Ezembe

by Jeffrey L. Morris

  “Let me see.” James slid along the cockpit bench until he was close enough, then mouthed virus. Karen nodded, smiled, and winked. He’ll be fine, James thought. Bob sipped his ginger-broth tentatively, but in the end got very little down.

  They played cards—liars’ poker and snap. Karen flirted with Havard in a deniable kind of way, which he clearly enjoyed. James caught her playing footsie under the table, too.

  After a few hours, Karen stood, stretched, and announced that she was off to bed. The rest followed suit. James and Bob took turns changing in the small bunk area in the bow, and when they were both down and settled, Havard made his own bunk and blew out the lamps.

  Twenty-nine

  The boat was on the cool side, though the blankets were more than enough to keep James warm. Bob, however, shivered and groaned in his bunk. James rolled over and studiously ignored the chattering and whimpering. The waves lapping the hull and the gentle rattle of the halyard soon put him to sleep, where he became privy to a now familiar scene—hordes of marauding viruses marching on a battlefield of pink that James could only suppose was Bob’s plumbing.

  Good God, he thought.

  James pleased himself by identifying them as rotavirus by their industrial feel. Whirring and clicking like vicious wind-up toys, they penetrated, then shredded one cell after another, leaving them empty husks, like so much picnic litter. Regiments of T-cells and B-cells answered the call to arms. White blood cells metamorphosed into clawed monsters and closed on their targets—the claws enveloping the intruders, sucking them inside, where they were smartly digested. Other, more delicate-looking antibodies—not unlike the virus itself in appearance—attached themselves to any cell already infected. Those cells instantly withered, depriving the virus of both dinner and a nursery for its progeny—the body’s scorched-earth tactic. James had seen all of this before, but it was as amazing to him then as it was the first time, the location notwithstanding.

  “Good evening, James.”

  The words came from nowhere, like dirty static on a tired, old radio. Bob’s ongoing inner conflict evaporated, and James was left floating in the gooey limbo he’d first experienced in the hospital. That voice was no virus, he thought. It had to be someone from the real world.

  “World.”

  “What? Who’s that?” James said, and instantly felt foolish for answering.

  “Life. Life one.”

  A dream? he thought, but he knew he wasn’t. Dreams were different.

  “You.”

  “Me?” James replied.

  “You—live.”

  There was a warmth nearby. “Who’s that?” he said, uncertain if he was speaking in the real world or in Bob or both, but he got a reply.

  “Life one. Live one. I live.” The words were crackly, but loud and irritating in the way noise is when one is tired or confused.

  “You live. I live,” the voice said.

  “Who are you? Where are you?”

  “You live can hear one.”

  The words were louder now, like a megaphone. Colored sparks ignited in corners of James’ head, and sharp, burning smells, hundreds of them, filled his olfactory. “Can hear one what?” he shouted.

  “Talk accurate.”

  “This is stupid. Who are you?” He thought for a moment, then calmly said, “I am James.”

  “God,” the voice said.

  God? The sound was suddenly clear now, but this was insane. God? In Bob’s gut? The voice didn’t sound as if it was booming from the heavens. It didn’t really sound like anything. It had lost its mechanical gristle, and was flat and even now. It wasn’t even really a sound. It was just there.

  “You’re God?”

  “Not God. Good.”

  “You’re good?”

  “Yes. Good.”

  He tried a new tack. “Me James. You?”

  “Life one. Live one.”

  “You are alive?”

  “I live.”

  This was going nowhere.

  “Relax,” it said. “Hear relax.”

  “I am relaxed, okay?”

  “Good relax. Relax, hear accurate.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Neon streaks, like candy, burst across his skull, and a panoply of sweet, delicious odors replaced the acrid. The throbbing ceased.

  “No ‘oh okay’. Accurate speak.”

  Ah, it doesn’t like slang! “Accurate speak.”

  “Yes. Welcome, James.”

  He nearly said “okay” again, but bit his tongue. He had no idea what to say next, but the voice solved that problem for him.

