Deluded Your Sailors (43 page)

Damp, chilled and wired after driving for almost three hours in drizzle and fog, Nichole drained the last of her cold coffee as she approached the nurses' desk.—Hi. I'm looking for Reverend Elias Winslow. I received several telephone messages saying he wanted to see me?

The nurse escorted Nichole to a room where someone had taped a handwritten sign reading ‘Reflection Chamber' to the door.

The nurse whispered that they hadn't been able to find any of the Reverend's family, that he'd only asked for Nichole, and that they expected him to die within a few hours. They'd moved him to this room where he wouldn't be disturbed. Nichole's eyes widened at that, and she almost snarled about cruelty and convenience disguised as dignity. Her anger startled her, and she tried to parse it out. Then she considered how she'd made such a long drive without hesitation. Closing the door, the nurse told Nichole to press the call button near the Reverend's bed if she needed help.

Hang on. I didn't agree to keeping any vigil.

Jesus, another hospital bed. Reverend Elias Winslow, one of
thousands who fell.

And how did I get tangled up with you?

—Nichole.

She grasped the rails on his bed.—I'm here, Reverend Winslow.

—About time.

—Pardon me?

—It's important I speak to you, and those nurses kept hushing me. I wanted to finish this at home, you know. I tried to. I'd crawled under my bed and settled down with the dust, but Mrs O'Dea from Riordan's Back came by with a cold plate, and she found me. I can't move anything except my eyes and mouth.

Intolerable! Take me home. Take me home right now.

—I don't think the hospital would let you go.

—But I can't move. It's not even dancing I want now, or those long leaps. Nichole, I just want to sit up by myself, not wait here like something beached, wait for the tide to catch up with me.

—I know.

Winslow wept like a toddler trapped at each turn, and his chapped lips bled as he spoke. —If I hadn't – in 1734 – I should have just faded out then, already thinner than drizzle, but I had to wait for you – too long stuck to flesh. Now I must obey the laws of flesh. This is all your fault!

Nichole poured him a glass of water and helped him drink it.

Then she took a pot of lip balm from her pocket and gently rubbed some of it over the Reverend's lips.

—Thank you. Do you remember what I told you, the fray well part?

—Yes.

—And did you keep the knife? The sailmaker's secret knife?

—I gave it away.

—You think so? I stole that from history. Groundwalkers squabbling offshore, and I could not quite coalesce. All bad enough you wrecked my hold on history with your ledger and letters and proof.
Maybe I should buzz for the nurse now.

—Because it seems to me you are the one who must keep the knife. It's a good knife; it should protect you a bit. And you testified?

Well done. So what you need to do now is digest all this history. Just don't purge it back out. I see those calluses on your hand, the delicate translucence of your front teeth. I know what you're up to.

—Reverend, I don't understand – —I'm losing it, as the young people say. Lost it years ago, one seed at a time. Gnawed hole in the sack of my soul. Sow. Reap.

Reverend Winslow suddenly sat up very straight. Nichole could swear he'd shrunk in the last few moments.

Is he going to pray?

He bellowed. —Dementia! Deeeeeee-meant-CHA! Cha-cha-cha. Nichole eased him back onto the mattress and smoothed hair off his forehead. —Ssh, Reverend, it's all right. You're safe, you're safe.

—Sea-snakes, Nichole. My brothers keep trying to teach you about blessing the sea snakes.

—That's Coleridge.

—The girl in the graveyard. Demon-demon-demon-ain't-ya. I don't like these flesh rules. They are hardly fair. Unaware.

—Of course, Reverend.

He shrank some more, as if being sucked inward. Skin wrinkled; hair fell out; accent changed.—Nichole Wright. I should have guessed. One of that green-eyed brittle arrogant crowd. All of ye three steps shy of madness. Took ya long enough to be born.

Dost know how long I've waited for thee? One gets cold in Labrador. Demon-ain't-ya. Demon daimon. And Pythias.

Winslow's bowels released sulphurous gas, and Nichole could no longer read her watch. Once more she smoothed hair off his forehead. —Do you want another drink of water?

He vomited nails and pins but no fluid. The nails and pins fell to the floor and tolled like huge bells. Then he snarled.—Already?

Frailty is for... for... that word, thingy... groundwalkers! Nichole Wright, you canny bitch, you stole the last breaths from me. In defying me, you've exhausted me; I haven't breathed for days. I am as much a part of creation as you, Nichole. You will always dream of the photos. Posing by the cherry tree. Posing for Foxe. Because I give you one last gift: bad dreams.

Nichole took Winslow's cold hand, tried to warm it.

—Nichole, is that you?

—Yes.

—I'm scared.

—I'm here, Reverend.

—In this mess? Of your own free will?

—This time, yes, yes, I am.

—And will you remember?

—Yes.

—Good.

Winslow's eyes dulled, and his breathing got shallow. Then it stopped. The room chilled. Nichole sat with the corpse for perhaps half an hour, the Reverend's hand still in hers, first too tired to move, then too confused. But she managed to gently lower Winslow's hand onto the sheets, unfold herself from the hard plastic chair, rise and rejoin the rest of the hospital.

The nurses must have changed shifts. Nichole did not recognize the woman furiously making notes at the desk. She waited a moment, loath to interrupt, but finally she spoke up.

—I think Reverend Winslow has died.

