ass flat and heart shaped. Even Stuyvie hadn’t bothered to put on a blazer or tie. He’d taken to wearing a necklace of bleached white shells, something that would have looked natural on a pothead like Taze but that looked cheap and ornamental around Stuyvie’s thick neck. I heard Bristin say to Stuyvie, “Diana’s freaking out. But then she’s always freaking out.” Stuyvie nodded. If anyone knew about Aidan, it was Stuyvie. His father would have told him. I pushed past the two of them, and Stuyvie called out to me. “We’re playing football again this afternoon if you’re interested.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said and headed to my seat.

The Chapel was barely half full. Most of the students wouldn’t be returning until classes began again on Monday. Since the power had come back, the kids who’d remained on campus had become restless. Without daily duties or boundaries, we were all on the verge of some sort of social mutiny. I was certain that Windsor was going to make an announcement about Aidan and I braced myself for the impact the news would have.

Windsor marched down the aisle in a charcoal suit and gray tie. There was no organist or music. Windsor simply mounted the stage. Clutching the sides of the pulpit, he spoke into the microphone. “Haven’t I always been honest and forthright with you? Always willing to deliver bad news. What I have to say is difficult but necessary. A young student has chosen to take her own life.”

A murmur rolled over the audience. The question, “Who did it?” repeating. I was confused. This wasn’t the announcement I’d anticipated. I swept the faces of my classmates, searching for reactions. Everyone looked generically surprised: hands covering mouths, eyebrows raised. Mr. Guy shielded his arm over his face like a visor shading his emotions. I saw Nadia scan the room, taking an accounting of the missing.

“Before we ask why she did this, I would argue that there is no satisfactory answer. We are better off not asking. Though we mourn this loss . . .” Windsor paused. He touched the lectern, lifted a piece of paper. He was reading off note cards. “I believe that it is more important for all of us to consider the precious nature of life.” He paused again. The note cards had been shuffled out of order and it took Windsor a moment to reorganize. “At this moment there is a child in Texas struggling to live. Instead of dwelling in the mire of our own senseless tragedy, I would like all of us to bow our heads in a moment of silence for this child.”

In front of me, Kriffo slunk his shoulders down and lowered his head. I did not bow mine. Almost immediately someone coughed, interrupting the silence.

I looked up at the windows, at all of the important men of history parading by in stained glass. An image of Admiral Nelson played guardian angel over me. Whoever assembled the stained glass had chosen to portray Nelson with both arms. This seemed like a lie. When I was twelve, I did a book report on the Battle of Trafalgar. Even then, I was a sucker for stories of naval battles, convinced I was born in the wrong century. I could still remember stuttering in front of my class, terrified to describe how Nelson beat Napoleon, how he won but still wound up dead. I imagined Aidan shattering the stained glass. Restoring Nelson’s missing arm.

I’d assumed Aidan’s death was an accident. She’d gone for a walk on the beach. The storm had excited her imagination and she’d stood out on the wet rocks just like she’d done so many times before. Some slip or misfortune had led to her catastrophe.

Windsor cleared his throat. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a red bandanna, and blew his nose bringing the moment of silence to its necessary conclusion. It bothered me that Windsor hadn’t spoken Aidan’s name or given her an appropriate tribute, but what really angered me was the conclusion he’d jumped to: that Aidan had killed herself. Cal had taken his own life, in part because I’d pushed him there. But with Aidan, things were different. We’d been making each other happy. I refused to believe she’d taken her own life.

Windsor stood and with a quick wave ended the ceremony. He made his way down the aisle leaving behind his school of mourners.

Friday night and everyone was up in Yazid’s room getting high. Tazewell knocked on my door, inviting me to join in the fun. Taze carried an electric hot pot steaming with neon orange macaroni and cheese. He sat on my bed and handed me a fork. “My specialty,” he said. “One of the cafeteria ladies hooks me up with heavy cream. Makes the sauce extra cheesy.”

