by Landon Beach
Livingston exhaled and looked out through a small porthole window beyond the berth. Somewhere out there was a brunette who didn’t know just how close she came to never seeing anyone she knew again. Madame had taken her place. He looked back down at her. Madame. What was her real name again? Eve? Evelynn? He couldn’t remember. The last name had started with a ‘B’ though because when she had been left with them, his father had called the dilemma ‘Plan B’. Did she even remember her real name? She hadn’t said it in years. Regardless, the man who had provided the incorrect information had been reassigned to the bottom of Lake Superior after the cartel underboss had departed for New York.
They couldn’t just let her go. Her husband was dead and the sailboat had been sunk in over five hundred feet of water. The underboss had left the decision up to Livingston’s father: either kill her or keep her. Livingston, and for some reason Sanders, lobbied his father to keep her. So, a hypnotist had been brought in for regular sessions, and Madame had been given a combination of sedatives and small amounts of cocaine for a year. She had also undergone plastic surgery to alter her look just enough to never be recognized again. During recovery, she had been isolated, with Livingston providing the only positive human contact—long talks, monitored walks through the woods, healthy dinners, and eventually brandy by the fire. She was given access to books, music, but no television—nothing of popular culture or world affairs. Then, her privileges grew as he visited more often. Designer clothes, a large suite in the estate on top of the cliff, a private workout and meditation coach, and accompanying Livingston on overseas business trips where she was introduced to an even more lavish lifestyle. Winter weekends in a Swiss lodge on Lake Geneva, dinner parties in Paris, summers in Rome, and month-long cruises in the Caribbean. The sexual aspect of their relationship had started during the first trip, and for the past nine years had included every variation known and thought up by him. Last year, it had reverted to just the two of them—necessitated by her attempt to throw a woman they had included in a tryst over the balcony railing...and over the cliff to the water a hundred feet below. A few nights later she had come after him with a knife while they slept next to each other, and his shoulder had required surgery. That had started the increasing doses of drugs and sedatives again, the beginning of the end. Now, the cycle would start all over with someone new and Madame would soon be gone.
“Well?” Madame said.
Livingston opened the drawer of his night stand and took out a black box that fit in his palm. After seeing Belle de Jour in his late teens, he had become obsessed with what was in the mystery box. His search had led him to what he now took out.
Madame’s eyes sparkled at the sight of it.
Livingston slid off his towel.
✽✽✽
Twenty minutes later it was over, and he rolled onto his back and panted. Was the room soundproof? If not, then they had just woken up the entire population of the Upper Peninsula. His eyes were wide open and he observed her from the mirror mounted on the overhead. She placed the object back in the box and passed it to him. He took a final look, closed the box, and leaned over, placing it on the nightstand. His head rested back on the pillow and he watched in the mirror as she parted her thighs and then brought the soles of her feet together making a diamond with her legs. She slid her right hand down and pleased herself once more.
When she was finished, she rose from the bed, walked over to the vanity, and put on her robe.
“Tomorrow,” she said and exited the room before he could reply.
The strange feeling returned. What was it? He would see her tomorrow—they had built a relationship. What was her name? His breathing picked up instead of slowing down. His entire body began to feel like it was being heated on a stove top. Sweat soaked the sheets and his stomach tightened. He felt bile rise into his throat. He knew he would be unable to stop it, and so he swung his legs over the edge of the berth and darted for the head.
Reaching the commode, he dropped to his knees and then, as if someone had two arms around his waist and was pulling the closed fists upward in violent thrusts to push his insides up through his mouth, he vomited.
His head hung down and started to bob while tears left his eyes. As someone who was always in control, these episodes bothered him. The doctors had found nothing wrong. Why was this happening? He flushed and then watched as the dark colored liquid was sucked down the vacuum hole. The bowl refilled with water. He sniffled and blew his nose into a wad of toilet paper. His body relaxed for a moment and he breathed in and out, in and out. What does her name matter? A second attack came on and his stomach muscles clenched. He moaned as his body shook in agony, and he vomited again.
He cried; it was getting worse.
14
The blood red sun was over the horizon and warming the surface of the boat when Robin Norris emerged from the cabin with a steaming cup of coffee. The water was still calm—a sheen of cobalt blue that stretched endlessly to the northern horizon.
He wore a long-sleeved Henley t-shirt—the morning air was chilly—and his trusty cut-off jean shorts, the uneven frayed ends tickling his thighs. He cringed at the thought of clothing stores that now made jean shorts like this on purpose. Hell no. The only way you should get jean shorts was because you had worn out a pair of jeans to the point of having to cut them off—and only when you could no longer patch up the knees. A country that had retailers who made clothing to look worn—and people bought this garbage—was headed in the wrong direction. Fashionable my ass.
He sat down with his back against the stern rail and put his feet up on the port gunwale. The first sip of coffee was heaven on earth as the cream softened the blow to his stomach while the sugar and caffeine ignited his motor. How many days would he still feel normal? Hopefully throughout the cruise. He had nightmares of becoming weak as they traveled along the northern shore, heading west. He saw himself fading fast, having to pull the boat into Isle Royale, and dying in a cabin waiting for Levana and Tyee to arrive.