—Hmm?

—Reverend Winslow, in the Reflection Chamber? I think he's died. Do you need me for anything else?

The writing nurse looked up and made eye contact. —I'm sorry for your loss.

Nichole almost explained that Winslow was no relative, but the snot and tears in her nose choked her.
The fuck?

The nurse got up and walked with quick gracefulness. —Poor old Reverend Winslow, he used to scare the whillikers out of me growing up, me and all the other youngsters. Funny how he never looked his age. I'm glad he didn't have to die alone. Oh, sweetheart, it's all right. You need a minute?

Nichole struggled to get the words out. —I hardly knew him.

And he could be such a nuisance.

—Dementia's hard, my love. You never know what's going to come out of their mouths. Don't beat yourself up for getting angry with something he said.

—He told me a story.

—That's nice. Sometimes their memories come back just before they die, and they're sharp as nails.

I'm not getting through to you.
—Yeah, nails. The mess on the floor, it's nails and pins. I don't know how it happened.

The nurse frowned. —Did you knock over a sharps container?

The yellow bin, where the used needles go?

—No, he – I thought he – Nichole and the nurse entered the Reflection Chamber.

Winslow's corpse looked frail and small. The air smelled a bit sharp, sweet but mineral, like broken spruce needles and sun-warmed rocks.—Nothing on the floor here, my love. I want you to go back to the nursing station and sit down for a bit, okay? You're shaking like a leaf. I'll see if I can get you a cup of tea in a minute.

Nichole heard scrapes and dings, as though the nurse had kicked –
Fucking get out of here before they hook me back up to sing the
Thorazine blues.

Nichole backed out of the room, caught sight of a fire exit, and ran.

Safe in her car, Nichole dug to the bottom of her backpack for any stashed candy bars to binge on.
Got ya.
Just under a notebook, long and heavy.
Must be a king size bar.

But no. Across her palm lay the old blade, the onyx handle:

the sailmaker's secret knife.

35) BENEDICTIONS
O
CTOBER
12, 2009, S
T
J
OHN
'
S
.

—Did you like the lobster, Gabe?

Gabriel held the storm door open for Dorinda while she balanced on her cane and unlocked the main door.

—Best kind. Your sister's a good cook. But can ya tell that husband of hers to mind his own fuckin business?

—You're mad he kept trying to get you to drink the wine?

—That, too. But I am not suin Chris Jackman, and that's the end of it. Jesus lawyers.

Takin me aside and sayin I'm weak not to, now.

Dorinda smiled at him over her shoulder. —Come in, if you want. Gabriel followed Dorinda. He'd been up here before, but only after repeated invitations. His tenancy of her basement apartment galled him more and more, yet her kindness to him – not noblesse oblige, not even the remnants of an old crush... Gabriel smiled at the thought. His ex-wife once accused him of sleeping with Dory Masterson. He hadn't. He'd never wanted to. And he didn't now.

Right?

Several baskets of clean laundry on the sofa needed folding.

Gabriel wondered if he should offer to help but instead just dug in, asking if Dorinda was sure she felt up to company.

—Cup of tea, Gabriel?

—Yes, please.

Nice bra. 36DD? You're a double D? Frig, are you tryna get me
goin? Did you leave this out on purpose?

—Why are you looking at me like that?

Gabriel recognized that the sofa hid the sight of his hands in her laundry. He put the bra down. Tried to say
I can't. I think – I'm
startin to love you. But I can't.

Dorinda scooped tea into the pot. —Maybe I'm on too many boards of directors; I feel absolutely sucked dry. When will the insurance cheque come from the Admiral's Rooms?

—God knows. We're talkin government.

—Go to the media. Go on
Free Line
on VOIC. That'll speed up the compensation.

—Dory

...

—My brother-in-law's right. You really could sue Jackman's arse off.

—But what for? What the fuck for? All those bits of clay aren't gonna jump right back together again. And drivin his pickup into that statue – Chris Jackman's got enough to deal with.

—He walked away from that crash without a scratch. After destroying your work!

—My work, but his past. That's what he lashed out against, ducky. Don't get me wrong. I'm fuckin poisoned he ruint that sculpture. But that's – his reaction – I dunno, it's part of the risk.

Silence.

—Gabriel, you want a mug or a cup and saucer?

—Mug's good enough for the likes of me.

Gabriel stared at an old eight-by-ten photo behind the glass door of a knick-knack cabinet: Dorinda as a flower-strewn Ophelia from a 1979 production of
Hamlet
. Handwriting obscured her from the knees down. —Dory, what's this say?

—Oh my God, back when I thought I could act. That wasn't yesterday. And that perm. ‘Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table!'

Gabriel kept studying the photograph. Dorinda's breasts had just brushed his arm and back – hadn't they? By accident?

She returned to the kitchen. Gabriel sat back down on the couch, feeling too big, too gangly for all this proper furniture.

Clinks of the tea things then – he almost ran to the kitchen to take the heavy tray from her.

—You go sit down, rest your ankle.

Mortified at the sight of the laundry basket, Dorinda picked it up, hobbled and balanced, and hid the basket behind a chair. Then she sat down, trying not to watch Gabriel pour tea.

He made a toast. —Heard this one from a Scotsman who helped me out in a brawl. ‘Here's tae us. Wha's like us?'

—‘Damn few, and they're dead.'