  “James here.”

  “Yes. James here,” James repeated.

  “Good James lives.”

  “Yes, I live.” Which was obvious.

  “James lives here.”

  Life in Bob’s gut was not an appealing notion. “No, James visits here.”

  “James lives. Life lives.”

  “Life lives?”

  “Yes. Life lives here.”

  It was still cryptic, but it was some sort of progress. “Life lives here?” James said.

  “Yes.”

  “Live one is a germ?”

  “Yes.”

  I’m talking to a germ, he thought. Pat will lock me up when I tell him. I may lock myself up.

  “Yes, live one germ. Germ and...” It stopped.

  Germ and? What did that mean? “Not just a germ?”

  “Not just a germ.”

  “You are a germ, but not just a germ?”

  “Yes.”

  “Many germs?” James ventured.

  “Yes. Farm. Tube.”

  “You farm tube?”

  “Germs farm tube.” James supposed the germ, or whatever this was, could be farming Bob’s intestine. That made some sort of sense, at least.

  “James tube,” it said.

  “I would rather you stayed out of my tube, thanks,” James replied.

  “No germ in James tube.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “Welcome.”

  For a germ, it had excellent manners.

  “James special.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. James special. James know.”

  “James know?”

  James knew he should probably be petrified of whatever this was, but he just wasn’t.

  “James friend?” it asked.

  He didn’t know what to say to this. He paused for a moment while he thought, but the voice simply said, “Good. Live talk future.”

  “We talk again?” James asked.

  “Yes, again. Live one talk again.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay. Talk again.”

  James woke abruptly. “What the hell was that?” he murmured.

  Bob shivered in a sweaty, agitated sleep. Not surprising, considering what was going on inside. Who wouldn’t?

  James slipped out of the bunk and lit the tiny primus stove. He put the kettle on quietly, so as not to wake Havard. Soon, the kettle was hopping on the ring. He made his tea and gently crept up the companionway to the deck. The sun was just peeking up over the bay to the east, sparking dawn, and soon it was above the bay, orange as a sizzling egg yolk.

  James warmed his hands on the mug and sipped, re-running his conversation with the germ, or life, or whatever it was in his head—if it had even been a conversation. He was tempted to call Pat in spite of the early hour, but decided to leave it until he got back to Philly. He needed time to digest this.

  Havard eventually emerged, wearing well broken-in full-length red flannel underwear.

  “Good morning, young James!” he said, then stretched and beat his chest vigorously.

  “Morning, Havard.”

  “I hope you slept well.”

  “Well, I slept. Strange dreams, though.”

  “Ha-ha, yes, yes, the sea air will make you dream. It’s good, yes?”

  “I guess.”

  “I have dreamed as well. The sea is a living dream for me.”

&n
bsp; “How do you mean?”

  “Ah, the sea is life. It is the mother of all of us, James. A good doctor understands this.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” James nodded, but was too distracted to appreciate Havard’s philosophical musings.

  “You see, you learn already, and it is not even breakfast yet! Come, we will cook for the others.”

  “Sure, I’ll do that,” James offered.

  “Excellent. You prepare the pancakes. I have also some bacon.” Havard slapped James playfully on the back. “It is Danish! It is what you Americans think the Danish do—make bacon.”

  “He-heh. I guess we do.”

  “And pornography. Hahaha! But we will have only bacon today!”

  “Ooookay...”

  They went below as Karen stepped into the galley, trying to stretch herself, and failing to find an area with enough room. “Morning, fellas,” she said. She made do with some limited moves.

  Havard winked. “Mis Karen! A very good morning.”

  Karen crossed her arms over her head and arched her back. “Mmmmm. What a glorious sleep! What a glorious morning!”

  “Yes, yes, the sea air,” Havard said. He beat the batter a little more harshly.

  “Where’s Bob?” she asked.

  “He is sleeping still. I think we will let him, eh? I think he will not want a pancake.”

  “Uh, no, I don’t imagine he would.”

