Frog

9. Frog’s Brother

He thinks about his brother. Puts the book down, drink down, lowers the pillows with the back of his head and then lowers his head to them, remembers the night he first heard the news. Shuts the light. His older brother called him over. Called him up to come over. Both brothers were older. Alex was three years older than he and four years younger than Jerry, the oldest child. Three years almost to the day. They sometimes — neither liked it much — celebrated their birthdays on the same day. Closest brother or sister in age, day of birth and closeness. Jerry called him at their parents’ apartment where Howard was staying then. “I got word today”—it went something like that—“word that Alex’s ship is missing.” “What do you mean missing?” Howard said. “I spoke to the ship’s shipping company. Asking what’s the status of his ship, when will it be in, and so forth. It’s been overdue four days. You knew that.” “I knew but thought it could be natural. A small freighter. It doesn’t travel as fast or run on the tight time schedule of one of the big liners.” “It could be it sunk.” “What do you mean?” “I’m saying sunk, went down. Everything. In the ocean. Word is another freighter got a distress signal a week ago in the area Alex’s ship was in.” “But lots of ships were probably in that area.” “That’s what I told this man, but he says no. None on any company’s log, anyway. They’ve checked. His ship was the only one known to be there, or at least from what’s been graphed as its position, comes closest to being there at that time, and we’re talking about something like a hundred square miles. Nothing came of the distress signal. It went on for a short time and stopped. It could even have been a portable transmitter from a lifeboat, it was so weak. Then a short time again — maybe three minutes, maybe less — and stopped. The radioman tried making contact with it to pinpoint it, but couldn’t.” “Oh come on, how thoroughly could one company check? Did it contact every ship company in the world that has ships crossing that part of the Atlantic, and did every one of these companies radio their ships that traveled this route? Are they also in touch with the ship companies of the Communist countries, especially the ones that won’t have anything to do with us?” “Apparently the shipping world’s very much in touch when something like this happens. And every ship that could have been in that sea lane was contacted in the last two days or had got in contact with its company or some weather ship out there.” “How do they know another ship didn’t go off its normal route and send that signal? Or sent it, then corrected its troubles on its own, and now isn’t saying anything about the signal because it wasn’t supposed to be in that sea lane.” “Look, I can understand why you’re taking this attitude, but Alex’s ship hasn’t made contact with anything for seven days. Two might be normal. Seven is practically unheard of unless their radio’s down, but even there, they should have been spotted long before now.” “So that’s it. No radio, can’t make contact, no other ship’s seen them because of so few ships in their lane around this time or some kind of heavy mist or cloud cover all the way west, storm’s held them up several days, maybe two storms, maybe three, and they sail into Boston Harbor tomorrow or the day after.” “OK, maybe you’re right — we can certainly hope so.” “I have to be right, right? Have to. No two ways about it.”

Jerry didn’t tell him it over the phone. Called and said to come over. He lived a few blocks away with his wife and infant son. “What’s wrong?” Howard said. “By your tone, it seems very bad. Is it Dad? Something Mom didn’t want to tell me herself?” “No, Dad’s in awful shape, but no worse than a month ago. Just come over.” He did. They sat in the living room. Howard said “So?” “Have a drink first. Take a few sips, then we can talk. Simply to hold one will be good.” Doesn’t remember if he had one. Probably did. Any excuse at night to have a drink — today, same with twenty-five years ago. Probably scotch. That was Jerry’s drink. Good stuff too. Ballantine’s. Chivas. And listened to Jerry about the tremendous storm in the North Atlantic eight days ago, ship could have split in two and gone down fast. It’s happened with other freighters of the same make and class. “And from what I found out through just a few simple phone calls, the ship’s owners weren’t known for keeping their ships in great shape, having enough lifeboats, going over the maximum weight, things like that. It doesn’t look good, that’s all I can say. It looks hopeless, quite honestly. Hate to be so blunt, but believe me, if I’m proven wrong I’ll shout from a rooftop admitting it and fast for a week. Coast Guard planes — British ones too — have been combing the area for two days. But that’s standard operating procedure, I was told, and that if the ship did sink, just about every trace of it, except the slick, would have disappeared in a day. Twenty-two men on board, most of them Cubans. Water so cold that anyone not in a lifeboat couldn’t last in it for ten minutes, and the sea so rough that the lifeboats wouldn’t survive for a few hours. The captain was a son of an old patient of Dad’s, which is how Alex happened to get a free ride on the ship. That’s one bargain we all could have missed…” Howard just sat there, drink in both hands probably, said nothing, stared without seeing anything, body numb.