He shook the thought off. Trist should be up soon and then they would head for the dive site. Hydration shouldn’t be a problem; an hour ago, Robin had started an IV of saline solution for his son. He frowned. Should he have just let him suffer some more? Probably. But would it teach his son a lesson? He was less sure of that. No, better to get him up and going. A flock of seagulls flew by off the stern and Robin took another pull from his coffee mug.
“Don’t even think of landing on this boat and shitting all over it,” he said to the flock as he watched the birds dip low over the water and then peel off toward the shore.
He heard the creek of deck boards up forward, below deck.
✽✽✽
Tristian eased his legs out of the v-berth hammock and lowered them until his bare feet touched the cool deck. His head no longer throbbed, but his throat was still sore from upchucking all over US-23 and I-75. Man. What had he been thinking that night? He wanted water now and food. Lots of greasy, deep fried food. McDonald’s was his usual post-hangover stop; what was onboard that could come close? His vision was blurry and as he went to rub his eyes, he noticed the IV in his right hand, attached to the bag of saline hanging from a hook on the overhead. The bag was nearly finished.
He rubbed his eyes with his other hand and took in a few breaths. He hated needles—almost passed out every time he had to give blood—but right now, he didn’t care. Once, right before a sports physical, he fainted and awoke to an ice pack on his neck and a cold washcloth on his forehead. A nurse leaned over him and placed a cup filled with coke and ice into his hands. He chugged it, smiled, and then threw up all over the nurse. During the entire fiasco, his dad had sat in a chair reading a paperback about some Vietnam battle and shook his head in disappointment at his son.
Carefully, he removed the IV from his hand and used his other hand to apply pressure to the tiny hole that the IV’s needle had left. He went to stand up but felt lightheaded and laid back down.
Thankful tha
t the room was not spinning, he closed his eyes for a moment. A vision of the Hampstead community tennis courts came into focus from the current mist in his brain. Damn. I am never doing that again.
He heard steps in the boat’s salon and opened his eyes. The door to the v-berth opened, and in stepped his father.
“Feeling any better?” Robin asked.
“Yeah,” Trist said.
Robin leaned up against the scuba tanks on the port bulkhead. “I’ll make you some breakfast, and then we’ll head for our dive site.”
“Okay.” Trist sat up, and the boat’s motion went to work on his head. “Whoa...” He laid back down. “I don’t know if I’m up for diving today.”
Robin took three measured breaths...
He sprang and picked Trist up out of the hammock.
“Dad! What the hell?”
With one hand wrapped around Trist’s neck and the other hand squeezing Trist’s left arm, Robin dragged him through the salon, up the companionway steps, and through the cockpit until they were at the stern rail. “Let’s see if you can fly, Batman.” With one final heave, he pushed Trist overboard.
He watched as Trist disappeared into the water. Then, he went to the mast and quickly lowered the main sail.
When he returned to the rail, he could see Trist treading water twenty yards off the stern.
“Damnit!” Trist yelled.
“You awake now?” Robin said. “You’ve already wasted one day. You’re not wastin’ two.” He unlatched the section of stern railing and swung it open. Then, he stepped down onto the swim platform and kicked the swim ladder into the water. “Now, get your skinny ass up here and get some coffee. I’m going below to get you breakfast.”
Trist continued to tread water as he watched Robin go below. Then he began a painful crawl stroke toward the swim ladder.
✽✽✽
Robin stood behind the gimbaled stove and stared into the frying pan. He cracked an egg and watched the yoke fizzle as it hit the oil in the pan. Let’s see if you can fly, Batman. Where had that come from?
Then, he remembered.
15
HAMPSTEAD, DECEMBER 1989
“I want a divorce,” Levana Norris said as she stood up from her seat on the couch.
Robin’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. She had never said the ‘D’ word before. “Now, hold on just a goddamn minute, Levana!” Robin shouted.
“No, I’ve made up my mind. I can’t argue with you every night anymore.”
It wasn’t every night—it was every hour. He reached for her hand and she swatted it aside.
She started to walk away but paused when she heard his voice shaking with uncertainty in a way that she had not heard since they lived in her parents’ house.
“Please stay and talk with me,” Robin said. “I’m begging you.”
Hands on her hips, she turned around, scowled, and then walked back to the couch and sat down hard.
He breathed a momentary sigh of relief. He was going to get one shot at this. He covered his face, exhaled into his hands, and then slid his fingers down along his nose and crossed them in front of his face. “Look, I know I’ve hit a rough patch since turning three zero in August.”
She snorted. “That’s a start.”
She’s mad but still not leaving—good. He continued, “Look I haven’t stopped working or worrying since we had Trist.”
“And you think I have?” She snapped.
“No, but you haven’t been the easiest to live with lately either,” he said.
“I’m a teacher, Robin. And that blood bath in Tiananmen Square was awful. I tried to talk with you about it when it happened this summer, but I didn’t feel heard at all. You just sat there.”
