Barnacle Love

by Anthony De Sa

  Don’t panic—the panicked are dead.

  His perfectly round face remains above water, then disappears under a small rolling wave, only to bob and break the surface again. Suddenly, there is nothing but ocean and a promising sky full of fading stars. The ocean has been lulled. The worst has passed. Manuel tilts his head back, ears submerged just under the waterline. He tries kicking his numb legs to propel himself into a back float—if only for a short while more. His burning arms and wrists circle in vain. He looks up at the sky, urging the sun to arrive and warm him. His heavy worn leather shoes were the first things to sink into the ocean’s muddy depths. His wool pants followed, his childhood fishing belt sinking with them. But the fisherman’s sweater, its pounds of soaked cabling, cannot be allowed to go, not just yet. He moves with the dancing waves. Only, he does not lead.

  “Manuel,” he hears a familiar voice call in singsong.

  He recognizes the voice he has not heard in years.

  “Big Lips, is that you?” Manuel says.

  He sees the large grouper burst out of the water, its olive and grey shimmering body twisting over him in an arc. He thinks he sees the fish grinning at him with those balloon lips before its black-blotched shape plunges into the water without a splash.

  “Big Lips. Come back!”

  He waits, but hears only the lapping of water breaking under his chin. The sea invites him down once again. His arms no longer push through the water, his legs abandon him. Manuel Antonio Rebelo looks up at the new sun as he fills his lungs with air and slips once again under the surface, this time with eyes shut.

  As he drops, he sees his father’s smile, his mother’s expression of betrayal, his abandoned brothers and sisters, and the women and children he will never know. He breathes out his last pocket of air, bubbles rising from him to pop on the surface. Manuel feels a tightening in his chest and arms, an inability to move and direct his weight. But instead of going down, his frame is tilting and twirling under the water’s current. He feels himself dragged across and up, up toward the surface light. There is a gash of cold air before he feels the thud of his numb weight hitting a boat’s wooden floor.

  He adjusts his sight to see the face of a leathery man: toothless smile, uneven stubble, and half-soaked cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, cantilevered on his lip.

  “Hmmm,” is all the man grunts.

  Manuel lies trembling on a nest of jumbled net. He grabs hold of the boat’s edge, retching onto the wooden floor. There is a sense that he is not quite saved. He is thankful to lie curled, wound tightly in a ball as woollen blankets are draped over him. Every so often he squints at the back of a plaid woolen jacket, green rubber boots, and a man’s piston arms, elbows pointing back, bringing the oars up with his hairy knuckles. Again and again. He falls in and out of an exhausted sleep.

  “What do they call you, b’y, now?” the man asks.

  “Manuel.”

  He had taken a few lessons in basic English before setting sail and had picked up more from the men on board the Argus. He learned everyday words—house, girl, boy, food—and phrases: “What is your name?” which required the proper response, “My name is Manuel.” But, the leathery man did not offer his name in return.

  Manuel can only think of fresh water, food, and warmth. He can hear the mumbled questions this man is asking, but right now he is too spent to respond. All Manuel can do is think of home, his mother, the men of the Argus, and the news that will greet them all. Suddenly, a new, distant voice pierces his thoughts.

  “Dad! Dad! Did you catch anything?” the echo travels.

  Manuel struggles to lean up on his elbow and looks over the rim of the tiny boat for the first time. His eyes can only distinguish a girl’s slight figure and the glint of sun radiating from her. She stands atop a glossy bed of kelp and runs her hands through her light brown hair, adjusts some strands behind her ears and tugs the hem of her flower-print skirt over her rubber boots. Manuel squints at a glare that flashes off her leg. The bottom of the boat scuffs onto land, tilts slightly to one side, then stops.

  “Pepsi, my love. Your father caught you a big one.”

  He roars with laughter as he hauls the wet twine, heaves the bow of the boat farther up and carves into the pebbled shore.

  “Been out to sea too long, but he’s home now.” He looks over his shoulder, then adjusts his voice to a whisper.

  Manuel looks at his daughter; he can see she is absorbed by her father’s “catch.”

  “He’s some mother’s boy, understand. We gotta take good care of him.”

