Impact

6

At the wheel, Abbey guided the lobster boat toward the floating dock, tossed out a fender, and neatly brought it alongside. See that, Dad? she thought, I'm perfectly capable of piloting your boat. Her father had gone to California on his annual visit to his widowed older sister and would be gone for a week. She'd promised to take care of the boat, check up on it, look into the bilges every day.

That's what she planned to do--on the water.

She remembered those summers when she was thirteen, fourteen--when her mother was still alive--the mornings she had set off with her father to go lobstering. She worked as his "stern man," baiting the traps, measuring and sorting the lobsters, tossing back the shorts. It galled her that he had never let her take the wheel--ever. And then, after her mother died and she'd gone off to college, he'd hired a new stern man and refused to take her back on when she'd returned. "It wouldn't be fair to Jake," he said. "He's working for a living. You're going to college."

She shook off these thoughts. The pre-dawn ocean was as still as a mirror, and since it was a Sunday, when it was illegal to fish, there were no lobster boats out. The harbor was quiet, the town silent.

She threw a couple of dock lines to Jackie, who cleated the boat. Their supplies were piled on the dock: ice chests, a small propane tank, a couple of bottles of Jim Beam, two duffel bags, boxes of dry food, foul weather gear, sleeping bags, and pillows. They began stowing the gear in the cabin. As they worked, the sun rose over the sea horizon, throwing gold bullion across the water.

As Abbey exited the pilothouse, she heard the backfiring of a car engine and the grinding of gears from the pier above. A moment later a figure appeared at the top of the ramp.

"Oh no, look who's here," said Jackie.

Randall Worth came strolling down the ramp, wearing a tank top despite the fifty-degree temperature, showing off his crappy jailhouse tats. "Well lookee here. If it ain't Thelma and Louise."

He was tall and ropy with greasy hair to his shoulders, scabs on his face, stubble sprouting from his chin. He wore shitkicker leather motorcycle boots with dangling chains, even though he'd never been on a real motorcycle in his life. He grinned, showing two rows of brown, rotting teeth.

Abbey continued to load the boat, ignoring him. She had known him almost all her life and she still couldn't believe the self-induced catastrophe that had befallen the cheerful, dumb, freckled kid who was always the worst player at the Little League games but who never stopped trying. Maybe it was the inevitable nickname they coined from his last name, chanting it at the baseball games. Worthless. Worthless.

"Going on vacation?" Worth asked.

Abbey swung a duffle up on the gunwale and Jackie shoved it in the corner of the cockpit.

"You haven't visited me since I got out of Maine State. My feelings are hurt."

Abbey swung up the second duffel. They were almost done. She couldn't wait to get away from him.

"I'm talking to you."

"Jackie," said Abbey, "grab the other handle of the ice chest."

"Sure thing."

They lifted the ice chest and were about to heft it over the gunwhale when Worth stepped around, blocking them. "I said, I'm talking to you." He flexed his muscles, but the effect on his wasted body was ridiculous. Abbey put the chest down and stared at him. She felt a sudden, huge sadness.

"Oh, am I in your way?" said Worth, smirking.

Abbey crossed her arms and waited, looking away.

Worth stepped right up to her, leaning over, his face close to hers, the fetid B.O. smell enveloping her. He stretched his chapped lips in a crooked smile. "You think you're going to dump me?"

"I didn't dump you, because there never was a relationship to begin with," said Abbey.

"Oh yeah? Well, what did you call this?" He wiggled his hips obscenely, moving them in and out and moaning in falsetto, "Deeper, deeper."

"Yeah, right. Should've saved my breath for all the good it did me."

Jackie burst out laughing.

A silence. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Abbey turned away, all sympathy gone. "Nothing. Just get out of my way."

"When I fuck a girl, I own her. You didn't know that, nigger?"

"Hey, shut your fucking face, you racist asshole," said Jackie.

Why, why had she been so stupid to get involved with him? Abbey grasped the handle and lifted the cooler. "Are you going to move or do I have to call the police? If you violate parole, you're back in Maine State."

Worth didn't move.

"Jackie, get on the VHF. Channel sixteen. Call the cops."

Jackie jumped into the boat, ducked in the pilothouse, and pulled down the mike.

"Fuck you," Worth said, stepping aside. "Forget the cops. Go ahead, I ain't stopping you. I just got one thing to say: you don't dump me." His arm held high, he stabbed a finger down at her. " 'Cause you're dark oak. And you know the saying, If you're looking to split wood, go for the dark oak."

"Get a life." Abbey, her face on fire, brushed past him and heaved the last ice chest up on the gunwale, stowing it in the cockpit. She took the wheel and laid her hand on the shift lever.

"Cast off, Jackie."

Jackie uncleated the lines, tossed them in, and hopped aboard. Abbey threw the boat into forward, kicked out the stern, reversed, and backed it away.

Worth stood on the dock, small, skinny as a scarecrow, trying to sound tough. "I know what you're up to," he called. "Everybody knows you're looking for that old pirate treasure again. You're not fooling anyone."

As soon as Marea cleared the peppercan buoy at the head of the harbor, Abbey swung to starboard, gunned the engine, and headed out to sea.

"What an asshole," said Jackie. "You see that meth mouth on him?"

Abbey said nothing.

"Racist jerk. I can't believe he called you a nigger. White trash honky motherfucker."

"I wish . . . I was a nigger."

"What shit are you talking now?"

"I don't know. I feel so . . . white."

"Well, you are sort of white. I mean, you can't dance worth shit." Jackie laughed awkwardly.

Abbey rolled her eyes.

"Seriously, nothing about you seems black, really, not the way you talk, not your background or friends . . . no offense, but . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"That's the problem," said Abbey. "Nothing about me really seems like me. I'm phenotypically black but white every other way."

"Who cares? You are what you are, fuck the rest." After an awkward silence, Jackie asked, "Did you really sleep with him?"

"Don't remind me."

"When?"

"At that going-away party at the Lawlers', two years ago. Before he got into meth."

"Why?"

"I was drunk."

"Yeah, but him?"

Abbey shrugged. "He was the first boy I kissed, back in sixth grade . . ." She looked at Jackie's smirk. "All right, I'm stupid."

"Nah, you just have bad taste in men. I mean, really bad taste."

"Thanks." Abbey opened the pilothouse window and the sea air poured in over her face. The boat split the glassy ocean. After a while she felt her spirits returning. This was an adventure--and they were going to be rich. "Hey, first mate!" She held up a hand. "High fives!"

They smacked hands and Abbey gave a whoop. "Romeo Foxtrot, shall we dance?" She stuck her iPod into the dock of her father's Bose stereo and dialed in the "Ride of the Valkyries," cranking it up to full volume. The boat roared down Muscongus Sound, Wagner booming over the water.

"First mate?" she said, "Make an entry in the log. Marea, May 15, 6:25 A.M., fuel 100 percent, water 100 percent, bourbon 100 percent, weed 100 percent, engine hours 9114.4, wind negligible, sea state one, all systems go, heading sixty degrees true at twelve knots for Louds Island in search of the Muscongus Bay meteorite!"

"Aye aye, captain. Shall I roll a blunt first?"

"Capital idea, first mate!" Abbey whooped again, all thoughts of Worth vanquished. "It doesn't get any better than this."