Read Online The Last Worthless Evening by Andre Dubus - Free Book Online Page B

for too long with cruelty or poverty or death, and I felt that he was not in his twenties, but older than the Ship’s Captain, older than the Admiral, half at least as old as the sky and sea.
    They walked up one at a time, performed their protocol, men ranging in age from eighteen to forty, and all of them to some degree drunk. But tonight they did not even have to try to disguise it. They were men whose bodies were still drunk, yet their faces were sober, some marked with that exaggerated and suddenly aging solemnity of a drunken man who has just heard bad news. Not one, even the youngest, spoke to me with the alcoholic warmth that, like an old friendship, is heedless of rank. Not one smiled. They saluted aft where in daylight the flag would fly, they turned and saluted me and said, “Request permission to come aboard, sir,” and I said “Permission granted,” and they walked quickly off the deck, through the hatch, and down into the huge ship that sat as still as a building on land. The Negro was one of the last to come aboard. His white uniform clung to his skin, and he was shivering with cold, and I could feel him forcing his arms to his sides, away from his chest that wanted their hug and its semblance of warmth. His cap, tilted cockily forward over his right brow, was dry, except for its sides that had soaked water from his hair. It must have fallen off on the pier, before he went into the water. He turned his back to me and saluted the darkness, then faced me and saluted and before he spoke I said: “Just step behind me, sailor. Until the others have come aboard.”
    Two more sailors stepped on deck before I realized I could do something for the man whose shivering behind me I either heard or believed I did. I looked over my shoulder at Gantner, standing beside the Negro, watching me, looking as if he did not know whether he was a policeman or bystander or even a paraclete.
    â€œTake him inside,” I said. “Give him some coffee. And see if there’s a foul-weather jacket in that locker.”
    He did not answer. I heard their steps on the steel deck, both of them slow, but I could detect the firmness of Gantner’s, his feet coming down hard like those of an angry man, but one resigned to destiny; and the other’s, soft, wet, and cold, wanting not motion but to be dry and prone between sheets and under blankets, his knees for a while drawn toward his belly, then, as he warmed, straightening until he lay at full length, even the memory of cold gone from his flesh. Soon the last sailor, a seaman first class who gave me the only sign I received from any of them—an abrupt and frowning shake of his head as his arm rose from his side to salute— disappeared through the hatch and left me alone on the deck. I stood at the railing and watched the liberty boat pull away from the ship.
    Then I went through the other hatch, into the compartment: the Negro sat huddled in a chair, wearing a foul-weather jacket that was too large but not by much, its front closed above his wet trousers. His cap was on the desk beside his mug of coffee, and he was smoking one of Gantner’s cigarettes and his other hand was wrapped around the mug. For warmth, I suppose. Gantner sat beside him, almost in the same pose, dry and warm but looking cold, looking near-huddled, and I thought of a blanket for him and fleetingly of the sky I saw as a starlit sheet covering you, then the Negro looked up and started to rise but with my hand I motioned him to sit, my palm pushing in his direction as though it touched his chest, not air. Then as Gantner’s feet shifted to stand I pushed again at him, and he settled back. I asked him if he could type and he nodded and said yes sir and I told him to get carbon paper for an original and two.
    Then the Negro moved. He was quick—motions of efficiency, not fear: he stood and carried his chair away from the desk, and Gantner, still sitting, pulled his