Hatteras Light

by Philip Gerard

  9

  AS THEY HAD pulled for the Light, Malcolm’s crew had argued about what to do with the Heinie. At long last, face-to-face, here was the enemy.

  “It’s hard to believe you’re evil incarnate,” Malcolm said. Max didn’t answer—his English was limited.

  Malcolm sighed long and hard, the air catching in his throat like dust, dreading the moment of landing when all of this would have to be sorted out. He would have to go to Mary sooner or later. And the logbook would be lying in wait like a trap. How would he ever capture all that had happened in words? He despaired of it. Wasn’t it enough just to do it? Difficulty with the Light, that would have to go in. That would be truth. How many minutes, seconds? He would have to count them, add them up like the seconds of a dream of death upon waking. He had slipped, faltered, misjudged. The Light had blinked. An eternal lapse, he felt.

  To Keith he said: “You sure have a way of getting into things.”

  “I know what I’ve got coming.”

  “Don’t always be so damned quick, boy. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open and learn something for a change.”

  Keith rowed steadily.

  “That’s better,” Malcolm said. “Now I don’t want to hit you so bad.”

  “You’ve got a right. Fair is fair—”

  “There you go again! What do you know about fair? I’ve got a secret for you. It doesn’t all match up so neat in the end. That’s what this business is all about, or haven’t you noticed?” He waited for Keith to interrupt, but Keith kept rowing without a word. “We take each other’s places. It’s what we do.”

  “Then you want to just forget?” Keith said.

  Malcolm shook his head. “Nothing is forgotten.” Now Keith was part of it all, he knew. Now Keith could go anywhere he pleased.

  Malcolm steered the boat with weary assurance. Working the boat was the easy part. He wished they were miles out with a full day’s pull in front of them, to postpone the reckoning, clarify what was now possible.

  Nobody any longer felt antagonism towards Max Wien, shriveled in the thwarts amidships. He cowered there like a man caught in a machine, afraid to move. The sea was settling down.

  Alvin Dant and his boy sat wrapped in blankets in the bow. Nobody said anything for a while. Alvin kept looking at the German like he had something to say.

  Then Chief Lord said, “This old world goes round and round.”

  Nobody responded, so, encouraged, he continued: “There are chances, and there are chances. Believe me.”

  To the German, Malcom said, “What’s your name?”

  “Max Wien.”

  “Ah, MacSween, my long-lost cousin,” MacSween said, and drew a tentative laugh. Chief Lord kept smiling. He lifted Max Wien gently to a sitting position. “A strong boy, good teeth.” He peeled back his lips and showed off his gums, soft from lack of vitamins and colorless as squid. “A little wiry, but tough. MacSween. I like that.” The others nodded and handled their oars carefully and rhythmically. None of them had anything against the German, not even the Dant men, though Malcolm could not fathom why. He was past looking for motive in men’s behavior. Let them do the kind thing. Let them keep him and put him to work. Let him marry somebody or open a store or build a fishing boat or keep goats. Where was the harm?

  Chief Lord sang: “Our boots and clothes are all in pawn, go down, you blood red roses, go down.” He applied the low, sustained tones like salve, and they listened to their spirits mend. “And it’s mighty draughty round Cape Horn, go down, you blood red roses, go down.”

  Max Wien smacked his lips. There must be beer on the island, and by God he would have him some. He watched the breakers lick the broad slab of beach at the foot of the lighthouse. He felt like a Jonah—rebirthed from the leviathan womb of that metal fish, his destiny in the hands of Providence. When the beamy lifeboat finally skidded home on the sandy shallows, he leaped out at once, overjoyed, quaking on his sea legs, the surf resounding in his ears like applause, thinking: at last, there is the island.