“That’s just it,” said Owen. “It’s the uncertainty of every action. Every choice is a threat. I don’t want to stay shut up in my condo, trying to decide if a breath of fresh air is worth risking my life. I’m going to leave while I still can.”
“Wow.” She envied him the wherewithal to make and enact such a bold plan. She waited for her son to take her hand before she started walking again.
“Yes,” said Owen. He paused behind her to tie his shoelace, but then he was quickly strolling apace. “It’s kind of a ‘wow’ thing.”
Noah started babbling his amazement as they approached the marina. Dozens of moored boats bobbed in their slips, and the water dappled in the afternoon sun. Manhattan’s skyscrapers gleamed across the Hudson. Noah wanted to dash ahead, but Sarah kept a tight hold on his hand.
“No running,” she said.
“Okay.” For a second, he pulled on her arm like a swinging monkey, but then he began walking normally. There was no sign of the morning’s illness. They waited while Owen spoke to a man in the office, who came out with a packet of papers on a clipboard and a key that he used to lock the office behind him.
“You won’t find better in this price range,” the man said. He had a gruffness that Sarah found suggestive of honesty as he shook her gloved hand. His button-down shirt was open at the collar. “You’re looking at three cabins, two convertible berths in the dining area, and a ton of hidden storage.”
He was peddling the features, not the boat, Sarah decided. When the man started citing fuel capacity and nautical miles per hour, Owen launched into an elaborate series of questions. He was taking a lot of notes in a worn leatherbound journal.
“Why are the current owners selling?” she asked.
The man shrugged. “It’s a lot of work owning a boat,” he said. “Especially if you don’t use it much. The current owner is retired, but his health isn’t so good.”
They followed him along the docks until they came almost to the end, where a smallish ketch sailboat was moored. White with navy blue trim, the name Buona Fortuna swirled on its side.
“ ‘Good luck,’ ” Sarah translated aloud, though she knew she didn’t need to. The sunlight glinted off rigging that ran in perfect geometry from its two masts to the deck. “It’s really kind of beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Owen.
“Forty-two feet,” said the man. “Steel hull.” He had a beard, another detail which Sarah considered and weighted on the side of integrity. Being put into the position of an advisor for a major expenditure was making her listen to her instincts rather more than was warranted. “It’s Dutch construction,” he went on. “Nothing more reliable than that.”
“Is there a transferrable warranty?” asked Sarah.
“No, it’s too old for that by a long shot,” he said. “Though we could check on some of the upgraded components.” He glanced at Owen, who was considering the boat, arms folded. “It’s very seaworthy. A family of four sailed her all the way around the globe.” He turned back to Sarah. “This was their only home for years, so as you can imagine you can make it quite comfortable for yourselves.”
Sarah realized the man assumed she was Owen’s wife, and Noah his son. When she looked at Owen, there was the crinkle of a smile around his eyes.
Aboard Buona Fortuna, Noah climbed in and out of the berths and dragged Sarah in to see the miniature bathroom. After, she stood in the middle of the tiny galley kitchen and marvelled over its design.
“It’s so clever,” she said. She fingered the faucet on the small double sink before running her palm along the handle of the miniature oven. “I think it might be more functional than the one in my apartment.” She glanced at Owen, wondering if he could guess how little use she made of it. Surprised, too, by the sudden guilt she felt. Noah knew all their favourite takeout menus by heart. But what did it matter? He was happy and healthy. And Owen was busy poking around.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Noah said in his lisping way to the man. “Is that okay?”
“What’s that?” The man stared. “What did he say?”
“He’s wondering if he can use the bathroom,” said Sarah.
“Aren’t you polite! Go ahead.” The man handed Owen the clipboard with the pricing folder. “I’ll leave you to think about this as a family. Just drop the info packet back at the office before you go.”
Once he was gone, Sarah turned to Owen, expecting the same conspiratorial smile as before, but instead he seemed thoughtful.
“Your son is a lovely little boy, isn’t he?” he said. “Very sweet.”
“Yes. I think sometimes we forget that boys can be sweet.”
Owen nodded, his eyes still lingering on the door of the bathroom. “Aren’t you afraid for him?”
“Of course I am.” A lump formed in her throat almost immediately. “But our lives can’t just come to a grinding halt because there’s a virus on the loose.”
“But that’s exactly what will happen. Don’t you see?” His voice was curt, or maybe only urgent, but Sarah’s temper flared even as her eyes brimmed.
“I do, yes. I do.” She tried not to blink, which would only send the tears spilling down her cheeks. The energy she was already putting into dampening her worry could power a small car. All she wanted when she closed her eyes at night was to pick up her son in her arms and retreat to some high mountain cave—free, alone, and safe at last.
Owen was giving her a hard look, and Sarah was surprised as he ran his fingers up through his greying blond hair, his palms slowing as they crossed his face. “It’s strange,” he said, “being treated like a prophet. As though I could actually save anybody.”
