Navigating Early (10 page)

What happened next might not have been what happened next if I hadn’t run into Preston Townsend as I opened my door to go find Early.

“Hey, Baker. You know they upped the race time to eight o’clock, right?”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Good, because I’d hate for you to miss me winning.” That wasn’t it. That was just the usual banter that goes on before any race. It was what he said next.

“And don’t forget your babysitter,” he called over his shoulder as he went on his way.

My jaw clenched. My
babysitter
. My coxswain. Early. I didn’t need him—I could win that race on my own. My arms were strong and ready. My legs felt like they could outpump anyone. And the last few times I’d been on the water, I’d rowed straight as an arrow. I could do this by myself.

All by myself. It was at that moment that I decided to do something worse than hit someone in the face. I crumpled the note with the earlier start time in my sweaty fist. Then I ran to the Nook and removed the coxswain seat from its place on my boat.

Seven boats were lined up in the starting position. Dark clouds lurked in the distance, but for the time being, the bay water was smooth as glass. Proud parents lined the shore, waving blue-and-white pennants, and all were treated to cups of hot chocolate in anticipation of the opening race. The eighth-grade competition would start the regatta, followed by the races of the freshmen, sophomores, juniors, then seniors. The regatta would end with awards and a big lunch in the cafeteria, with sandwiches, clam chowder, biscuits, coleslaw, and blueberry pie.

As I lowered myself onto the rowing seat, I felt a twinge of guilt at having ditched Early. But I didn’t imagine my father felt too guilty about having ditched me, so I strapped
on the leather clogs and took hold of the oars. I knew that Preston Townsend was to my right, and that Sam Feeney and Robbie Dean were in the two boats to my left, but I stared straight ahead, trying to get my bearings.

Mr. Blane yelled for the opening ceremony of the regatta to begin. Headmaster Conrady led the opening prayer over the crackling loudspeaker. I wasn’t paying too much attention at first, but heard his closing scripture reading.

“ ‘Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off every weight that slows us down and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.’ ”

Mostly what I heard was the part about
throwing off every weight that slows us down
. See, there was even a Bible verse to justify what I’d done. Wasn’t Early extra weight on the boat?

I barely heard the starting command, and even as I took my first stroke, I knew I had made a huge mistake. But I kept rowing.

The regatta course began near the dock and went straight across the bay, around a buoy, and back to where the starting line became the finish line. I started off okay, and my strokes were strong and confident. Until I neared the buoy for the turnaround.

I could see the flags waving onshore, parents and students cheering. I found myself scanning the faces. I knew the captain wasn’t there. Still, I couldn’t help looking for someone in a navy uniform. But the colors all blurred together.

By the time I glanced back over my shoulder, I had lost
sight of the buoy. The other boats had already made their turn and were heading back toward the finish line. I must have overshot. I attempted to make my turn. But without Early there to call the commands—
PICK IT! FIRM UP! EVEN IT OUT!
—I could only heave and wobble with little control and even less direction. The
Sweetie Pie
made a wide arc that steered it dangerously close to the rocky shore on the far side of Wabenaki Bay. I bore down on the starboard oar but only managed to leave the whole port side of the boat vulnerable to the jagged rocks, and before I could get back on course, I heard a horrible grating sound.

A great black rock jutted out from the shore. It had probably been there for a millennium, but it seemed to have been lying in wait for this very moment as it tore through the side of the
Sweetie Pie
.

The maple and oak were strong. There was even some mahogany. I thought maybe the boat could withstand the assault, but water had already started pooling around my feet. I had finally completed my turn and, looking back over my shoulder, I saw the other boats halfway toward the finish line that seemed miles away. I was strong, and all that was left was a straight line. I could get there. But the water kept coming.

I tried to conjure up Early’s voice in my head.
POWER TEN! POWER TWENTY!
I checked over my shoulder again. The finish line was in sight, but my feet were completely underwater. Another few strokes and the boat would be sunk. Every muscle in my body was strained to the point of breaking. My arms, back, and legs nearly screamed with every stroke. I was the last boat to near the finish, and my
mind was in a panic. The thought of sinking my boat in front of this crowd was unimaginable. I couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. But Early’s voice stayed clear in my head.
SETTLE! SETTLE. EVEN IT UP. EVEN IT UP. EASY. EASY OARS
.

I came to a stop next to the dock and heaved my shaking body out of the boat. Some eyes were on me and the sinking
Sweetie Pie
, but many had already moved on to congratulate the boys who had finished with boats still intact. Others were gearing up for the next race. Somehow I’d been saved from an embarrassment beyond recovery. I looked down at my soggy shoes, and on the dock, I saw a little brass plate engraved with the words
Sweetie Pie
. It was the brass nameplate that Early had polished and planned to put back on the racing boat.

Mr. Blane was on hand to help me pull the ragged boat from the water. “Tough race, Baker. We’ll work on those turns after break. Looks like the storm’s moving fast. You’d better get packed to go,” he said as the sky opened up and the rain sent everyone running for shelter. I nodded but wasn’t really listening. I looked around, scanning the faces for just one: Early Auden’s. Holding the nameplate, rain soaking through my clothes, I realized I hadn’t been imagining Early’s voice out there in the boat. He had been calling commands to me from the dock. But he was gone.

I hung my head, knowing that I had hit Early as surely as I had hit Melvin. Right in the face.

By nightfall, the dormitory was eerily quiet. After the eighth-grade race, the storm had moved in, and with the
wind whipping and the rain pouring down, everyone had run to the cafeteria for a quick lunch. Then suitcases were loaded up and boys bustled into waiting cars. Kids whose families lived too far away were invited to friends’ homes. Sam was going with Robbie Dean to Portland, while Preston was going hunting with his father. Even Mr. Blane, the faculty dorm monitor, had gone to Boston to visit family and attend the upcoming Fall Math Institute.