He’s got the place all wrong. He got a call. Jerry was living in Washington, D.C. then. He said “Dad called with some very bad news. He didn’t have the heart to tell you himself, so he asked me to.” “But I just saw him and he looked fine. An hour ago, for dinner, he and Mom.” “And he didn’t say anything? You didn’t pick up on how they both looked?” “Nothing. We talked about what I was doing, her work, some big tooth he suddenly had the strength to extract today, baseball, etcetera.” “Maybe because they knew I’d call you later. It’s Alex, his ship. It’s way overdue. We think it went down. They do — the authorities, the shipping company, the Coast Guard, everyone. Hit by an iceberg, knocked over by a bad storm, ship simply splitting in half, they don’t know. But it hasn’t transmitted or answered any radio signals or been sighted or anything like that for eight days. It’s a little too unusual. There was something like the worst storm in ten years in the area his ship would have been in seven days ago. Sometimes these small old freighters can go a couple of days without being able to make known their positions. Their signals or receivers aren’t strong enough sometimes or its frequency interferences or whatever they’re called, and caused by God knows what, besides their shitty equipment. But never this long. There were also what one guy I spoke to called A-grade distress signals the night of that tremendous storm…”

He read about it in the papers. He would have liked to. Liked to have read that the ship was found, or all the men were found alive in lifeboats, ship down. Didn’t happen. He imagines Alex going down. Ship splits in two, he’s sleeping, water’s in his cabin, tries to get out, ship’s mostly underwater by now, it happens very fast, he struggles, slips, lights are going on and off, he tries swimming to the door, gives up, water in his lungs, can’t keep himself from swallowing too much, doesn’t give up, tries keeping his chin above water, stands on a berth, a washstand, grabs a chain strung along the ceiling and pulls himself up, but the water fills up the cabin almost to the ceiling, he holds his breath, maybe the room will burst and the water all at once will gush out, some pain, suffocation, he’s dead. Eyes closed, his head bobs against the ceiling a few times, then his body rolls over when the half of the ship he’s in does. He sinks. Fish are already inside.

Alex was the only passenger on the freighter. His father’s patient called his son in England and asked as a favor to the man who’s treated his family’s teeth for forty years if he could take Alex aboard free. Alex was in London then, wanted to get back home, had little money, could have borrowed plane or ocean liner fare from his parents or Jerry, wanted the experience of being on a freighter during a long crossing. Though he got free passage, he asked to work without pay at any job the captain wanted him to. He’ll clean latrines, even, he said in his last letter to Howard. Anything the lowest-grade seaman does, just to get the full feel of it and perhaps seaman’s papers for a paid trip later. He was a newsman turned fiction writer. Two months after the ship disappeared a parcel of manuscripts arrived at their parents’ apartment from England by surface mail. Maybe the manuscripts he didn’t much care about. Maybe the ones he cared most about he took with him on the ship. Howard read the stories and vignettes soon after and then some of them every three or four years till about ten years ago. He never found them very good, but Alex was just starting. Two diaries and some oriental figurines in the parcel also, and lots of letters from his parents, brothers, friends. He’d traveled around the world. Saved up for three years to do it. Did it for a year. A prostitute in a dilapidated hut in a small village outside Bangkok. Why’s that experience come to mind first? It was in a letter to Howard, not the diaries. He searched the diaries for it, thinking an elaboration of it might be interesting, revealing, sexually exciting. She was fourteen years old. That made Alex sad. She asked him to marry her. She said she’d be devoted, would learn to cook and make love American, bear him many children if he wanted, all boys if he wanted (she knew how), would return to grade school. He gave her his silver ID bracelet, pleaded with her to give up prostitution. Then he did it a third time with her the same day and came back the next. Talk about hypocrisy! he said. What’s the trick of turning a customer into a suitor? he asked. But one who’ll be good to her and an adequate provider. If he knew, he’d give it to her. Sent her a pearl necklace from Manila. If he got a venereal disease from her he’d worry more about her than himself. He might go back for her before he leaves for India, or send for her once he gets back to America, and maybe even marry her when she comes of age. Keep this between them just in case it does happen. Taught English to Malaysian businessmen for a month. Met two old men in New Guinea — Canadians — who were living the primitive jungle life. They were good friends of his till they tried to drug and rape him. He’s afraid he had to kick them both in the balls to get out of there and then steal their canoe to get back to town. Fell in love with a witch. Read Proust’s Remembrances in five nearly sleepless days, an experience that’s left him dreaming of the books every night for the last six weeks. A Goan fortuneteller told him his trip would end badly. He said to go home by plane, don’t sail. Remind him when the time comes, for the man wouldn’t take any money. Had a fifteen-year-old girl in Nairobi. What can he tell Howard? — he likes young girls. It’s more than just the way their hair blows and breasts point and bellybuttons dimple and thighs are so even. Maybe it’s because of all the girls who barely let him pet them when he was a teenager. Rode a camel through part of the Sahara. Ate lizard, locusts, grasshoppers, grubs. Never felt very Jewish before till he started hitting all the old synagogues and Jewish cemeteries he could find in the Orient and Middle East. Wait’ll he gets to Poland and Prague and also tries to look the old families up. He’s afraid it’s converted him, but not to the point of wearing a skullcap. Hitchhiked with a sixteen-year-old sabra through Turkey and Yugoslavia, though she might have been younger. When she had to go back she said she thinks he got her pregnant — her device wasn’t put in right a few times, she was so new at it. He told her he’s heard that one before, but if she has the baby and the calendrical configurations fix it as his, or just if she still says it is, he’ll love and provide for it, adopt it if she wishes and take it to America with or without her or emigrate to Israel if she prefers, marry her if that’s what she wants — she’s quite striking and clever and potentially very artistic and smart. He’s written what he thinks is fairly decent work recently, he said in his last letter. He’s glad he’s found something he wants to do for the next twenty to thirty years, has Howard?