Sarah considered the strain of his position, the burden of a kind of imposter expertise. “You will,” she said. “All the press you’ve been doing…people are really listening. You’re doing amazing things with the platform you have.”
“Right,” he said. “Maybe. I hope so.” He put his hands in his pockets. “You know my ex and her little boy? Henry? I’ve been trying to convince them to leave, either with me or by some other means, but she’s cut me off completely.”
Sarah nodded, unsure of what to say. She had put Owen in contact with an estate lawyer to set up a trust for Henry, but as far as she knew, Rachel hadn’t responded to any communications. Sarah and Owen spent the next few minutes in silence, watching Noah as he climbed into every cubbyhole he could find.
“Hey,” said Noah, clambering into the furthest corner of one of the berths. “Hey, look at me, Owen, I’m sleeping.” He closed his eyes, but he was grinning.
“I see you,” said Owen, “but I think you’re awake.” Noah giggled.
“That’s impressive,” said Sarah. “Not everyone can make out what he says.” They slid into seats across from one another at the central salon table. “I’m worried about you being out there, alone on the ocean.”
“I’ve been taking sailing lessons,” said Owen. “For almost two months now.”
“Good,” she said, relieved. “On a real boat?”
“Yes, a real boat. Though there’s also an autopilot.” His eyes were still on Noah, who was giggling as he pretended to snore. “I’m worried about your boy. I’m serious about keeping him out of school. Think about it, okay?”
“I will, I promise.” She put a hand on the table to push her seat back and realized all the furniture was bolted down. “Won’t you be lonely? Or afraid?” She could picture herself in the dark of the open water. A sky full of stars. She wondered if there were people who were meant to be apart from the world, and if she might be one of them. And she knew, in the next instant, what she wanted.
“I’ve never been lonely in my life.” Owen swung his legs out from under the table, stood up, and offered her a gloved hand to help her out. “It’s partly why my ex-wife divorced me.” His laugh was not exactly bitter,
but it was not self-deprecating either. “I suppose I’ll probably be afraid, though. That seems to be the human condition.”
Sarah took a deep breath. “So let us come with you. Me and Noah.” She summoned a confidence she didn’t feel. “Sailing classes are one thing, but experience is what will save your life out there.”
Owen said nothing for a long minute.
“If you just leave, I’ll lose my job, anyway.” She meant to say this as though it were a joke, but it did not even remotely sound like one. She wondered what molecular messages might be rising off the surface of her skin, and if something in him might be responding to her the same way he had so many years ago. “You know you need my help.”
The silence continued, and she thought Owen must be angry, but his eyes were sober. “Okay, come with me,” he said. “You and Noah.” His voice was low and intense. “Then I’ll know I’ve done something. More than just put words on a page.”
She felt a prickling along her spine, a thrill that was half fear, half triumph. “What about Rachel and Henry?”
“There’s room enough if they decide to come,” said Owen.
Sarah stared up at the varnished wood of the cabin, the clever net baskets swinging in the corners, and the high bookshelf with its metal railing. How many other major life decisions had she made this way—vertiginously, emotionally, seemingly in reaction to what other people expected of her? Quitting school to work on the farm. Running away from Living Tree. Having Noah all by herself. But it had been years since she had done anything risky, since she had managed to overcome the ever-present doubt that hung over her life like a fog. It was exhausting, to always be second-guessing herself. Besides the handful of people who had never let her down, there was nobody she really trusted. Least of all herself.
But the idea of leaving Elliot behind began to spread across her body like a heat rash. She would ask if he could come with them, but she knew that as long as there was a job to do in the city, something he still construed as a duty, he would want to stay. Closing her eyes, Sarah exhaled slowly. The slight sway of the boat didn’t help with the bright dizziness ringing in her ears. A trip with a near stranger, a man about whom she had many misgivings. But the dangers on land were clear and certain. She opened her eyes. “I need to protect my son.”
“This is the best way,” said Owen. “I’ll tell Dory I need you to keep me on track writing the sequel.”
“The continuing adventures of David Gellar?”
“David Gellar on a beach,” said Owen, his voice ironic. “David Gellar making friends with the dolphins. David Gellar…still crazy after all these years.”
“It’ll make a great story,” she said, thinking of the publicity plan.
“A great escape,” said Owen, correcting her. “A great life.”
October 9, 2020
Without prejudice
Lambert, Chase, & Rider
Attorneys-at-Law
206 Florence Street
Lansdowne, M.A.
Re: CEASE AND DESIST
Dear Mr. Grant,
Please be advised that this office represents Rachel and Henry Levinson. Kindly direct any and all communication concerning Rachel and/or Henry Levinson to our attention at the address listed above.
As you are aware, Ms. Levinson has declined to respond to your emails and calls since your marriage was dissolved and a divorce granted on January 28, 2016, by the Supreme Court of the State of New York. While she acknowledges that your messages may not originate from a desire to cause harm, she nevertheless finds them emotionally distressing and an intrusion on her privacy.
