gesture—a peace offering, perhaps?—Grant suppressed a grin. “I thought you said, ‘This ain’t no fucking bed and breakfast’?”
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it, kid,” Roger replied, returning his attention to the frying pan.
A few minutes later, Grant reveled in the steaming shower. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, feeling rivulets of hot water cascade down the length of him, loosening and relaxing his tired muscles. It was sheer heaven to linger in a private shower. After twenty-six months of brief community showers that were never safe—whether the threats came from predatory cons or the Mafia thugs supposedly protecting him from said cons—he would never take showering as a free man for granted again.
Grant stepped out and was greeted by silence. He wrapped his lower body in a towel, tucking in the white terrycloth rectangle at his hip, and stood at the sink to shave. As he scraped the razor down his chin and then rinsed the blade under the spigot, he studied his reflection.
Although he was only thirty years old (and was often told he could pass for twenty-five), to his own eyes he looked old. He had aged considerably during those two years in prison. He could identify traces of weariness, cynicism, and regret in his face, and he did not like what he saw.
He missed his days in the Navy, when life was orderly and neat, when things made sense. Right now he was a man thrown overboard, thrashing and desperately striving to stay afloat in the unfamiliar and stormy sea.
After smoothing on some aftershave, Grant dressed in the navy-blue jumpsuit that was his uniform for the ship. Wearing a uniform was one thing that had not changed in about twelve years, ever since he started in the Navy Reserve Officer Training Corps in college.
Making his way to the elevated counter at the end of the small kitchen, Grant pulled up a barstool and grinned at the plate of eggs, sausage, and toast, covered with plastic wrap. Roger acted all tough, but these little acts of kindness confirmed his softer side.
Grant sat still for less than two seconds before popping off the stool and heading for the bookshelf, carefully sliding out a hardcover book: Chicago Architecture and Design .
He carried the book back to the bar and sat down as he thumbed through the pages to find his place. Resuming his reading, he happily stuffed a forkful of eggs into his mouth and continued learning about Millennium Park.
While cleaning during the cruises, Grant listened intently to Roger’s description of each architectural marvel for the enraptured audience. After only two weeks on the job, he had already memorized most of his boss’ spiel, and he enjoyed finding factoids in the book that Roger failed to mention. He was particularly fascinated by the newly constructed park in downtown Chicago—perhaps because he was consumed with constructing and repairing his own internal structures, trying to build a new life.
* * *
It was 10:45 when Grant made it to the ship. He was fifteen minutes early for his shift, but according to Navy standards, he was right on time. Clouds had begun to obscure the sun, and it was chilly by the water on this early-June day. A swift breeze kicked up off of the river, causing Grant to shiver as he stepped onto the deck. The Windy City was earning its name.
Failing to locate his boss, Grant descended the stairs and went to the supply closet for the bucket and mop. Quietly wheeling the yellow bucket toward the pump room, steering with the long handle of the mop, he halted as Roger exited the head and almost ran into him.
“Madsen!” he boomed. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Yeah?” Grant asked nervously.
“I just thought of something. Your mom was Joe’s sister?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Joe Madsen is your uncle? Your mom’s brother?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then why is your last name Madsen? Shouldn’t you have your dad’s last name?”
Grant froze. His name, of course, had been
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it, kid,” Roger replied, returning his attention to the frying pan.
A few minutes later, Grant reveled in the steaming shower. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, feeling rivulets of hot water cascade down the length of him, loosening and relaxing his tired muscles. It was sheer heaven to linger in a private shower. After twenty-six months of brief community showers that were never safe—whether the threats came from predatory cons or the Mafia thugs supposedly protecting him from said cons—he would never take showering as a free man for granted again.
Grant stepped out and was greeted by silence. He wrapped his lower body in a towel, tucking in the white terrycloth rectangle at his hip, and stood at the sink to shave. As he scraped the razor down his chin and then rinsed the blade under the spigot, he studied his reflection.
Although he was only thirty years old (and was often told he could pass for twenty-five), to his own eyes he looked old. He had aged considerably during those two years in prison. He could identify traces of weariness, cynicism, and regret in his face, and he did not like what he saw.
He missed his days in the Navy, when life was orderly and neat, when things made sense. Right now he was a man thrown overboard, thrashing and desperately striving to stay afloat in the unfamiliar and stormy sea.
After smoothing on some aftershave, Grant dressed in the navy-blue jumpsuit that was his uniform for the ship. Wearing a uniform was one thing that had not changed in about twelve years, ever since he started in the Navy Reserve Officer Training Corps in college.
Making his way to the elevated counter at the end of the small kitchen, Grant pulled up a barstool and grinned at the plate of eggs, sausage, and toast, covered with plastic wrap. Roger acted all tough, but these little acts of kindness confirmed his softer side.
Grant sat still for less than two seconds before popping off the stool and heading for the bookshelf, carefully sliding out a hardcover book: Chicago Architecture and Design .
He carried the book back to the bar and sat down as he thumbed through the pages to find his place. Resuming his reading, he happily stuffed a forkful of eggs into his mouth and continued learning about Millennium Park.
While cleaning during the cruises, Grant listened intently to Roger’s description of each architectural marvel for the enraptured audience. After only two weeks on the job, he had already memorized most of his boss’ spiel, and he enjoyed finding factoids in the book that Roger failed to mention. He was particularly fascinated by the newly constructed park in downtown Chicago—perhaps because he was consumed with constructing and repairing his own internal structures, trying to build a new life.
* * *
It was 10:45 when Grant made it to the ship. He was fifteen minutes early for his shift, but according to Navy standards, he was right on time. Clouds had begun to obscure the sun, and it was chilly by the water on this early-June day. A swift breeze kicked up off of the river, causing Grant to shiver as he stepped onto the deck. The Windy City was earning its name.
Failing to locate his boss, Grant descended the stairs and went to the supply closet for the bucket and mop. Quietly wheeling the yellow bucket toward the pump room, steering with the long handle of the mop, he halted as Roger exited the head and almost ran into him.
“Madsen!” he boomed. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Yeah?” Grant asked nervously.
“I just thought of something. Your mom was Joe’s sister?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Joe Madsen is your uncle? Your mom’s brother?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then why is your last name Madsen? Shouldn’t you have your dad’s last name?”
Grant froze. His name, of course, had been
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