Songs for the End of the World

by Saleema Nawaz

  * * *

  A few evenings later, they set sail for Australia. The crossing could take over a week, depending on the weather. Emma’s parents had spent the better part of two days listening to Inmarsat satellite weather reports and calculating the fastest route to Sydney that would avoid the low-pressure zones. The palm trees waved, the sandy beach enticed, but they were wrapped up in the uncertainty of what might happen in the next few hours, few days, few weeks.

  In and out of sleep, Emma dreamed of exploding computers, sharks clubbed to death by bats, and her parents kissing and being attacked by seagulls. Around midnight, a sudden lurch of the boat woke her, and she would have tumbled from her bunk if she had not remembered to attach the lee cloth before going to bed. When she looked out of the porthole, all she could see was water.

  Clambering out of her bunk, Emma rushed from her cabin to make sure all the hatches and windows were closed. It felt as though Buona Fortuna was keeled right over almost onto her side, while being tossed up and down on the roiling swells like a carnival ride. Emma could scarcely walk—she had to grab at the bolted-down furniture to move through the salon. Her parents were not in sight; she guessed they were in the cockpit, trying to steer by hand. She could feel the boat being battered by the waves. It was much worse than the last storm they had weathered; she knew that much for sure. She wondered if she should go to Domenica, who would certainly be awake and scared.

  Before Emma could decide what she was going to do, her father stumbled down the companionway into the salon. Dressed in his complete foul-weather slicker suit, he was soaked. He moaned, then staggered to the bathroom, water pooling in his wake.

  “Help your mother,” Emma heard him say between retches.

  Domenica had by this time emerged from her cabin, her eyes wide and frightened. Her hair had lost its sleek perfection of the day before, and her cheek showed the indentations of a creased pillowcase. She stood there silently, staring past her sister to the darkened portholes of swirling ocean.

  “It’ll be okay, Dom,” said Emma, snatching up a blanket from the salon sofa, where her mother had left it earlier. She wrapped it around her body, swathing herself from head to toe in its soft fleece. After checking that she could still move her arms freely, she rushed up the companionway and through the hatch to the open cockpit, her sister trailing behind her.

  The sight that met her eyes seemed to justify Domenica’s petrified silence. The sky was as black and furious as Emma had ever seen it. A huge wave loomed above them, foam at its crest, but just when it looked as though it was going to break over them, sweeping them into the ocean, Buona Fortuna was lifted up violently, foam rushing onto the decks and flowing down into the cockpit.

  “Close the hatch!” Emma yelled, terrified the water would swamp the cabin. Still lingering on the companionway stairs, Dom slammed the glass door, latching it shut between them. Emma turned to her mother, who was taut with an intensity she had never seen.

  With water pouring off the surface of her yellow raincoat, Faye’s face was pale and strained, her hair drenched and clinging to her cheeks in wet strands. Leaning her whole weight into the wheel, her knuckles white and her feet braced against the base of the post, she tried to retain control of the boat.

  Since power steering allowed even the girls to take the helm in fair weather, Emma understood that the hydraulic system and maybe even the autopilot had either failed or could not be trusted in such dangerous weather. If Buona Fortuna were steered wrongly, the waves could get the better of her. Emma rushed to join her mother at the wheel, grabbing on as firmly as she could and helping wrench it around in the direction they wanted the bow to point.

  Her mother shook her head, shouting something about a harness, and Emma quickly strapped herself into the gear that her father had just vacated and secured herself to the stanchion. Then she took hold of the wheel again, summoning all of her slight strength to aid her mother.

  * * *

  —

  Faye immediately felt the effects of Emma’s assistance, and her arms began to relax even as she tried to maintain tension in all her muscles. She had no idea how long she had been holding Buona Fortuna on course. It might have been ten minutes or three hours. When Harold had been out on deck, he’d had the difficult task of bringing in all the sails—something that they would have done before the storm set in had it not come upon them so unexpectedly. Once he had finally pulled in the jib, nearly slipping into the water as he did so, he had retreated below to succumb to his seasickness. She knew that she ought to have called out to him, explained how hard it was for her to hold the wheel on her own. She hoped that her pride wouldn’t cost her family their lives.

  Through the driving rain and wind against her face, Faye tried to force her eyelids open, through what seemed like a torrent of water pressure trying to fight them down. The pitch and roll of the boat was making her head spin; the roar in her ears made her feel as though she were already underwater.

  “Chipmunk,” she said, not knowing whether Emma could hear her. “I don’t feel well.”

  * * *

  —

  When she felt her mother’s strength on the wheel dissipate, Emma threw the weight of her whole body into the pull. She remembered her father telling her about the adrenaline that allowed mothers to pick up whole cars under which their children were trapped. She hoped she had that, whatever it was. She screamed for her sister and father as loudly as she could.

  Her gaze fixed on the compass, Emma did not see or hear anyone joining her on the deck. Then, from the corner of her eye, she recognized her father’s foul-weather suit and its hard-brimmed hood bending over her semi-conscious mother, gripping the wheel with one hand and easing Faye into one of the deck seats behind them. Emma readied herself to relinquish her spot at the helm. But she didn’t feel the release of as much tension on the steering as she would have expected; she was still straining to hold Buona Fortuna on course. She turned to greet her father and saw Domenica’s terrified face looking back at her beneath their father’s hood.

