Yours Until Morning

by Patricia Masar

  With a pang of nostalgia, he remembered the first flush of his own youth, when it seemed that anything in life was possible. When the world stretched out in front of him like a shining sea, ripe for conquering. Time takes care of that, John thought. One settled into life with all its limitations. Taking what you could get, but not asking for more. It was something you just accepted after a while, that so many of the dreams of youth would remain just that: something to yearn for. Oh, some people managed it, he supposed. People with money. They traveled to exotic places, lived in grand houses and carried on grandiose affairs. But John had never really wanted any of those things. He prided himself on being a simple man with quiet needs – a roof over his head, food on the table, healthy children. To want more than that was tempting the gods, greedy and grasping. Wanting what you couldn’t have led to bitterness and regret. And he’d seen enough of unhappiness around him to know that money wasn’t the answer. It was June who seemed to always be straining after more than life could offer. John wished he could find a way to comfort her. He did not have the type of friendship with other men, and certainly none with women, which lent itself to the kind of conversation in which he could talk about his doubts and fears. What would Richard Hutchinson would say, John mused, if he were to ask him about his own marriage and family life, his dreams for the future? Of course it would be impossible, Richard would cough and shuffle his feet, and John smiled at the thought. With Richard he might be able to talk about baseball, perhaps touch on politics, but that was all. Anything more intimate than that would be out of the question.

  Evie stretched out in the deck chair, languidly flipping the pages of her magazine. John glanced over her shoulder to see a full-color spread of Marilyn Monroe, a tribute to the actress on the one-year anniversary of her death. There was a picture of her on the beach, her dimpled knees demurely crossed, her red lips pouting at the camera. As John studied the creamy cushion of her breasts, he felt a stirring of desire. Embarrassed, he shoved his hands in his pockets and moved over to the helm. “Mind if I take over for a while? We’re almost there. In a few minutes we’ll be able to bait up some hooks. Why don’t you call your son and tell him we’re just about ready.”

  Richard relinquished the helm with an easy smile and ducked down into the cabin where Paul was reading. John could hear him talking to his son, ribbing him gently, his voice light at first and then tight and controlled. It must be hard for a man like Richard to have a bookish son with an ailing heart, John thought. A shining example of male virility and social success, Richard would surely want his son to follow in his footsteps. A wave of sympathy for Paul washed over him and John thought of the iron grip of his own father and how it had nearly crushed him, until John had finally broken free. Fathers and sons. Hope and rebellion.

  When Richard emerged from the cabin, his mouth was set in a tight line, but he relaxed his face when he saw John watching and tried to make a joke of it.

  “Don’t know what to do about that boy. Try to give him a good day of fishing and all he wants to do is stay inside and read a book.”

  “He’ll change his mind when we hook a few fish,” John said easily. “Why don’t you take over again, while I bait up some hooks and get our lines into the water.” He looked at his watch. “Right on schedule. We’re just coming up to the banks now. See how the color of the ocean changes over there.” He sighted down his arm and pointed to the East. “The sea floor rises up and attracts vast schools of feeder fish which then lure the big ones up from the deep.”

  Richard nodded politely as he followed the path of John’s index finger. He pushed up his sleeves and took charge of the helm while John busied himself in the stern attaching lures to wire leaders and the leaders to the thick nylon filament of six rods. In a moment of excitement, John thought about putting out more lines, but six was probably all they could handle. Three each for Richard and himself. For smaller fish, Evie and Paul might be able to pull something in, but John was hoping for a swordfish or a tuna. He chose his best lures and kissed each one for luck, already feeling the prize money burning a hole in his pocket. Two hundred dollars. What couldn’t he do with that kind of cash. A vision of dollar bills fluttered through John’s mind till he jerked himself back from his foolishness. He forced himself to concentrate on finishing the job at hand, muttering to himself one of June’s pet phrases about not counting your chickens and all that.

  “Just keep her on a straight course,” John said, turning his head and raising his voice so Richard could hear him. “As soon as I get all the lines in the water, you’ll be able to throttle her up a bit.” He finished attaching the lures and paid out about twenty yards of line on each rod. After he’d set all six rods into their holders he checked the lines to make sure none of them were crossed and made sure the harpoon and gaff were in easy reach. Too bad there wasn’t a fighting chair bolted to the deck, but Sandhurst hadn’t wanted anything like that put in. It was a pleasure craft after all, made for parties and martini drinking, not for hauling in the big fighters. He’d have to do what he could with a harness attached to the bulkhead if it came to that.

  It was almost ten thirty when he rejoined Richard at the helm. “We’re all set, the lines are in the water. You can throttle up the engine now, just a couple of notches. Let’s see how she handles at higher speeds.”

  Richard pushed the throttle forward and the boat surged cleanly through the bright water. The lines trailing off the stern pulled taut and John kept watch with a sharp eye. “Steady as she goes, old man. Just keep her on a straight course.” He turned back to face the rods and the muscles in his back tensed up. This was the moment of truth. If there were any fish nearby they were sure to go for one of the lures. John rose up on the balls of his feet and curled his hands, ready to spring if one of the rods started paying out. “Evie, honey, why don’t you sit closer to the cabin now. I don’t want to knock you into the water if I have to rush for the rods.”

