Stowaway

by Pam Withers

  My throat goes thick. I reach fingers through the bars to touch the boy, who has buried his face in his hands. My fingers don’t quite reach.

  “Tell me about Guatemala,” I say, fearful he’ll leave.

  “They come into the schools,” he says. “Even private schools with guards. They came to ours. They held a gun to the principal’s head. They visited each classroom, choosing the boys they wanted. They made the boys leave with them. No choice. Some teachers tried to hide us. Some teachers got shot for doing that.”

  “Can’t the police stop them? What do parents do?”

  “Gangs pay police. Parents cry.” He hangs his head.

  I hold my breath, trying to process the nightmare.

  “How did you all get on this boat?” I ask in a gentler tone.

  “We’re the lucky ones,” he repeats. “Our parents have money. Our parents got scared. They paid Captain to take us away. Lots of money.” He studies his hands. “So I wouldn’t end up like my brother. Dead for warning our school that they were coming again.”

  I wipe moisture from my face. “My brother did the same.” I choke out the words. “Saved me.”

  “But they didn’t kill him.”

  I pause, then shake my head slowly.

  “Canada is a better country,” Pequeño declares.

  Our eyes lock. I’m struggling to keep mine dry.

  Sunlight spills into the engine room. Someone has lifted the hatch door above us.

  “What’s this, a pity party?” Danillo’s voice cuts through the space.

  “Get away from him, little shit,” he orders Pequeño. Pequeño scrambles back toward his hiding place.

  “Hungry?” Danillo asks me.

  I gaze at the bulging plastic bag in his hands. He drops down beside me and lifts something from the bag. He shoves a thin ham sandwich through the bars. Mustard oozes out in the process.

  “Oops, the apple won’t fit,” he pronounces, and lifts it to his mouth to take a giant bite. The juice runs down his chin. He licks at it slowly, then wipes his face with his sleeve.

  “Don’t worry. We’ve all spent time in this cage. Except Pequeño.”

  “Why not Pequeño?”

  “Captain would never admit it, but he has a little bit of a soft spot for Pequeño, given he’s the youngest and smallest, I guess. Anyway, Captain calls it ‘keeping a tight ship.’”

  I say nothing, laying into the sandwich.

  “Guess you got checkmated this game,” Danillo continues. “You were only ever a pawn, anyway.”

  “And what does that make you?”

  He laughs but ignores the question. “Arturo says you wanted an adventure. Says you don’t have any friends except a Coast Guard officer. Are you some kind of spy? Because we don’t like people who hang out with the Coast Guard.”

  “I’m a kid who lives on a small island. Everyone on the island knows the Coast Guard guy. Doesn’t mean anything. I’m here ’cause I’m an idiot. Got on the wrong boat.”

  “Got that right,” Danillo says. “But Captain says you’ll be useful for helping to earn back some of the money stolen.”

  “Like how?” My stomach goes sour.

  “Captain tells us stuff on a need-to-know basis. Evidently we don’t need to know that yet.”

  He’s in the process of sliding a cookie between the wires when the engine starts a coughing fit beside us. The cookie drops into the cage and breaks into pieces as the boat lurches.

  “Uh-oh,” Danillo says and leaps up to the salon like a jack-in-the-box. The hatch door slams shut. I get on my hands and knees to search for the cookie pieces even as my ears tune in to the engine losing power beside me.

  “Fuel problem,” I diagnose. “Not good.”

  • • •

  ARTURO

  Archimedes is well out into the Strait when the engine throws a punch. Its revs grow weaker as the rpm runs down. I am on duty; Captain has been moping over coffee in the salon for hours. The boys have scattered.

  “Mierda!” Captain curses, bursting onto the bridge.

  “I didn’t do anything!” I protest in Spanish.

  “Sounds like we’re running out of fuel, but there’s no way! We have plenty! Call Danillo to be lookout while we check it out.”

  “I’m here,” Danillo says from behind, also in Spanish. “I’ll watch the bridge.”

  “Good lad. We’ll let Archimedes know there’s no room for trouble today.”

  I follow Captain to the engine room, grabbing the tool box on the way. The big man and I drop down and squeeze past the cage like the island boy is not even there.