He’s on the deck. It’s his watch. Suddenly there’s a crash. Bells, sirens. Someone’s shouting orders that you have to put your ear to his mouth to hear. They’ve only minutes. Lots of running around, tying shoelaces and vests. Lifeboats are unhitched. It’s late in November. The 27th, 28th. Three days past Ireland. Can’t see five feet in front of him because of the rain. They get in two boats. Both are overloaded. Should be a third, but that davit was empty when they sailed. His turns over when it hits the water. He tries swimming to it. Water’s too cold and rough. His head’s splitting, as if he cracked it on something, but it’s the icy water. Tries to tread to stay above it. No control over his legs. Arms feel gone. The flag was Panamanian. Ship was owned by Greeks. Captain was American. Most of the crew’s families and the captain’s lived in the same Havana housing project. Other lifeboat hit the water well. But something happened. Nobody was found. Only a single life preserver with the ship’s name. The Ardy. Arty. Ardie. One of those. Something close. Preserver washed up on the Irish coast two weeks later. Doesn’t mean the ship sank, authorities said. Preservers come loose from ships plenty of times in heavy storms and sometimes are thrown off by drunken or angry seamen. And there was definitely a heavy storm at the time. Even preservers from the Queen get washed ashore. Even a lifeboat from the Queen a couple of times and once even a tender, if that’s what it’s called. He emerges from a wave and tries to take a deep breath. He couldn’t take in much. Feels frozen all over. His chest’s killing him. Knows he’s going to die but can’t fathom it. Can’t fathom it. Now that’s rich. Think like that some more. Great distraction. Die laughing. Scream some more. Other lifeboat may be right over there. Tries to scream. Maybe he did. Can’t hear much with the wind and waves. Tries again. Blacks out. Bobs around awhile, once even bumping into another body.

In the galley eating with some seamen. Soup, bread, potted meat, cheese, coffee. A dinner, lunch, breakfast. It’d be dinner. Distress signal was picked up late at night, or early morning. But ship hours are all hours. While some sleep, others watch. Possibly divided into thirds, engine down there always going. The galley. Food’s almost beginning to taste good after three days and lots of work. When big crash. Men and chairs fall, breakage. Sirens, bells, shouts, alarms. Told to get life vests on, over heavy sweaters, heavy socks if they got them in their pockets, but no one return to his cabin. Everyone including the engineers on top deck. Whatever the deck’s called. Flight deck because they’re in flight. He’s especially confused because he’s so new at this and doesn’t recognize all the signals. Follow someone. He’s climbing the hatchway stairs when a ton of water comes down it. Someone’s near the top, someone behind, all climbing when the water knocks them to the floor. Ship seems to be shivering, then turning over. They don’t know what to do, can’t do much. Decks below filling up fast. Water’s pouring down the hatchway, preventing them from swimming to it, getting up it. Men struggle around him. One can’t swim and is held up by a man who can. The current carries Alex back to the galley. He treads water, looking for something high up to hang on to or something floating to hold him up. Two chairs, which he tries pulling together to make a float, but one flips out of his hand and goes out the galley. A table, which keeps rolling over when he tries climbing on top of it. Can’t feel his feet anymore. Lights go. Several of them yelling help from different rooms. No strength left to climb on top of the table anymore so just holds on. Maybe the ship will turn rightside up. Surely the radioman’s sent signals. Maybe some men above will do something to help get them up. A line’s all he needs with a loop at the end of it. Ships are always near, aren’t they? Even fifty miles away, a hundred, they’d be here — at least one would — in hours. Stick it out till then. More than try. Water’s so cold. He’s going to die, what’s there to do about it? Someone shouts something about the aft exit. At the other end, may as well be a mile from him. Table rolls over and he loses it. Reaches out, can’t feel anything but blank wall and water. Fingers the wall for a hook. Tries treading while doing this but forgets how to. Dear God, save me. Takes a deep breath, loses most of it, huge rumble from someplace, then a sound like spouting. No use, hasn’t got thirty seconds. Puts his arms straight up, opens his mouth wide, says to himself as he sinks “Dear Mother,” tries not to squirm and kick but for a few seconds has to.