  They ate. Karen went on about the pancakes being the best she’d ever had, how the air was the best she had ever breathed, and how the day was more beautiful than any she had ever seen.

  “I have fallen in love with Dorabella,” she declared.

  “Alas, she belongs to another, my dear.”

  Karen stuck out her lower lip in a mock pout. “What is your boat like, Havard?”

  “Ah, St. Ingrid.” Havard grabbed his wallet and pulled out a picture. “Here. She is a vessel of comparable size to Dorabella, but much more graceful. Her lines are curved, whereas Dorabella has a rather angular hull. She is also varnished over almost every inch.”

  Karen ooh’ed and ahh’ed. “Do you have to get her varnished every year?” she asked.

  “I do it myself. It is not a chore; I live on her, and also I love her.” He smiled. “She is a beautiful lady, is she not?” He showed the picture to James.

  “She is.”

  Havard winked at Karen and snorted a rough laugh through his mustache, sending the hairs fluttering. Karen blushed.

  As they cleaned up, Bob staggered from his bunk. Sleep had done him little good. If anything, he looked considerably worse. Karen made sure he got plenty of water, and then made him a cup of peppermint tea. She then shooed the men topside so she could use the tiny shower in private. As she dressed, the engine rumbled to life and they moved off anchor.

  Bob, unfit for duty, huddled in the cabin. Havard barked the orders, James managed to raise sail on his own, and they were underway. The uncertain motion of the boat and its pronounced list drove Bob topside, and for a while he found some relief simply resting his eyes on the horizon. Before long, thought, his head was over the side.

  James and Karen grimaced as Bob puked up what little he had, and then retched for several minutes afterwards. Havard laughed and told them, “It is all part of courting the sea.”

  Karen failed to see the humor. “I think we should go back to the marina, Havard,” she said sharply.

  Havard bowed to her. “A fair request from a fair lady. If Bob wants this, then we shall bring him there.”

  Bob waved his hand high and shook his head, still inches from the water.

  “You see, Bob loves the sea. He wants to court her. Hahahahah!”

  A splash of froth rose and slapped Bob’s face, cleaning his stained and fetid teeth. With James’ help, he pulled himself onto the deck and slumped against the cabin. “Bob”, he half murmured, half chuckled to himself, “he called me Bob.”

  The breeze suited Dorabella, and she flew across the gentle waves. Karen tried to hum the song Havard had sung in the restaurant. She fumbled with the words, singing gentle waves, gentle wind over and over to a vague melody. The prow split the waves as Dorabella chewed the briny Chesapeake into a frothy ‘V’.

  ~* * *~

  The Albright brothers enjoyed Philadelphia. They took in the sights: the Art Museum, where they ran up and down the steps until they tired of it, which took several hours; then Betsy Ross’s House, and the Liberty Bell.

  “I am liking America very much,” said Joseph. “I am thinking I want more of it.”

  “You are always thinking you want more,” said his brother.

  Independence Hall was packed with tourists, and embedded in the throng were a group of buzzing Chinese schoolgirls—hundreds of them. One continuously snatched furtive glimpses of Joseph, and he didn’t fail to notice her, either. Hyacinth noticed them both. He pulled at his brother. “I am hungry,” he said. “Come, we get something.” and led Joseph to a nearby hot dog stand. The ordered one each, and Joseph nearly depleted the condiments.

  The Chinese girl and three of her friends split from their group and bounced along behind the brothers at giggling distance, their pleated skirts rustling like flowers in a breeze. Joseph held his hot dog up with one hand and waved to the girl with the other. The girl giggled, and huddled with her friends.

  Hyacinth moved in front of his brother, blocking his view of the girl.

  “What are you doing?” Joseph demanded. He stood on tiptoe, smiling and waving. The girl peeked over her shoulder, and once again turned away in fits of giggles.

  “Stop it!” said Hyacinth.

  “She is for me,” said Joseph.

  “You are crazy. She is a Chinese girl. So what then, you make child with her and then you move to China?” He tapped his head with his fingers.