  Evie stood up from her chair and stretched. “Maybe I’ll get Paul to come out and sit with me on the foredeck. He could use a little sun.” She disappeared into the cabin and after a few minutes emerged with Paul in tow. He did look a little green around the gills, John saw, but a little fresh air would probably fix him right up. He smiled at the two children and just as he turned his attention back toward the stern, one of the rods started to spin out. “Hey, we’ve got a hit!” He made a dash for the rod and grabbed it out of the holder. Line was spinning out fast. It was something big, that’s for sure. “Slow her down a bit,” he shouted back to Richard. “We’ve got a big’un.” He eased his backside into the seat of one of the deck chairs and braced his feet against the transom. The hooked fish took out a lot of line, before John locked the reel. In no time he could feel it pull hard as it slashed and dove, yanking down on the rod. John had to fight to keep his balance and he pulled back with all his strength as he tucked the butt of the rod into the holder of the leather harness strapped to his chest. He had given the fish plenty of line, hoping to tire it out before reeling it in. He didn’t want to have a two hundred pound swordfish, if that’s what it was, thrashing around on deck. The pressure let up a little and John cautiously reeled in, first a little, then faster till he felt a painful wrenching in his arms as the big fish broke the surface and into the air, sharp bill flashing in the light.

  “Wow, he’s big.” Paul rushed to the railing and stared at the thrashing fish, his eyes round in his pale face.

  The big fish struggled and dove and then leaped again, slashing the air with his bill. Its silver body slapped into the water and the rod bent into the shape of a crescent moon. “Bringing him in, now,” John said, turning the reel. “Steady, steady.”

  The line went slack and he staggered back. “Damn.”

  The nylon filament had snapped, or perhaps cut by the fish’s sharp bill.

  “I’ve lost him,” John said. Disappointment pulsed through his limbs. “But never mind. There’ll be more out there. Just let me get these lines st
raightened out and we’ll try again.” He picked up a rod and handed it to Paul. “Here, Paul. Why don’t you reel this one in? Richard, you can cut the motor. We’ll just drift a bit while I get us set up again.”

  With infinite patience John reset the lines, trying not to hurry. In no time at all he had them all back in the water, the lures spinning smoothly as he paid out the nylon filament. He took over the helm from Richard and throttled up the engine. Better to go faster on this go around, he mused. Swordfish had a habit of smashing the bait and he really wanted to make sure the next one of hooked. Or maybe they’d get a yellow fin tuna this time or a cod. Hell, his adrenaline was up now and he was ready for anything. He turned around to check the status of the lines. Richard was wearing the leather harness now, ready to pull in the fish when they got a strike. Feeling the thrum of the engines through the soles of his shoes, he pushed the throttle forward, until he felt her open up and leap through the water. Waves slapped the bow and tossed salty spray into the air.

  Evie and Paul hunkered down on the deck and held on as the boat crested a wave and dipped into the trough. The wind had picked up and riffled the surface of the sea with scurrying waves that shuddered and rippled against the hull. John pointed the bow directly toward the Northeast. His plan was to troll in this direction for a couple of miles and then swing south to skirt the banks, making a wide arc before heading back home. If he’d timed it right, they would be able to cover quite a large swath of the fishing grounds and still pull back into the harbor at fifteen minutes to four. John knew it would be cutting it close, but he wanted to spend every possible minute with his lines in the water. The sun was almost overhead. There were no other boats in sight. They were alone on the ocean, too far even to get a glimpse of the coastline.

  John was looking down at his navigation charts, chewing the inside of his lip, when the boat hit something in the water. Bam. The shock of impact, a momentary shudder, and a yawing to starboard before the craft slowly righted herself. John pulled back on the throttle until they were idling in the water. He and Richard looked at each other, speechless.

  “Christ,” Richard said, frozen to the spot, his arms stiff at his sides. “What the hell was that?”

  John shook his head wordlessly as he scanned the water around the boat. There was nothing. What could it be, a whale? A submerged wreck? They were out in the middle of the ocean. There was nothing anywhere to mar the surface of the sea.

  Richard ducked into the cabin to have a look around. “It seems okay in there,” he said when he emerged a few minutes later. “I sure hope the hull wasn’t damaged.”

  John shut down the engine and allowed the boat to drift as he listened to the silence. He lay flat on the foredeck with his head cantilevered over the gunwales and examined the hull from all sides. The hollow thump of the collision reverberated in his bones. Waves lapped against the hull in time to his beating pulse. Everything seemed fine. He looked at his watch. They were losing time.

  “All right, let’s pull these lines in and start her up again. I don’t know what the devil that was, but there seems to be no harm done.” He spoke with a jokey undertone in his voice to calm any fear the two children might be feeling. Determined to get it right this time, John started the whole process again. He pulled the lines in and checked the lures, then signaled to Richard to start up the motor and keep heading toward the banks. When he’d finished setting up the lines and checking that they were straight, he settled himself in a deck chair to keep an eye on them. Evie was holding onto the rail and looking out to sea. “How far are we from land?”

