The Ship That Sails

Stewart Engesser

Debbie was supposed to spend the weekend at the Finch’s, watching their dog, but her boyfriend scored Metallica tickets. Two shows, Saturday, Sunday, Boston then New York. She asked if I’d do it. Their dog is so sweet, Debbie told me. It’ll be fun, it’ll be good for you. You’ll just need to go over and meet them before they say yes. 

At first it sounded kind of overwhelming, then it sounded good. Get out of the apartment for a while. Do something different. Escape. Sure, yeah. Why not. 

Some things were going on in my personal life. Debbie knew about some of it, but she didn’t know everything. Nobody did. I hadn’t told anyone. 

I was maybe losing my mind. 

Seeing things. 

Things that weren’t there. 

But the thing is, they were there. 

Or rather, she. 

She was there. 

I went over that afternoon to meet Mr. Finch. On the way I thought about the adventures we’d have together, me and the Finch’s dog. Walking? Hell yeah. Throwing balls? You bet. For the first time in a while, I was kind of excited. It was summer, and I rolled the windows down. I drove past the golf club, the park, the meadow that soon would be reborn as a luxury condominium complex. I wondered how the meadow felt about its looming reinvention. I assumed the meadow wanted to remain what it was: rolling, grassed, caressed by winds and rains. But the meadow was not consulted. The meadow had no influence or power and did not attend town planning meetings or submit rebuttals to proposed zoning variances. I thought about the voles and mice and butterflies that lived in the meadow, who were about to wake to a day of incomprehensible death and terror. Then I was at the house.

The house was a well-kept 18th-century salt box. Weathered shingles, white trim, a brass ship’s bell by the door. It was in a neighborhood that used to be for sea captains and fishermen. Now it was for rich people. When I got out of my car, I could smell the ocean. Flowers spilling everywhere, granite steps, a tidy lawn. 

I knocked and Mr. Finch opened the door right away, like he’d seen me coming, like he’d been watching me approach through the window. He was fifty, maybe, red faced and rumpled. He reminded me of a professor you might see driving an old MG on a crisp fall day, bundled against the cold, roof down, whizzing past horse farms and stone walls, half in the bag, music too loud, sneaking a cigarette. His white oxford needed ironing. 

Mr. Sweeney I presume, Mr. Finch said. He sounded sort of British, but he wasn’t. 

That’s me, sir, I said. 

Call me Buckley, Mr. Finch said. 

I had no desire to call him Buckley. I had no desire to call anyone Buckley, or to know anyone who referred to themselves as Buckley. He put his hand on my shoulder, like he was about to give me some tough news. 

Debbie told me about your friend, he said. 

What was I supposed to say? I didn’t want to talk about it. Someone had cut the grass recently, you could smell the warm green sweetness of it. 

Mr. Finch frowned and squeezed my shoulder. 

It’s a tough break, but it’s not your fault, he said. 

I know it’s not, I said. 

Attaboy, Mr. Finch told me. 

There were oil paintings of sailing ships in the hall. Pumpkin pine floors. Leather bound books in a case, a framed vintage map of the United Kingdom. An old fishing creel hung from a coat rack. I thought he might invite me in, but instead he gazed off at his quiet street, the houses with ivy and lawns. 

Mr. Finch seemed to be gathering up the resources for a speech. A car drove by, going too fast. He scowled after the car as it sped away. 

We live imperiled lives, Mr. Finch told me. Some people understand that, some people don’t, but certainly everyone understands it in time. 

He was talking about, I suppose, death, and how it might crash into your life at any moment. He seemed to believe he was telling me something I didn’t know. Mr. Finch stared at me for an uncomfortably long time. Trying to seem sad, but not really sad. 

Anyway, I’m sorry for your loss, he said. 

Thanks, I said. 

Where was the dog? Was there a dog? I just wanted to meet the dog. 

You know, my father was a shoplifter, Mr. Finch told me. 

I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. A shoplifter? 

