The Starboard Sea: A Novel (15 page)

The officer insisted I sit up front. “No tossing you in the back. Don’t want anyone to see you and get the wrong idea.”

In the brief run to the car, I’d managed to get myself drenched. I felt the upholstery soak up the water. With his thick mustache and relaxed demeanor, the cop resembled the television actor Tom Selleck. I caught myself about to hum the theme from
Magnum P.I.

“My name’s Jason.” I rubbed my hands in front of the heater. “Thanks for helping me out. I appreciate it.”
“Officer Hardy.” He had a strong nasal accent and emphasized his
a
’s and
r
’s as though the two letters were unhappily married. He began to drive, turning down a dirt road I’d never noticed before, shooting out into the woods. Branches smacked and scraped the windows and sides of the car.
I lost all sense of where we were. I asked Hardy if he was from Bellinghem. He nodded. His silence made me ner vous. I found myself jabbering on. “You must get sick of us preppies invading your town. Bet it’s a relief when we leave for the summer. Bet you’d get a kick out of tossing us all in the clink.”
“Actually,” Hardy said, “I’m a fellow SeaWolf. Class of ’72.”
“Really?” I knew I sounded surprised and felt shitty for what my tone implied.
Hardy picked up on it. “Yeah. And for the record, I don’t enjoy arresting anyone.”
“Town and gown,” I said.
Hardy looked me over. “You must be a city kid.”
I told him that I was indeed from New York and then, just to hear myself say it and to make Hardy feel a little sorry for me, I told him that my parents were divorcing. “My brother dropped it on me like it was nothing. I feel bad for my mom. My dad’s a whole other story.”
“Divorce is always hardest on the kids.” Hardy turned around an impossibly sharp hairpin curve.
I asked Hardy if he had any children, and he nodded. Then, maybe realizing that his silence could be mistaken for meanness, he said, “I have a son. He lives in Providence. With his mother.”
We came out of the woods and onto a ser vice road that ran behind the infirmary. Hardy got a call on his police radio. He answered, speaking in numbers and code.
When he got off the radio, he said, “Every wannabe sailor is calling for his hourly update. Like I’m supposed to Navy SEAL my ass out to the harbor just to see if some cabin cruiser is taking on water.” Hardy stopped the car on the road near Whitehall. “Here.” He gave me a cellophane rain poncho. “I know you’re already wet, but this should protect you out there. Be careful. Look out for power lines and go right straight to your dorm. And one more thing.” He stared down at me. “Don’t blame yourself for your parents’ mistakes.”
I shook his hand and thanked him.
“Tell Windsor I took good care of you,” he said. “Tell him he owes me one.”

Even though I wanted to see Aidan, wanted to tell her about my day and have her make sense of it for me, I took Officer Hardy’s advice and set out directly for Whitehall. I merely had to cross the street and cut through the lawn, but the rain, salty and frigid, lashed out from every direction, piercing my skin, blinding my sight, the darkness impenetrable. Nothing was illuminated—no streetlights, no lamplight in the dorms. The only brightness flickered from the whitecaps on the waves. The plastic poncho Hardy had given me suctioned tight against my clammy skin, sealing in the water. My Tretorns sank down in the lawn mired in muddy turf. As I neared the harbor, the wind walled itself off, the gale pushing me back. I felt vulnerable, exposed to the raw elements. Every step was awful, dangerous. I loved it. For a moment, I imagined myself on some soldier’s mission, clutching the soggy paper bag close to my chest like it contained top secret instructions. I hollered into the night, channeling my own hurricane, howling my anger. The storm still intensifying. The eye, the central calm, yet to pass.

A dead quiet hung over the dorm. Someone, probably Coach Tripp, had lit a row of stubby candles in red glass holders and placed them on a coffee table in the entryway. I grabbed one and fumbled my way upstairs and to my room.

I needed to do a lot of things. Needed to get out of my wet clothes, needed to take a hot shower, needed to call my mom, needed something to eat, needed to find out what Riegel had given me as a present. The pay phone in the hallway had no dial tone. Mom would have to wait. I hadn’t spoken to her in days, and I wondered if she knew about the storm, if she was worried. My stomach growled, though I hardly needed any reminding that I was starving. It was after eight, the dining hall long closed. I thought the tangerine would upset my already upset stomach. I tapped on a few doors in search of food or company, but no one answered. My best option seemed to be the shower. Even with the power outage there had to be some last supply of hot water on reserve. As I stripped off my sopping-wet clothes, I had to contain my envy at the thought of Tazewell and Race smoking premium pot and goofing around. Then, like a bolt, it occurred to me that I had nearly a dozen miniature bottles of whiskey hidden away in my dopp kit. I opened the top drawer to my bureau and felt for the mesh case until I found a small glass bottle. Twisting the narrow cap open, I pursed my lips around the glass neck and let the warm liquor strike the shivering cold from me.