Sleeping. Top bunk of a double- or triple-decker. Weren’t that many men aboard, so maybe they all had single bunks, two or three to a cabin. Dreaming he’s back home, having coffee in the kitchen with his mother, when three men run in with tommyguns and start shooting at the ceiling. His younger brother and sister are in the bedroom right above. Blood pours through the holes the bullets made. He lunges at the men when they aim the guns at his mother. Alarm clock goes off in the upstairs bedroom. To wake the kids for school. Ship alarm. He wakes up, says “Huh, what’s wrong?” “Emergency, man,” his bunkmate says in English or Spanish. “Big one. Only goes off like that when it’s the most serious. All-hands-on-deck kind of thing, ship going down, could be. Hurry.” Can’t be as bad as the guy’s saying. Where are his shoes? Gets his sweater and pants from the end of his bunk. Socks are in his shoes. Lights go on and off, alarm continues, men running past their cabin, someone throws open the door and shouts “Out, up.” Suddenly the ship’s being shoved back and forth. Way it’s been for days, but side to side while now if s fore to aft, motion he’s never heard of on so large a ship. “My damn shoes, where are they?” “Forget them, man. We could be sinking this minute,” and runs out, clothes and vest on. Alex gets two pairs of socks out of his locker and pockets them, vest off the wall, last look under and around his bunk, runs to the stairs putting the vest on. On deck everyone’s dressed for very cold weather and rain. “Ship’s being abandoned,” the first officer says. “We caught something, no time to find out what it is. Nobody fret. We’re still radioing and we’ve time to lower boats and get extra provisions and equipment in.” Alex says “TO freeze without shoes. I’m freezing now.” His feet are in an inch of water. “Anyone have extra shoes for this man?” the officer says. Shaking of heads, some say no, wish they did, sorry. “I’ll be right back,” Alex says. I’m sure I’ll find them this time, or someone’s.” Runs to the stairs. “Come on back,” someone shouts. “You’ll hold us all up.” Has to hold on tight to get below, brace his hands against the corridor walls as he runs to his cabin. Two to three inches of water already. Shoes are on the unused bunk above his. Doesn’t remember putting them there. Someone must have while he slept. Or he did just before he fell asleep exhausted, though he doesn’t know why he’d do it. Grabs them. Also another sweater and a watch cap out of his locker. Starts for the stairs. His manuscripts. Hell with them. If any are worth it he’ll remember them and rewrite them. Water pours down the stairs. Crunching sound from the deck below his. Ship tips straight up and he falls on his back. Tries crawling upstairs. Ship’s righted somewhat, then tips up again. He’s thrown downstairs, thinks he hurt badly or broke a leg. Can’t stand on it. Ship’s also shaking too much. Then vibrating, and a few places in the walls crack. Shoes are gone. Sweater and cap he held on to without knowing it and lets them float away. Lights have gone but he can see the hatchway hole as they may be shooting off flares up there. Enough water below now to swim in. He tries to get to the stairs. Lots of pain but screw it, he’s able to swim if he digs in hard and doesn’t kick. Orders from above, shouting, constant stack blasts, crunching noises from the sides now too. Ship seems to be rolling over, then tips up but from the other end, dropping him by the stairs. Water’s up to the middle steps. He grabs the stair rail, tries pulling himself upstairs, is thrown against the wall, head banging it so hard he’s knocked out. He awakes underwater, at the other end of the corridor, water in his lungs, spits out a mouthful, tries to swim, can’t, cough up water, can’t. Can hardly breathe it seems. Tries, takes in a little water stuck in his nose. Corridor wall rips open and he’s sucked out.

Eating dinner with Len, the captain. A good wine. Better food by far than they get from the galley. Len cooked it on a hot plate. He offers Alex a black cigar. “No thanks.” “Havanas. You soon won’t see these in America anymore.” “Ah, why not? You mind if I don’t smoke it but give it to my dad when I get home?” “You bet. Anything for your old man. He took care of my teeth when I was a kid, you know. Maybe why I have so few, but that’s all right.” Holds up his glass. Alex holds up his. “To my precious wife and kids in Cuba and six teeth, at last count, I didn’t have to pay for,” and they drink. “To my parents and sister and — oh, I don’t know how to toast,” Alex says, when the intercom buzzes. “Yes? Holy shit,” and some nautical terms, sounding like instructions. Tells Alex to quickly get his warmest clothes on, several pairs of socks, cap that fits over his ears, gloves if he has. “Ship might be sinking. Don’t worry. We’ve plenty of time to get into the boats if we have to, and I got to get you back alive and well or I’ll never hear the end of it from my old man.” Alex runs to his cabin. Bells sounding. Gets his coat, sweater, hat, socks, scarf, fountain pen, ballpoint pens, memobook, sticks what he thinks are his best new manuscripts inside his shirt, picks up his typewriter in its case and wonders if he should try to take it. For the trip he borrowed Howard’s portable in exchange for his standard. “Hustle,” someone says. “Worse than they thought. Forget all that crap. Just the sweater and cap. Len sent me down to get you in one minute.” Entire crew’s upstairs. Len says to them “Unbelievable as this is to believe, believe it: the ship’s splitting apart. For real. Right down the middle. We didn’t hit anything nor I think do anything that wicked or impious on this crossing to whip up the cussedness of the gods. It happens to about one transoceanic ship a year and we seem to be this year’s catch. But our boats are in good order, sturdily built and well stocked right down to the prescriptive quart per man of hundred-proof rum. We’ll get ten in one, eight in another, five plus oversize me in the smallest. Well stay close together but not that close to risk ramming one another. Each boat’s equipped with an emergency distress signal,” or whatever it’s called. “Because of the signals we’re still putting out and the heavy traffic of this sea lane, I’m reasonably cheerful a ship, even if we haven’t pinpointed our location”—or whatever’s the expression—“in two days, will pick us up in ten to twelve hours. So hold out, don’t start cannibalizing or throwing one another overboard just yet. If we survive the killer wind, rain and cold that’s in store for us out there, well have come through something almost unheard of, whatever good that’ll do us. Good luck. I love you all and loved sailing with you. Alex, you come with me,” and they get in the boats and lower them or lower them and get in, Alex’s last. His is overturned a few minutes after it’s in the water. He tries reaching the boat but the waves keep moving it farther away, or him away from it. Water so cold he can hardly use his limbs a minute into it. “Over here,” he yells. “Save me, please get me, it’s Alex,” just as others are yelling to be saved; most in Spanish. “Where are you, we can’t see you, keep yelling so we can find you,” other men yell to them, most in Spanish. Then so numb he can’t do anything to keep himself up or yell he’s there, and sinks. Held his breath and tries getting his head out of the water, but nothing he does pushes it through. His breath breaks, water rushes into his nose and mouth, spits our some, more than what he spit comes in, tries kicking and flapping to get above water, chokes, gags, retches.

