In the Garden of the North American Martyrs

  After he did the dishes Glen unpacked and sat at the window in his room. Horns were blowing across the sound. The fog was all around the house, thickening the air; the breath in his lungs made him feel slow and heavy.

  He wondered what it really felt like, being high. Once Glen had gone hunting with his stepfather outside Wenatchee and while they were watching the sun come up a flight of geese skimmed the orchard behind them and passed overhead in a rush. As the geese wheeled south and crossed in front of the sunrise they called back and forth to each other with a sound like laughter, and their wings were outlined in gold. Glen had felt so good that he had forgotten his gun. Maybe it would be like that, like starting all over again.

  He decided to try it; this time, instead of just a few puffs, he had two whole marijuana cigarettes all to himself. But not in his room—Martin came in all the time to get things out of the closet, plant food and stationery and so on, and he might smell it. Glen didn’t want to go outside, either. There was always the chance of running into the police.

  In the basement, just off the laundry room, was another smaller room where Martin kept wood for the fireplace. He wouldn’t be going in there for another two or three months, when the weather turned cold. Probably the smell would wear off by that time; then again, maybe it wouldn’t. What the hell, thought Glen.

  He put on his windbreaker and went into the living room where Martin was building a model airplane. “I’m going out for a while,” he said. “See you later.” He walked down the hall and opened the front door. “So long!” he yelled, then slammed the door shut so Martin would hear, and went down the stairs into the basement.

  Glen couldn’t turn on the lights because then the fan would go on in the laundry room; the fan had a loud squeak and Martin might hear it. Glen felt his way along the wall and stumbled into something. He lit a match and saw an enormous pile of Martin’s shirts, all of them white, waiting to be ironed. Martin only wore cotton because wash ’n wear gave him hives. Glen stepped over them into the wood room and closed the door. He sat on a log and smoked both of the marijuana cigarettes all the way down, holding in the smoke the way he’d been told. Then he waited for it to do something for him but it didn’t. He was not happy. Glen stood up to leave, but at that moment the fan went on in the room outside so he sat down again.

  He heard Martin set up the ironing board. Then the radio came on. Whenever the announcer said something Martin would talk back. “First the good news,” the announcer said. “We’re going to get a break tomorrow, fair all day with highs in the seventies.” “Who cares?” Martin said. The announcer said that peace-seeking efforts had failed somewhere and Martin said, “Big deal.” A planeload of athletes had been lost in a storm over the Rockies. “Tough tittie,” said Martin. When the announcer said that a drug used in the treatment of cancer had been shown to cause demented behavior in laboratory rats, Martin laughed.

  There was music. The first piece was a show tune, the second a blues number sung by a woman. Martin turned it off after a couple of verses. “I can sing better than that,” he said. Substituting da-da-dum for the words, he brought his voice to a controlled scream, not singing the melody but cutting across the line of it, making fun of the blues.

  Glen had never heard a worse noise. It became part of the absolute darkness in which he sat, along with the bubbling sigh of the iron and the sulfurous odor of Martin’s after-shave and the pall of smoke that filled his little room. He tried to reckon how many shirts might be in that pile. Twenty, thirty. Maybe more. It would take forever.

  Maiden Voyage

  Twice the horn had sounded, and twice Howard had waved and shouted dumb things at the people below; now he was tired and they still hadn’t left the dock. But he waved again anyway, doing his best, when the horn went off a third time.

  The boat began to glide out of its slip. Nora leaned against Howard, fanning the air with a long silk scarf. On the dock below their daughter held up a printed cardboard sign she had brought along for the occasion: HAPPY GOLDEN ANNIVERSARY MOM AND DAD. As the boat picked up speed she dropped the sign and kept pace beside the hull, running and yelling up at them with her hands cupped in front of her mouth. Howard worried. She had been a stupid girl and now she was a stupid woman, perfectly capable of running off the end of the pier. But she stopped finally, and grew smaller and smaller until Howard could barely make her out from the rest of the crowd. He stopped waving and turned to Nora. “I’m cold. Look at that sky. You said it was going to be warm.”

