Tristan’s first fight was against Philip because they were ‘the babies,’ Sean Ware said. Jer agreed and it was decided.
Philip went straight up and knocked Tristan to the ground by pushing both his shoulders at once. He almost punched him, but not quite. Tristan fell into the ashes, where he stayed as the count ran out.
Standing up, Tomasin grabbed him by the waist and pulled him aside.
‘You’re bleeding,’ she told him, putting her arm around him, insisting they leave.
‘What?’
‘It’s your throat.’
He felt it with his fingers. It wasn’t much. A cut on the loose skin under his chin. It wasn’t from Philip, he thought, but from something in the ashes, maybe glass.
‘You’ll do this, but you won’t even dive?’
‘I’d rather,’ he said, nodding, making his throat bleed more.
She didn’t understand that he had to do what they said. He couldn’t say no. If they told him, ‘Stand here,’ he stood there.
‘You left yourself wide open,’ she said, taking his hand now since they were out of sight. She showed him how to press the cut to stop the bleeding. ‘Hold it there,’ she said, ‘don’t let go.’
He held it.
‘Your hands were hanging at your hips.’
He didn’t care that he’d been pushed down by Philip. He didn’t care that his throat was cut. These weren’t the kinds of things he cared about.
On Friday afternoons, the docks boys took the Bellfly to town. The Bell was for heavy supplies, what Keb couldn’t carry in his boat: tanks of propane and gas, lumber and hardware. This Friday, on the deck of the Bell, the wind was all muscle. It pushed them around and pulled at their clothes. If the Wares had come north for adventure, here it was from all sides, above and below. Sean Ware thought of his car accident last year, feeling each wave hit the side of the boat like a car driven into them, a gross blow and a splash of lake water like glass.
They didn’t know you couldn’t get between the lake and land and just stand there. You couldn’t cornerboy. There was no talking or hoping the water into their complacency. The boat sat low, held by its load, making it hard to turn. Sean the eldest held the steering wheel flush to one side, then the other, but the boat didn’t answer. Waves blew over the bow and rushed to stern, rustling around their ankles like dead leaves.
The Wares weren’t used to the weather affecting them. Philip was used to it, but on land not water. Richter watched them through his binoculars from the lodge verandah. He passed his binoculars to his friends, one by one, as the boat sat hunched in the storm, unpredictable, like a tied-up animal. Only it wasn’t tied.
Richter’s son Emiel took the binoculars. ‘Should we do something?’
‘I’m not in charge of the boats,’ said Richter, looking for his drink and brushing the hair off his forehead.
‘But you own the boats, they’re yours,’ said Emiel, watching the boys on the Bell run in soaked boots from bow to stern, then back to the bow. They were younger than he was.
‘Maybe they’ll knock the motor clean off the back of the boat and it’ll sink to the bottom,’ said Richter, sitting down and drinking. ‘How many hours would they have to work to pay that off?’
‘Two summers,’ said Emiel, ‘at least. I guess you’d own them.’
‘Do you want to own them?’ asked Stella, who’d just arrived on the island. She’d come reluctantly from the city to such a quiet place. She had also come in a water plane that had terrified her – ‘a car with wings.’ Richter had asked her to come to his island, then Emiel had asked separately, now she didn’t know who to keep company. ‘Maybe they’ll throw themselves overboard,’ she said, ‘solving everything.’
‘They’re throwing ropes to shore,’ said Emiel. ‘But no one’s there to catch them.’
‘Let me see,’ said Stella, coming close and taking the binoculars.
‘Someone has to help them,’ Emiel told his father. ‘They’re lost.’
‘They’re not lost. They’re right there.’ He brushed the hair off his forehead again.
‘Richter, find someone to help them,’ Stella agreed. ‘They’re throwing ropes to nobody.’
Richter put on his wind slicker and walked, because he never ran, to the guide cabin. At the door he knocked, but didn’t wait for an answer, because it was his door. He lifted the latch and went in, and without hesitation announced, as if to a great crowd, though there were only four: ‘The Bell’s floating off the deep swim. The boys are unmanned.’