  As her father busies himself with unloading the dory, the girl traces Manuel’s lips with her index finger. Manuel struggles to keep his eyes open. He sees her clasping her hands together as if in prayer. She raises her chin to the sky exposing her long white neck. Manuel closes his eyes. As his mind retreats into a deep sleep he thinks he hears her mumble, “Thank you, Lord.”

  REASON TO BLAME

  MANUEL’S EYELIDS FLUTTER when she lifts his head to give him water. It dribbles from the corners of his mouth, trickles down his chin and neck. Pepsi smiles when this happens, scrunches up her shoulders and giggles. She takes care of Manuel. When she thinks he’s asleep she combs his hair, lightly outlines his eyebrows, and then moves down the bridge of his nose with her finger. Manuel senses her excitement in daring to hover her lips over his as he lies in his makeshift cot with his eyes closed. He grumbles something and snorts a bit. Pepsi thinks he is going to wake up, and moves quickly to the foot of his cot to slip her father’s best socks onto Manuel’s feet. She smiles. Her face is small, her hair is straight and divided by a long line of white scalp; each half falls down her face, hiding the corners of her eyes. She reaches into a bowl and unravels a steaming towel, which she drapes over his face. “Shhh. Close your eyes,” she whispers. Manuel sinks back into the pillow. The heat of the towel makes his skin tingle, scalds as it surges up his nostrils and then lulls him momentarily. When she removes the cooling towel Manuel smiles. She pretends she does not notice. He sees her eyes darting quickly to the task at hand as she stretches his skin taut with her thumb and forefinger, then carefully shaves in the direction of his growth. Manuel’s eyes move down her slender neck, down to her small breasts hidden beneath her sweater, then up again. Hers is not the sun-stained neck of a Portuguese girl. Manuel’s knotted throat burns as the tears pool in his eyes.

  “Shhh. It’ll be all right. Pepsi’s here, now. Shhh,” she whispers in a singsong.

  Cara Mãe,

  I hope this letter reaches you. I’m alive! Weak, but saved. I’ve made it to my terra nova, lost for drowned but saved by a fisherman—a good man, Andrew. You always said that God’s real messenger was the fisherman; well, he’s mine and he’s delivered me, taken me into his home.

  When I left, there was so much that remained unsaid. Father’s crucifix hangs from my neck still, lies close to my heart.

  I feel certain about what it is I need to say, what it is you need to hear.

  I always knew I didn’t want to stay. I think you knew that also. I knew that if I stayed in our town, on our stifling island, I’d be consumed by what it was you hoped and dreamed for me. Please understand, Mãe. Don’t be disappointed. I want to leave a mark on this world, Mãe, and I know it’s what you’ve always wanted also. I need you to believe there is a place for me here, a tomorrow. I’m certain of it and always have been.

  Your loving son,

  Manuel

  “You … ugly girl!” he roars as he stumbles in.

  Manuel hears him from the main room. He tilts his head back to see Pepsi getting out of her bed. She has begun to leave her door open at night. Manuel sees her struggle as she jackknifes her body, pivots, then swings from under the covers her pink stump that ends just below the knee. Her good leg dangles over the edge of the bed. She squints his way; it’s dark and her eyes haven’t adjusted well enough to know if he’s seen her. She reaches for her wooden leg, the one she has outgrown, t
hat rests on the floor next to her chamber pot. Her hands blur as they weave the leather straps and secure the metal brace to her thigh—the molded cup meets the hardened flesh where her leg should be. He’s not sure how he feels about it—she is not whole. But, when she brushes by him he is caught in her smell of cotton sheets and the peppered sweetness of cinnamon. There is intrigue in her difference—something fragile that needs his tending. Manuel wants to hold her, touch her.

  Pepsi meets her father at the front door. He loses his balance and tries to grab on to the wall. It’s not enough. She’s there to direct the running fall toward his bedroom, where he flops onto his bed. Manuel tries to get up and help but then falls back against his pillow. She struggles with Andrew’s coat and kneads him like dough, gaining momentum to flip him over onto his back. Manuel can smell him from where he is: beer, stale piss, the spice of tobacco in damp wool, the flakes of a fish pie always evident on his stubbly chin and cardigan. Pepsi looks back again to see if Manuel is awake. He moves up to rest on his forearm. He wants to help her. She waves him off and hauls her father’s boots from his feet and then threadbare socks before hoisting his legs up onto the mattress and pulling the covers under his chin. Manuel has made it to Andrew’s room, leaning against the door frame.