I don’t mean he was some kind of criminal, or anything like that, Mr. Finch said. As you may know, my father was Chief Justice for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. He just loved to steal. Little things, steaks, bags of chips, a bottle of wine. My first bike, he stole. I found that out later, of course. I guess my point is, who knows what makes a person tick. We can’t blame ourselves if something goes haywire. 

I laughed. What was funny? Was something funny? Nothing was funny. 

Mr. Finch laughed too, one of those fake little chortles. I made him nervous. People didn’t know what to say, so they said all kinds of things. 

Well, anyway, we love Debbie, he said. And she recommends you highly. So hopefully this works out for all parties. Piper’s already on island with our little guy. I’m supposed to head up Friday. All the cousins are there, but I guess someone’s allergic to dogs, or afraid of dogs, or who knows. Everyone’s allergic to something now, apparently. 

It’s going to be perfect weather for the island, I said, just to say something. I had no idea, nor did I know what island I was supposed to be talking about. And who was Piper? It didn’t matter, and I didn’t care. 

Mr. Finch told me to wait in the hall while he went to grab Reuben. He didn’t spell it out, but I assumed Reuben was the dog. 

A door closed, another door opened, then the sound of claws on linoleum, happy barking, and then, here was the dog, the goofy guy, and when he saw me he lost his mind, became ecstatic, ran over to me and began leaping and spinning in circles so his floppy ears spun this way and that way, and his whole body twisted and rolled around, and his tail went wiggy-waggy. 

Hey, bud, I said to the dog. Look at you! 

The dog said, I love you. 

The dog said, welcome to my home, please come in, never leave, I am so happy to see you. 

Well, Reuben likes you, Mr. Finch said. 

Reuben rolled over and I rubbed his belly. 

His belly was soft, and Reuben loved that I was scratching it. Just like that, Reuben was my boy. My man. My partner. 

Is that your belly, I asked Reuben, even though I knew that, yes, it was.

OK, Mr. Finch said, clearing his throat. Let me show you where everything is and all that, and I’m sure you’ve got a lot of questions. 

I didn’t have any questions. I was ready to wing it completely. 

I pulled up to the Finch’s house that Friday. Mr. Finch had been gone a few hours. There was a ferry involved in his travels, a two-hour drive. A trio of women jogged by, chatting. I waved and they waved back. Sprinklers whirred. Hydrangea, lilies, rhododendron; roses and daisies. A jet flew high and silent, painting white trails in the blue sky. There were people in that plane, trying to get comfortable, a drink cart banging up the aisle. In another time, another age, seeing such a miracle – a plane in flight – would have proven the existence of monsters, caused wandering hunters draped in skins to weep and shiver and murder each other with stones, offering blood to the Mysteries in exchange for mercy. Now we don’t even notice. But the Mysteries aren’t done with us yet. 

Reuben was barking. 

I got out of my car and retrieved the key from under a flower pot. I opened the door, and Reuben froze, staring at me, startled and unbelieving. 

Oh my God, it’s you, he said. I love you, I’m so happy to see you! 

He spun in happy circles, wiggled in spasms, ran into the kitchen, skidded, then ran back to me and leapt into my arms. 

There’s my boy, I said. There’s my buddy. 

Reuben ran to the couch in the living room and leapt up, staring out the window, then looked over his shoulder at me. Get a load of this, he said. There are squirrels in the yard. Look! 

He was right. There were several gray squirrels, running and twitching their tails. There was a bird feeder, too, and one squirrel swung from it, dipping up seed with a gentle dexterity. The squirrel seemed thoughtful and content. He could have been thinking of love, economic policy, an article he’d read about building a birch bark canoe. 

There’s a lot we don’t know about the world, I told Reuben. 

I can smell grief, he told me. And when people are afraid. 

Yes, I bet you can, I said. 

He seemed a little worried about me. 

I love you, he told me again.

I love you, too, man, I said. You and me. In it to win it. 

Reuben said, I’m sorry you’re sad. 

It’s OK, I said. 