The deep swim meant the cliffs west of the lodge. Noah Coke thought so what. Jer LaFleur thought it was funny. William had just started smoking a cigarette and was going to enjoy it. He wondered what the others were thinking and hoped one of them would do something, so that he wouldn’t have to get up from his spot at the window. He had no plan to get up for a long time.
Richter did not want to see the crowded beds draped with towels, the patchwork bedding and beer-bottle ashtrays. He saw hands, and he saw arms wider than his, and a bare chest in there somewhere – Jer LaFleur’s impressive bare chest – and more bare shoulders, and bare faces. It was easy to talk to the guides down at the docks, but this was something else. He could smell their wet clothes and sweat and the smoke from their cheap shag. It occurred to Richter that for the most part, these men, when they got to talking, probably agreed on things. But he had no idea what they talked about on a rainy night.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
Tristan knew how to get to the deep swim. He knew it better than anyone. That’s what he was thinking as he volunteered, standing up and walking past Richter into the low light. He didn’t stop for an extra shirt or coat, even though lying on his bunk under a blanket he’d been cold.
Someone was in the water. It was Philip, the farm boy. The idea had been for Philip to reach shore and then catch a rope, pull in and take hold of the boat. But Philip didn’t swim to where he could climb out. He was holding on at the bottom of the cliff. Tristan watched him slide his hands across the wet rock and jam his fingers into crevices, then try to pull up, but the waves around his legs and waist were too strong and pulled him down. He had to push hard off the cliff as he fell to avoid scraping against it.
Tristan waved his arms to catch their attention.
‘You see him?’ Adrian asked his brother.
‘I see him,’ said Sean.
Tristan signed for them to move down shore and started going there himself. He led them to a narrow place where the cliff dropped in steps. There were a few small cedars growing on the last step. They could tie the bow to them.
‘Not him,’ said Sean.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t trust him, I won’t follow him.’
‘Why?’
‘The way he is,’ Sean said, holding the boat off. ‘I don’t like it. Let’s wait for Philip.’
‘Philip’s useless, Sean.’
‘He wants me to go in there?’
‘He does.’
‘If it’s shallow, we’re fucked.’
‘He wouldn’t wave you in if it was shallow.’
‘I’m not doing it.’
‘Please,’ said Adrian. ‘Please do it.’
‘What, are you afraid?’
‘Sort of.’
‘You are.’
‘Yes.’
They brought the bow in and threw the front rope to Tristan. It seemed thrown short but he caught it, and then all at once leapt to the bottom lip of the cliff and tied up to one of the cedars. The tree was too small and there was no time for a tight knot, but Tristan knew it would hold long enough. He looped the rope, dropped it, then jumped and half landed aboard. Using the light fixture on the nose of the bow as a handhold, he pulled himself onto the Bell’s high front, hurrying because the wind was bringing the bow in to land. He ran to the steering, pulled Sean out of the way and took his place, shifting the Bell into a hard reverse for a second to knee-knock it. The motor roared and snap
ped its teeth at the water, pulling the heavy boat back. It worked: the bow kissed the island, not a passionate kiss but a chaste one.
The slack bow rope tied around the cedar now tightened, and for a moment the boat was still before the stern started to swing, pushed by the wind. Adrian cried out, ‘Hey, it’s Adrian!’ wondering how they’d spent all summer within spitting distance but hadn’t talked.
Sean could only think he’d been grabbed from the steering. Never in his life had he been handled like that by another boy, never mind one so effeminate and small.
‘The wind’s going to do you,’ he said over Tristan’s shoulder. The bow was tied, but the stern was swinging inland.
Tristan went to the bow, opened the crawl-space hatch, and pulled out the anchor. It weighed forty-five pounds but he lifted it easily, too easily for his size, they thought, watching him run to the tail of the boat, where he let the anchor drop. He was dispassionate about letting go. He didn’t look down, only felt the rope run loose through his hand until it caught the bottom, giving him command of the Bell’s fat back end.