It was a nice, small gesture of friendship, and I helped Taze finish off his snack.
“It’s weird.” Tazewell licked his fork. “How Aidan wound up like the lady in that novel.”
“What novel?” I asked.
“The one we played lacrosse with.”
I remembered the two of us beating up on
The Awakening
. “You didn’t even read that book.”
“Yeah,” Tazewell said. “But Kriffo told me the lady, the main character, she like walks into the ocean at the end. They shouldn’t make us read books like that. Bad influence.”
“I guess.” I was surprised that Taze had anything thoughtful or sensitive to say about Aidan’s death. He made me wonder if Aidan had indeed read the novel. She’d promised once to write up a list of all of her favorites books, her favorite films, her favorite works of art. She kept lists like this in her journals. I wondered what would happen to her journals, her photographs, and Fred Astaire’s tap shoes.
Taze invited me to drive up to Cambridge the next morning for the Head of the Charles Regatta. “Kriffo’s parents are sending a car for us. We’re going to rage.”
Before I had a chance to decline, Taze smiled. “No excuses, Prosper. You’re going.”
Tazewell left, and I decided to skip Yazid’s party and to speak with Coach Tripp. He had an open- door policy and I needed his counsel, needed to speak with an adult. I knocked and he didn’t answer, so I decided to let myself in. His apartment was messy. Sailing gear strewn about his living room. A pyramid of orange life jackets littering his kitchen table. The jackets themselves were dusted with mildew and the entire apartment smelled like a mossy, wet forest. I called out Tripp’s name and thought I heard a reply coming from his bedroom.
The light in his bedroom was on but Coach Tripp was fast asleep, fully dressed, on top of his bedcovers. I haunted over him listening to the deep timbre of his snoring before calling his name. When whispering didn’t wake him, I shook his shoulders. He bolted upright and grabbed my arms, convinced I was an intruder. He flung me down, tackling me across his bed. Coach Tripp wheezed in smoky gasps and brought his face close to mine. For a moment I thought he might kiss me.
“It’s Jason,” I said. “I need to talk.”

Coach cleared off a space on his sofa and told me to sit down. He gave me a glass of ginger ale. Before I had a chance to say anything, he let me know that he’d been worried about me. “Windsor said you were there when they found the girl.”

Though I didn’t tell Coach about sleeping out on the Swan, I did explain that Aidan and I were close. That when I’d last seen Aidan on Saturday, she was happy.

“Look,” said Coach, “she was very troubled, a history of drug abuse.” I shook my head. “She was over that.”
Coach walked to his kitchen table and began clearing off the life

jackets, tossing them in a black garbage bag. “From what I’ve been told, she’d tried to kill herself before. I can’t get into all of it. There are privacy issues. You’ve got to understand that this is a very delicate situation for the school.”

“Four days passed and no one noticed she was gone.”

Coach tied the neck of the garbage bag. “I’m not going to make excuses, but with the storm and with so many people going home, I’m afraid your friend got lost in the shuffle.”

I took a sip of ginger ale then heard myself say, “We were dating. She was my girlfriend. We were making each other happy. I noticed she was gone. I just never imagined.” I shuddered to think of my own ineptitude, my own cluelessness.

Coach took the garbage bag out into the hallway, leaving me alone in his apartment. On that first night at Bellingham, Coach Tripp had visited me in my room, waking me up. He’d seemed so excited that night, so eager to welcome me aboard.

When Coach returned, he asked, “Do you know how old I am?” I shook my head.
“I’m twenty-three. That probably seems ancient to you. But I graduated from college just a few years ago. I don’t make enough money to own a car.” He paced around his apartment. “I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. Windsor summoned the faculty into the Chapel this morning. Had a stranger give us a twenty-minute lecture on grief counseling.” Tripp held my gaze dead on. “With your experience, you probably know more about this stuff than I do.”