I hugged him.  He smelled good, almost like peaches, and his fur was so soft. I could feel his heart beating. There was a faint yeasty smell coming from his ears. I wanted to take him home with me. I wanted to live with him forever. I wanted to get an old motorcycle and drive around the French countryside with Reuben in the sidecar. I was crying a little bit. It happens. It’s fine. It’s part of the whole thing. Reuben leapt off the couch. There were a couple paw prints on the cushions. 

Let’s go chase those squirrels, he said. 

How about let’s get changed first, I told Reuben. 

I went upstairs, into the Finch’s bedroom. I’d been told not to go into the Finch’s bedroom. At any second, everything – you, me, fish, trees, wicker patio furniture, the entire planet – all of it can vanish in a blinding flash of what the fu…? What I mean is, if you want to go in the bedroom, go in the bedroom. 

There was a sundress tossed on the bed, a couple of gym socks without their mates. Empty hangers on the floor, water glasses on the bedside tables. A stuffed animal – a pig - with the face chewed off. I stared at the pig for a moment. It was terrifying. Was it their kid’s toy? Or the dog’s? I could imagine the pig animating, sitting upright, and speaking in a cute sing-song voice through its mangled face. Saying something innocent and sane that in this new context vibrated with horror. It’s feeding time! Something like that. 

The bedroom smelled like air freshener and something sour. Spilled milk, vomit, something. Reuben waited in the doorway, panting. I was told not to let Reuben into the bedroom, but I wasn’t going to play that way. Equal partners, equal shares of the spoils, that’s my motto. 

Want to join my crew, I asked Reuben. 

Reuben said yes, he wanted to join my crew. 

I’m talking no leash, no harness, anything goes. Are you ready for something like that? 

Yes, Reuben said. But I am afraid of garbage trucks and lightning. 

We’re all afraid of something, I said. Get in here, buddy. 

I had a strange feeling. I felt like maybe it was time to become someone different. 

Mr. Finch’s closet was full of expensive, tasteful clothes. Button-down shirts, jackets, polished shoes. Whites and pinks and blues and greens, madras, khaki, mohair. The clothes of a lawyer, a boarding school man, the clothes of someone with a working knowledge of sailor’s knots. I found an old seersucker suit. Penny loafers, a faded yellow and hibiscus Hawaiian shirt in the back of the closet. A pair of parrot-green socks. Reuben watched as I put on his master’s clothes. I left mine on the floor in a pile. They smelled of sweat and weed and grief. There was a floor length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. I looked like a cheap lawyer, drunk at a convention in Bermuda. 

What do you think, I asked Reuben. 

You look amazing, he said. His tail was wagging, his entire body vibrating. 

Want to get up on the bed, I asked him. 

I patted the bed. 

He stared at me, head tilted, tail wagging hesitantly. 

I’m not allowed, Reuben told me. 

Don’t be ridiculous, I said. 

He jumped on the bed and began scratching and digging and rolling, as though he were a wolf, pawing at the ground to dig a shallow hole to sleep in. I lay on the bed, too, and Reuben licked my face. We lay there together, taking it all in. A couple of buccaneers. He didn’t want anything from me but love, and kindness, and that’s all he had to offer. It was everything. 

If you think anyone understands everything that’s going on, I told Reuben, you are mistaken. 

I am just happy to be on the bed, Reuben said. 

I bet you like peanut butter, I told Reuben. 

Reuben said, yes, I do.

I’m gonna get you some peanut butter, buddy.

I opened all the windows. There was a breeze, the leaves on the oaks in the front yard shook and whispered. The light was long and slow and golden, and it reminded me of how the light might look in a movie about dead people in Heaven. What was this feeling? It felt like I’d been asleep, trapped in a terrible dream, and now I was waking up. I felt an unfurling, an unspooling, a simple unfocused glee. It was happiness. I was happy. It had been a long time. 

I made a mental note to get Debbie a six pack, a couple joints. Something to thank her. Maybe some taxidermy. Are there taxidermy shops? Maybe a stuffed raven, or something more surprising. I’d read somewhere about a shop in Paris that sells human bones. Where do they get them? Can you buy an entire skeleton? Debbie would love to have a human skeleton. 

