The Starboard Sea: A Novel (18 page)

“But then why do ships always have those naked women carved on the front?”
“The masthead, you mean,” I said. “Well, a woman can be on a ship if she bares her breasts. Naked women calm the seas and bring everyone good luck.”
This was an old superstition, but Aidan took it as a challenge.
“If that’s the case . . .” Aidan stood, pulled off her tights, and stripped off her sweater. She stood on deck long enough for me to take in the fullness of her breasts, the flatness of her stomach. Then she turned, arched forward, and dove from the Swan.
I followed her, the two of us skinny- dipping in the harbor, barely able to see each other’s naked bodies in the dark. Aidan floated on her back, claiming her superhero power was buoyancy. She tucked her arms behind her head, crossed her feet at the ankles.
“No one floats as well as I do.” She laughed. “I don’t need to paddle or kick. I can just stay on my back and enjoy the stars.”
The sky was bright with constellations. The warm waves licked our bodies. I could see Aidan’s breasts round and white. I thought of water lilies.
“You’ll need a superhero name,” I said. “We can call you Bellatrix, the Amazon star. She’s one of the brightest. Sailors use her for navigation.”
“The stars are like a map to sailors, right?” Aidan splashed lightly in the water.
“Yeah,” I said. “And they’re also a clock.”
“A star clock,” Aidan said. “I like that.”
Recalling Coach Tripp’s lessons, I explained how the stars provided position and mea sured time. During the day it was enough to rely on the sun and horizon. But at night, so long as the horizon was still visible, a sailor used whatever was most brilliant: Sirius, Canopus, Arcturus, Polaris. I tried to describe a sextant to Aidan, the way the double mirrors provide a steady image on a rocking boat. “The best thing about taking a sight reading is that you have to forget all that stuff about the earth revolving around the sun. In order to stay on course, a sailor has to believe that the universe revolves around him. You and your boat are the fixed point. The heavenly bodies just rise and fall circling around you.”
“I always wondered why sailors were so arrogant.” Aidan flipped over on her belly. “You guys actually think you’re the center of the world.”

On Wednesday I woke up just in time to miss the brown bag lunches the cafeteria kept pawning off on us. I couldn’t bear another peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich. At first I thought I’d walk into town and pick something up at the General Store. Then I decided that what I needed to do first was go for a run. My body felt restless. Weeks had passed since I’d bothered to exercise, and though I’d held my own on the football field, I was worried about getting soft. I stopped by Chester’s room thinking he might be up for a workout.

Chester also had a single. His room was half the size of mine, and to compensate for the compactness, he’d lofted his bed up onto stilts and placed his desk in the narrow space below. The room smelled like musky cologne, the kind children give their dads for Father’s Day. Chester’s desk was impressively organized with actual folders and file cabinets. A plastic caddy held pens, highlighters, scissors, a ruler, and tape. The bed was neatly made, the blankets tucked, the comforter straightened, the pillows actually fluffed. In his closet, I could see shirts tightly folded, stacked like gold bars. His room looked as tidy as a mother would have left it for her son on the first day of school. I thought of my own mess, how I was content to sleep the entire semester on the same dirty sheets. How I’d sooner throw out clothes than wash them. My parents were paying a ser vice five hundred dollars a semester to clean my belongings and I hadn’t once bothered to drop off a bag of laundry.

Despite being smaller, Chester’s room had more interesting architectural features: built-in bookshelves, a plaster rosette blooming in the center of the ceiling, dark wood paneling, and a large bay window with a cushioned seat. When I entered, Chester was stretched out over the window seat’s gold velvet cushion wearing a white polo shirt and a pair of orange Bermuda shorts. The light shone on his shoulders as he read
The Sun Also Rises
. Mr. Guy had informally assigned the book. He’d been trying to make a point about World War I and the Lost Generation and was stunned when almost no one understood what he was referencing. “Don’t they teach you anything anymore?” he’d asked, as though he wasn’t the one responsible for our education. Mr. Guy had rambled on about Hemingway and the human condition, acting like he and Ernest had gone to Boy Scout camp together. I’m not sure what got into me, maybe I wanted Mr. Guy to stop talking, to stop chastising us, but I mentioned
The Sun Also Rises,
how it was one of my favorite books, how you could learn a lot about what it must have been like to go to war, to be wounded and unable to return to your former life. How Jake’s impotence and expatriation were a metaphor for his guilt. Mr. Guy put his hand on my shoulder and told me that though I was wrong about my interpretation, at least it was comforting to know that one of his students was semiliterate. I regretted opening my mouth. Now seeing Chester with the book I’d recommended, I felt a surge of pride. Maybe it had been worth it to speak up.

