Stowaway

by Pam Withers

  I smile as I position it in front of the fire.

  “Food,” Arturo explains proudly.

  Everyone rushes forward and pushes hands into the bag’s pockets.

  “Share!” I order, and everyone steps back.

  “Thanks, Owen and Arturo,” Danillo says soberly as the others murmur their appreciation.

  Holding some food in reserve for whatever future travels await, I help Arturo and Danillo distribute the cold, cooked chicken drumsticks.

  The meat off my drumstick slides down my throat nicer than a corner store Slurpee on a summer’s day.

  “And a corncob!” Arturo announces, dangling it over Pequeño’s glittering eyes. “All yours.”

  There’s silence as we watch our pale friend chew on it, mumbling “thanks” as he licks his fingers.

  Arturo rises and rifles through the cupboards. “Instant coffee, cake mix, four cans of spaghetti, and rat poison.”

  Gabriel leaps up. “Spaghetti for breakfast. I’ll make the cake now.”

  “Hold the rat-poison icing,” Sebastian deadpans before breaking into a coughing fit.

  Danillo checks the medicine cabinet. “Sleeping pills, aspirin, cough syrup, and a thermometer,” he says, bringing the aspirin and thermometer to shivering Pequeño and the cough syrup to the twins and Gabriel.

  “And blankets in this cupboard,” Sebastian announces. A whiff of mothballs trails him back to the sofa.

  We wrap Pequeño in a blanket, coax him to drink some water with the aspirin, and lift him into the nearest bedroom.

  “Sleep till first light,” I urge everyone, and most of the boys pad off to the bedrooms without argument.

  I find pen and paper and write a note to the cabin owners explaining our emergency situation and leaving my home phone number with an offer to pay for everything.

  Danillo, thermometer in hand, lowers himself into a chair beside Pequeño’s bed. “I’ll keep an eye on him tonight,” he volunteers.

  “Great. I’m going down to the shore to see if there’s a boat.”

  “Good idea,” Arturo says with a yawn.

  Outside with my headlamp, I listen to the familiar sound of crickets and creaking tree branches; I even hear the crunch of deer hooves moving away. It feels like I’m back on Horton Island, a strangely exuberant notion. I count seventy-seven rickety stairs to the beach. There, I tremble with excitement as I spot a derelict boathouse. Any chance?

  The upper hinge of the unlocked door almost falls off as I push it open. A good-sized vessel sits under a ragged tarp. I snatch off the cover and catch my breath. A very mildewed twenty-five-foot-long tugboat bumps gently against the piling. I rub dirt off where the name is painted: Homeward Bound.

  Time to leap aboard and pretend it has just arrived at Steward Marina for a tune-up. Crawling hurriedly to the engine access cover, I lift it and find my heart beating ever more rapidly. A 135-horse Perkins diesel. Probably capable of twelve knots. Interior not in bad condition. Motorized dinghy on the back almost new. This tug’s worth maybe $50,000 on the black market.

  Stop. You’re not stealing it or selling it or hot-wiring it for the Ontario gang. That’s all over and done with. You’re borrowing it to get people to medical help, and to get back to civilization. Time to go home. Homeward Bound will need some overnight repairs but —

  “Nice,” Arturo says from the doorway, startling me.

  “Needs work, but I think it can take seven boys across the Strait.”

  “Awesome big time. Need help?”

  “Wouldn’t mind. Could have it ready to go by morning,” I say hopefully.

  “I your first mate,” Arturo replies with a grin, reaching for a tool box and a generator on a dusty shelf of the boathouse. After a few tries, we get the generator going and turn off our headlamps to work under a pair of pull-cord hanging bulbs.

  We work as efficiently as doctors in surgery, me on my back with my head between the engine and tool box, him handing me tools and offering suggestions.

  “How about you test the batteries while I look at the fuel system?” I suggest.

  “No hay problema.” And a minute later, “Dead.”

  “Hmm, hook up the battery charger and maybe we can start the old Perkins by morning.”

  “Okay.”

  “Half tanks. Not bad. I’m going to free up the throttle.”

