Glimmering

“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.

In the distance the island reared, its shore a shabby tartan of decayed buildings, collapsed roads, twisted girders, glass and steel towers erupting from the ruins like spaceships from the desert. His eyes sought desperately to find the mound where he had left Trip, but it all looked the same now.

He had waited too long. Then as in a dream Martin saw a bright jot moving against black ruins, disjoined from the surrounding landscape as a gull in flight. Martin cried out, madly waving—

“Trip ! Trip!”

—and the brightness halted before the immense backdrop of the ruined city, and almost Martin could imagine a raised hand meeting his farewell.

“Martin! Martin, good-bye—”