  “Thank the Lord you won’t be runnin’ away like your mother.” Andrew cups her face with his hand and brushes her lips with his sausage-like thumb. Unnoticed by him, she spits his fingers away.

  “You’re my … my sweet ugly girl. And a wooden leg to boot.”

  He smiles when he whispers these words, breathes out his judgment. His body now relaxes, his weight molding itself to the mattress as he sinks into a drunken sleep, mouth wide open.

  She comes out of his room. “Go to sleep, Manuel. I’ll take care of things.”

  Manuel moves back to the cot, urged by her hand on the small of his back. She turns on the tap. The gush of water splatters against the cement basin. She finds the empty Javex bottle hidden in the cabinet under the sink and grabs a wooden spatula. She moves past Manuel into her father’s room. She kneels before his sleeping lump, pulls back the covers and undoes his zipper. She looks away and with the spatula fishes for his penis, and expertly aims it into the neck of the jug. A good couple of taps on the hollow plastic jug wakes him just enough to hear the running water. It’s all that’s needed—the hot, cloudy pee trickles, then gurgles into the bottle.

  Cara Mãe,

  Every day I get stronger. Andrew and his daughter, Pepsi, are taking good care of me. They ask for nothing. I want to help, to show them my gratitude. There are so many stories to tell … of the big ship, its men, how I was swallowed by the sea, of St. John’s and its streets and people … I hope you have received my gifts that I mailed to you while in St. John’s. I pray that you got my first letter before the black news that must have greeted you from the commander of the fleet.

  You were visited fifteen years ago with news of our dear father’s death; the idea that you and all my brothers and sisters would hear those same words fall from the mouth of an unknown man pains me. But I am alive, Mãe, and this must give you some comfort.

  Please don’t see this decision I have made as a rejection of the promise you saw in me. I will work hard to show you that it still burns inside me, brighter than ever.

  Every time I breathe in the brackish mist, it reminds me of home. The new land is far, and even though it smells just like home, I find that now I can breathe. I don’t know why I want you to know this other than a month has passed and the November winds here are building, getting colder and forceful, and I have yet to hear a word from you.

  Please don’t be angry with me. You have my brothers and sisters to look after. Love them as I do.

  Your son,

  Manuel

  “Plucked outta the water, my boy.”

  The days are punctuated by Andrew’s repeated boast. He puffs himself up like he’s caught a prize fish and they’re going to take his picture for the local newspaper. Manuel cannot help but smile with gratitude at his outbursts.

  Manuel is feeling strong enough to help Andrew skin the animals that he has hunted and trapped: rabbits, deer, and an ugly animal Andrew calls moose. Manuel has made the job easier by driving some large rusty hooks into the trunk of an old tree out back. He shows Andrew, mostly with exaggerated gestures, how to tie the legs of the dead animal together with rope, loop the rope through the eyehook and then the pulley to drag and hoist the carcass against the tree. The animal’s body stretches and drapes toward the ground and Manuel’s sharp knife cuts into its flesh, thinly separating the hide from that milky blue membrane that encases the meat. Every so often, Manuel cannot help but gaze at the naked cabin through the curtain of steam that rises from the animal. The oxblood paint flakes along its planked sides. Two small windows jut out slightly in the front and the black narrow door sits crooked on its hinges. The wind has ravaged the bleak little house that sits on the grassy hill. But all Manuel can think of is the warmth and comfort within those walls and sagging roof. On a few occasions, he has caught Pepsi looking out the window. She always turns away in time. It’s all play and it makes him want her more.