Coach Tripp appeared small and defeated. I felt like it was up to me to make him feel better. “I’m not asking you for anything,” I said. “I just don’t think Aidan would hurt herself.”

He came over to the sofa, crouching down in front of me. “I shouldn’t tell you this,” he said, “but they found a note in her room.”
I flinched, thinking of the note I’d left her.
Come meet me at the beach.
Coach Tripp rubbed his face. “I don’t know what happened to the girl. I’m not even certain I know who she was, but she left a letter. She just decided to walk out into the storm.”
I thought of the first time I saw Aidan out on the groin of rocks. How I’d imagined she might be courting some sort of danger. Maybe my first instincts about her were correct. Maybe I didn’t know her at all.

As I left Coach Tripp’s room, I heard someone say, “She’s alive.” I shot down the hallway toward this voice. “Who is?” I insisted. “Who’s alive?”

I ran into Kriffo and he said to me, “They pulled that baby out of the well. Safe and sound. It’s a miracle. Best of all, I just made a hundred bucks.”

I’d become used to living without electricity, become accustomed to the blackout. Even when power was restored it didn’t occur to me to turn on my lights at night. I stayed in the dark, keeping myself numb with sleep, dreaming about the little girl in the well, wondering whether she’d grow up to remember being trapped in the dark. I kept thinking about the note Coach Tripp said they’d found. There was no note in Aidan’s room the night I sneaked in to visit her. Maybe I’d missed it, but there was nothing visible on her desk or bed. I hadn’t signed my own note and I worried that it had been mistaken for a letter from Aidan. I tried to construct some sequence of events, some logic or order that would help explain how Aidan had gone from handing me a pair of tangerines to drowning herself. I feared our night on the Swan had led her to walk out onto those rocks and into the ocean. She’d told me about her crush on Hannah, how they’d kissed. How Hannah had realized her mistake. “But it wasn’t a mistake,” Aidan said.

“Maybe it was just an infatuation.” We were belowdecks and I sat beside Aidan, running my fingertips over the soft, pale skin of her arms.
Aidan said, “Hannah was older and married and my teacher. I know how ridiculous that all seems. But I don’t regret the feelings I had for her. She was extraordinary and I wanted to be a part of her.”
“But isn’t it possible that you misjudged her? That you just imagined her to be some sort of savior?”
“Sure,” Aidan said. “But that’s where all my love resides anyway. In my imagination. Most people’s lives are failures of their own imagination. Not mine. I fantasize about my dad, my mom, even. Hardly anyone I love is real to me.”
I pinched Aidan’s arm and she flinched. “I’m real,” I said. “And so are you.”
As promised, on Saturday morning, Tazewell pounded on my door and told me to haul my ass out of bed. The Head of the Charles started early and went all day. Our crew team had probably left before dawn, but Taze and Kriffo weren’t going into Cambridge to admire the rowers. The regatta might have been a longstanding tradition, but it was also an excuse for public intoxication, public urination, hotel parties, random hook-ups. Cal and I had always gone together. We’d spend the morning tooling around Harvard Square collecting party invites from pretty pony-tailed girls who promised us pot and the chance to fool around with even prettier girls. All day long, we’d drink warm keg beer, maintaining a low-grade buzz. In the evening, we’d switch to smoking weed and head into Boston, wandering the narrow cobblestone streets and brick sidewalks of Beacon Hill in search of the ultimate party. The more we’d smoke, the stupider we’d get. Stupid enough to dance with strangers. We’d bounce like pogo sticks to The Jam’s “Town Called Malice” while girls with historic last names like Adams, Beecher, Burr, Fayeweather, Foxwell, Pickering, Saltonstall, and Winthrop decided which one of us was worth making out with. The entire day carried with it a predictable spontaneity. Like a wave, a party would swell, peak, and then calm. We’d move on to the next rowhouse until finally we’d cross through the Commons and Public Gardens, winding up at some stranger’s suite in the Ritz-Carlton trying to feel up girls from St. Paul’s and St. Mark’s.