I grabbed my sunglasses, tied my hair back in a pony tail. There was a red, white and blue terry cloth sweatband on the dresser on a small sterling silver tray. I put it on. 

America!

A framed photo of Mr. Finch and his wife and little boy sat on the dresser. They were on a sailboat. Mr. Finch was at the helm. The wind was blowing their hair around, and the light was perfect. Golden hour; sails the color of tea. Handsome people, lucky people. Their faces glowed. You could tell that their little boy was positioned for a privileged life of paddle sports and waterfront vacation property. 

I made a wish for little Finch. I wished that he would skip college, travel the world with a toothbrush and a change of clothes, living by hook or by crook. Befriend cartographers and watercolorists and learn to tango, learn French, how to free climb, surf, play Flamenco guitar. I imagined him drifting above the Serengeti in the basket of a hot air balloon, I imagined him as a waiter at an art opening in Paris, staring at women in backless dresses, writing poems on napkins and being seduced by the wife of the Paraguayan ambassador. I saw him in a far-flung jungle village, a shaman painting his face in blood, preparing him for a ritual involving hallucinogens, dancing, ecstatic copulation and feasting. 

Don’t play it safe, little Finch, I told him. The world is an amazing, wonderful place, if you can stand it. 

I would like dinner, and a stroll, Reuben told me. Also, I need to poop soon. 

Okey doke, pal, I said. Let’s hit it. 

I felt almost jaunty. 

We went downstairs. Reuben ran ahead into the kitchen and started barking. Barking and barking, angry and sharp, the kind of barking dogs do when someone is in the house and shouldn’t be. My heart sank. I was pretty sure I knew why he was barking. 

She’d found me. 

I walked into the kitchen and floating above the kitchen table was Judith, my girlfriend, or rather, her spirit, her vibe, her energy, her ghost, whatever you want to call it. The rope was around her neck. Her neck still had that horrible broken lurch, and her feet swung gently as from a swing in the yard of a house where nothing bad was ever supposed to happen. 

I wasn’t sure you’d find me here, I said. 

Judith or what once was Judith shimmered and flickered and for a moment glowed red, which I took to mean, I can find you anywhere. 

My heart whizzed and blurred, as it always did when Judith appeared. 

Reuben was barking and growling and not at all relaxed. His ears low and flat against his head, his teeth bared, GRRRR, GRRRR, GRRRR. 

I told him it was OK, but he didn’t believe me. 

I waved a treat under his nose and tossed it into the living room, but he paid no attention. 

Do you not see what I’m seeing, Reuben asked me. 

Yes, I do, I said. 

There’s a dead person in the house, Reuben clarified. 

Yes, that’s true, I told Reuben. This is Judith, my girlfriend. She hanged herself about a year ago. 

Judith pulsed red then purple. I heard her in my head, behind my eyes. 

We’ve been over this and over this, I told her. It’s true. You’re dead. 

Judith flashed and pulsed, spinning in the air above a vase of flowers on the counter. The flowers trembled, as from a breeze. Reuben hunched and squatted, hackles raised, belly low to the ground as Judith flickered like the snow on an old TV. 

I shouldn’t even be talking to you, I told her. I’m supposed to ignore you, you’re not supposed to be here. 

Her voice in my head, strange and distorted, a warped record played backwards. 

I need to know, she said. 

That’s what she always said. 

I need to know. 

I don’t know what you expect me to do, I said. 

Reuben cried, his body trembling as he leaned into my legs. 

Judith flickered at a slower frequency and disappeared.

I don’t know what’s happening, Reuben told me. But I am hungry, and after I eat supper I will have to poop. It’s important to not poop in the house because I’m a good dog and good dogs poop outside. 

I saw something move outside the window. Judith hovered around the bird feeder. She looked tired and gray, and her eyes were bottomless black holes in which lived all the sad secrets the living cannot see or understand. Birds flitted and spooked, flying away in flashes of color, yellow, blue, red and dusky brown. Judith reached for them, as if to catch them, as if to hold them as they sang. They flew through her fingers. 