  Nora glanced up at the clouds. They were steely gray like the water below. “The brochure said this was an ideal time of year in these waters. Those were the exact words.”

  “These waters my foot.” Howard gave her the look. The look was enough now, he didn’t have to say anything else. Howard walked toward the steps leading to their cabin. Nora followed, quoting from the brochure.

  Paper banners hung from wall to wall: “Welcome Aboard the William S. Friedman,” “Happy Sailing—To Those in the Throes of Love from Those in the Business of Love.” The cabin was bright with fruit and flowers; on the door hung two interlocking life preservers in the shape of hearts.

  “Help me to the bathroom, Howard. I’m afraid to walk the way the floor keeps tilting.”

  “You don’t have your sea legs yet.” Howard took Nora’s arm and led her to the door in the corner. “This is the head. And the floor is called the deck. If we have to be on this boat for a week you might just as well get it right.” He closed the door behind her and stared around the cabin.

  There was a big brass latch on the wall. Howard jiggled it and finally slipped it free and the bed fell out on top of him. It took him by surprise and almost knocked him down but he kept his footing and managed to push the bed back into the wall. Then he read the barometer and opened and closed the drawers. The upper drawers contained several bars of soap in miniature packets. Howard slipped a few in his pocket and opened the porthole and stuck his head out. Other people had their heads stuck out too. He battened the porthole and read the barometer again, then picked up the intercom.

  “Testing,” he said. “One two three four testing. Night Raider this is Black Hawk. Testing.”

  A voice crackled from the speaker. “Steward here.”

  “It’s me. Howard. Just testing. Over and out.”

  Nora came back into the cabin and made her way to the couch. “It’s too small in there. I couldn’t breathe.”

  “I could have told you this wouldn’t be any palace.”

  “I feel awful. I bet I look awful too.”

  Nora’s face had gone white. The burst veins in her cheeks and along her upper lip stood out like notations on a map. Her eyes glittered feverishly behind her spectacles. Sick, she looked more than ever like Harry Truman, for whom Howard had not voted.

  He sat beside Nora and took her hand. “You look all right.”

  “Do I really?”

  “What’d I just say?” He let go of her hand. “Why do you always think about what you look like?”

  “That’s not true. I don’t.”

  Howard paced the cabin. “Goddam boat.”

  “I thought it would be nice, just the two of us.”

  A knock came at the door and a man stuck his head in, a large square head divided by a pencil-line moustache. “Our Golden Couple,” he said, smiling. “I’m Bill Tweed, your social director.” His body followed his head into the cabin. “I want to extend a real warm welcome aboard from all of us here on the Friedman. I guess you know this is our maiden voyage. Ever been to sea?”

  Howard nodded. “World War I. Before your time, I guess.” He gestured toward the porthole. “You could have walked all the way from New York to Paris on top of German submarines. They got three of our ships. Saw it myself.” Howard had been sure they would get him too. He had been sure of it all the way across and never slept at night for knowing it. When the war ended and he got on another ship to come back home he knew that somewhere out there was a German who ha
dn’t gotten the word. His German. Howard had a sense of things catching up with him.

  Tweed handed Howard a pamphlet. “We here on the Friedman feel that our business is your pleasure. Just read this over and let us know what you’re interested in. We have a number of special programs for our senior sailors. Can you both walk?”

  Howard just stared. “Yes,” Nora said.

  “Wonderful. That’s a real help.” He ran his forefinger across his moustache and made a notation against his clipboard. “A few more questions. Your age, Mr. Lewis?”

  “I was seventy-five years old on April first. April Fool’s Day.”

  “‘Young,’ Dad—seventy-five years young. We here on board the Friedman don’t know the word ‘old.’ We don’t believe in it. Just think of yourself as three twenty-five-year-olds. And you, Mrs. Lewis?”

  “I’m seventy-eight.”

