know.”
She has to pee. In an effort to make him listen, she makes what sounds like a goat’s grunting. A goat’s choking. He takes hold of her legs and pulls her toward the main cabin, which is toward himself. Her feet touch the floor and she feels the grit of sand on polished wood. He says, “If you sit up, I’ll take off the gag, Julia,” and somehow she sits up even though pain streaks up her throbbing arm, and he puts his disgusting hands behind her head and she holds her bladder tight like a balloon she’s filled for a water fight.
“We’re going home now,” the crazy man says. “The Seer says it’s the only way.”
“Wheah awh whe?” she says, and suddenly retches. All is feverish, smelly, choking. The sand dollars in jars that ring the hull—all the way around one side and down the other, on a high shelf—are yellow in the bone-gold light, so it’s afternoon, maybe. The cushion beside her, speckled black from mildew, torn at the corner and thready, expands and contracts in her blurred vision. She retches against the gag again, her whole body prickling with nausea and fear.
“Let me help,” he says. “Mustn’t choke,” and his root-brown fingers come at her. They touch her hair. It’s repulsive to have those fingers on her head, to see two inches away the grime on his sweatshirt, white paint, drops of oil, the slick denim of jeans that have been worn forever, it looks like.
“Almost,” he says, struggling with the knot behind her head, pulling out what feels like clumps of her hair, when, like a tooth from a socket, the gag pops out of her mouth. He drops it on the floor and uses a dish towel to wipe her chin. Like she’s a baby, he swabs at her lips. Every time she spits she’s revoltingly swabbed.
“Wheah awh whe?” she says, her tongue still thick.
“On our way home,” he says.
“I
wath
home!”
“It won’t be long.”
“I half do pee.”
“Of course, Julia. Of course that’s right. Go to the bathroom. That’s right, only fair. Who doesn’t help his sister?”
He brings a steak knife and cuts the tape around her wrists. Her arms noodle painfully apart and he cuts through the tape around her ankles. So simple. One swipe.
“Back here,” he says.
She sways and falls to the right when she reaches to pull her sock free of the toe, throws her hand out for support, then does it, makes the sock bloom out and hold all the toes inside it. The smell gets worse as they walk, but boat toilets always stank. They were the worst part about sailing, so she always peed in the yot club bathroom one more time right before they launched. Or she hiked her bare bum over the water in the dark and peed into the bay while Ted pretended she was going to turn on the flashlight.
“I gould pee oudside,” she says, the consonants thick, like she’s an alien German or a German alien. She would never actually pee in front of him. She would jump overboard.
“Too dangerous,” he says.
“Why?” she says, hoping he’ll say where they are, but he doesn’t. They’ve reached the bathroom now, and the need to pee is the strongest thing in the world, stronger than hunger or fear or shame, a snake biting her deep inside. The man’s claw, clamped on her shoulder, lets go of her once she reaches the tiny compartment, and she flings the door shut, yanks at her zipper, gets herself over the metal bowl from which the stink of waste is rising, and feels relief. Tremendous relief.
And then, almost as soon as it comes, the joy goes. Same fouled underwear, same dirty shorts. Same legs. Tissues are not good enough to wipe her legs clean, just falling apart and tearing off.
“Es-cuse be,” she says.
No answer.
“Can I half sub clea panz?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and maybe he can’t understand her. She hears him rustling, snapping, the slide of wooden doors. He knocks. Sticks his arm through the little gap she makes with the door, as if decency existed, as if she were trying on
She has to pee. In an effort to make him listen, she makes what sounds like a goat’s grunting. A goat’s choking. He takes hold of her legs and pulls her toward the main cabin, which is toward himself. Her feet touch the floor and she feels the grit of sand on polished wood. He says, “If you sit up, I’ll take off the gag, Julia,” and somehow she sits up even though pain streaks up her throbbing arm, and he puts his disgusting hands behind her head and she holds her bladder tight like a balloon she’s filled for a water fight.
“We’re going home now,” the crazy man says. “The Seer says it’s the only way.”
“Wheah awh whe?” she says, and suddenly retches. All is feverish, smelly, choking. The sand dollars in jars that ring the hull—all the way around one side and down the other, on a high shelf—are yellow in the bone-gold light, so it’s afternoon, maybe. The cushion beside her, speckled black from mildew, torn at the corner and thready, expands and contracts in her blurred vision. She retches against the gag again, her whole body prickling with nausea and fear.
“Let me help,” he says. “Mustn’t choke,” and his root-brown fingers come at her. They touch her hair. It’s repulsive to have those fingers on her head, to see two inches away the grime on his sweatshirt, white paint, drops of oil, the slick denim of jeans that have been worn forever, it looks like.
“Almost,” he says, struggling with the knot behind her head, pulling out what feels like clumps of her hair, when, like a tooth from a socket, the gag pops out of her mouth. He drops it on the floor and uses a dish towel to wipe her chin. Like she’s a baby, he swabs at her lips. Every time she spits she’s revoltingly swabbed.
“Wheah awh whe?” she says, her tongue still thick.
“On our way home,” he says.
“I
wath
home!”
“It won’t be long.”
“I half do pee.”
“Of course, Julia. Of course that’s right. Go to the bathroom. That’s right, only fair. Who doesn’t help his sister?”
He brings a steak knife and cuts the tape around her wrists. Her arms noodle painfully apart and he cuts through the tape around her ankles. So simple. One swipe.
“Back here,” he says.
She sways and falls to the right when she reaches to pull her sock free of the toe, throws her hand out for support, then does it, makes the sock bloom out and hold all the toes inside it. The smell gets worse as they walk, but boat toilets always stank. They were the worst part about sailing, so she always peed in the yot club bathroom one more time right before they launched. Or she hiked her bare bum over the water in the dark and peed into the bay while Ted pretended she was going to turn on the flashlight.
“I gould pee oudside,” she says, the consonants thick, like she’s an alien German or a German alien. She would never actually pee in front of him. She would jump overboard.
“Too dangerous,” he says.
“Why?” she says, hoping he’ll say where they are, but he doesn’t. They’ve reached the bathroom now, and the need to pee is the strongest thing in the world, stronger than hunger or fear or shame, a snake biting her deep inside. The man’s claw, clamped on her shoulder, lets go of her once she reaches the tiny compartment, and she flings the door shut, yanks at her zipper, gets herself over the metal bowl from which the stink of waste is rising, and feels relief. Tremendous relief.
And then, almost as soon as it comes, the joy goes. Same fouled underwear, same dirty shorts. Same legs. Tissues are not good enough to wipe her legs clean, just falling apart and tearing off.
“Es-cuse be,” she says.
No answer.
“Can I half sub clea panz?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and maybe he can’t understand her. She hears him rustling, snapping, the slide of wooden doors. He knocks. Sticks his arm through the little gap she makes with the door, as if decency existed, as if she were trying on
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