Assisting the cook with the ship’s supper when the ship jolts, then an explosion. Alarms, bells, the cook says “They say ‘Emergency, straight to deck, no stopping in your cabin.’” He’s assigned to one of the boats. It’s lowered and breaks apart when it hits the water. Or they can’t lower it. They cut lines, clip chains, boat still won’t lower. Or the boat’s in the water and he tries climbing down to it but falls into the water. Or dives in to reach another boat, since none’s left on ship, and water’s so cold his heart stops, or he has a cardiac arrest or shock, or whatever happens in a heart failure or attack, when he hits the water. Or water so cold he can’t come up from the dive. Paralyzes him and he just sinks. Or he’s underwater, swimming up. Holds his breath long as he can, but he dove too deep and his mouth bursts.

Huge iceberg hits the ship while he’s climbing an outside stairway and knocks him into the water. Or while he’s leaning on a stern railing, smoking a cigarette and looking at the water. Or hits the ship while he’s sleeping. Cuts right through it to his cabin. There might have been emergency sirens and bells warning of the approaching iceberg, but he slept right through them. He doesn’t wake up or feel anything. Slams through so hard and fast he’s killed instantly or knocked unconscious while he’s reading in bed or further unconscious in his sleep, and drowns without waking. Or wakes for a second or two underwater, goes into shock or coma from the freezing water and drowns without coming out of it. Or wakes while he’s thrown from the stairs or his bunk or over or through the railing into the water, blacks out a few seconds after he hits the water and drowns almost instantly or is dead from the impact of the iceberg or being thrown through the railing, before he hits the water.

Ship splits apart just where he’s sleeping. Happens so fast he never even senses it. Sleeping, suddenly ship’s in two. Ship might have hit something. Or it was some unseen or neglected flaw in its structure that took ten to twenty years to materialize this way. He drops several decks, never wakes up. Is dreaming while he’s in bed and while the bunk drops with him in it to the ocean. Of the city, night, stars, flying, gliding, then drowning. In the dream he tries swimming to the surface, then is one of the other crew members on watch seeing his head emerge from the water.

He was sitting on a kitchen chair in Jerry’s small living room. Jerry’s wife Iris nursed their first child on a couch across from him. Suckling and smacking sounds irritated him. Been irritated by certain repeated or oral or eating sounds like that long as he can remember. Finger drumming. Watermelon and carrot crunching. Couples doing some heated kissing in theaters. Soup-slurping, fingernail clipping, gum-snapping, nervous foot-tapping, snoring, dripping faucets, heavy breathing in sleep (even his kids’). Jerry sat in the rocker Iris usually nursed in, said the ship was long overdue and it didn’t look good. “It stinks, to be honest. I hate thinking the worst but I’m thinking it. Some emergency distress signals — I forget the exact technical term the Coast Guard spokesman used; in fact that could have been it — were heard in that general area, but briefly — You OK?” Howard nodded. “That doesn’t mean their ship sent them. Another freighter in the same general area could have been testing out its signal-making machine. Any kind of ship. A Coast Guard cutter, for instance, though of course this spokesman would have mentioned if one had been in the area at the time. God, that would have been a miracle, wouldn’t it?” Howard looked up. “For one to have been there, on a routine cruise, let’s say — east, going west, out there to spy on Soviet submarines, who the hell cares, so long as it saved them. Not a cutter but a regular-sized Coast Guard or Navy ship just miles away — fifty to a hundred miles, even, for those babies move fast. Anyway, the signals were so weak, the spokesman said, that they more than likely came from a much smaller windup crank-type version of this machine on a lifeboat.” Howard looked confused. “I’m saying it could have come, these weak distress signals, from a lifeboat launched from Alex’s ship. From his lifeboat, even — why not? The machine was battery operated, probably. Though maybe not. Maybe the manual cranking does the operating. I wish I knew more about boats. It could have been a practice drill, everyone to his station and so on, with designated men testing all the ship’s emergency distress signals. The spokesman doubts that. He said there would have been an all-clear signal immediately after the distress run. But it was a terrific storm they were in, one of the worst there in years, so maybe Len wanted to be extra cautious and tried out all the distress-signal machines, or just the ones on the lifeboats, and the all-clear signal was never heard by anyone. It’s something he might do, from what Dad’s said about him. He’s an iconoclast, goes his own way always. He once ran guns for Nationalist or Red China; supposedly fought against and then bought off his execution by Thai pirates. But a great captain, I was told — something in our favor. One of the youngest ever to get his master’s license for that size ship. He could have been a doctor, a physicist, Dad days. Chose water. But you can see why I think the situation’s getting almost hopeless. Since we’re talking here about several weak emergency distress signals most likely sent from a lifeboat, one out of who knows how many on that ship, during an unbelievably terrible storm seven, maybe eight days ago.”