Ms. Levinson has further asked us to advise you that she has received your invitations of September 30, October 4, and October 8 to join you on a sea voyage departing October 12, 2020. On behalf of herself and her son, Henry Levinson, she unequivocally declines said invitation. You can expect this to be her final communication to you.
Sincerely,
Monica Rider, Esq.
EMMA
DECEMBER 1999
Domenica was running along the beach, away from Buona Fortuna and her family. She sprinted across the shore, her bare feet compressing the sand with every step, so that it looked to Emma as though her sister was running and sinking at the same time. As though she were intent on speed to avoid becoming trapped in the shoreline.
Was it quicksand? Emma was eleven and still excited by the thought of quicksand, which was every bit as real as tornados, man-eating sharks, and Komodo dragons. Ogres and black magic might be fairy-tale inventions, but the world was still wild and untamed, full of danger and possibility.
Domenica was almost at the water. As she stopped running, her golden hair blew forward over her shoulders. Emma stumbled after her, clutching at her aching sides, knowing her sister would never turn around and acknowledge her, never stop to let her catch up. But Dom was so still and elegant standing there at the edge of the ocean—her cotton dress white and pristine against the deep bronze of her skin—that Emma’s heart ached with the beauty of it. Domenica was four years and a lifetime older. Emma would never reach or overtake her.
While Emma stopped halfway across the beach to take a breath, Domenica stepped into the ocean and, bending her knees, trailed her fingertips in the cool water. The hem of her dress spread flat and floated forward, seized by the motion of the waves. And then, in one fluid dip, she plunged under.
Emma had paused near the ruins of yesterday’s sandcastle, slumped into a heap only its creator would recognize. The water was already slurping away clumps of walls and battlements, wave by steady wave. The tide was relentless, as unyielding as the current already carrying her sister off to some remote territory of adulthood. And before Emma could take another step, Domenica emerged from the ocean, wet dress clinging to her slim hips and thighs. She walked slowly this time, her dripping feet safe from the scorching heat of the Fijian sand, and all Emma could do was watch as her sister stalked by without a word.
* * *
—
Back aboard Buona Fortuna, Domenica wrung out her sopping wet hair until a puddle formed on the boat’s deck. Then she swung it around her shoulders, where it cooled her neck and dripped down her back. Emma was nowhere in sight. Domenica took a certain satisfaction in the fact that she’d outstripped her altogether, though competing with Emma was a pointless exercise to begin with. Her dreamy sister might just have stopped to poke at beach debris or sing a song to a sea turtle.
Domenica slipped down the companionway towards her cabin. At the communication station just opposite, her father, Harold, was reading something on the computer. Her parents liked to catch up on correspondence and the news when they were anchored at a marina. The shortwave radio they used for email on the boat made the internet speed onshore seem luxurious by comparison.
Her father was absorbed, oblivious. Feeling wicked, Domenica began to tiptoe towards him, taking her wet rope of hair in her hands, imagining how a sudden dribble of cold water down his back would make him yelp and provoke a chase, a tickle fight, a bout of silliness. He had been tense and serious lately, and she wanted to make him smile. As she closed in, she saw his shoulders shaking—he was already laughing. But the giggle rising in her throat died when she heard an unmistakable sob. Not laughing. Weeping.
And just as she was about to step forward to ask what was wrong, there was her mother’s voice, complaining, “Where did all this water come from? What a mess! Domenica?” Her mother’s feet were visible on the deck. In a second, she would come down and find them.
Domenica backed away, sidling into her cabin. She held the door open a crack as her mother joined her father at the desk.
“Harold,” said Faye. “What’s wrong?” Domenica could hear her own bewilderment echoed in her mother’s voice. “What’s happened?”
“Just some bad news.” His voice sounded
strangled, hiccupy. Domenica steeled herself for some terrible announcement.
“Oh my God. Is it my parents? Your parents?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” said Harold. “It’s Annie Gibbs. The art consultant. She died. She told me she had cancer, years ago, but I guess I’d imagined she’d beaten it.”
Through the crack in the doorway, Domenica saw her mother’s face harden. Harold’s chin quivered and there were wet smears on his cheeks. His expression was too vulnerable, too unlike him.
Swift and silent, she shut her door and put in her Discman headphones, pressing play on her Lauryn Hill CD. Whatever was wrong with her father, her mother would take care of it.
* * *
—
As they prepared to leave Fiji, Harold listened to Faye discuss the Y2K bug again. For months, she had been talking about the computers all over the globe that hadn’t been built for the future, and the mayhem that might ensue when they tried to flip from 1999 to 2000. Still, he was grateful she had so quickly abandoned the subject of Annie and had switched to this well-worn track. Her fretful rant and his diplomatic reassurances were as scripted as a play by this point.
“It’s not only the possibility of power cutting out or satellites failing,” Faye was saying, “but missiles accidentally being deployed, stock markets crashing…”
Harold turned off his ears as he checked all the ropes and lines for chafe. His wife always grew more anxious as they prepared for a crossing. He could almost see the strain in the muscles of her neck and face. Nerves made visible via frown lines.
Songs for the End of the World Page 17