  John saw the worried look on her face and smiled at her. “About 25 miles I’d say. Not that far when you think about it. If we turned back now we’d be home in less than an hour.” A shadow crossed Evie’s face and she turned to face the sea again.

  John studied his daughter’s tense profile for a moment, and then turned his attention back to the rods. All was quiet now. Too quiet. Was that the only strike they were going to get? He couldn’t go back to the harbor without a catch. What a humiliation that would be. There had to be a great big fish out there with his name on it. John tensed his thighs as he stared at the lines, willing one them to spin out.

  Paul climbed out of the cabin and stood just behind John’s right shoulder. So quiet that for a moment John didn’t realize he was there. The boy’s skin was more than unusually pale and the freckles stood out sharply on his nose.

  “Mr. Kerrigan?” He reached out and tapped John shyly on the shoulder.

  John shifted his head, without taking his eye off the rods. “What can I do for you Paul?”

  Paul leaned forward and whispered into John’s ear. “There’s water in the cabin. It’s coming up through the floor.”

  “What?” John leaped up. Fear electrified his nerves. He stared at Paul’s solemn face and then pushed past him into the cabin. Water had begun seeping up through the floor and pooling in the corners. John jerked open the hatch and plunged down into the hold, ankle deep in sea water. He splashed around in the dim light feeling with his hands for a split in the hull. Holy mother of god. He swore under his breath. The bilge pump must have broken down. He yanked open the door to the engine casing and scrabbled at the bilge pump with his hands. It wasn’t running. It wasn’t running at all. The realization burned like hot metal on his brain.

  The boat was going down.

  “John?” Richard called through the cabin door. “Paul says we’ve got a leak. Oh, Christ, it’s bad, isn’t it,” he said when he saw John’s face.

  “Get life jackets on the kids. The boat’s sinking.”

  John scrambled through the cabin, his wet clothes plastered to his skin. The Sabrina Jane heaved heavily to the side and then slowly righted again, like a wounded whale. He tried to stay calm, to force himself to think.

  “We’re going fast. Where are the life jackets?” John couldn’t remember now if they’d had time to put any on board. They’d been in such a hurry to finish the boat in the end that they may have overlooked them. No time, no time. The boat was turning over now, rolling to the side and lying low in the water, slapped hard by the waves and too weighted down by sea water to right herself.

  John ran to Evie and grabbed her arm. She was huddled against the bulkhead, her eyes wide with fright, the blood drained from her cheeks. Her face was a pale flower in the dark cloud of hair.

  “We’ve got to jump, Evie. Jump!” He pushed his daughter into the water and followed her with a great pin-wheeling of his arms, clawing at the air as he projected himself away from the sinking craft. The water rushed over his head and for a moment everything was black. His water-logged shoes dragged him down into the dark water and his lungs burned. John opened his eyes in the stinging salt and thought he saw Evie’s pale limbs thrashing near him. He reached out toward her and grasped at a plume of bubbles. The dying boat was pulling him down into its vortex, sucking his legs into the void. A patch of bright yellow rippled across his vision. Evie’s shirt. John made another grab for his daughter, catching her hair this time in his fist, slippery as seaweed. He pulled her toward him, slowly, slowly, till her arms snaked around his throat, clasping around him with the strength of steel.

  His lungs burned, the darkness closed in overhead, and the sun began to recede until it was nothing more than a flat disk of light and hope above the surface of the sea. Lights exploded in his head and he opened his mouth, desperate to breathe. His limbs relaxed in the cold sea, a stunned fish, water in his lungs. His brain and body fought for air, skin electric, eyes wide.

  He felt Evie slip away and watched helplessly as she sank below him, a graceful swan, arms raised in a slow pirouette. He followed her descent as long as he could, watching, watching with his eyes and his heart, until she disappeared into the gloom, down, down, until the halo of light around her face grew dimmer, faded, and was lost.

  21

  The sun has lost some of its heat and June looked at her watch. Nearly three o’clock. The boats would be c
oming into the harbor any time now.

  “Claire, we’ve got to get a move on if you want to see the boats come in. Claire, are you up there?” June dropped her cleaning rag on the table and climbed the back stairs to find her daughter lying on her bed, reading a book.

  “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

  Claire lay motionless on top of the bedspread. Her legs stuck straight out of her shorts, pale and lifeless. Her face was pink with the heat.

  “It’s awfully hot up here,” June said, fanning her face. “Why don’t you take your book down to the back porch where it’s cooler.”

  “I like it here.”

  “Well it’s time to go down to the harbor, anyway. The boats’ll be in soon.”

  Claire closed her eyes and dropped the open book onto her chest. “I don’t want to go.”

  June drummed her fingers against the doorjamb. “Ben’s asleep. I guess I could let him nap and ask Mrs. Cranshaw to come over….”

  “I don’t need Mrs. Cranshaw. I’m not a baby. I can stay with Ben.”

  June bit her lip and looked at her watch again. There was only just enough time for her to wash her face and change her dress before she’d have to leave. Evie would be crushed if no one was down at the docks to meet them coming in. There probably wasn’t time to call Mrs. Cranshaw, anyway.