Eating the Moon Page 3

  It’s difficult to say how long the storm continues. I’ve already emptied my stomach of everything and am dry heaving when, little by little, my nausea and headache begin to clear and I suspect I might actually survive. I remain facedown in the toilet awhile longer as my strength slowly returns. Once I am able, I grab the door latch and the bilge pipe and pull myself up onto my rubbery legs and try to stand. As I do so, I realize that not only has the tempest in my stomach eased, but the ship is no longer being buffeted and tossed.

  In the way that a sudden silence following a great commotion can be alarming, my first reaction to the calm is that something is wrong. Then I feel the vibrations and low hum of the ship’s diesel engines, and I know we are still moving. I lumber out of the head, steadying myself along the wall railings. I pass through the galley and stand in the open aft doorway just breathing in the fresh salt air and gazing out to sea, looking for lights or a horizon or something. The sea is dead flat, and a strange fog surrounds the ship about fifty meters out, masking any signs of horizon or sky or stars. After the vastness of sea and sky, then the anger of water and waves, this closeness and calm are entirely unexpected. It feels as if the ship has entered an enormous room that both protects and traps us. I shiver.

  As the fog in my head clears, I realize that I am a disgusting mess, and I dearly want a cup of hot coffee to wash the taste of my earlier ordeal out of my mouth. I return to the galley and put on a large pot to brew, supposing the crew will also want hot coffee now that the storm is over.

  Somewhat apprehensively, I go back into the head and do my best to clean it and myself. Mind you, the standards for what qualifies as clean on board this floating piece of junk are somewhat relaxed. I drink a cup of coffee, and then, feeling almost shipshape and presentable, I fill the small enamel coffeepot to take to Luca, who I know will be waiting expectantly on the bridge. In a naive kind of way, I’m quite proud of myself for weathering the storm and remaining reasonably intact. This is the first exciting episode on my great adventure, and now that it is over, or so I think at the time, I feel a little cocky.

  As I climb the outside stairs to the bridge, I make out a small patch of sky overhead through the fog where a cluster of stars shines unnaturally bright. To me the newness and strangeness of everything at sea gives me a sense of wonder and magic, although I’m sure a seasoned sailor would only laugh at me.

  On the bridge, Luca and I share the pot of coffee.

  “A little bit of rough sea. How did you weather the waves?” he asks with a kind of wicked gleam in his eye.

  “Absolutely no problem, if you disregard my clinging to the loo and begging for an early death.” I shrug. “So, am I to understand this was not really a big one?”

  “Sorry.” He shakes his head. “That was just a little pissing about, not even enough to cause the captain to rise from his bunk. ’Course, he’s had his fill of cheap Russian vodka by now, so I doubt even Hurricane Mary could have raised him up.”

  “I’m sure you won’t mind, when I retell this story to my grandchildren, if I upgrade the storm slightly. I could have you save the ship and crew from imminent death,” I jest.

  “I’d be happy to be your hero.” He throws a flirtatious grin back at me and flexes his eyebrows.

  I feel my face flush red. Perhaps Luca can tell just by looking in my eyes that I’m not as naive as I pretend to be. As my mother was fond of saying, sooner or later you get the face you deserve. I try to smile innocently and look out the window at the night sky. Even though we are still entirely surrounded by thick fog, the sky directly ahead of us is now clear.

  “Where are we, exactly?” I sound like a lost tourist asking for directions.

  “Well, according to the compass, we are heading two hundred thirty degrees southwest, just off the lower tip of Bermuda,” he says, pointing to the chart spread out on the desk.

  “Right here?” I put my finger on the map.

  “Yes, but if you don’t trust that, just look up—see that group of stars? Those five stars form the W called Cassiopeia.” Luca points at each star.

  I follow his gestures with my eyes.

  “Cuba’s in that direction.” Luca stretches out his arm and takes aim like he’s looking along the sight of a rifle.

  “That doesn’t sound too accurate to me,” I say, trying my best to look down the line of sight along his arm.