Reuben whined. 

Supper’s coming, buddy, I told him. You’re such a good boy. 

There was a note somewhere, instructions telling me how much to feed him, but I just poured some crunchers in his bowl. Maybe too many crunchers. It was fine. I found the peanut butter and spooned a big dollop on top. Reuben gobbled it all up, yum. Then I found a lime, the gin. I made myself a double gin and tonic and glugged it. 

Judith drifted sadly through a wall, her head bowed. There was a small TV on the kitchen counter, and I turned it on, thinking it might help Reuben settle down. On the TV, a woman stared out a window, her apartment candlelit and stylish. There was a voice-over, speaking to no one, or maybe just to me: I never understood New York, but I sure did love it. It was Judith’s voice, somehow, sweet and gravelly, and the sound of it broke my heart. 

Reuben trotted out to the mudroom where his leash and harness hung. 

I would like to go for a walk now, Reuben told me. 

Reuben knew where he was going. I traipsed behind, and Judith drifted above the street, spurting along, her movements jerky and angular and confused. Only Reuben and I could see her. Through the tops of trees, above the passing cars. A sprinkler hit her, and she turned for a moment into rainbows. 

Reuben seemed OK with Judith now. Maybe because we were outside, maybe because he’d eaten. He was happy to be walking. He kept stopping to sniff bushes, pee on trees. We arrived at the park, and Reuben led me to a bench. There was a pond. A little boy in red boots waded in the pond, feeding bread to ducks. His mom sat in the grass, her shoes off. You could feel how much she loved the boy. Her love was energy, it was alive, and it glowed. Judith sat beside her and wept. 

Why is she dead, Reuben asked. 

A seagull, far from the sea, drifted and swooned. It landed on the grass, eyeing the little boy, his bag of stale bread. The ducks quacked and muttered. 

She got tired, I guess. 

Why didn’t she just go to sleep, Reuben said. 

She was sick, I said. And nothing could make her better, even though we both wanted her to get better. A lot of people wanted her to get better. 

But she killed herself, Reuben said. 

Yes, she did, I said. 

I love ducks, Reuben said. And squirrels. And my people. I would never kill myself. 

I know you wouldn’t, I told him. 

We lay in the grass and Reuben put his head in my lap. 

Thank you for taking care of me, he said. 

Judith rose into the air, majestic, terrifying, sensual, worn down. 

I need to know, she said again. I need to know. 

I love you, but you’re dead, I told her. You’re dead. Please. You have to go. 

Judith did not go. She hovered. 

Years before, I went to a reading. I hadn’t intended to. It was raining, the windows of the café were fogged; I couldn’t see inside, didn’t know there was a reading in progress. I ducked in, everyone turned, I was stuck. I had to sit through this reading now. I picked my way to the only empty seat, right in front. Judith stood at the podium, a book open before her. She smiled at me, welcomed me. She wore a green baggy sweater, chunky glasses, patched old jeans. The way her hair stood up in places did something to me. I wanted to hear her voice, her words. I wanted to hear everything. 

She read a section of her novel that was about two lost horses wandering a Civil War battlefield. They get separated, find each other again. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She couldn’t keep her eyes off me. Her story was beautiful and funny and strange and sad, and I loved it, even though I wasn’t sure I understood it. I wanted more. I wanted her to read to me forever. Just knowing this person existed in the world. That was enough to be thankful for. But of course I talked to her. 

In three months we were living together. Happiness. No money. Leaves in the fall, weekends away. We left New York, moved to Portland, Maine. She taught, wrote, gave readings. Started another novel. I ran a little studio, produced some records, composed music for ads. We went to book stores, record stores, shows in people’s houses. Ate out. Made friends. But Judith’s world began to shimmer at a strange frequency. She drifted through a variety of distortions. She thought she was being followed. She received messages hidden in the chirpy dialogue of home makeover shows. 