  “Good idea,” my first mate agrees.

  “Damn. Cable’s jammed and fuel system has some water in it.”

  “We empty water from fuel filter and hope,” Arturo says.

  And so it goes for hours, the two of us tackling one challenge after another, merging our skills, battling sleepiness like superheroes bent on saving the world.

  Danillo appears at some point deep in the night.

  “All right! A boat! And the dream team’s at work on it. Morning departure?”

  “You betcha,” I reply. “Everything okay in the cabin?”

  “Everyone’s snoozing but me. Gabriel crashed after baking us a cake. I brought you some slices.”

  The moist chocolate melts in my mouth; I ignore the boat grease on my hands as I shovel in the rest.

  “Awesome,” Arturo says with his mouth full.

  “Later, guys,” Danillo says as he heads back up the stairs, and it’s back to work, the quiet disturbed only by the loud whooo of an owl.

  “Owls are sneaky,” Arturo quotes me. “They fly silent at night but no can see everything. And eat more-small owls.”

  I pause and study him under the hanging bulbs.

  “Like guards at camp,” he continues. “I think Captain not know camp so bad. Was tricked. Maybe will understand.”

  Arturo’s still loyal to the captain, I reflect uneasily. Still thinks the captain will return for him. Maybe the captain still owes him a bunch of money he needs. Well, at least he didn’t alert the guards or stop us from escaping. In fact, his idea for trapping the men was brilliant.

  For the next few hours, we chat about boat mechanics, the kinds of boats we’d like to own one day, tree planting, Guatemala City, ocean storms, and birds. He’s pleased when I correct his English. It makes the time fly by; it keeps us awake. He’s my friend — the first I’ve really had since Gregor abandoned me. I’d forgotten how chill it is to fix boats and yak alongside a buddy. I’d forgotten on purpose. And it occurs to me, not for the first time, that Arturo needs a friend, too.

  It takes seven hours for the batteries to recharge. By then, we’ve drained the water from the fuel filter, found a replacement fuel filter cartridge, repaired the throttle cable, and checked and added oil. As the first rays of dawn hit, we collapse into the tug’s torn vinyl seats with our feet up.

  “Why you come back to camp?” Arturo asks me after a few moments. “Why not escape by self?”

  “Pequeño.”

  He nods.

  “I came back even though my brother told me not to,” I say sleepily, not really meaning to let that slip.

  “Qué? Brother in Ontario?”

  “Sometimes I imagine talking with him.”

  “Pequeño say this brother in gang.”

  I frown. Evidently there are no secrets in this group. “Yeah, he went to jail.”

  “Goody-goody Owen has bad-boy brother?” He says it almost gleefully.

  I give him a sour smile. “You don’t know anything. I was in the gang, too.”

  “You?” His eyebrows shoot up.

  “It started out him and me hot-wiring boats just for kicks. To go on joyrides together. It was fun.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Sometimes Gregor had friends who joined us. Then they started offering him money to hot-wire boats they wanted to steal. Not from our marina, but from around the harbour.”

  “He do it and get caught?”

  “Yes, and put in juvie jail.”

  “What is juvie jail?”

  “Youth detention centre. So the gang came to me. Dared me to hot-wire boats.”

  Arturo waits for me to
continue.

  “I like dares. And they treated me like I was a friend. I didn’t have many friends of my own ’cause I always hung out with Gregor. And now he was gone.”

  “They pay you good money?”

  “Yes. And I never got caught. Then Gregor gets released and comes home. Tells me off. Orders me to stay away from them.”

  “But you no listen?”

  “No. One night I hot-wire them a boat and we go out cruising. But a storm comes up. The boat’s too small for the conditions. We’re getting whipped around bad. I’m scared. And then another boat comes speeding at us.”

  “Pirates?”

  “No — Gregor. He’s as angry as the wind and thunder. He comes close, holding a life ring with a rope attached, and shouts at me to jump. I can’t decide what to do, but I’ve never seen him so upset or determined looking. And he’s taking a big risk, trying to come alongside us in the big chop.

  “The gang threatens to ram him if he doesn’t leave us alone. He gets up close and tosses the life ring. I leap into the water and grab it.”