  Earlier, that morning, Manuel had been roused from his sleep by Pepsi’s excited giggles. “Wake up, Manuel. Come see.” Somewhat groggy, Manuel lumbered half-naked to the front door and stepped outside. Snowflakes, large and generous, fell languidly from the sky in silence. They fell on Manuel’s hair and lashes, his bare shoulders and feet, where they disappeared into the heat of his skin. Manuel raised his hands, tried to catch the flakes between his fingers. Bewildered, he turned toward the house. Pepsi squatted in the doorway, held her robe’s sleeve in her mouth. Manuel had twirled like a boy, raised his head to the snow’s newness, opened his mouth and flicked his tongue.

  “You better watch yourself, young lady,” Andrew says as he and Manuel return to the house. Pepsi continues to stare out the window as if she has not heard him.

  “That man’s not for you. A good strong man needs a good woman to make him a life, you hear?”

  Manuel has grown quite used to them talking about him as if he doesn’t understand a word. Truth be told, he doesn’t understand many of the words, but he is clear about the passion behind these foreign sounds.

  “I prayed for him, though. He’s for me. He’s the answer,” her whisper fades.

  There are times when Manuel notices the fear in Andrew’s eyes. At other times, he’s embarrassed by Andrew’s mocking.

  “You stupid girl … there is no answer. Look at you.” He shakes his head as he walks out the front door.

  Before she can react, Manuel moves toward the sink to rinse his bloodstained hands. Duty washes over her; she confidently grabs his hands and scrubs them. She doesn’t look at him. Manuel allows her to scour his hands with a brush. They begin to burn in their rawness but he doesn’t draw them back. It helps to let her father’s words wash away with the blood and grime; they swirl in the basin and lose themselves in the drain. Her neck begins to relax; she turns to face him and her mouth smiles but her eyes betray her. Manuel lets her clean under his nails. He buries his nose in her hair, breathes in and moves into her warmth. She nudges his head a bit and her shoulders drop. Manuel can hear her exhale. He doesn’t care about her leg.

  Cara Mãe,

  I still have not heard from you. Your refusal to send me a letter only adds to the heaviness that weighs in my heart. It has taken hold of my mind.

  I am growing fond of this girl, Pepsi. She is sixteen but already a woman of work, just like the girls back home. I know you’d like her, Mãe, the same way you liked Silvia before she left to go to school in the city. But, there is something about this girl, Pepsi; she makes all of my plans for this new land seem right, even real. I’m capable of taking hold of my dreams and moving on with my new life.

  You used to say that the young don’t know what they want. I am not so fragile as to believe that anymore. I’m a man, not a boy. The worth of thi
ngs in life comes with risk. You taught me that. There is no doubt in my mind that my decision was the right one. Please have faith in me; you always have.

  Send something soon, Mãe. Let me know if you are all well. My strength is with me, now.

  Your son,

  Manuel

  Manuel has asked Pepsi to mail the letters he’s written, all addressed to São Miguel, Açores. Pepsi asks who Maria Theresa da Conceição Rebelo is. She looks relieved when Manuel tells her. He wonders what his mother must be thinking now—if she even knows. It’s been weeks; has she received word yet that her son has met his father’s same fate—lost at sea? Or, could his letters have reached her first, saving her from this torment. Or after, with news of a resurrection? He is eager for a response.

  “Fishermen need to live by the sea, don’t they, Manuel?”

  “Yes, Andrew,” Manuel nods.

  Andrew begins to dress in layers of coats and then tops off his head with a hat, the fur-lined flaps framing his ruddy face. He is off to check his traps. His padded frame can barely fit through the narrow door. As he hunkers down to go out he turns to look at Manuel, who is writing a letter, and then quickly moves to look at his daughter, who lifts a heavy roasting pan out of the oven in a billow of steam and brushes her wet bangs away from her face with her forearm. He grunts as he moves out the door like a lumbering bear.

  “My father told me we have to keep quiet about this or they’ll send you to some farm in Ontario, Manuel … to work.”

  “Is okay, Pepsi. Shhh. I no say nothing.” Manuel picks at her loose hair and tucks some strands behind her ears.

  “I don’t want anyone to know, Manuel.” They both sit on Manuel’s cot.

  “No one.”

  “I don’t know why she left. I thought it was me, or more her disappointment in giving birth to me? It was all too much for her, I suppose. Growing up I wanted to know—I wanted a reason to blame. Do you understand, my darling?”