After the first sip, when Jerry held up his glass of scotch and they silently toasted as they just about always did with their first drink, Howard didn’t touch it. After awhile he wasn’t even aware he was holding it. He was surprised, when he later walked downstairs, the drink hadn’t dropped out of his hand. He could hardly speak. Tried a couple of times, couldn’t. Said a few times to himself while Jerry told him about Alex “I don’t believe this, I just don’t. It can’t be happening, couldn’t have happened.” His throat was a lump. Maybe that was why he couldn’t speak or didn’t want to. He knew what his voice would sound like and that he’d start crying while he spoke or right after, when what he wanted was to sit calmly as he could and hear everything Jerry was telling him. He was looking for something hopeful in what Jerry was saying. That the storm hadn’t been so bad, or if it had, that the ship hadn’t gone down, or if it had, that Alex had got on a lifeboat and had already been saved or had survived on the lifeboat till now and would be saved in a day. His fingers felt cold, tingled; chest as if a cold wind whirled around in it. That was what came to him then. Except for a few quick looks at Jerry, he stared into space, at the floor, window, wall of lithos, maybe his glass without realizing it, the baby, Iris. She continued to nurse, sounds of it no longer irritated him. Probably because he told himself a few minutes into Jerry’s account “Worrying about some stupid nursing sounds now? That’s ridiculous.” She took the baby off her breast and held him on her shoulder to burp. Her exposed nipple was erect, fat, very red, wet. It looked like a worm coming out of sand. That also came to him then. Because it glistened he thought it must be the one just sucked. Hadn’t seen. Only looked at her breast when she wasn’t looking at him and Jerry was looking somewhere else. First he looked at Jerry to see he wasn’t looking at him, then at Iris’s face and then quickly back to Jerry and if he still wasn’t looking at him, quickly at her breast. He was probably caught looking at it by one or both of them a few times, but didn’t think of it then. What might they have said later? “Fucking guy, at a time like this, trying to sneak a peek?” “It’s natural, he’s curious, and it certainly doesn’t bother me.” If Iris was looking at him when he looked at her face, he nodded or shook his head and looked away. Breast was big and full. Before she got visibly pregnant she seemed, from seeing her in a swimsuit and T-shirt several times, almost flat chested. He’d once looked down one when she didn’t have a bra on, didn’t see much but bumps. He pictures his lips kissing and tugging at the tip of it, fingers gently pinching the nipple and finger circling its rim. He’d dreamt of making love with her, or starting to, both times both of them naked on the couch and floor and playing with each other when the door banged open and a gruff voice bawled “Virus,” but didn’t think anything of that then. Baby burped. “That-a-boy,” and she put her breast to his mouth which quickly latched on to it. She mostly gazed at his head while he sucked, played with his fingers. Light in the room seemed dimmer than when Howard had come in. Jerry might have dimmed it with a new kind of light switch device he’d recently installed himself that had a name like a heat regulator. Alex had been the handiest, Jerry next, Howard far behind. Alex could take apart and reassemble clocks and radios when he was seven. Just opened them up and went right at it. Maybe Jerry dimmed the lights whenever she started nursing. He remembers her once talking at length about the sensitivity of babies’ eyes to sunlight and high-wattage bulbs and fluorescent lights and how even a little of these lights could later lead to color or night blindness. Nobody spoke for about ten minutes, maybe twenty. Solo piano music on the record player. Chopin, Schubert, Schumann, someone like that, inclined toward the high keys and feathery, which Howard just heard but it could have been on since he got there. For all he knew Jerry might have turned the record over a few minutes ago. “you all right?” Jerry said. “Hmm?” “So silent. I can imagine. Listen, it’s still not that absolutely hopeless. Even better than that. Did you see the looks Iris was giving me before?” “Nuh.” “Well she was, because I’m sure she thinks I made things out to be much worse than she knows even I believe. There’s still some hope. Possibly even plenty. We’re both sure — Iris and I — there is.” Good moment to look at her even while Jerry was looking at him. Few minutes the feeding would be done and blouse buttoned. Doesn’t know why he wanted to look so much then. Just young and horny perhaps, sometimes overcoming everything, or he wanted to take his mind off what Jerry was