Someone might have invited me home out of pity if they’d known I was going to be alone, but I was supposed to be going to Portland with my dad.

It was dark and cold. I kept the light off in my room as I sat in the window seat, listening to the rain and eating the last of the blueberry pie I’d brought back from lunch. I pulled my blanket around my shoulders and tried to read the clock, but it was too dark. I knew it was late, probably past ten.

As I stared out the window into the moonless night, events of the day swam through my mind. Receiving my dad’s message. Preston’s taunts. Removing Early’s coxswain seat. The rocks gouging the side of the
Sweetie Pie
. Early’s commands that guided me back to the dock. Mr. Blane saying “Tough race.” But mostly I remembered the feeling of being lost and unable to determine my course. Staring out the window was like looking into a deep, dark ocean, and I imagined myself floating, drifting with no direction under a starless sky.

I hunkered down in the window seat, drowning in my own miserable thoughts. Four months earlier, I’d been a normal Kansas kid enjoying my summer vacation, and now
here I was, with nowhere to call home, at a school with no baseball, unable to row a boat straight. My heart squeezed as I tried not to think of the biggest loss of all.

I pushed aside the thoughts of the day. Usually some comforting words of my mom’s would come to mind, but just then, I couldn’t hear her. Instead, the rest of what Mr. Blane had said floated back to me.
Tough race, Baker.… Storm’s moving fast.… You’d better get packed to go
.

It was that last part,
better get packed to go.…
Every student had to have signed permission to leave campus, and I’d been checked off to leave. The telegram from my father had arrived that morning, but I was the only one who had read it. During all the hubbub of kids loading up in the rain, Mr. Blane must have assumed my father had come to collect me, just like all the other parents who had picked up their sons, bustling them off to be with family and friends.

No one knew I was still here. I really was adrift. No tether. No anchor. I saw a sudden burst of lightning, and my pulse quickened. There was something intoxicating about being completely alone and unaccounted for. I could travel to California or Kentucky or Kansas, and no one would even know I was gone until the following Sunday, when everyone would return to school. Of course, I didn’t really know how to get to any of those places. That was the nature of being lost. You had the freedom to go anywhere, but you didn’t really know where anywhere was.

I thought of the Fish and wondered about him in France before he was killed. Was he alone? Was he lost? Was it dark? The darkness outside seemed to tighten its hold on
me. Suddenly being alone didn’t feel so intoxicating. It just felt … lonely. Again I strained to find my mother’s voice. But there was only the spatter of rain and the deafening darkness.

Then I saw a light. It was tiny, insignificant, but I knew from many a game of hide-and-seek on the open prairie that even the smallest light can shine like a beacon. I peered harder through the window and realized it was coming from the basement of the upper school. Early’s workshop. I sat up straight, and a wave of relief washed over me. Even though there were no stars to guide me, no landmarks to set a course by, not even my mother’s voice to comfort me, I realized I did have some bearings. There were certain things I knew to be true.

It was raining, so I knew that Billie Holiday was singing on the record player. I knew Early’s workshop was warm and inviting. I knew there were peanut butter sandwiches at the ready. And I knew Early was there. I wasn’t alone.

I pulled on my slicker and headed across campus to the workshop.

13
 

I
had been right about Billie Holiday singing. And the room was warm and toasty. But Early had a few surprises up his sleeve.

I didn’t think he’d heard me come in, as he stood with his back to me, wearing his bright-red tartan jacket, putting items near his backpack—matches, a flashlight, a rain poncho, and peanut butter sandwiches, apples, hard-boiled eggs, and canned beans. Not just items but supplies. I’d forgotten about Early’s quest and hadn’t taken him very seriously about going anywhere. Compass, map, pocketknife, length of rope, canteen—that all made sense for a journey. But then he also packed a jar of honey, a tobacco pouch, a pack of gum, his jar of jelly beans, and a leather journal of pi notations. I was most surprised at the wad of dollar bills that Early took from a jelly jar. He rolled up the bills and put them in an empty can of beans, placing the tin lid on
top and securing it with a rubber band. He was definitely packing for a journey of questlike proportions.

Early dumped the jelly beans out of their jar, and this time, instead of sorting them by color, he began counting them. He sectioned them off into rows of ten, as I’d seen the pharmacist at home do, counting out pills or vitamins.

I wish I could say I stayed quiet because I didn’t want to interrupt, but the truth was, I was ashamed. I’d dumped Early from the race and ruined the
Sweetie Pie
in the process. Leaving Early to count his jelly beans, I turned to the bulletin board that he had layered with newspaper clippings, graphs, string, maple leaves, maps, and, of course, numbers and equations.

I hadn’t really paid much attention to the clippings before. They were such a hodgepodge of news. Everything from articles on D-day and the Normandy invasion to Maine weather conditions to news of the great black bear still stalking the Appalachian Trail. It seemed to be a nonsensical array of information. But then, who could understand the way Early’s mind worked? To him it probably all made perfect sense.

One article told of the supposed killing of the Great Appalachian Bear. The picture showed a large black bear, reportedly six hundred pounds, but the article said the paws were too small to be those of the much larger bear still on the loose. The grainy picture must have been taken before the authorities measured the paws, as it showed the hunter standing proudly next to his kill, apparently unaware that he wouldn’t be winning any bounty money, and off to the
side, a bearded lumberjack who seemed somewhat amused by the whole spectacle.