  “That’s why we have charts and a compass.” He shrugs and drops his arm. He turns back to the chart table, leaving me staring out the window.

  “How do we know how far away Cuba is?”

  “That’s easy. The height of the North Star over the horizon”—Luca points with his thumb over his shoulder toward the stern of the ship—“is equal to our degrees in latitude.” He takes a swig of his coffee and swallows. “It’s a simple formula, and when you can see the North Star, it works pretty well.”

  “And those other three stars just below”—I scribble my finger up and down in the air—“are they part of Cassiopeia too?”

  Luca looks up from his coffee cup and squints, then returns to my side. “No, strange, I’ve never really noticed them before. Probably just some minor stars that are particularly bright tonight. The sea and fog reflect light in strange ways.”

  Luca and I stand there for fifteen minutes or more gazing out to sea as we sip our coffee. I become transfixed by the three stars, and even though my eyes water, I can’t bring myself to blink. Whether it’s an illusion or actual, the stars appear to grow in size and brightness, paling Cassiopeia. By the time I speak, the three stars have illuminated the sky the way a full moon might do on a particularly clear night.

  “Is that normal?” I ask. But before Luca can respond, I hear a great boom and I’m thrown forward off my feet. My head slams against the steel bulkhead, and that’s all I remember of being aboard the Crescent Moon.

  GUY STARED in the direction where the ceiling tiles met the far corner of the walls. The tick of the mechanical institutional clock on the wall dominated the room.

  After a few minutes of silence, Richard said gently, “What are you thinking?”

  “There is a tiny brown spider making a web in the corner of your ceiling,” Guy said without breaking his stare.

  Richard swiveled around in his chair and looked up toward the ceiling. “Does that have any particular meaning for you?”

  “Well,” Guy said, slowly dropping his stare and turning his head to meet Richard’s eyes, “obviously, it means you have bugs in here to feed it.” Guy threw Richard a boyish grin.

  Richard tensed his jaw. “Okay, I get it. You don’t want to be analyzed. I’ll try to restrain myself.”

  Thunder cracked outside, the air felt full of static electricity, and raindrops pattered against the window. Guy stretched to look out the window behind him. The thunder boomed again, and the pattering rain became a symphony.

  “Ahh, finally, relief.” Guy held his temples with both hands.

  “Feeling better?”

  Guy nodded.

  “Glad to hear it. It’s a quarter to ten. Do you need a moment to compose yourself?”

  “No, I know the drill.” Guy grunted as he pushed himself off the sofa and stood.

  Richard rose too. “Will I see you this time Monday, then?”

  “Why not? See you Monday.” Guy started for the door.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Richard said.

  Guy stopped. “What’s that?”

  “You’re right. The vending machine stuff is dreadful.” Richard threw Guy a cocky smile. “On Monday, you can do us both a favor and bring the coffee from the Tim Hortons next door. Cappuccino for me.”

  Guy rolled his eyes. “I guess Freud was right.”

  Richard tilted his head to one side. “How so?”

  “The fee is part of the therapy.” Guy winked and left the office.

  Chapter 2: The Crescent Moon

  IT WAS Monday morning. Guy sat on the hard yellow seat, jiggling his foot and watching the cleaner
push and tug the cleaning machine back and forth across the blue linoleum floor in the main reception hall. Guy checked his watch and rubbed his hands nervously. The trickle of people coming through the tinted sliding glass doors had become a flow, as staff and patients hurried toward the elevators or down one of the various corridors. Guy checked his watch again. He stood up and darted out. Ten minutes later, he returned with a cup of coffee in each hand. He walked through the reception hall, turned right, and entered the wing of the Addiction and Mental Health Unit.

  Up ahead, around the corner, he heard the squeak of rubber soles on the freshly polished linoleum. When he reached Richard’s door, he stopped and sniffed. Among the odors of cleaning fluids and hospital disinfectants, he detected the faint scent of Adidas Sport cologne—the same cologne the young nurse, Armando, had been wearing last Friday. Guy smiled and knocked.