saying. Both. Maybe deeper, more complicated. When he got home he probably looked out his bedroom window as he did almost every night in hopes of seeing the woman in the next building’s back apartment undressing or walking to and from another room nude. Nipple was in the baby’s mouth, blouse somehow hid the rest of her breast, either unknowingly or something new. “It’s got to turn out all right,” Howard said to Jerry. “Ships just don’t suddenly disappear in the middle of the North Atlantic like that.” “It wasn’t in the middle. It was estimated to be about three days past the Irish coast which, weatherwise, is a real trouble area.” “Whatever. But to get even a little irrational about it, ships with Alex on them just don’t disappear, period.” “Some ships, even much larger ones — and for argument’s sake we’ll forget Alex being on this one — do suddenly disappear without a trace, or with only a minor one. Not all in the North Atlantic, though the greater ratio of them do, but around the world. It’s nothing mysterious. They hit something and go down fast. An iceberg, a tree. Or something explodes in them or breaks apart, the ship splitting cleanly in two sometimes.” “Come on.” “No, it happens. I questioned this expert with the same ‘come on’ when he told me. You would never think that someone you really know can be the one that something like this happens to when it only happens once or twice a year. But some ship has to be the one, and quite a number of men have to be on that ship and have it happen to them.” “Well, Alex’s ship wasn’t the one. It didn’t suddenly sink, so couldn’t have disappeared. It’s either — something tells me this — still out there, adrift, though for some reason hasn’t been located. Or has already docked or just drifted to some landing — some little uninhabited island or atoll somewhere — went aground, even, I think they call it, on a pile of rocks in the middle of nowhere — and will get in touch with whoever it’s supposed to fairly soon.” “I want to believe that as much as anyone. But we also shouldn’t be too unrealistic. Same when you go to the hospital for a simple tonsillectomy, we’ll say. There has to be some self-preparation for an accident — for the worst. Great surgeons, as well as highly precise machines—” “No mistakes. If so, they’ll be corrected. Look, I really got to go. It’s been a little too much,” and he stood up. “Do you want me to walk you?” “I’ll be all right.” Kissed Iris on the cheek, patted the baby’s head but was careful not to touch where they’d said the soft spot still was. Scared him. He’d imagined a few times his finger going all the way in, wondered why kids that age didn’t wear helmets or something. Iris said “You don’t know — Jerry would never say it — how hard it was for him to tell you this. Also, now that the folks know you know, it isn’t going to be easy with them. So be — well, it’s not my place — but try to be extra solicitous and patient.” “She’s got a point.” “I will, don’t worry.” “Also, because I know how you can get sometimes, though this is perhaps asking you to go too much against your nature, try not to break up in front of them. They’ll see you, and then who knows what?” “He’ll know what to do.” “Don’t let off steam or tears. Got it.” “You know it’s only for their good I asked,” she said. “Of course. I only repeated it to remember. Honestly.” Jerry walked him to the door. “What else is there to say? I don’t envy you at home. Mom will hold up but Dad’s sure to cave in.” He held out his arms, eyes seemed wet. Howard went to him, Jerry hugged him, they cried. He walked downstairs. He still had his drink. He drank it down. Ice cubes the size of small pebbles and he chewed them. He wanted to return the glass. About to ring the bell, put the glass on the doormat, then to the side of the door so they wouldn’t kick it when they left in the morning. Walked downstairs. When he got home his mother was waiting up for him. She was having a drink and smoking a cigarette. She’d smoked several, probably had drunk several. “Jerry told you? Dad’s a wreck. Neither of us had the heart to say anything to you ourselves. Or the courage — which one? What’s the difference? I had to give him sleeping pills. The first pills like that he ever took, but I told him they were very strong aspirins. A professional man — his patients practically live on those kinds of aspirins — you’d think he’d know. He probably did but he’d never admit it. My poor boy. What a disaster for all of us. It would be so nice to fall asleep for two straight weeks. But the truth is we can do more good by staying awake. Talking to the authorities. Doing what we can to see that the search planes stay up one more day. But what do you think? Will the ship ever be found? Did Jerry hear anything new? Or should we simply give up and tear all our hair out now?”

