Rakasa Read Free

sure his
name is Daniel. Could be wrong. Probably am. But it’s definitely a ‘D’ name.
    Daniel’s got this sad expression on his face like he’s
watching his father row away or something, like what I’m doing is a personal
injustice to him.
    I don’t know if I ever spoke to the kid even once.
    I feel bad but it’ll pass. It always does.
    But when the kid takes off his boots and leaps into the
water behind me, I sort of pause.
    What’s the pause mean? I wonder. To better examine my
feelings about the situation or to give the kid a chance to catch up?
    Putting the paddle back into the water now would feel cruel.
I can leave a man to burn but I cannot leave a child to drown. I got ethics,
what can I say?
    The kid pulls himself onto the lifeboat. He coughs up salt
water and shivers.
    For some reason I ask him if the water’s cold. He just looks
at me. I put the paddles back in the water, moving us away from the sinking
inferno.
    I don’t have much hope for my survival— our survival,
I mean—but I’d say we have a better chance than that poor lot playing with fire
back there.
    The fog is thick and the ocean is endless. I didn’t think to
bring food or water. We’ll likely starve.
    I wonder if death by fire wouldn’t have been so bad.

4 .
    T he
kid says his name is actually David. At least I was close.
    David says he comes from Ireland. “Born and bred,” he says
and he does so with pride. He told me his family name but I forgot it the
instant the name left his lips. It didn’t seem important to ask him to tell me
twice.
    “The captain said I had talent,” David says. “He said I made
the best stew he ever had. And he had a lot of stew in his life, so that meant
something. He hired me then and there, took me from that kitchen Mr. Barton
owned. And I was glad to be out of there, you know? Mr. Barton was a mean drunk
with only one and a half legs, having lost one to cannon fire, but he was still
fond of kicking me around, both literally and otherwise.”
    I was tempted to throw the kid overboard so that he may
focus on swimming as compared to rambling on and on. First, I tried a more
subtle approach.
    I ask him, “Will you please shut up so that I might figure
out just where the hell we are?”
    The kid closes his mouth and turns away from me.
    I have no actual way of determining where we are. Of course
not. I’m no navigator. The navigator was dead down at the bottom of the ocean.
I just want the kid to stop talking.
    I watch the waves and study how the fog makes love with the
wind.
    I think of my lady Mary.
    Everyone is entitled to one true love in their life and mine
is Mary Hankins.
    Met Mary at a costume party down the way from a pub. She
comes from a rich family with ties to the Navy, but that doesn’t matter. She
was this golden thing, all feathers and flash. She didn’t dance with all the
men but all the men danced with her—I would beg you not to correct my meaning.
    I didn’t have the money for a costume but the party had free
drink, so I would not be denied entrance. I smeared white and red paint on my
face, plucked the feather out of a chicken’s ass, and called myself a Cherokee.
    The party guests treated me with scorn. I treated them to up-close
looks at my black and gold teeth.
    Mary got passed to me by mistake in the hustle of a big
dance. She was in my arms and the drink was on the floor before I even knew
what was happening.
    I remember seeing nothing but her eyes and her smile. That
was enough to know that our futures would be forever intertwined.
    I took her closer and kissed her longingly. People gasped at
first, but they clapped when she wrapped her arms around me and returned the
kiss.
    Doesn’t get much better than that, in my experience.
    I think of her removing her mask and I frown.
    I cannot recall her looks just now. I know that she is
beautiful, not just to me but to every man in town. I think she is like the
sun, vibrant and bright and charitable with her life. Her hair