He didn’t flinch when she patted his hand.
It’ll be today or tomorrow, she said.
I know.
That’s the worst thing, isn’t it? she said. Just knowing. How inevitable it is.
You never know, Mammy.
It’s hard to believe isn’t it?
It is, aye.
You know what? I wouldn’t mind being on my own for a minute, pet.
Aye, surely.
He made another chess set and went down to the town and knocked on the old man’s door. He had forgotten to ask the Lithuanian if he had ever played chess but he felt sure he would. After rapping six times on the door he kicked it once with his foot, but there was still nobody home. He thought about trying to break in to see if there were any cigarettes left lying around, but there were fishermen out on the pier and they were watching him.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and carried the chess pieces with him through town bouncing around in a small plastic bag. An idea occurred to him and he began to leave individual pieces in various places — a castle that he dropped in the postbox, a bishop that he put in the bank vault, a series of four pawns that he ranged along the wall of the handball alley, a queen he left on the weighing scales outside the chemist’s, and two knights, which he left on the top of the pierside bollards. He scanned the water for the kayak but it was nowhere to be seen. Feeling hungry, he ate the remaining pieces.
When the kayak broke the harbor waters he pretended not to see it, just sat with his legs dangling over the pier.
The old man came up behind him and said: Hey there.
The boy didn’t reply.
Rasa felt good today and she hasn’t been out in the boat for so long, we thought it would be good for her to get out in the sun.
Aye.
I’m sorry we didn’t wait for you.
No problem.
I hope you’re not angry.
No.
Would you like some soup?
No.
It’s terrible, isn’t it? The old man laughed. She’s the world’s worst cook. You know, I married her before I knew her cooking.
The boy turned and tried a smile.
We’ll see you tomorrow?
Aye.
Your uncle?
He’s grand.
The Lithuanian laid a hand on his shoulder. You’re a strong boy.
Thanks.
Tomorrow?
Aye, tomorrow.
He watched the old man and his wife carry the boat up to the house and he heard their muffled voices as they bounced off the well of the boat.
He had rescued a few cigarette butts along the pier and he took them from his pocket. There was one with lipstick, which he smoked with relish. He wondered if his uncle was still smoking even at this stage of the strike, the sixty-first day, and then the boy closed his eyes to a specific vision — his uncle under a fluorescent light, lying there supine, eyes wide and staring, prison nurses thin-lipped above him, drip bags waiting as an argument against the last rites, no feeling in his legs or arms or fingers or toes, bones jutting out horribly against his chest, his heart beating dull against his skin, his body feeding on the protein of his brain now.
The boy wiped at his tears and shouted out at the sea, and in a long string, cursed every curse he knew. Behind him he could hear the church bells ringing and he knew his mother would be worried, but he sat on the pier and didn’t move.
* * *
SHE CAME JUST BEFORE SUNSET and he watched her in the phone box. She nodded at whatever news was coming over the line. He resented the tight magenta blouse that she wore. He felt certain she would be angry at him for staying out all day, but when she put down the phone she walked across and sat down beside him and said there was no change.
Today or tomorrow, she said.
She used the same tone of voice that she used for her prayers. The boy remembered the prayer she incanted frequently, finishing with the words: After this our exile.
They watched the sun disappear on the horizon. It was a magnificent red and it seemed to spill itself out generously into the sky. The seagulls let out thin and labored squalls as they defiled low over the pier. The water lapped gray against the stonework. The boy thought there was a loneliness to everything in the world. His mother turned and held his hand briefly and told him to make sure he was home before night fell.
* * *
THE DARKNESS WAS COMPLETE and already a couple of stars had risen in the east.
He stopped for a long time by the pierside phone. The ring came high and hard. The receiver vibrated on its hook. He opened the door of the booth and the wind moved the coiled wire. His hand hovered in midair and then he decided against answering it. It sounded as if the phone itself were mourning. Soon his mother would come down from the caravan and hear it and she would answer and then he would know for definite. He found himself shaking and he lowered his chin to his chest when the ringing stopped.
He stole around the side of the house and peeped into the window and saw the Lithuanian couple sleeping, back to back.
The woman’s hair was unloosed and a few strands had fallen across her husband’s face. The old man seemed gigantic beside her.
The boy could still feel her kiss from days ago on his head like a stigmata. His chin felt cold against the pane of glass. He dipped away from the window and went around the side of the house.
The boat was easy to handle without the paddles and he lifted it by the lip of the well with just one arm and negotiated the short driveway, snagging it once on a rosebush.
It felt light with his new strength.
He dragged the kayak behind him onto the beach and stood a long time looking out to sea, the phosphorescent waves rolling onto the sand like brothers. There were no boats out on the water and the sea was a deep black. His blood was racing. Dizzy, he turned and walked up the beach to the life preserver pole, propped the kayak up against it. He steadied the bow in the sand and then used the rope to tie the boat to the pole. His fingers trembled but still he made a tight knot. The kayak stood against the pole like a misshapen man and there was a dapple of birdshit where the mouth should be. He sat down and stared at it for a while, tried to calm his hands.
The phone rang again in the distance. He rose and walked the beach, looking over his shoulder at the kayak, until he found some large rocks at the very front of the pier.
He carted the rocks down and made a large pile at his feet. He lifted the first one high and felt the shudder in his body as he hurled it toward the kayak. He was surprised at the arc of the rock, confused that it had come from his fingers. It hit the boat with a loud thud, bounced back, and threw up a flume of sand where it landed. He bit his lip and hurled another.
A rim of moon hung in the sky. The wind chilled his arms. The tide moved insistently.
He picked up a larger rock and flung it, and again it just bounced away from the kayak and he cursed the boat’s resilience. He went close to it and bashed a rock repeatedly at one point until a tiny hairline crack developed. Combing the beach again he found even larger rocks. His whole body was trembling now. He was on a street. He was at a funeral. He had a bottle of fire in his hands. He was in a prison cell. He pushed a plate away from his bedside.
It was only with the twelfth rock and another long ringing of the phone that he saw at last the spidery splint of fiberglass.
A jolt of adrenaline hit his stomach as he neared the boat. He began to hit it with his fists until blood appeared on his knuckles, and then he rested his head against the coolness of the kayak and he cried.
When his sobs subsided the boy lifted his head from the boat, looked back over his shoulder, saw the light from the house of the Lithuanians, the front door open, the couple standing together, hands clasped, the old man’s eyes squinting, the woman’s large and tender.