Ship’s a day away from Cuba. Almost two years after the revolution there. Carries lots of medical supplies originally bound for America, guns, launchers, plane and truck parts it hadn’t registered in England. Len tells Alex he’ll see he gets a good job and apartment and a fine-looking wife if he stays. “If you want, of course, fly back to New York day after we dock in Havana. Or Habana. Might as well get it right from the start. But why go back? You’ll live much better there than in the States and for a quarter of the money. Good food, cheap rum, great cafés, unbeatable natural scenery. Gorgeous, excitable, intelligent people, weather couldn’t be better, and soon free bread. Stay put. Write up a storm for fifteen years, then let the world see it. Most of the modern writers I’ve read rushed, rushed, rushed and were eaten up. Or twenty years, twenty-five. You’ll be the rare writer with a self-imposed postapprenticeship like that. And you’ll be right smack in the heart of a historical hot time, one the whole world’s noticing, but who the hell cares about that, right?” Alex likes most of the idea. Sees many women, marries, children, after awhile only speaks Spanish. His wife’s a doctor, professor. He builds houses, writes mornings, nights, days off. Misses his parents, brothers, sister. Periodically he wants to write them, call. Things get worse between the two countries, invasion, blockade, harder times. He’s told if he wants to leave, do it now, but without his family. He may also write to the States, but phone connections are finished. By now his parents must think he’s dead. Gotten over it. His whole family. Or maybe they haven’t, but he just doesn’t want to have anything to do with the life he had there. Is that it? Misses them all, but no one and nothing else. He wasn’t too happy there, he was also something of an adventurer, and now kind of likes it that everyone thinks the ship sank and he’s dead. Years. His father’s probably dead. Sick before, he couldn’t have lasted that much longer. If his mother’s also dead he’s sure he helped her go faster than she would have. For that he’s very sorry. There’s more. Knows the pain he caused but didn’t want to go back or let anyone know he was alive. Why? The first is easy to explain. In addition to what he’s said, he’d never go back without his family. But the other thing… probably because he wanted a new life, or a much different one then, with as little past as possible, a new name, even, though doesn’t quite know why. Why? Maybe it comes as close as possible to starting completely over and being someone else, with almost no past — but he’s said all that — no family scrutinizing what he’s doing, thinking they have the license to comment about and possibly try to change his actions, but that’s all. Is that it then? No. Not quite. Maybe doesn’t even come close. He just — how can he say this without repeating himself, with something that really gets it? He doesn’t know why he did it, and if he does know, why he continued doing it. He’s talking about not letting them know he was alive. Maybe he never really loved them that much. Never thought of that. But after about fifteen years he hardly thought of them anymore. After twenty-five years he maybe thought of two or three of them for a half-minute or so once or twice a year. They’d flash in, he’d think “I know you,” “I recognize her,” “That was Howard when he was a scrawny kid,” “Vera before she got sick,” “My father with one of his big cigars,” they’d flash out. About once every five years or so he got a little heartsick thinking of them, feeling awful about what he’d done, knowing that the ones still alive must think of him more often and much longer than he does them…. No, ship’s going down. Alarms, sirens, gail wind sounds, maybe hurricane winds. Worse than hurricane winds if there is anything like that. Lightning, thunder, violent rain. Never been in such a storm, heard of one. Can’t find a lifeboat or anyone on board. Moves around the ship best he can, holding on all the time so he won’t be thrown along a passageway, down a stairway, off the ship. Everyone seems gone. All the boats either smashed by the storm or in the water, some with men in them probably, though he didn’t see any of the boats go over and he can’t see them now and nobody answers his shouts. He didn’t understand the alarm system. It’s been explained to him and they even had a quick drill, but when he heard the different bells and sirens going he couldn’t tell which meant what. Asked some of the men below what the alarms meant and what he should do, where he should go, but they just shouted in Spanish at him or acted hysterically and pointed their battery lamps several different ways, one of them down, though they were on the lowest deck. Maybe the man meant the ship was going down, but he couldn’t speak a word of English or was unable to then and Alex couldn’t make himself understood in Spanish to him. He tried following two of them but lost them going through the ship. Couldn’t find Len. Went to his cabin; empty. Ship’s tipping up. He has to hold on to the railing or fall off the ship. Waves his flashlight and yells out to the water “Help, it’s Alex, the American, Americano, Captain Len’s friend, there’s no one here, I have to get on a lifeboat right away.” If he jumps he’ll die almost the second he hits the water. “If you’re lucky, that is,” Len had said. “If you’re unlucky it might take two minutes of the worst pain and dread imaginable, two to three, longer for the well-insulated or very fat guy. The shock of the frigid water and because you won’t be able to keep your neck above even with a lifejacket on. Or the greatest ecstasy, maybe, but that won’t last long.” Ship tips up again. He keeps yelling for help, waving the flashlight. Ship points straight up. He’s practically standing perpendicular to the deck, holding on tight as he can, flashlight falls to the water, when a wave smacks him, another one and another and he loses his grip and falls. Doesn’t want to survive the fall. He’s underwater, comes up. Water so cold he’s screaming in pain, then yells “Help, hombre here, in water, agua, agua, save me, drowning.” Sick in the stomach, throws up. Takes in a mouthful of water when he does. Goes under a little, comes up. Spikes in his head, legs feel chopped off. It’s all lost, he thinks. I can’t take it. Hands so numb he can’t unstrap his jacket. Straps loosen enough and he slips out of it, blows out his breath and lets himself go down. For a few seconds, while he’s going down, his mind whirls around, stops on a picture of his parents. It’s from an old photo.