Tristan tied the anchor rope to the stern like a shoelace, looping and cinching it. All was right now, but something felt wrong as he stood up and straightened his neck. His hair was undone, falling across his eyes and down his neck. His hair tie was gone. He ran his hands through his hair, pulled it back, and would have tied it. When he let go, it fell back down.
‘How do we get to shore?’ Sean asked, stepping close to him. Since Tristan had grabbed him, Sean felt free to use his body too. If he could get this kid who moved like a little animal talking, he would be able to corner and still him.
‘Leave him alone,’ Adrian interrupted.
‘Are we supposed to swim home?’
‘No,’ said Tristan.
Something about him was provoking: maybe his long hair, but that wasn’t it. It wasn’t just that he looked like a girl. A lot of boys could do that. He didn’t say hello. He didn’t even look at you.
If only Tristan’s face had been one of those blank faces, they might have dismissed him, but his forehead expressed intuition, like he was listening to something at a distance they couldn’t hear.
‘You’re landed,’ he told them and, at that, walked the length of the boat, pulled himself onto the bow, and without pausing to measure the distance jumped.
Adrian hoped he would make it.
Sean hoped he’d go down.
Tristan jumped into a wall of trees, touching their bark with his boots and hands, but too lightly. Slipping into the water under the bow, he pulled himself up by grabbing low cedar branches in both hands. He pulled them clean off. As he reached for more, the bottom lip of the cliff came up against his knees and cracked them so hard his throat closed, but he never stopped moving. He reached for new branches, grabbed them just as hard, pulled, and ran a bit on his knees before standing.
Tristan cut across the main path. He didn’t want paths. He wanted to open his hands and did and held them out, and as he walked and ran, he let them scrape across the rough bark of the pines. Draughts of cool air rising from the rain-soaked ground blew through his fingers. ‘Her hands were torn,’ he’d heard them say about Rachel, and ever since then he’d wanted to tear up his hands. Running away from her, Tristan used to come to the far side of the island and walk until he was too tired and hungry to keep going. He’d sit and wait to make her sorry. But what did she have to be sorry for? He couldn’t remember now.
The night she didn’t come home, he’d thought she was playing his game. At first he laughed about what he might say when she came back: ‘You must be hungry. Would you like to share some of my supper?’ But they didn’t have any supper to share because she hadn’t been there to make it. He might have said anything. But hours became a day, a day days, and the weather went through so many changes he couldn’t remember them. There was fresh snow. The fresh snow hardened and more snow fell. He should have looked for her and never slept. He should have gone out with the lamp. There was so much oil then.
Mr. Matthews told him, ‘You stupid boy. You should have told me.’ But Tristan didn’t know Mr. Matthews the night Rachel left. By the time he told them that he was alone, weeks had passed. Mrs. Matthews moved around her kitchen, went to the sink, pulled things into it, and washed them. They were already clean.
‘You have to follow someone when you think of following,’ said Mr. Matthews.
Tristan wondered if he’d done it to himself.
‘You’re not to blame, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying next time follow her.’
Tristan walked to his lookout on the far side of the island facing west, where the sunset would be most indelicate. But he was late, the sky had already bled into colours like dried flowers. There wouldn’t be more sunset now, only a fading of light. He thought about watching it happen, but felt such unrest he couldn’t stay. He looked across the mulled water and thought about climbing down and getting into it and going all the way out. But he would never do it. He didn’t want the deep water and didn’t care if it wanted him. He didn’t even want to remember what it felt like. It was her lair now.
Marie and Anuta were leaving for the day when they crossed him on the eastern path. Anuta looked away because Tristan made her feel self-conscious. She didn’t know why she should be. She told herself he seemed to be doing well.