  Captain checks the fuel and tinkers with the throttle cable. I check the air filter.

  “I don’t see a problem,” Captain mumbles around a wrench in his mouth.

  “Sounds like the throttle being pulled back,” I say in Spanish, puzzled. “Should I restart the engine?”

  “I don’t know what you’re saying, but you seem way too worried about the throttle cable,” comes a voice in English from beside us. “Don’t even think about restarting the engine, if that’s what’s on your mind, ’cause it’s the engine fuel filter, not the throttle cable.”

  Captain turns and glares at the prisoner. Owen cocks one eyebrow back at him.

  “Let me out and I’ll fix it,” the gringo offers.

  “Nice try,” Captain says, turning his back on the dog cage. He reverts to Spanish. “Arturo, the engine seems hot. Try the water pump.”

  With momentary relief that Captain still values my skills over Owen’s, I take a screwdriver from the tool box, lie on my back, and wriggle under the raw water pump. I apply pressure gradually.

  “Arrgh!” Captain shouts as dirty water squirts out the bleed screw spout and splashes us.

  Mierda. I lift my soaked shirt away from my clammy skin.

  “That’s certainly working,” Owen says.

  If I were not under the engine, I would spit at the sarcastic island boy who keeps making me look bad.

  But Captain has twirled around. “What makes you think you know what is wrong?” he demands in English.

  “And what’s in it for me to answer that?” el estúpido replies.

  Captain raises the wrench in his hand. I hold my breath. Then he lowers it and grimaces.

  “Arturo, boy, let the dog free,” he mutters in Spanish.

  I contemplate turning the cage upside down first, just to rattle him. Instead, I unlock it, swing the door open, and sweep my arms mockingly to show the prisoner the way out. I am not braced for the kick the Captain applies to my backside for the effort. A yelp escapes my lips. The buzz suggesting that I hit someone is almost overpowering.

  “Back to the bridge,” Captain orders.

  I walk away, standing tall, after shooting poison-dart eyes at the stowaway/would-be engineer.

  CHAPTER TEN

  OWEN

  The coffee gurgles its warm way down my throat. The captain makes it for me himself, leaving Arturo on watch.

  “Not as useless as I thought,” the captain says, referring to the twenty minutes it took to me to disassemble the engine fuel filter, clean it, reinstall it, and bleed the fuel system. “I’d offer you a first mate’s position if I trusted you more than I can throw you, which I don’t.”

  Am I supposed to say thanks to that? I seem to have inadvertently made an enemy of Arturo by proving handier than him. But I had to help. How am I supposed to escape if we’re stuck mid-Strait? And I am good at boat maintenance and repair, especially when it comes to this model. Thanks mostly to my brother’s patient coaching, back when he was a good guy.

  So far, no one has ushered me back below decks. But neither are they leaving me alone long enough for me to approach the radio on the bridge or to leap overboard.

  My parents have been at their conference for three days now and are surely wondering why I haven’t phoned them or answered their calls. I’ve missed two days of school, enough for someone to raise an alarm. Maybe today Officer
Olsen will decide it’s more than hooky and put out some kind of missing report on me, if he hasn’t already.

  I cringe at the worry I must be causing my parents, who trusted me to be on my own. Dad will be trying to calm Mom, who will be thinking the worst, after what my brother put them through. I imagine them spending half their time in Miami talking by phone to Officer Olsen, the police, and my school, and making arrangements to abandon the conference and fly home. The fine residents of Horton Island will be combing the place for me, and boaters will be getting reports to keep on the lookout.

  Have such reports reached the captain? It’ll make him nervous, for sure. I’m causing a pack of trouble. Your fault, Gregor. You encouraged me.

  Not my fault and you know it.

  And here on board? The boys are acting like everything’s normal, I guess. Danillo is creaming Lucas at chess, Pequeño is studying birds through binoculars while sprawled in a window seat. Gabriel — the one who likes baking, I’m told — is burning brownies in the oven, and the linebacker duo of Sebastian and Sergio have their heads hunched together over photos of their family.