At Bellingham, if you wanted to jerk off, you didn’t do it in your own room. There were no locks on the doors and ever since Skinner had been caught choking it, guys were air raiding rooms, swinging open doors, and snapping Polaroids. If you wanted to beat off, you did so in the shower stall the farthest away from the entrance. The Alcove, I heard Kriffo call it. The Alcove was just an open stall raised up and tucked behind the other curtained showers. It was an unspoken rule in a world of negligible decorum that once the water in the Alcove was turned on, the luxury of privacy was guaranteed. Socially sanctioned masturbation. Anyone who sneaked back to the Alcove while the shower was occupied was instantly dubbed a perv, a peeper, and was subject to a different kind of beating.

The other benefit of the Alcove was that it smelled relatively clean. The constant stink of mildew and shit hung over the other showers no matter the time of day, but the bathroom was especially offensive in the mornings and late evenings. Kriffo would come back from breakfast or dinner and take these nuclear waste craps. I once heard Yazid Yazid stand at the sink and complain, “Morning and night, Kriffo shits on my toothbrush.”

I called out “Hello,” my voice reverberating off the tiled walls. No one was in the bathroom. I’d left the red candle burning on my dresser and had to paw around for a place to put my towel. Once I made my way to the Alcove, I turned on the faucet and leaned into the hot spray of water. I didn’t have any soap or shampoo, but I didn’t want to get clean, just wanted to soak under the steam long enough to warm up and maybe a little longer to get off. My body ached. I felt a surge of tension that needed release and so I began stroking myself, quick to get hard, aware that this was the last sure plea sure I could give my body. I thought back to this morning, of Aidan leaning down and of Riegel staring at her breasts. Thought of what had happened with Aidan last night, how long ago it now seemed, how unprepared I was to deal. I’d actually told her the truth about Cal and why he’d killed himself.

Aidan probably figured I’d blown her off, left for Race’s without checking in, and I was mad at myself for not going straight to see her. I tried to picture what she looked like at that moment. Saw her in a white nightgown slick with rain, the cotton and lace plastered against her body. Felt myself grow harder still. Then I began to hear a strange but familiar electronic music, the percussive beats sound tracking through my head. The theme from
Magnum P.I.
I held on to the picture of Aidan’s nearly naked body, but other images strobed through my imagination joining Aidan. First Tom Selleck in a Hawaiian shirt. Then Officer Hardy holding a pineapple. They were joined by Magnum’s buddies: the black helicopter pilot and the ugly sidekick with the Brillo hair. Finally, I saw the old guy on the TV show, the one with the British accent. Higgins. Saw a close-up of his mustache, his mouth puffing on a giant cigar. The more I tried to get rid of this Higgins, the more alive he became, and then suddenly he was speaking to me, saying, “Do it, old chap. Rub one out.” I came loudly, my chest heaving.

Cal had loved that stupid show. I needed more whiskey.

I hadn’t heard Chester Baldwin come into the bathroom, but when I left the shower, he was there brushing his teeth. A flashlight on the sink’s counter beaming up at the ceiling.

“Hey,” I said. “Thought you were playing DJ at Race’s party.”

Chester spat into the sink. “What?” he asked.
“Race’s party,” I said. “Isn’t that why the dorm’s empty?” “I wouldn’t know.” Chester took a swig from a bottle of mouthwash.

I decided to ask Chester if he had any food in his room. “Bet your mom sends you care packages.”
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I have a box of homemade cookies. They’re delicious. I’d be a fool to share them.”
I said, “No need to be abrasive.”

Hungry and defeated, I went back to my room. I stood naked in front of the window watching the storm, the bracelet Tazewell had braided for me the only thing on my body. The water had tightened the knotted rope, and as I tried to loosen it a little, I realized that the only way I’d ever get that bracelet off would be to cut it from my wrist. I pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms, sleepy from the shower. Cal claimed that jerking off made him more awake, more alert, but the minute I came I felt sapped of all my strength. Defenseless like Samson. I was already under the covers when I heard a knock and saw Chester appear in the doorway. “Here.” He held out a metal cookie tin, then placed it at the foot of my bed. “There are some oatmeal raisin and peanut butter sandies. I ate all the brownies.” Chester was about to leave when I asked him to sit down.

