Monterey Bay(45)

“No. I would have remembered.”

“Hmmm.” He frowned. “Must be mistaking you for one of the girls at the Lone Star. Anyhow, we’re leaving for Mexico in March. A couple of months in the Sea of Cortez, gathering material for the new book. John’s lawyer is finalizing the lease for the boat as we speak and Wormy is preparing the cargo manifest, which is mostly beer, which I’m sure comes as less than a shock.”

She prodded at a blister to make it burn. “Sounds like a productive journey.”

“That’s the idea, but things have gotten so complicated. John is worse than I’ve ever seen him, the poor fellow. He just can’t seem to concentrate and I don’t blame him. The Hollywood contingent is driving him mad. Carol is up north, screaming divorce every time he blinks. As for Wormy, well, she has obligations of her own, which never comes as a surprise to anyone but me. To be honest, it makes me wonder what we’re trying to prove, taking off to sea when everything on land is falling to pieces.”

When he stopped talking, she paused to weigh his words. With only a few luminous exceptions, he had never unburdened himself like this before; he had never dropped the scrim of his friendly optimism. For several seconds, she had no idea what to say. Then, as she looked in the direction of the bay, a useful memory surfaced: the departure from the Philippines, the decisive enormity of the cargo ship, the sea putting a measurable distance between her and happiness, but also between her and defeat.

“Some people think the ocean means freedom. A new start.”

“I’ll bet fish think the same thing about land. And oh, how wrong they are!”

“I’m not sure fish care one way or another.”

“And that, I’m afraid, is where we part ways.”

At this, he shimmied his rear end deeply into the tarp, as if trying to reestablish contact with the mud beneath.

“Should I tell another joke?” she asked.

Still brooding, he looked up at her. “You know why I’m out there every day, don’t you? On the very borderline of the metaphysical?”

“Breaking through with the limpets? Staring the life out of hermit crabs?”

“I had a dream about you last night,” he continued, ignoring her incitement. “Or, more accurately, about your father. He was a Nazi. And you were a Jew.”

“How silly.”

“Is it? I feel like Anders has more than a bit of latent sadism trying to push its way through.”

“I would assume most fathers do.”

“Not mine. Most of his people were ministers.”

“God brings no guarantees.”

“You’re quite right. But in this instance, the book matched its cover.” His smile was sad but thankful. “His mind wasn’t especially keen, I’ll grant you that, but his soul was good. He encouraged me to read and exercise. To sleep out in the snow, to harden myself a little. When I dropped out of school with the intention of walking through the southern states by day and sleeping in graveyards by night, he didn’t question it. He saw me off with encouragement and pocket change, and then, in the lab’s early days, he even worked alongside me for a spell. It was wonderful.”

Another flurry of confessions. How to best receive them? she wondered frantically. How to keep them coming?

“And where is he now?” she asked.

“Dead.”

“Oh.”

She expected him to sneer at the grief and shove it aside, as she usually did. Instead, he put a hand over his heart, as if palpating the ache.

“Almost four years now, but it’s still pretty fresh. Same year as the fire in the lab—the one that destroyed practically everything I owned—and, even now, it’s like two halves of the same terrible thing. It’s like the two events are related. Not in terms of one causing the other, but in terms of being linked in some primal, toto manner. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Fire and the death of a parent. Yes. She knew.

“But there are plenty of good people left,” he continued. “That’s what I try to remind myself every day, especially when things seem dark. John, Wormy, Joe, Ritchie, Tal, George, Xenia: they understand and that’s what matters. Even if the boat sinks, I’m still out there doing good work, and that’s something even a failure can be proud of.”

She watched him shut his eyes and then reopen them.

“I’ll come with you,” she said.

“Where?”

“On the trip to Mexico.”

“What?” He laughed. “No!”

“Why not?”

“Oh Christ.” He leaned across her and peered mournfully inside the picnic basket. “And to think I forgot to pack the beer.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“Tell me what I’m up against.”

At this, the net gave a twitch, but not one big enough to warrant attention.

“You’re not up against anything, that’s the point.” If he was annoyed with her now, he was doing a decent job hiding it, his eyes fixed on the net’s false alarms. “You’ve made yourself completely essential and I’m not sure if I like it or not.”

“Of course you like it.”

He looked insulted. But then his mouth broke open, the day’s first genuine smile lighting up his face.