  “Come in.”

  Guy entered. “Good morning, Doc. Here’s your cappuccino.” He placed a foam cup on the corner of the desk and sat down on the sofa.

  “Thanks.” Richard stood up, went over with his coffee, and sat down in the swivel chair in front of the sofa.

  “Did you ever notice the little plastic cup covers now have warnings on them?” Guy popped off the lid with his thumbs and looked around for a place to put it. “Caution, contents may be hot.” Richard signaled to the wastepaper bin next to the corner of his desk, and Guy tossed the lid in. “I hope it’s hot. Coffee is supposed to be hot.”

  “I guess it’s just so people don’t accidentally burn themselves.” Richard carefully peeled the plastic lid off his cup and leaned over and placed it in the bin.

  Guy blew on his coffee and took a large sip. “You know, Doc, it seems like everything has a warning label on it nowadays. Nobody wants to take responsibility for anything or anyone.” Guy leaned forward and placed his coffee on the floor near his feet.

  “Is that what you are doing here? Taking responsibility?” There was no tone of accusation in Richard’s voice.

  Guy was silent for a moment, then said flatly, “People should come with warning labels.” He paused. “I guess we do, really. It’s just nobody ever takes the time to read them until it’s too late.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “You know, use with caution.” Guy pointed toward his own chest with both hands. “Crazy old faggot inside. Oh, I forgot we’re not supposed to use that word anymore.”

  “Use whatever words you want. It’s just the two of us here.”

  Guy reached down, picked up his coffee, and took another drink. He sat back, stared at the blank wall behind Richard’s head as if he were watching something, and began to speak.

  I LIE there struggling to stay unconscious, but reality comes crashing in like the waves that are crashing in all around me. I’m disoriented, confused, and I feel like a large spike has been driven through my left temple behind my eye sockets. I curl up tight like a frightened animal and reach for something to hang on to. I try to slow my breathing, and the throbbing eases a little to where I can focus my eyes. Soon I figure out that I’m in the stern of a lifeboat and that Luca is near me, rowing like a crazy man.

  Clinging to the gunwale, I rise to my knees and yell with as much force as my splitting head will allow, “What the hell’s going on?” A wave spills over the side, drenching me, and I sputter and cough.

  Luca yells back, “Sit tight! She’s gonna blow!” He rows with even greater force, his arms and shoulders straining against the oars.

  A large round wave looms up behind and slips under us, and I feel our small craft rise and accelerate. I see the terror in Luca’s eyes as he struggles to position us with the wave. I grip the gunwale harder.

  “Rudder! Rudder!” he hollers as he wildly digs in the oars.

  I look around in panic, knowing that whatever it is he wants me to do, our lives depend upon it. Then I see a wooden rudder at the stern, directly behind me. Our lifeboat, like the ship, is from another era. I swivel around, clutch the tiller, and attempt to steer. I had spent many summers back at the lake sailing my parent’s Albacore skiff, and this is not so very different. Somehow, between my steering and Luca’s brute strength, we manage to ride out the passing wave.

  I still have no idea why we are in a lifeboat in the middle of a tempest and not onboard the Crescent Moon. I venture a look back over my shoulder from where we flee. Suddenly, as if in answer to my bewilderment, there is an ear-splitting crack, and I lurch forward, almost losing my grip on the tiller. The sky and water light up with a sickly red and orange glow that’s eerily beautiful. A burning white light engulfs the ship, and I can almost feel the heat on my spray-drenched face. Over the crash of waves and wind, I hear a long, slow groan of buckling steel, like a death cry from some prehistoric beast. Two more explosions send white flares shooting into the night sky. Then, with a final throaty boom and a belch of air, the Crescent Moon slips below the inky surface of the sea and all is dark.

  “What the…?”

  “We hit a rock, a shoal or something, dead-on. Not on the charts!” Luca screams back.