  “Ah. December-May. Any children?”

  “Two. Sharon and Clifford.”

  “The poor man’s riches. Happy the man who has his quiver full of them. Their occupations?”

  Howard handed Nora the pamphlet. “Sharon’s retarded and Clifford is in jail.”

  Tweed, still scribbling, looked up from the clipboard. “I’m so sorry. Of course this is all confidential.”

  Nora scowled at Howard. “Are you married, Mr. Tweed?”

  “Indeed I am. Married to the single life. My mother keeps telling me I should take a wife but I haven’t decided yet whose wife I’m going to take.” He winked at Howard and pocketed his pen. “Well, then, until dinner. You’ll be interested to know who your tablemates will be.” He smiled secretively. “Ron and Stella Speroni. Newlyweds from Delaware. Ever been to Delaware?”

  “On the train once,” said Howard. “Didn’t get off.”

  “A real nice state. Intimate. Anyway, I’m sure that Ron and Stella can learn a lot about love from you, seeing you’ve piled up a hundred years of it between you.” Smiling at his arithmetic he closed the door.

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” said Nora. “Telling him Clifford was in jail.”

  Howard spent most of the dinner talking to Ron. Ron reminded him of a horse. He had a long face and muddy brown eyes and when he laughed his upper lip curled up over his teeth. He worked in his father’s jewelry store in Wilmington. They specialized in synthetic diamonds and Ron was willing to bet that Howard couldn’t tell the difference between their product and the real McCoy. He had Stella take off the tiara she wore, an intricate silver band dense with stones, and handed it to Howard.

  “Go on,” he said. “If you can tell the difference you can have it.” He waited, smiling at Nora and Stella.

  Howard turned the tiara over a couple of times, then scraped it along the side of a water glass.

  “No fair,” Ron said, snatching it away. “I already told you it was synthetic.” He stared at his wife constantly as he talked. Stella had platinum hair going brown at the roots and long black fingernails. She didn’t say much; most of the time she sat with her chin cupped in her hand, gazing around at the other tables and scraping her fingernails back and forth over the linen tablecloth. Ron had met her in the shop. She came in to have some earrings converted and one thing led to another. “She’s an incredible person,” Ron whispered. “You ought to see her with kids.”

  After dinner the waiters moved all the tables out of the center of the room and the band started to warm up. Tweed walked out to the middle of the dance floor holding a microphone attached to a long wire. The room fell silent.

  “Tonight,” Tweed said, “we have with us what you might call the summer and winter, the Alpha and Omega of human love. Let’s hear it for Ron and Stella Speroni, married three days this very afternoon, and for Mom and Dad Lewis, who celebrated their Golden Anniversary last Wednesday.” Everyone clapped.

  “We here on the Friedman have a special place for our senior sailors. To those who are afraid of time I say: what tastes better than old wine or old cheese? And where the art of love is concerned (Tweed paused) we all know that old wood gives off the most heat.” Everyone laughed. Nora sent a smile around the room. Howard cracked his knuckles under the table. Stella grinned at him and he looked away. Then Ron and Nora and Stella all stood together and he stood too and found himself dancing with Stella. He held her awkwardly as the music began, not knowing what to say and not wanting to look down at all the faces looking up at him.

  Stella spoke first. “You’ve got strong hands.”

  “I used to do a lot of lifting.”

  Stella raised his hand and opened it and ran a black fingernail across his palm. “You’re very passionate. Look.” She traced a crease running from his wrist to the base of his forefinger.

  “Probably comes from my grandfather. He had fourteen kids. He was still grinding them out in his sixties.”

  “I have the same thing.” Stella showed him her own palm. Her scent was overwhelming. “When were you born?”

  “April first. April Fool’s Day.”

  “Aries.” Stella grinned. “The Ram.” Howard could see the dank glimmer of gold in her back teeth.

  “I don’t know about any rams. I guess I do all right.”

  “People like us shouldn’t get married. We have too much passion for just one person.”