“I’ve got some whiskey if you’re interested.” I slipped out of bed and gave him one of the tiny bottles.
Chester held up his flashlight and laughed. “Thought you’d pull out some single malt. Not these airplane freebies.” Chester handed back the bottle, reminding me that he was an athlete in training.
I was impressed by his restraint.
“Whiskey and cookies,” I said. “The perfect snack treats.” The cookies were salty and buttery. They should have been savored, but like a pig I scarfed down half the tin, crumbs scattering over my bare chest. I opened another bottle of Jim Beam.
Chester narrowed himself along the foot of my bed, leaning his back against the wall, his long calves spilling over the lip of the mattress. He was tall and slender but muscular. Most tennis players overworked their upper bodies, but Chester was perfectly proportioned. His legs as strong as his arms. I could hear him breathing, could smell the cinnamon from his mouthwash. In history class I often sat near Chester, staring at his profile, surprised by his seriousness. He looked like the kind of guy who’d read all of the books in the library and found most of them wanting. He had closely cropped hair and high cheekbones, but he also had these long curly eyelashes that made him seem delicate, childlike. The one physical detail that might have detracted from Chester’s appearance was an odd scar on his jawline, a coin-sized patch of skin that bubbled up like a blister. He was always holding his fingers over it, concealing the scar. Sitting alone together, I nearly reached out and touched that patch of skin. Curious whether it was rough or tender.
I asked Chester how he’d been, and he told me that he’d gone undefeated in all of his tennis matches. “Haven’t dropped a set all season.”
Chester was a rarity, one of the few students who’d come to Bellingham on their own accord. The tennis team was highly ranked, Chester the star. “I should come out and watch you. Learn from the master.”
“You could do that,” he said. “Listen to the wind. It’s whistling graveyards out there.”
Outside, the hurricane rattled and raged. Earlier, I’d heard a windowpane somewhere in the dorm blow out and shatter. Chester held his flashlight up under his chin. “Got a question for you. Is it true . . .” He paused, considering whether or not he should ask me, then asked me, “Is it true that Race almost bought it on your watch?”
“I fucked up,” I said. “But I also saved him.”
“Too bad.” Chester drummed his fingers over the lid of the cookie tin. “Was there a moment,” he asked, “when you thought to just let him drown?”
With Race’s accident, I’d relied on instinct. There was no thought of right or wrong. My actions all part of some survival mechanism, as though my own will to live had been redirected toward keeping Race alive. I told Chester, “I can’t bear to see anyone in pain.”
“My dad, he’s a judge, he once had to witness an execution. Mom says Dad didn’t speak for like a week afterward.” Chester paused. “Sorry to get all morbid,” he apologized. “Must be because the power’s out. All this darkness descending. Ever find that there are things you can do or say at night that you couldn’t manage during the day?”
“I guess so.” I sank my head back onto my pillow and stared at the red-glassed candle. Red navigation lights were supposed to prevent night blindness. A long time had passed since I’d sailed through darkness, and though it was dangerous to sail or even be anchored during a storm, I knew that on a night like tonight Cal would have convinced me to go out on the heavy seas. That he would have placed us both squarely in harm’s way.
“Do you play chess?” Chester asked.
“I know how the pieces move but I wouldn’t say I’m any good.”
“I could teach you.” Chester smiled.
“Chess with Chester.” I was officially drunk, slurring my words.
“Been looking for someone to match wits against. You seem like a worthy opponent.” Chester took an oatmeal cookie from the tin. “You know who’s actually got skills? Diana. She and I used to play.”
Chester looked down and away from me. He and Diana were similar. Both guarded and private about their loneliness. I assumed Chester and Di had done more than move bishops and rooks. I said, “Diana’s the original queen.”
Chester laughed, flicking his flashlight off and on. “That girl wore me out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I did everything right with Diana, and it didn’t matter.” Chester swung the bright beam around the room like his own anxious searchlight. “My mom says it’s my fault for caring. She always tells me, ‘If you hug a lamppost, you can’t blame the lamppost if it doesn’t hug you back.’ ”