  “Where’s the captain? Where’re the others?”

  “I don’t know! Everyone was below deck when we hit. She was burning. There was no time to warn them. I barely got us into the lifeboat.” He digs in and pulls hard but loses his grip, slips, and slams the oars against the side of the boat.

  “Burning? I don’t understand. Why was it burning?” Tears are now streaming down my face.

  “We were carrying explosives.” Luca sets the oars and pulls back firmly.

  “Explosives? I thought we were carrying fertilizer and farm supplies.” I wipe the tears from my eyes and the snot running down my mouth and chin.

  Luca’s expression turns to stone, and he continues to row. For the next hour or so, he fights to keep our craft true with the oars while I do my best to steer. We ride out each passing wave, one after another, and little by little the waves begin to lose their crests and become rolling hills of water. As the sea subsides, I can see in Luca’s face and slumping shoulders that he too is relaxing slightly, or perhaps he’s just exhausted. I guess that although we are not out of danger yet, we are no longer likely to capsize.

  “Those crates marked farm instruments? Munitions for Castro, courtesy of the Soviets.” Luca trails his oars in the water. “Besides, fertilizer is highly combustible. When we hit ground and the fertilizer caught fire, I knew it was just a matter of minutes before the whole thing blew.” His eyes fill with tears, and he looks at me as if he were begging me to tell him something.

  “And the others, what about…?”

  “There was nothing I could do.” Luca drops his head, quickly releases his right hand, and crosses himself. He takes hold of both oars again but only trails them in the water. The wind in our ears and the slap of the water against our tiny craft are the only sounds as we drift aimlessly along the rolling surface of the night sea. Eventually Luca lets go of the oars and they drag listlessly, banging lightly against the side of the boat. Neither of us speaks nor looks at the other. Our ship is gone, our shipmates drowned, and we’re alone in the middle of the sea. I continue to hang on to the tiller and steer with the waves, not knowing what else to do. My breathing slows to match the roll of the sea, an emptiness fills my mind, and I fall asleep.

  When I awake, I find myself curled up in the stern. I can see a slight glow of light from the horizon that tells me it must be early morning. Luca is stretched out midboat ahead of me with his legs spread and his head resting backward against the wooden rowing bench. I focus my sleepy eyes on him and realize his pants are wide open and he is slowly stroking himself.

  At first I’m surprised. Then, considering what we have just been through and our present situation, it seems to make sense somehow. When we are found, there will certainly be an inquiry into his responsibility. He is the first mate, and it was on his watch that the ship sank. He abandoned ship while the rest of the crew perished. He will probably be found
guilty and go to prison for a very long time. But I can’t judge him. He was courageous and strong at a time when I was panic-stricken. He saved my life. I want to thank him, but I don’t have the words to express what I am thinking and feeling.

  I remain still for a few minutes, not wishing to disturb him, and then in an exaggerated, somewhat theatrical way, I stir as if I’ve just awoken, giving him ample time to cover himself and avoid any mutual embarrassment. He continues stroking himself, not shifting his position nor raising his head. I move hesitantly, with great slowness and care, watching for signs of aversion. None come. In crab-like fashion, I creep over to him until my face is inches from his crotch. He stops stroking and puts his free hand on the back of my head, gently guiding my mouth over his glans. It’s warm and moist and tastes both bitter and salty. As I told you before, I know what to do and how to do it well.

  It doesn’t take long before he flinches twice and comes. I swallow and clear my throat. Then I gently kiss the underside of his balls and slide myself upward, kissing his hairy belly and chest as I rise. Hovering over him, supported by my arms on the bench, I look into his eyes and smile apprehensively. He smiles back briefly. Then his smile sours to a frown.

  Oh shit, I think, I’ve just made a big mistake. But before I can retreat, tears fill his eyes and I know it’s not revulsion I see. Lowering myself onto the bench, I lie next to him and cradle his head in my arms. Like a child, he surrenders, and his tears become sobs, streaming down my chest.