Trip grinned. “Yeah. It’s what I did, before. What I used to do…”
He glanced down at the tiller and then at Martin. Without a word Martin stepped over and took it from him.
“I—you think maybe this would be somewhere you could leave me?” Trip frowned, looking at the silhouettes of broken buildings lining the shore, the spires of skyscrapers that pinked the sky behind them. “I mean, it’s like downtown, right?”
Martin looked at him, wondering if this was an attempt at irony.
“No, this isn’t exactly downtown, Trip.” Martin raked damp hair from his face. “Do you have any idea where she might be? This woman you need to find?”
Trip stared at the shore. Finally he said, “No. I guess I don’t. I mean I only actually saw her here once.”
Martin resisted the urge to shout in frustration. He mopped his face with a bandanna, eased back until he could perch upon the edge of the coaming. A shadow passed across the floor; he glanced up but saw nothing. “Okay.” He wanted to crawl into his bunk belowdecks and fall into blind sleep. “Okay. So you saw her once—where was that? Do you remember an address, or anything?”
Trip nodded. “That big place at Times Square—the Golden Pyramid or whatever it’s called.”
“The GFI Pyramid.” Great, this is fucking great, I’ve sailed five hundred miles so this kid can look for someone he doesn’t know in the middle of Times Fucking Square. “Okay. That’s a start, I guess. I guess we could find someplace to tie up and walk—”
“I—I need to go alone.” The boy’s voice was strained. “I mean, I know you brought me all this way, I don’t mean to be like rude or something, but I—she was, I have to—”
The boat surged shoreward as Martin yanked the tiller too hard. He shot Trip a furious look.
But his anger gave way when he saw Trip’s expression, irradiated with a desire futile and intense as his own. Trip’s gaze remained fixed on shore. Unexpectedly he turned. For the first time since Martin had found him upon the shingle at Mars Hill, Trip extended his hand and touched Martin’s.
“Thank you,” he said. “If we could maybe pull up here, somewhere—I could go.”
Martin sat dumbly, waiting to see if there would be more. There was not.
“All right.” He turned away, blinking back tears; feeling old and ill and immeasurably stupid. What had he been expecting? Not the prince’s magic kiss but more than this, certainly—a concerned hand on the shoulder, a low voice asking Will you be all right? Won’t you tell me what it is, isn’t there anything I can do?
A minute passed. Martin nodded. “I’ll pull up here.”
He brought the boat around, steered her toward where a mound of blasted rubble, brick and stone and concrete, had fallen into the harbor, forming a sort of quay. Small dark shapes sloped along the stones. There was a putrefying smell. Martin felt a spike of mean triumph, what a god-awful place; then despair, and fear.
“This doesn’t seem too safe, Trip.” His mouth was dry. “Are you sure—”
Trip nodded, then hoisted himself down the companionway ladder into the cabin. He returned with the knapsack Martin had packed for him. Some canned beans, dried fruit from Diana, extra clothes, sunscreen, socks. Water purification tablets past their prime. Over his arm John’s anorak; John’s cable-knit sweater dangling halfway to his knees. He stood awkwardly, as though trying to think of something to say; then dipped his head and stepped up on deck.
“Wait,” cried Martin. He motioned for Trip to mind the engine and climbed into the cabin, coughing at the exertion. Walked unsteadily past galley and chart table until he reached his bunk, fumbling in the darkness at the pile of clothes and blankets until he found what he wanted.
“Here,” he said.
He held them out to Trip, a wallet of worn brown cowhide and a small wooden box.
“Hey, no,” Trip stammered, not all that convincingly. “I can’t—”
“There’s hardly any money”—Martin coughed, “—don’t get excited. But there’s a credit card, it should have some credit left. Not a photo one, so you might be able to use it.”
Trip nodded. He shoved the wallet into his pocket, then looked at the box. “What’s this?”
“The sextant.” Martin turned away. “I—I’d like you to have it.”
Trip shook his head. “But don’t you need it? Can’t you use it, to steer by?”
“I won’t need it, no. You go ahead, keep it—”
He wanted to say, To remember me by, instead only smiled.
“Okay.” Trip stared at him. His mouth twisted as though frowning, and for an awful instant Martin thought he was undone: Trip had seen through him, the Fundamentalist monster would stand finally revealed on deck beside the queer activist. Instead, to his shock, he realized that Trip was fighting tears.
“Okay,” he repeated, thickly. He glanced away into the darkness of the cabin, then down at the sextant. Something seemed to catch his eye. Without looking up he pulled something from his hand, then held it out to the older man.
“Here,” he said. “You can, um, have this—”
It was his ring.
“Oh.” Martin gave a stunned gasp. He shook his head. “Trip! I—Christ, I couldn’t. I mean, that’s your—isn’t it from her? Your—well, whoever?”
“Take it,” Trip urged. He held the sextant to his breast as he nudged Martin with his other hand. “Please,” he added softly. “I want you to—”
“But—”
“I don’t know where it came from. I mean, she did have a ring like this, and so did her mother—but she didn’t give it to me. I really don’t remember how I got it.”
“Well.” Martin took it. The metal band was thin and weighed almost nothing. He pinched it between two fingers, then slid it onto the pointer finger of his left hand. “It fits.” He fought to keep his tone light. “Thank you, Trip. Really.”
“Okay.” Trip looked at him, then at the sextant, and grinned. “Wow. We really made it, huh?”
Martin smiled. “We really made it.”
The boy nodded, then opened his knapsack and stuffed the box inside. “Okay,” he said, clambering up on deck with Martin behind him. “I guess I’m off.”
He stood in front of the older man, suddenly looking awkward and very young. Martin smiled again, thought What the hell, and leaned forward to hug him. He could feel Trip’s shoulders tighten. After a moment he backed away.
“All right. You better go, before it gets too late—”
Martin sank into the cockpit and clasped the tiller, watching as Trip poised himself on the traveler and measured the jump he’d have to make to the stony mound below. Without a backward glance he leapt, stumbling but catching himself before he could fall.
“All right!” Trip shouted excitedly. He turned and shaded his eyes, looked up at the Wendameen and waved. “Thanks, Martin! Thanks a million! Good luck—”
Martin nodded. His face hurt where tears scored his cheeks, but it no longer mattered if Trip noticed. “Good luck, Trip. Good luck—”
He revved the engine, then angled the tiller so that the boat slid from the quay, her hull grating against bricks and rubbish. I won’t look back I won’t look back he thought; and for several minutes cut through the viscous waters, his eyes fixed on a horizon that boiled with lurid clouds and the shifting forms of distant boats.
Finally he could stand it no longer. He was far enough out that a fresh wind began to play across the deck, tugging at furled canvas and cooling Martin’s scorched face. If he squinted into the harsh light he could just make out the bright triangles of other sailboats braving the reach. He could hoist sail now, if he wanted to, make it past Staten Island and Raritan Bay and into open water. He took a deep breath and turned to gaze behind him.