22
Bright blue morning, wind howled in the gear. Mitchell pushed his visor down and watched the island and the feathery wave spumes lifting and blowing across the harbor sea. He pushed his hips forward in the helmchair to slouch a little. What the hell he thought as wind molded his plastic yellow rain jacket to his chest and arms. The jacket was his windbreaker, it would tear soon but with the pants it had cost him only fifteen dollars.
The sun arced slowly through the day and time was plentiful for Mitchell to think and reflect and see himself in perspective. Dealing with that had been another matter. Paralysis at first was finding himself at an empty table on a ring around Saturn...
"Waiter! Waiter!"
Out of the void came a voice. "I’m here," it said. "I understand."
"I don’t want understanding. I want an answer."
"You’re not alone," the voice said. "I’m here."
"You’re a goddamn liar! This table is empty! You think I can’t see that! I need a waiter! I want an answer!
"There are no answers."
"You superficial bastard! You’re telling me I don’t have a question? I can’t think for myself?"
It took years for him to understand his arrival, and the four words carved in the table: FIRE BURNS. NOTHING PERSONAL. He had kept it in mind for future reference...
Dark cirrus clouds lay across a golden sky when Andy stepped into the galley sleepy-eyed and comfortably disheveled. His thumb was in a book as he opened the food lockers and pondered their contents, using a corner of the book to scratch his chest through a polo-shirt frayed open on both shoulders. His other hand was hung in the waistband of his paint-smeared grey sweatpants. Huge holes gaped at both knees.
Mitchell raised an eyebrow. "The rag man’s kid."
Andy stuck his head through the companionway. "You okay?"
"Fine," Mitchell said. "What are you reading?"
Andy looked at the book then up at Mitchell. "It's part of a trilogy about democracy in America. You want it when I’m done?"
"No thanks," Mitchell smiled. "I’ve outgrown fairy tales."
Andy’s eyes hardened, bit of a smile. "Give a yell when you want to come down," he said and disappeared into the cabin shadows.
Mitchell raised his attention to the island’s low embrace, its tall grasses bending and blown flat by great sweeps of wind that beckoned the tide waters. Can my body endure this? He waited now like he had waited throughout the two score years, on the coast and in the mountains mostly, where only whiskey kept out the cold and he had longed only for the sea.