  “No! Me? I no move to China. But this one, she is designated for me.”

  “Then you bring her to Luton with us? No, I do not think so.”

  “You think too much.”

  “You don’t think at all. You and this woman have issue, and then? Who will show the boy?” Hyacinth turned away and waved his hand in disgust. “You will do what you always wan’ do anyways.”

  “I will do what I wan’ do, is true. I will do because it is the true thing.”

  Two of the Chinese minders tracked down the strays and quickly herded them back into the flock. Joseph waved. Hyacinth grabbed his arm and led him quickly away. They walked to the river and sat on its edge, watching the river traffic for an hour or so.

  Finally, Joseph said, “I know what I wan’ do. I wan’ buy a car.”

  Thirty

  They sailed all day Saturday, and come evening, berthed in a marina on the western shore. There was an excellent crab restaurant adjacent, and minus Bob—who’d remained on board—they dined and chatted until late. James abstained, though Havard and his mother did not, and the more Havard drank, the more obliged he felt to lecture James on the finer points of biology. The old doctor’s discourse was a little fuzzy towards the end, but James got the gist of it. In any case, it pleased Karen. Afterwards, they merrily strolled into the night air. Karen went barefoot until the dock, when Havard cautioned her, “Splinters, my dear.” He kissed her hand, and she slipped her tin-foil footwear over her dainty tootsies.

  Bob was already fast asleep. James didn’t relish a repeat tour of his insides and said, “I might sleep on the deck, under the stars, tonight.”

  “You will get wet, James!” Havard warned.

  “I will?”

  “Yes, yes. The mist from the sea.”

  “Maybe I’ll just stay up and read for a while.”

  “Yes, yes. A little read of Panne-Errs: Treatment of Molecular Biology will have you sleeping like a baby,” Havard said, and hustled James to bed.

  James read by a small oil lamp over his bunk. The long day had him drowsy, and he found himself reading the same paragraph over and over while failing to digest a word. There wa
s rustling in the galley—Havard padding towards the stern—then soft and gentle voices, and some giggling. What a choice, James thought: listening to those two, or that. He looked at Bob, asleep on his back, sniffing and drooling. In the end, he simply drifted off.

  Bob’s gut was much quieter. There were still stray viruses loitering, but the ever-vigilant white blood cells were quickly picking them off. The battle had been won. There was damage, but the healing was in an advanced stage. The mystery voice failed to appear, and James felt oddly disappointed.

  James woke, refreshed. Bob’s bunk was empty, and James crawled topside to find him in fine form, squatting on the deck with his denim shirt open to the navel, sipping a big mug of fresh coffee like an actor in a commercial.

  “Good morning, young man!” He saluted James with his cup.

  “Morning, Bob. You look a lot better today.”

  “It’s the sea air!”

  James wondered why they didn’t just give up on medicine and bottle sea air instead. Then he mused that he had probably been hanging around with Pat too much. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?” he said to Bob.

  “Absolutely. Yeah, I might even get a little day-sailor for Barb and me and the kids.”

  “Well, it suits you.”

  “Ya know, it does.”

  There was sea air aplenty. The wind blew in sharp blasts, whipping the water into a green and white chop. Karen and Havard emerged from her stateroom as if there were nothing unusual in that, and breakfast was had. As they prepared to set sail, Bob bounced around the deck like an eager puppy.

  Dorabella had her chance to show what she was made of that day. The grand old lady took the agitated Chesapeake in stride, creasing the ragged chop, spraying sunlit showers before her. Havard offered Bob the helm, and as soon as his hand touched the tiller, the boat immediately felt uncertain. Havard instructed Bob patiently, “Not like that. Here, wrap your arm around the tiller. Take it firmly! Keep your eye on the point ahead, and feel the rhythm she is giving you.”

  Karen smirked. James pretended he didn’t see.

  “Now, you see, you are getting the feel for her.”

  Dorabella began to make way again. “Yes, yes, I think I’m getting it,” said Bob.