  “Dom, don’t worry,” she yelled, feeling protective of her sister. Emma watched the streaks of lightning illuminating the sky in the distance. Black squall lines were still rushing towards them over the darkened horizon. Emma’s blanket was soaked through, and her teeth were knocking together.

  “Dom,” she yelled again, shaking her head to remove some of the water streaking down her face. All her muscles ached. But Domenica kept her eyes down, looking at the deck rather than at the waves engulfing their small boat, and Emma realized her sister could not hear her.

  She wanted to tell Domenica that they would never abandon one another, that she would never betray her like their father had, or ignore her like their mother. Or try to keep her to herself, an ocean away from real life. “Everything’s going to be okay,” Emma shouted, though in that moment she wasn’t sure she believed it.

  If Domenica heard her, she didn’t give a sign. The girls held on tight.

  Buona Fortuna Dispatch #2 ~ Cape May, N.J.

  Posted in owengrantwriter.com/blog on October 13, 2020 by Owen

  Thank you for your messages, everyone. I’m thrilled so many of you responded to my tentatively expressed hope for some lively commentary on the blog. I feel as though I’ve been seen off by scores of well-wishers.

  A few of you have requested more details about the process of setting to sea. Jim in Homestead, Florida, asked for a list of yacht upgrades, and Sam in Ayr, Scotland, wondered about provisioning for a long-term offshore cruise. First of all, let me say that you should only undertake this type of journey if you’re a qualified sailor. But with that disclaimer on the record, I don’t mind sharing some details about my preparations.

  I’ve brought onboard a lot of necessities: food, fuel, spare parts, tools, manuals, an extensive medical kit with four bottles of seasickness pills. The bottom of the boat has been freshly pai
nted with anti-fouling paint to keep off the barnacles. New solar panels have been installed, as well as a new watermaker, new communication systems, a wind generator, and underwater lights for night swimming.

  I’ve also discovered that more food comes in powdered form than I’d ever imagined. Case in point: powdered butter. But don’t worry…I’m opting for canned. Yes, canned butter!

  Another thing I’ve learned: you have to think about buoyancy, the weight of everything you’ve put aboard. Water and other liquids (ahem, beer), with a stockpile of food and fuel laid by, can actually affect the overall weight so much that you may need to adjust your waterline.

  Of course, I’m carrying aboard a lot of cherished hopes and plans as well. This isn’t just about avoiding ARAMIS. It’s an excuse to follow a dream that I’ve had since I was a little boy—simply getting in a boat and sailing away.

  One thing I don’t have: plants. I’d mentioned a potted fern and a cactus in my first post and a couple of you warned me that real sailors won’t stand for such things. Apparently, plants shouldn’t come to sea; they seek the earth. Call me superstitious, but I’ve thrown the poor things overboard. Better them than me.

  Dove Suite Band Members Announce Pregnancy

  Sept. 12, 2020

  NEW YORK—Dove Suite band members Emma Aslet and Stuart Jenkins are expecting their first child. Frontman Jenkins made the announcement during a press conference to reveal the full lineup of performers for To America With Love, the sold-out day-long music festival in support of ARAMIS relief that Dove Suite will be headlining in Vancouver on September 26.

  Now based in Austin, Texas, Aslet, 32, and Jenkins, 34, were married in 2009, one year after founding the successful indie rock quartet in Philadelphia with bassist Jesse Luxton and drummer Ben Grainger.

  Jenkins spoke to Rolling Stone about the couple’s excitement: “It’s beyond thrilling, to be honest. We’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

  Rumours of the pregnancy have been circulating online since the abrupt cancellation of Dove Suite’s worldwide tour in support of their fourth album, Beads. Jenkins confirmed the rationale for the touring hiatus: “Starting our family has meant shifting priorities for the time being. But I’m sure we’ll get back out on the road before too long.”

  Jenkins admitted the couple was erring on the side of caution. “I’m sure we could go on tour and everything would be fine, but honestly it’s just easier this way. I don’t think we could live with ourselves if we took any unnecessary chances.”

  According to Jenkins, the baby is due in November.

  Aslet was not available for comment.

  EMMA

  SEPTEMBER 2020

  Emma slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Reflexively, she snapped a photo of the half-deserted terminal and sent it to her sister. Surprise upside of terrifying worldwide epidemic: no epic lineups to get through airport security !

  She and Stu and their bandmates were waiting in a newly designated pre-screening area, as six ceiling-mounted monitors tuned to the same news network flashed synchronously high above. In a couple of hours they would be flying into Canada by special dispensation to headline an ARAMIS benefit concert in Vancouver.

  It was only a few weeks ago that Emma was lying on the couch in front of the television saying, “ARAMIS sounds like something nice to catch. Much less disgusting than swine flu.”