  The captain is studying nautical charts, pencilling stuff into a notebook, and glancing regularly at his expensive watch.

  Over the next few hours, I get included in games of chess and Battleship, Pequeño loans me his skateboarding magazine (never mind that it’s in Spanish), and others pepper me cautiously with more questions about Canada.

  To keep my mind off the mess I’ve gotten myself into, I pretend for the moment that I really am on a cruise. It’s way better than the boat trip to school, which lasts less than half an hour and typically features pissing rain and cold as raw as a polar bear’s behind. There’s hardly ever anyone on that water taxi between the ages of ten and forty-two (the driver’s age) except me. And the school itself is as short of guys who pay me a second’s notice as it is of good-looking girls.

  Not like in Toronto, where I was ruler of the universe — for a while. Wanted for my talent for hotwiring boats, admired for being Gregor’s kith and kin, I had it made at school and, after the bell rang, on the water. The Waterfront Gang ushered me in like I was a Hollywood star. We had fun for months until a certain dark and stormy night. The rest is lousy history. Including the abrupt move to Nowhere Land to separate me from the “bad influence” crowd. But we all miss Gregor. Does he miss us? I press my fist into my hurting heart.

  You haven’t made friends because you keep waiting for me to arrive and help you, brother. Stand up on your own two feet already. But remember to never, ever tell Mom and Dad —

  Time to think of something else. My current situation on Archimedes may suck, but it’s a situation. And I intend to stay sharp as a crab’s pincer till I find a way out of it. No thanks to the other boys, who think this cruise is a snooze, or to the Artful Dodger, who I’m beginning to think is as dodgy as his pretend uncle from hell. Or is he just moody and back-and-forth on trusting me? Maybe hasn’t experienced a lot of trust in his life. Maybe I should cut him some slack for that?

  Screech! Screech! Screech!

  “A bunch of seagulls,” Pequeño says, appearing beside me.

  I smile and look aft and up. “Bunch? No. The correct collective term for seagulls is flock.”

  “Whatever.” He smiles.

  “How about for eagles?” Gabriel points as two appear high in the sky, drawing neat figure eights.

  “A convocation. And it’s a murder of crows, a colony of vultures, and an unkindness of ravens.”

  “Is that true?” Lucas questions.

  “That’s silly,” Pequeño says with a giggle.

  “What’s a boatload of boys?” the captain weighs in.

  “Depends what they’re up to,” I joke. “But maybe all these birds mean we’re near land?”

  “Captain!” The shout comes from Arturo. The big man dashes to the bridge. His whistle blows, and in the melee that follows, I sprint to the stern deck and leap up into the dinghy. Not because I’m part of the hide-and-seek routine, but because that’s where I hid my stuff last night and I’ll need it for escaping. Was it only last night I was a free man innocently hitchhiking to Nanaimo? And now I’m leagues to the southwest.

  • • •

  ARTURO

  It’s nice to see land, even if it means the clients have to hide as a precaution. Normally, this would be my favourite part: dropping anchor, transferring the clients to the forested hideaway Captain calls the safe house, then waving goodbye and heading back south. That’s when it’s just Captain and me, with a thick wad of cash each: our well-earned salaries. There’s some peace and quiet, and he lets me eat full meals. I intend to put my small but growing savings toward the day Captain dumps me, if he ever does. Happily, my crushing fear of being forced back to street life dwindles with each payday.

  But the empty safe has changed things, including Captain’s mood.

  “Return Owen to the cage,” Captain snaps. “He’s hiding in the dinghy.”

  Hiding in the dinghy? Like that’s going to do him any good. Like no one would notice and he could escape. I smile at the power I’ve just been handed. I can follow orders by recapturing the stowaway and stuffing him back into the dog cage. Or … I glance toward the pilothouse. What if, instead, I helped him lower the dinghy and escaped with him? Wouldn’t that shock Captain? Ah, but then there would be the small matter of the bullet holes that would sink us once Captain fired on us. Not to mention the bullet holes in us. Oh well, stowaway, not today.

  I sigh as I head toward the dinghy, hoping for the island boy’s own sake that he co-operates, so Captain doesn’t have to lend a nasty hand.