  “What then?” Arturo prods, because I’ve gone silent.

  “The boys aim the stolen boat at Gregor’s boat and throttle straight at him, even though I’m screaming at them to stop. He’s standing in the bow trying to pull me in. He loses his balance and falls into the water, and the gang’s boat hits his head.”

  Arturo is staring at me, wide-eyed.

  “I get to him, put the life ring around him, and tow him to the swim platform while the gang speeds away. I pull him on board somehow. He’s messed up, but breathing.”

  I have to take some deep breaths myself, I’m so choked up.

  “Uh-huh?”

  “I call the Coast Guard. They arrive fast.”

  “And?” he breaks the silence.

  “That’s why I want to join the Coast Guard. They rescue people.”

  “Your brother return to juvie jail?”

  I don’t reply.

  “You go to jail?”

  I shake my head.

  “Your parents know?”

  I shake my head again.

  “So he protect you, gang get away, and gang no says you with them.”

  I stay silent.

  To my surprise, Arturo moves closer and rests a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Say truth.”

  I find myself shaking. I’ve never told anyone. But it comes out — slowly, then faster.

  “The Coast Guard … got there too late.” Arturo lets the silence stretch as if knowing there’s more. “My parents and the Coast Guard … they still think it was just Gregor and me there. The two of us overboard in the storm. No gang around.”

  Again, comfort in silence. Then, “Sorry, Owen. I understand.”

  “Understand?” It comes out like a croak. “How can you understand?”

  Next thing I know, he tells me a wild story about his “family”: how he got street boys work shining shoes, protected them, and one night hid them in a dumpster. But they were found. Every one of them. My stomach turns over. And I recognize the guilt and anguish in his voice; it steams off him just like it’s steaming off me.

  “I’m sorry,” is all I can say when he finishes. I rest my hand on his shoulder. He lets it stay there a minute.

  “If anyone learns you lie to Coast Guard, you in trouble. No can join Coast Guard.” He sits back and crosses his arms, like he has solved some big mystery.

  “What makes you think that?” I ask, voice shaky. Should I have told him anything?

  “Should turn yourself in,” he declares quietly and unexpectedly, his face turning serious.

  “What?”

  “Is big weight on you. Gang is guilty of trying to murder. No fair to brother they go free.”

  “Like people smuggling is on you?” I reply quietly. “I’ll turn myself in when you do.”

  “Okay.”

  I’m trying to figure out what that means when the owl’s whooo makes us jump. We study one another, joined by some invisible new bond.

  “Why you pretend talk to your brother?” Arturo asks.

  “Don’t you have anyone you miss a lot, that you still need advice from?”

  He takes a deep breath. “Captain,” comes out in such a low voice that I hope I’ve heard him wrong.

  “You think the captain cares about you?” I try to say it kindly. “He only cares about money. He’s a vulture, a greedy vulture. Remember what I told you about vultures? If they’re disturbed while eating, they vomit to make themselves light enough to fly away. That’s what the captain will do to you or the boys one day. Upchuck you into the sea when he needs to flee.”

  “I know.”

  Before I can contemplate this surprise response, Danillo’s voice jars us as he appears in the boathouse doorway.

  “What’s happening?” He’s staring at us curiously. What has he overheard? “Thought you two were fixing up a getaway vehicle.”

  Arturo stands up quickly and brushes dust off his clothes. “We fix boat. Is ready. How is Pequeño?”

  “His fever has broken and the twins are sounding a little better,” Danillo says. “Come up for the spaghetti breakfast Gabriel has fixed. Then you two can get some sleep below decks on this thing while I drive.”

  • • •

  Arturo

  Gabriel is stirring the pot of spaghetti on the stove. I glimpse Danillo stepping into the cabin’s bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet, and sliding a container of pills into his jeans pocket. For Pequeño in case he worsens, I assume.

  In the kitchen, Danillo helps scoop the steaming spaghetti onto plates and serves Owen and me first. Imagine that: a client serving me! I allow a smile before I start slurping it down.

  “You guys deserve it,” he says.

