slowly, navigating through tricky water. Jesus H. Christ, the guy was nuts. A sweat of chill heat shook John. Nuts, and he’d left Matty alone with him. God, that bastard could’ve done anything to him. Anything. What kind of shitty father was he, anyway?
The kind that let his baby get sick.
“Do you know about lampreys?” Matty queried.
“I love you.” John bent down. “You know that, don’t you?”
Matt screwed up his face. “Don’t go weird on me.”
John sighed. He wanted to tell his kid he loved him, and that made him weird. Cha-cha talked to the king of the sea, and he was totally cool.
A long time, buckwheat, since the Summer of Love.
They walked along. John read the shipping labels as they went: Kavco, Alawai, Smith & Barnett. Matson. Matson. Matson. What was in them? He made a fist and rapped one gently. Solid and thick. You would be history if one of these things fell on you.
The ship tilted. Matt stumbled against a container, then into him. The ship rolled the opposite way, and John slammed into the container behind him.
“Whoa.” He held Matt’s shoulders and waited for the ship to stop rocking. A metallic cold seeped into his clothes as thenight came on. It was getting dark; a breeze off the water ruffled his hair and added a layer of sheen to his cold sweat. He smelled the ocean and the ship, redolent of the odors of a gas station.
John rubbed his arm with his right hand and shivered hard. The breeze strengthened, whistling among the posts and towers that blinked above them. Wires thrummed; a gust of spray billowed above the rectangular landscape. The sky directly above them grew darker, as if a shadow had crossed it—he found himself thinking of a massive spiderweb, stretched from one side of the vessel to the other—and an unsettling sense of pressure bore down on the crown of his head.
Like being brushed with a web, or a net.
A net. And the
Morris
was a big grouper, lumbering straight into it—
“C’mon,” he said to Matt. He pushed himself away from the container and hurried down the passage between the mountains of boxcars; and hurried faster, because for some reason he couldn’t explain, he had to get out of there immediately.
Back on his barrel, Cha-cha dangled his feet over the side of the ship and crossed his legs. He wiped his fingers with the chocolate-coated Butterfinger wrapper and stuffed it into his back pocket.
His Oceanic Highness retired for the evening, sinking majestically into the sea. Cha-cha waved, and sat, and watched the stars come out. The water sluiced beneath the bow like the rush of freeway traffic outside an opened window. This was the most peaceful time of day: meals behind him, the king attended to, nothing to do but sit and watch. Behind him, on the bridge, Mr. Saar said something into the public address system, and someone answered him. Cha-cha couldn’t make it out.
He should go astern and check his fishing lines and his nets. He smiled. Tomorrow there’d be good eating. Dorado, probably. Wished he could make blackened Cajun style again, but last time they’d thought there was a fire in thegalley. Whoo-ee! What a trip! All that fire extinguisher stuff all over everything.
He’d have to tell the little love baby about that one. He’d like that story.
And the one about the loggerhead sponges. Now that was the worst tale of the sea:
Baby shrimps, too young to know what’s going to happen, swim into the cavities of loggerhead sponges, maybe because they think it’s groovy, or they’re curious, who knows? And they start eating and growing and pretty soon, they’re too big to get back out. And they can’t see where they’re going because it’s too dang dark, so they spend their lives stumblin’ around these corridors in the sponge, scraping the sides with their claws for food, which is mostly rotten garbage.
And if that wasn’t heavy enough, love baby, creeping through black halls for the rest of your life, they have to defend
The kind that let his baby get sick.
“Do you know about lampreys?” Matty queried.
“I love you.” John bent down. “You know that, don’t you?”
Matt screwed up his face. “Don’t go weird on me.”
John sighed. He wanted to tell his kid he loved him, and that made him weird. Cha-cha talked to the king of the sea, and he was totally cool.
A long time, buckwheat, since the Summer of Love.
They walked along. John read the shipping labels as they went: Kavco, Alawai, Smith & Barnett. Matson. Matson. Matson. What was in them? He made a fist and rapped one gently. Solid and thick. You would be history if one of these things fell on you.
The ship tilted. Matt stumbled against a container, then into him. The ship rolled the opposite way, and John slammed into the container behind him.
“Whoa.” He held Matt’s shoulders and waited for the ship to stop rocking. A metallic cold seeped into his clothes as thenight came on. It was getting dark; a breeze off the water ruffled his hair and added a layer of sheen to his cold sweat. He smelled the ocean and the ship, redolent of the odors of a gas station.
John rubbed his arm with his right hand and shivered hard. The breeze strengthened, whistling among the posts and towers that blinked above them. Wires thrummed; a gust of spray billowed above the rectangular landscape. The sky directly above them grew darker, as if a shadow had crossed it—he found himself thinking of a massive spiderweb, stretched from one side of the vessel to the other—and an unsettling sense of pressure bore down on the crown of his head.
Like being brushed with a web, or a net.
A net. And the
Morris
was a big grouper, lumbering straight into it—
“C’mon,” he said to Matt. He pushed himself away from the container and hurried down the passage between the mountains of boxcars; and hurried faster, because for some reason he couldn’t explain, he had to get out of there immediately.
Back on his barrel, Cha-cha dangled his feet over the side of the ship and crossed his legs. He wiped his fingers with the chocolate-coated Butterfinger wrapper and stuffed it into his back pocket.
His Oceanic Highness retired for the evening, sinking majestically into the sea. Cha-cha waved, and sat, and watched the stars come out. The water sluiced beneath the bow like the rush of freeway traffic outside an opened window. This was the most peaceful time of day: meals behind him, the king attended to, nothing to do but sit and watch. Behind him, on the bridge, Mr. Saar said something into the public address system, and someone answered him. Cha-cha couldn’t make it out.
He should go astern and check his fishing lines and his nets. He smiled. Tomorrow there’d be good eating. Dorado, probably. Wished he could make blackened Cajun style again, but last time they’d thought there was a fire in thegalley. Whoo-ee! What a trip! All that fire extinguisher stuff all over everything.
He’d have to tell the little love baby about that one. He’d like that story.
And the one about the loggerhead sponges. Now that was the worst tale of the sea:
Baby shrimps, too young to know what’s going to happen, swim into the cavities of loggerhead sponges, maybe because they think it’s groovy, or they’re curious, who knows? And they start eating and growing and pretty soon, they’re too big to get back out. And they can’t see where they’re going because it’s too dang dark, so they spend their lives stumblin’ around these corridors in the sponge, scraping the sides with their claws for food, which is mostly rotten garbage.
And if that wasn’t heavy enough, love baby, creeping through black halls for the rest of your life, they have to defend
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