“You’re quite the overachiever,” I said.

It took Chester a moment to recognize me, like he was trapped inside the pages of the novel, lost at a zinc bar in Paris. He paused to take me in, then looked down at the book. “So you really like this?” Chester closed the paperback and held it up.

I nodded. “One of my favorites.”

“Yeah, I guess I can see why you like it so much. It’s about you in a way, right?”
I smiled and shook my head, unsure of Chester’s question.
“What I mean,” Chester continued, “is that the world must have seemed familiar to you. You could be Jake, Lady Brett’s like Brizzey, Bill might as well be Tazewell. Made me start looking for myself. Do you remember the section with the black boxer?”
I told Chester that the things I remembered most were the passages on fly-fishing and bullfighting and the final line, “Isn’t it pretty to think so.”
“Well, there’s a section where Bill tells this story about a boxer he helped rescue. Bill calls the man a ‘wonderful nigger.’ ” Chester looked at me. “Is that a phrase people use?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean”—Chester smoothed his polo shirt across his chest—“is that a phrase people use? Are you familiar with it?”
“That book was written a long time ago.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“True.” Chester blinked, his long eyelashes fluttering. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not surprised to see the n-word. I just never expected to see the word “wonderful” in front of it. Got me wondering. What does it mean to be a wonderful nigger?”
“People were different back then,” I said. “The way they spoke.” I could hear the inadequacy of my own words. “Hemingway was writing for a different time.”
“And what time was that?”
“I mean . . .” I shifted back and forth from leg to leg. “I don’t have to tell you what people used to be like.”
“Used to be, huh?” Chester worried the scar on his jaw. “So what would Hemingway have thought of me in my tennis whites?” Chester rose up and popped the collar on his shirt. “There’s another phrase here.” He shuffled through the book and showed me a page. “ ‘Awful noble-looking nigger.’ Is that what Ernest would have called me?”
I could feel myself blushing. I knew this wasn’t something to shrug off. Chester was dead serious. He tossed
The Sun Also Rises
facedown on the window seat and walked over to his bookshelf. I tried to think of something to say. I pivoted and followed Chester. “Look, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry I’m being abrasive again?” he asked. “Or sorry you knocked on my door? Don’t worry, you just walked in on me thinking aloud.”
Chester was giving me an easy out if I wanted to take it. I knew that I shouldn’t. “We could bring it up to Mr. Guy,” I said. “Talk about it in class. I’m happy to admit that I didn’t read the book carefully. That there were things I missed.”
“I’ve got a recommendation for you.” Chester found what he was looking for on his bookshelf. He carefully handed me a book that said “Advance Copy” on the cover. “I’m one of the few people in the world who has this.”
The book was called
The Motion of Light In Water
. I flipped it open and saw an author photo of an older black man with a wiry beard.
“The writer, Chip Delany, he’s a family friend. Grew up in Harlem with my dad. Chip’s very careful about the words he uses. Why don’t you borrow it and tell me what you think.”
I didn’t know when I would find the time to read the book and I hated taking something that obviously mattered to Chester knowing that he was so careful with his own belongings while I was so careless with mine. In the corner of the room a small metal folding table held a chessboard, the plastic pieces arranged in midstrategy. I wondered who Chester’s opponent was, or if he was playing against himself. After one night of hanging out together, I’d thought we’d have a casual friendship, but now I understood that I owed Chester something more.
I thanked him for the book and asked if he wanted to go for a run. “I need to get back in shape. I’m turning soft.” Chester picked up a racquet and explained that he had tennis practice. Even though Windsor had suspended classes, athletics were still running on schedule. We made a plan to play tennis later on in the week.
I was about to leave his room when Chester called me back.
“Jason, you know what sucks? Up until that ‘wonderful’ moment, I really liked
The Sun Also Rises
. I did. But now I feel awful for ever having liked it.”

Whether he’d meant to or not, Chester had given me a lot to think about. He had problems and concerns I couldn’t even begin to imagine. I wanted to be his friend. One day in the library, Aidan had mentioned that she thought Chester was probably the strongest person at Bellingham. “What he has to go through, none of us can imagine.” At the time, I was skeptical. I argued that Chester was just as privileged as we were, that he’d grown up with every advantage she and I had, but Aidan said, “No. Tazewell and Kriffo went after Chester like he was something they wanted to break.” I explained that guys hazed one another, that it was harmless, that it would ultimately lead to a lifelong bond. “They’re war buddies,” I said, confident that I knew what I was talking about.