  “Sweet!” Owen says as Danillo smiles and stoops like a waiter with a towel over one arm to serve him a mug of coffee. “You even found creamer and sugar.”

  I’m amused as he serves me coffee next.

  It doesn’t take long to polish off the spaghetti and clear the table.

  “Let’s get out of here before those guards get free and their boss traces us to here,” Owen reminds everyone. “Don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of pushing trees into the ground.”

  “Got — that — right,” Sergio says between coughs.

  I step over to place my hand on Pequeño’s forehead. He is still weak and sleepy, but less hot to the touch. I breathe a sigh of relief, then turn toward Gabriel, who is showing more colour in his face after a good sleep and some food. He is up to his elbows in suds as he washes the breakfast dishes.

  “Is my job,” I insist, moving into the kitchen. I cannot believe Gabriel has done all the cooking and dishwashing, though it is true I was busy repairing the boat. I am far more used to being put down and ordered around by the schoolboys, and being invisible when they do not need anything.

  “Not anymore,” Danillo says. “You’re one of us now.”

  My breath catches and I dare to meet Danillo’s eyes, which are friendly and reassuring. Am I really one of them? Could I be? Or will they turn on me when it is convenient?

  My chest goes prickly and tight, then feels like it is being pulled in two directions. I have heard of people smugglers getting amnesty. They dress like their clients so if the group is caught, they blend in. If none of their customers identifies them, officers assume they, too, are smuggled would-be immigrants. Then they get treated the same as their customers. Freed, if they are lucky. Given a chance to live and work in another country, build a new life. But it is a big risk. Too dependent on the goodwill of people I cannot trust.

  I breathe out slowly and mentally whack any temptation to fully trust them. Instead, I picture the cool bundle of cash Captain is holding for me.

  Soon the cabin is shipshape. Owen places the note to its owners in full view and the boys file down the steps with their sacks. Pequeño no longer needs to be carried, though he is still weak, pale, and quiet. I glance back at the w
hite van. Someone will come for it eventually. Stanton. I shiver and hurry after the group.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  OWEN

  As dawn lightens the sky, I feel beyond exhausted. More than a week of back-breaking labour on starvation rations, a gnarly escape, a long drive, and a full night of boat repair. No wonder my body aches for sleep! Add to that a plateful of spaghetti and hot coffee, followed by the nerve-wracking job of starting up Homeward Bound.

  All eyes are on me as I position the jumper cables on the starter solenoid. Er-er-er-rrrum! We cheer like someone has scored in overtime as the engine turns over and the boat comes alive. It revs up, then calmly revs down as Arturo brings the throttle back to idle. “I can navigate for a while,” he offers. Never have I been so drowsy as the guys generously award me the bed in Homeward Bound’s modest, musty stateroom.

  Before I collapse, I dig out the map in the tug’s chart table, point to the X that probably identifies this property, and mark where Powell River is. Then hand it to the guys. It’s the nearest place for finding a doctor, contacting my parents, getting the authorities to start processing the boys, filing a report on the tree-planting camp using illegals, and reporting the captain’s operation, I figure. Although I know I’ll be held a while for questioning, I’m hoping that, with any luck, I’ll be home and resting in a few days.

  “Thanks, guys,” I say, relieved that the boat is in good hands.

  I sink into the soft embrace of the bed. Finally, I’m homeward bound and as happy as I am spent. There are ripples of guilt and anxiety at the thought of explaining things to my parents and the authorities, but it doesn’t take long for exhaustion to vaporize those.

  My thoughts drift like the clouds I can glimpse through the stateroom’s Plexiglas port light: fluffy, floating, joining, and then separating like giant balls of soft dandelion fluff. Soon I’m up there with them, wafting and soaring, being drawn into a deeper dreamland than I’ve ever visited before.

  • • •

  Tap tap tap. Screech! Tap tap tap. I wake, startled and gradually aware of the dank smell of an old boat and sweaty sheets. The tap tap is familiar even if my brain is fuzzy. It’s the noise of seagulls fighting over a scrap and the strut of their webbed feet as they waddle atop the port light over my head.