As Worlds Drifted
Page 19
"St. Petersburg, Russia, you dope," Nick said.
We fell silent for a moment, contemplating the implications.
"What now?" Nick wondered, finally, not really expecting an answer.
"I know exactly what we need," I said. I whipped out my phone, the one Sarah had given me. "I just need to make a call."
The boys squealed like piglets as I gunned the twin 150 HP Yamahas and the boat lifted out of the water. We were in the Rib Craft again, it felt like ages ago, even if it had only been weeks. “Enjoy,” Sylvester had said as he threw me the keys when JRN showed up at the dock of the club. There was no need to steal this time around. The sun skipped across the cobalt ocean and the Rib Craft thumped in the water, made choppy by the afternoon breeze. It was cold out on the water, so we were all bulked up with borrowed heavy-duty sailing jackets.
I knew what the boat could take, but the boys clearly didn't. When I spotted a particularly large swell, I smiled and pressed the gas lever to the max. The boat hit the wave and took off, the outboard motors groaned as the propellers lifted out of the water and we were completely airborne. For a few seconds, the squeals turned to dreaded silence as Nick, George, and Jamaal lifted off the deck and they too became airborne, with their white-knuckled fists on the guardrail being the only thing keeping them from falling into oblivion. The bow crashed into the next wave and the boys crashed into the deck. A few seconds passed as they checked if they were still alive, and then came a burst of hysterical laughter as they realized that they were still breathing—they were still nerds at heart after all.
The club leadership had magnanimously reinstated our membership. While the mayhem at the boat exhibit had made the national news, no journalist knew the whole story. What did eventually become clear to everyone was that my dad had been framed. He was innocent and had been murdered for doing the right, even heroic, thing. I felt the tug of the ocean, but it just wasn't the same anymore. I knew that this time would be the last time I set foot at the club.
Later that evening, I was, with some relief, holding Nick's father's hand at the dinner table. I hadn't been sure that I was welcome back to their table after I'd almost gotten their son's head blown off. To my right, I was holding a new hand. I squeezed that hand, and it squeezed me back.
Nick's father started to speak: "May we be grateful—"
"Can I?" I asked, leaning in. "May I? This time?" Nick's dad simply smiled and nodded.
In my mind, I had prepared something stirring and profound, but whatever it was, it had evaporated like water on Arizona blacktop in high summer. I looked at those around me, Abby, Nick's mom and dad, Nick with those blue eyes, and finally, I looked at my mom. When Nick first suggested I bring my mom to the thanksgiving dinner, various scenes of disaster and embarrassment flashed before my eyes. My mom drinking herself into oblivion and passing out on top of the turkey was one such scene.
Then I thought of what my dad would have wanted me to do. The last thing, literally, he ever said to me was to go easy on my mom, that she was trying. I looked to my right. My mom looked back at me with anticipation and pride, and maybe love. Most of my cornerstone memories were memories of my dad. My mom was hardly there at all, an undefined presence, hovering in the background like an extra on a movie set. Could I build new memories with her by my side? I glanced down at the broccoli on my plate, closed my eyes and inhaled.
* * * * *
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Parker