I didn’t bother to stretch my hamstrings or warm up for my run. After two miles, the insides of my thighs burned, my calves were cramped, and I had a stitch in my side from breathing sporadically. It wasn’t easy, but I powered through the pain and managed to do an eight-mile circuit. It felt good to sweat in the cold, biting air, and I headed into town hoping to grab some snacks for Aidan and myself. Figuring we could have an impromptu feast on the beach.

All of the leaves had blown off the trees. I loved the rustling sound of charging through a pile of dried leaves, but these leaves were soggy from the storm. I kicked my way through a wet patch of maple foliage, the pointed leaves clinging to my sneakers like small golden hands.

The General Store had its own generator, and all of the refrigerated cases were freshly stocked. I heard the owner, Eddie, an older man, his hair a shoe- polish black, tell another customer that he felt guilty about the brisk business. “Just doesn’t seem right to profit from a disaster.” The owner asked me how I was doing and gave me a free sample of apple cider. There was more to this town than the school. This was the sort of place where people strove to be nice to one another. The type of place where you could raise a family. It had never occurred to me that I would live anywhere other than New York, but I understood how people could enjoy a small town, the familiarity, the safety.

I picked out a pair of clementines, then grabbed a block of cheese, a box of crackers, and some sparkling grape juice. Eddie joked about carding me. I was mad that I’d given my Army knife away to Race and asked Eddie if he had any plastic knives or paper cups. He nodded and packed everything up. I’d slipped a twenty- dollar bill into my sock before setting out for my run but when I reached down to peel it away, the twenty was gone. I’d probably lost it to the wet maple leaves. I apologized to Eddie and was about to put the groceries back when a voice behind me said, “Just put it on my tab.” Turning around I saw Race holding a jug of milk.

“That’s awfully nice of you,” I said, “but totally unnecessary.”

Race shrugged. “It’s no big deal. All my friends at school charge snacks to my mom’s account. Isn’t that right, Eddie?”
Eddie said, “Mrs. Goodwyn is very generous.”

Race and I stood out on the sidewalk together. He had a fading shiner on his left eye, the green and purple bruises shadowing his face. Someone had punched him hard. “What does the other guy look like?” I asked.

“The other guy was just born ugly.”
We both laughed.
Race said, “Next time we have a party, you’ve got to see Kriffo dance.

When he gets drunk, he thinks he’s Iggy Pop. He clocked me in mid– fist pump. Total accident, but dude doesn’t know his own strength.”

We chatted for a few minutes, casual and relaxed. Race complained that Coach Tripp had paired him up with a freshman. “The kid can’t crew for shit. Slows us down around every marker.”

We talked technique and I realized that Race knew his stuff. I asked him, “Back when I was at Kensington, did we ever sail against each other?”

“I was wondering that myself.” Race shifted the milk from arm to arm, bouncing it like a baby. “We must have. I’ve kept pretty good records on my stats. I’m being recruited, you know. Tufts, BC. Even have my eyes on the Olympics. Ever think about competing at that level?”

“Might take the fun out of it for me.” Cal and I had considered the Olympics or even going pro, but we’d both decided against turning sailing into a job.

“I guess I like training more than you do.” Race opened the lid on the jug of milk and took a swig.
I said, “I think you like competing more than I do.”
Race wiped milk off his mouth, then stuck his hand in my grocery bag, pulling out one of the clementines. He brought the fruit up to his face, breathed in the skin, and waved good-bye.
The houses closest to the beach had been badly damaged by the storm. Not much effort had been made to clear away trees or to fix windows, and I had to imagine that most of these houses were second homes, vacation cottages. My mother had once told Riegel and me this story about a friend of hers who lived in Newport. “Poor Celia,” she’d said. “She lost two of her houses to hurricanes. Still has the farm in Rhinebeck, and it’s a lucky thing that she has the ranch in Jackson Hole and her home on Jupiter Island. Otherwise, I just don’t know what she would do.” Riegel and I both dropped to our knees with laughter. The phrase “Poor Celia” became code for us. A shorthand for outrageous privilege.
Some of the longtime teachers at Bellingham owned houses near the beach, but none of theirs had a view. Mr. Guy’s came closest. He had a small brick bungalow on a corner plot. The only brick home on the street. Aidan went there sometimes to meet with Mr. Guy and discuss her independent study. She thought Mr. Guy was the best teacher at Bellingham, the only one who’d really dedicated his life to the school.
A power line had collapsed on his front yard, but Mr. Guy’s house seemed to have otherwise survived the huff and puff of the storm. As I walked past, I noticed that a van from the electric company was parked in the driveway. I waved at Mr. Guy as he and another man argued with a fellow in a yellow hard hat. Mr. Guy gave me a quick nod. He was probably even more grateful for the days off than his students.