  Stu was on the rug, playing with an old theremin he’d found at the Salvation Army and repaired with the help of how-to guides on the internet. “They should name all the flu variants the way they do hurricanes.” His hand cut through the air above the theremin and a hypnotic sound thrummed across the room. “They’re like the chorus of a song, the way they come around every year. It would sound like a much friendlier way to die, getting killed off by Flu Henrietta or Flu Kevin.”

  Back then, she’d laughed. Now she checked her phone for a response from Domenica, though the time difference made it unlikely. Her sister had moved halfway around the world and married a man named Ahmad, who was actual oil royalty from the U.A.E., and with whom she had two little girls, Aliya and Leila. Emma and Dom communicated mainly via text—or, more frequently these days, highly staged photos annotated with emoji reactions.

  “Looking up baby names?” asked Jesse. “I nominate Jessica.”

  Ben shook his head. “Way too eighties.”

  “This may come as a shock,” said Emma, “but you guys actually don’t get a vote on this.”

  Stu grinned and leaned over to place a gentle palm on her belly. “How are you feeling?” he asked. “What did the doctor say?” Stu was tender, careful with her these days. The baby was precious cargo and Emma was the courier, the protective packaging. She was the Styrofoam peanuts. No matter how close they were, the baby was between them now.

  “The baby is fine,” said Emma. At least, the baby had been fine at last week’s appointment. But this morning, while Stu assumed she was enduring the clinic’s usual battery of tests, the premier tattoo artist in Texas had looked at her stomach like it was a dude who had cut in front of him in line.

  “Absolutely no way,” he’d said from behind the counter, and he shook his head so minutely it was as though he didn’t want to give her anything—not a tattoo, not an apology, not an inch. “It’s just too risky for the baby,” he said, crossing his arms. Each one sported a forked-tongued scaly dragon licking its way down the back of his hand. “You’ve got the risk of preterm labour. Risk of infection. And pregnant women’s skin is different. More elastic. It holds more water. So there’s a question of the quality of the tattoo. Stretch marks. Scarring.”

  Emma suspected that tattoo artists liked saying no because they were the last people on Earth that anybody expected to have limits. Especially tattoo artists with tattoos on their faces. Yet she had apparently found a line that this leather-wrapped, forehead-pierced professional with two symmetrical cheek tattoos and a handlebar moustache was unwilling to cross. And then the baby had kicked up its feet into her side, as if in celebration of her disappointment.

  Emma knew it was a morbid streak inherited from her mother that made her want to follow through on major life decisions before heading out on a journey. During the years her family had sailed around the world, at every port of call her mother had tried to take care of all the serious business that occurred to her as their boat lurched in the horrific swells of some Pacific storm. That was what Emma wanted: to take care of the serious business of defacing her God-given temple before the baby came to do it for her.

  Plus, if anything ever happened to her, they’d be able to identify her body.

  “You’re sure you don’t think it’s too risky?” Stu asked now. “Did the doctor say anything about flying at seven months?”

  “It’ll be fine,” she said, glancing down at her phone so he wouldn’t see her face, unsure of what expression he would read there. If she was too afraid, or not enough. ARAMIS seemed distant and far-fetched compared to the more pressing concerns of a feeble bladder and broken sleep. The truth was that Emma already felt as though she’d contracted an affliction that was wreaking havoc on her body and mind.

  But ARAMIS was alarming enough that there were travel advisories in place. The E.U., Mexico, and the United States had gone so far as to ban their citizens from travelling to and from China. In retaliation, China had called for certain debts to be repaid, and the President of the United States of America had gone on television and tried very hard not to say that his country couldn’t quite afford to buy enough antivirals for everyone who might need them. The media, however, had no compunctions about spelling it out. Sales of guns and generators were through the roof all over the country, even as the overcrowded American ICUS reported a survival rate above 60 per cent for adults—a statistic that Emma did not find altogether comforting. They had no comparable data for children, who by and large r
emained comatose. But so far, there had been no cases reported in Canada. Or in Austin, for that matter.

  Emma waited a beat before turning to grin at Stu. “Besides, the doctor said I needed more freedom in my life. And more fun. He actually recommended a tattoo. Can you believe it?”

  Stu frowned, but she just kept smiling as though she’d somehow forgotten last week’s fight, when she’d shown him the sketch of the tattoo she wanted. Stu had barely glanced at the design before pushing it back to her along the kitchen counter.

  “I really don’t see why you need one,” he had said, dismissive. “Do you want to look like every other washed-up musician in twenty years?”

  He was dead set against her getting a tattoo, but only nominally for the baby’s safety. There was something ever-so-slightly uptight about Stu, a purity streak, or maybe just some strain of aspirational upper-middle-classness that made him think tattoos always had to be trashy, like a type of body graffiti that the taxpayers were going to have to pay to take down. As if her body were a kind of monument that the public could reasonably expect to be unsullied. All the more reason why she needed to reclaim it for herself.

  Emma had looked over her drawing, a dove foregrounded by four blooming roses, petals unfurled and stems intertwined. Amateurish as it was, she was proud of it. “And why exactly will we be washed up by then? I intend to keep writing songs until I lose my marbles.” She folded the sketch and pressed it back into her notebook, trying to shrug off how hurt she really was. “Listen to yourself. Stop telling me what to do like some fifties husband. You’re oppressing me.”