Marie could tell he’d been out wandering and envied him. Why had she not been out wandering? She envied the one boy no one else would. So many things were possible for the two of them, and nothing happened. She had lost Tristan as her friend over and over. The worst part was how she made it all up and it was never a real loss.
The others were going to the clearing to play Mercy. And was he in? Jer LaFleur asked, coming up behind. Someone was already counting. It was Tomasin. If she couldn’t fight, she would count. Tristan was in. He wanted to go where Tomasin was going. He would go with her and get her to leave with him. He would listen to her talk about anything.
When he saw Sean and Adrian, his breathing grew tight. Pouring concrete footings, he breathed in the dust of the dry mix and it felt like this. Sean was walking next to Tomasin and as they reached the clearing they stayed together.
Sean’s pants fit tight to his thighs. He had persuasive shoulders and leaned way over with them to hear what Tomasin was saying. Tristan didn’t like how Sean’s hair was almost the same blond as hers.
‘Hey.’
Tristan hadn’t seen Adrian coming. He was another Sean, but not as tall.
‘Tristan?’
They knew each other’s names but had never said them to each other.
Tristan wanted to know what Tomasin was thinking. He wanted to know if Sean was comfortable in his tight clothes. No one knew what they were doing here, or what they wanted. He would admit it. He felt new things were possible, and some of them might be good, some were terrible.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing here,’ said Adrian nervously. ‘My father sent us. But he’s the one who likes the water. I don’t know what I’m doing,’ he repeated. ‘I guess you saw that.’
Tristan was half listening. He worried that Sean was talking as casually and intimately to Tomasin as Adrian was talking to him.
‘I go to school. That’s all I’ve ever done,’ Adrian said, teasing himself. ‘Not like you. Do you know what I mean?’
Tristan didn’t know.
‘I’m good at sports too, but not like Sean,’ Adrian went on, hoping through these confessions to apologize for how they’d needed his help.
Tristan didn’t know school or sports.
‘Don’t tell them I said this, all right,’ said Adrian, meaning his brother, ‘but I’m sorry for before.’
Sean turned to Tomasin and said, ‘Promise you won’t look.’
‘Look at what?’
‘Promise.’
‘I guess I promise,’ she said.
‘Over there.’
She looked.
‘I said don�
�t look!’
‘I didn’t.’
‘So, is he a boy or girl?’
‘Tristan?’ Sean knew Tristan was her friend.
‘I want it to be me and him today.’
‘No,’ she said, but without moving her head from his.
Sean didn’t think she meant it. He stepped into the loose half-circle that was forming and it closed around him.
Jer LaFleur said Sean could choose.
‘Adrian!’ Sean called out.
‘What?’
‘Just kidding.’ He’d crush his little brother.
They all looked and laughed at Adrian because he’d lose.
‘What about you?’ he said, turning to Tristan.
‘Who?’ asked Jer. Jer wanted to be chosen.
‘Him,’ said Sean, but Tristan didn’t answer.
‘Only if he wants to.’
Tomasin wanted to stop Tristan from consenting but didn’t try. Maybe she wanted the wrong thing. There were things about Tristan she didn’t understand. Maybe she could learn something by watching this happen.
Adrian stepped into the circle and asked his brother, ‘Are you kidding?’
‘I was kidding about you,’ Sean said. ‘I’m not kidding about him.’
Tristan took two steps in.
‘Don’t,’ Adrian told Tristan, holding out his hand. ‘You’re so small.’
‘Adrian,’ said Tristan, looking at the hand, ‘it’s okay.’
Adrian was so surprised to hear him speak – it was the first time Tristan had said his name – that he could only whisper back, ‘You don’t have to.’
‘It doesn’t bother me.’
No matter what happened, there would be this: they would step up, shaking out their arms to make them loose, and before the first lash, they would meet each other as matters of fact. He would be that, even taken down, even doubled down.
Tomasin started to count.
Tristan looked at her but she wouldn’t return his look, not really, she would only count. He kept looking.
Shot-Blue Page 10