“You’ve been holding that in since then?”
“Look who’s talking.”
“The Chinese are goddamned communists,” Robin said. “What did you think was going to happen when a bunch of students tried to protest? Those totalitarian assholes crush that stuff immediately over there.”
“You can be so cold sometimes,” she said. “It was horrible.”
“I agree, okay? But what we saw on television was the reality of that way of life.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry, and I’m just speaking for me right now. I’m worn out, Levana. I’ve put everything into trying to make it work with us so we could get away from your parents and create our own life. I didn’t walk out when you almost had that fling with Principal Shithead, and I sure as hell held it together when we lost our second boy.”
She stared at him, but some of the anger seemed to have given way to shock.
“I heard something the other day. Men have mid-life crises in their forties because they realize that they have sacrificed building relationships in the pursuit of climbing the achievement ladder. Well, I had to start early because of our situation. So, when I hit thirty-four months ago, it shook me up, okay?”
She leaned back, listening.
“I don’t share my personal feelings, and you know that. I’m not wired that way. But something is happening inside of me, and I don’t know what to call it...acting out, or something like that. I’ve got anger and resentment about the life I didn’t get to live because I got you pregnant.”
She leaned forward and went to speak.
“Just let me finish.”
She sat back.
“I stuck around, and I don’t regret it. But I have had to watch all of my other friends get to mosey on through life, enjoying college, enjoying being single after college, pursuing their careers, while I’ve been stuck in some hospital when I could have been an athletic trainer traveling the world. I don’t know what else to say except that I’m struggling, and I need your help to get through this. If I don’t, then I feel like I’m going to self-destruct, which I prefer not to do. You know me,” he said, “better than anyone else.” He took a hold of her hands. “I haven’t been reading. I haven’t been working out. I am in one abyss of a funk.” Tears started to well in his eyes. He fought them back in. “Don’t give up on me.”
She rubbed his hand back. Silence filled the room except for the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the living room. She licked her dry lips. “That is more than you’ve said to me about your feelings in ten years.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I’ve got too much of my dad in me. I—I can’t articulate what I’m feeling. I just ignore it. But it has been different this time. I feel...”
“Older?” She said.
“Yeah.”
“You know, you’re not as bad as you think you are at communicating. But—”
“What?” He cut in.
“Bringing up my former principal. That was out of bounds.”
“I hate that fucker.”
“Robin Norris!”
He gave a wicked grin. “If I ever see him again—”
“Okay, relax.”
“Bringing up the ‘D’ word, now that was out of bounds.”
She thought for a moment. “I know.”
“Did you mean it?”
“No. It just came out.”
He exhaled. “Okay.”
She started to warm. “There may be hope for you yet.”
“Don’t count on it. This may be my one and only Oscar-worthy clip,” he said.
“I heard Billy Crystal is going to host this year,” she said.
“No kidding? I like him.”
“Agree. Good to get some new blood in there and mix things up.”
He shook his head. “Jesus, we’re all over the place tonight. We just went from an all-out argument to the Oscars.”
“That’s us, babe.”
A creak in the floorboards directed their attention to the hallway where an eleven-year old Trist wearing sweatpants and a Batman t-shirt walked into the room.
“I can hear you both fighting again,” he said, rubbing his tired eyes.
Robin and Levana looked at each other. Their joint expression said:
we are horrible parents.
Robin took the unexpected lead. “Hey buddy. We’re sorry. I know this has been going on a lot lately, but your mom and I are going to do better, okay?”
Trist was still half-awake. “Okay,” he said. “You’re not getting divorced or anything are you?”
Levana jumped in. “No, that word doesn’t exist in this family, remember?”
Robin shot her a look—one that Trist missed, thankfully.
Trist nodded. “I’m heading back up.”
“Got your favorite movie t-shirt on again I see.”
Trist looked down at the giant bat symbol and smiled.
“Get some sleep, T. I’ll see you in the morning before I leave for work.”
“I love you, baby,” Levana said. “I’ll pop my head in and check on you when I head up.”
“Okay,” Trist said and headed back down the hallway.
After his steps could no longer be heard on the stairs, Levana turned to Robin. “I don’t know where the D-word came from tonight. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not worried now, but I admit you scared me a little,” he said.
She shrugged.
“I’m going to try and be more open about what’s going on with me from now on. If anything, these past few months have taught me that I can’t keep shoving this stuff deep down, pretending that it doesn’t exist.”
“Well, you’re lucky because by the numbers you’ve got at least fifty years left to get better,” she grinned.
Robin laughed a sigh of relief. “Yes I do, ma’am.”
“If the Berlin Wall can come down, then we can learn to communicate better.”
16
JUNE 1995
Trist lowered the main sail as they approached the waypoint Robin had programmed into their Loran.
Robin turned on the engine. “We’re almost to the wreck,” he said to Trist. “Go up forward and get ready to drop the hook.” Trist gave a pathetic salute and headed toward the anchor locker near the bow. At least he’s moving. Robin peered down at the display in front of the helm and adjusted course to starboard.