  “You don’t have to be his lackey,” Owen says as I steer him to the cage, shut the door, and click the lock on him.

  I have never heard the word before, but I can guess its meaning. “I am first mate,” I spit back, straightening my shoulders. “He choose me. He train me. He pay me. He reward me one day. Am no lackey.”

  “He’s cruel,” Owen says, gripping the bars and leaning toward me. “You’re not. He doesn’t deserve you. You deserve better.”

  A bolt of warmth tears through my body and jolts my chest. For a moment, my heart glows with unchartered strength. Then it sputters like an ignition that turns over, but does not catch.

  My eyes cloud until the sight of Owen in the dog cage in front of me becomes a vision of my shoeshine boys in the dumpster. They are pressed together, shivering, but bravely mute, as the guards’ shouts draw near. Breathing in little gasps, trusting that I have saved them.

  “The rest are in the Dumpster!” Heart-piercing screams. And Captain: “Good on you for keeping the street-kid population down.”

  Too many of them, because I wasn’t cruel enough to turn them away.

  My mind flicks farther back to my earliest memories. I am curled in a ball as the looming shadow of my stepfather applies his balled-up fists to my tiny body. This fades into memories of lashings from older street kids, one after another, and finally the belt of the captain.

  If Owen thinks I have choices, it’s because he’s from a different world. A world I don’t know or deserve.

  And yet, one more memory thrusts itself on me: my hand rising over one of my misbehaving street kids. The veins in my forehead pulsing, a buzzing like from a power tool, the grit of teeth on teeth as an inner battle rages.

  Thoughts of Jaime the social worker. And my promise to be the break in the chain.

  The hand slowly lowering itself.

  Not cruel. Deserve better. My chest threatens to burst open and spew out a lifetime of torment and longing. I stand tall and hold my breath to keep it locked inside.

  “Captain just robbed,” I finally blurt out. “He having hard time. He is my — he needs my — we need lock you up for safety, Owen. Yours and ours. Sorry.”

  Why did I say sorry? I turn and flee toward Captain, leaping two and even three steps at a time to put distance between Owen and me before he can reply. He is not my friend.
I have no friends. I have never had friends.

  • • •

  For the next few hours, it is the usual routine. Archimedes hovers offshore until dark, water lapping at its hull, the scent of cedar trees coming from shore. Then it happens: the flash of light. A signal. Followed by the hiss of Captain’s whistle and a tumble of boys out of cupboards.

  “Get your sorry bodies and duffle bags into the dinghy, now!” barks Captain. “And Arturo, fetch the dog.”

  Owen says nothing as I swing open the cage door. He drags himself up to the salon, lifts his small bag to his chest, and files to the waiting dinghy beside the others with shoulders slumped, face fallen.

  My heart races ahead of the oars I pull on as we glide across the black water toward the pulses of light. There is a soft thud as the bow nudges shore, and a large, hairy hand grabs the rope I toss.

  “All yours, Stanton,” Captain says as the boys stumble ashore.

  The burly, scar-faced safe-house keeper, whose eyes I never dare meet, grunts and says, “Move it, vermin.”

  The boys shiver as they file to the tumbledown house with a roof that wears a thick coat of moss. They may suspect something is up, but so far it is all going according to plan. They are herded into the house’s windowless basement by Stanton and his two gun-toting men.

  Seated on the damp concrete floor, they get sandwiches and lukewarm coffee, which they down without complaint. Captain and I are waved toward rickety chairs placed in front of the stairs to bar the boys’ escape. Stanton’s men, smelling of sweat and cigarettes, serve the two of us doughnuts with our sandwiches and coffee. As I lick sugar crystals from my lips, I spot Danillo watching me. Eat your hearts out, boys.

  Captain moves upstairs to talk with Stanton. I cringe when their raised voices drift down. “You just have to wait for a portion of your pay,” Captain is saying.

  Finally the two come down with the phone. I want to breathe easy now, because this is where each boy gets one phone call to tell his parents or guardians that he has arrived safely. The parents in turn deliver the second half of the money to Captain’s Guatemala contact, who notifies Captain of receipt. Then the boys are released. Neat, organized, and fair.