A blur of doctors, therapists, pills and tears, unemployment, shuffling the floor in robes. 

The second novel was abandoned. 

Set fire to your car, the messages instructed. Take off your clothes and scream in a church. Stay up late and order a thousand baby chicks. Drink, sleep, weep, apologize. 

I held her, and it didn’t matter. She was in another room. 

We walked the little paths of the botanical garden, the flowers bobbing. I made crepes, drew baths, rubbed her feet, washed her hair. The messages kept coming. 

Toss your phone. Hitchhike without shoes. Disappear. Book a motel room in a logging town. Get a rope, tie a noose. 

Join the constellations. 

Reuben sat in the grass before me. He was watching the little boy. I could tell he wanted to go over to him, wanted to say hello, to wade into the pond and splash around. 

You can go over there if you want, I told him. 

That’s OK, he said. I’ll stay here with you. 

Judith floated above the boy, who could not see her. She seemed to reflect the color of the water, the color of the sky. Maybe she was water, was sky. I wanted to hold her, but there was nothing to hold. There would never be anything to hold. A chickadee flew through her and made a sound that reminded me of static.

She is very sad, Reuben said. 

She is, yes, I agreed. 

You’re sad, too, Reuben told me. 

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, I said. 

I love you. 

I love you, too, I told Reuben, and it was true. It felt good to say it, and it felt good that it was true. I was already thinking ahead, to when I’d get in my car and drive away from the Finch’s house, from Reuben. I knew I would be driving into a hole, a deep, dark hole, and that the hole wanted to swallow me completely, and that I must not let it. 

I’m all alone, buddy, I said. 

You’re not alone, Reuben said. Do you not see all those ducks? 

I do see the ducks, yes. 

The ducks were floating and quacking and seemed vaguely irritated by something. It looked like a pretty good life to me. Pieces of bread floated on the water, and all they had to do was eat it. 

Part of me wants to maybe eat the ducks, Reuben told me. But it’s a quiet part, sort of, and kind of far away. 

We watched the ducks, and the boy, and Judith, floating, the end of the rope she hanged herself with drifting in the water, making ripples. The mother saw the ripples, and sat up straight, watching them. Where did they come from? What was making them? She looked around, as if seeking an explanation. But there wasn’t one. The ripples expanded in circles. 

Do you love her, Reuben asked. 

I do, yes, very much. And it makes me very sad that I couldn’t help her. 

Did you go on walks? 

Yes, Reuben, we went on a lot of walks. But sometimes walks aren’t enough to fix things. 

A good walk always fixes things, Reuben said. 

Not always, buddy, I said. Most of the time, but not always, and not all the way. 

Judith floated over to the bench. 

She says she’s supposed to go into the light, Reuben told me. But then she’s going to be gone. And she doesn’t want to be gone. 

I don’t want her to be gone, I said. 

She knows that, Reuben told me. 

What am I supposed to do, I asked Reuben. 

The ducks flew away, whap, whap, an explosion of duck, and the little boy, startled, began to cry. 

Tell her the truth, Reuben said. 

What’s the truth, I asked. 

Tell her you’re going to be okay, Reuben said. 

Okay. Was that what I was going to be? Okay? A ridiculous word, a silly word, too small to contain whatever all this was. I thought of clowns spilling out of a tiny car. 

The mother waded into the water to comfort her little boy. The ducks across the pond, in the grass beneath a willow. Judith pulsed. To them, she wasn’t there, had never been there. They’d never know who she was, what will never happen, never know anything about Judith at all.

The light in the park was beautiful. Long shadows, trees illuminated. The sky folding its wings. A plane overhead, mourning doves. 

Judith. I remember you. You’re in a doorway, drying your hands. It’s summer, earlier it rained, but now the rain is over. The sun is going down. There is gold in windows, the half-lit trees, gold spilling on the grass. Shading your eyes, you are smiling, about to say something. The garden is full of flowers. I am listening. 

And you, so close, so almost alive. 

You are gone.