  “Marrying Nora was the smartest thing I ever did.”

  “Ron and I have an open marriage.”

  Howard turned this over for a moment. He felt adventurous. “So do me and Nora.”

  “Wow, think of that.” Stella stepped backwards. “You were ahead of your time. You really were.”

  “Well, like the man says—you only live once.”

  “Me and Ron figure that’s the best way of dealing with the problem. You know, instead of sneaking around and all that stuff. Ron is very understanding.”

  The music stopped and everyone applauded and Howard led Stella back to the table. He and Nora watched people dance for a while but she wouldn’t talk to him and he could tell she was mad about something. Finally she got up and walked outside. He followed and stood silently beside her, leaning against the rail. The rolling swells had flattened out but a mist had fallen over the ship like a screen. Howard reached out and touched Nora’s arm. She stiffened.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  Howard drew his arm back.

  “I know who you’re thinking about,” Nora said.

  “All right. Who am I thinking about?”

  “Miriam Selby.”

  Howard stared over the side of the ship. “She does look like Miriam, I’ll grant you. Can’t see where that’s any fault of mine.”

  “You don’t love me. You never have.”

  “There you are,” said a voice behind them. “Sneaking off already, eh? And unchaperoned. We’ll have to see about this.” Tweed stepped closer. “How did you get on with the Speronis?”

  “Nice couple,” Nora said. “Attractive.”

  “Youth.” Tweed shook his head. “A once-in-a-lifetime experience. I just wanted to remind you about the costume party tomorrow night.”

  “But we don’t have any costumes.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. We provide everything. Well then. You two behave yourselves.”

  Howard leaned against the rail, watching Tweed move along the deck until he disappeared into the mist.

  “Howard, I’m sorry.”

  He took Nora’s hand.

  “Do you love me?” she said.

  “Sure. Sure I do.”

  “You never say so.” Nora waited but Howard didn’t answer. “It’s all right,” she said, leaning against him; “it doesn’t matter.” Howard put his arm around her and stared down over the railing, watching the water, black as oil, slide along the hull of the boat.

  When the horn gave the alarm—HAHOOGA HAHOOGA HAHOOGA—Howard came awake knowing that his German had found him. He accepted it without bitterness, even with some self-satisfaction. He had, after all, been right.

  Nora sat up, the covers pulled around
her throat. “Howard, what is it?”

  “Submarine.” Howard got out of bed and put on his robe and went out into the companionway. The passage was choked with people asking each other what the horn meant. Just then one of the ship’s attendants came through and told everyone not to worry and to go back to bed. Someone had brought a hot plate aboard and left it plugged in and it had started a small fire. Howard was about to go back in the cabin when Ron Speroni came up to him. He wore pajama tops over striped tuxedo trousers.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Lewis. Have you seen Stella?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I just thought maybe you had.”

  “You share the same cabin, don’t you?”

  Speroni nodded. “She went up on deck for some fresh air. When I woke up after that whistle went off she still wasn’t back.”

  “When did she go out?”

  “About eleven.”

  “That was three hours ago.”

  “I know.” Speroni looked down at his bare feet. His toes were long and hairy and curled like a monkey’s. Howard decided to help him.

  “Let’s take a look around. Maybe she fell asleep up on deck.”

  They went topside and walked along the rail, peering at the rows of empty deck chairs by the misty glow of the running lights. Then, as they approached the stern, a man’s voice came to them, fruity, disembodied, chuckling portentously. They looked around. They saw nothing. Then came the woman’s voice, murmuring and low, suddenly breaking into laughter unmistakably Stella’s.

  The voices came from the lifeboat hanging across the stern. Speroni leaned forward, trembling slightly, his arms rigid at his sides, his eyes fixed on the darkness above the boat. Howard reached out and took him by the elbow. Speroni turned to him, his mouth twitching, and Howard felt him yield. He walked Speroni around the bow to the other side of the boat. Under the lights Speroni’s cheeks shone like wet pavement. Howard looked out over the water.