An Evening at the Carnival with Mister Christian

He stood in the shower with Jennifer and held her while she vomited; she cried in his arms while he brushed clumps of wet hair from her head, and then he and Jennifer -- and Tracy, too -- passed into the dull, gray mists of end stage cancer together, that place where all talk of survival is a muted transgression, a violation of the pact of silence that descends on husband and wife when they walk this final path together.

And Tracy was there, through it all. When they stepped out of the shower, it was Tracy who dried Jennifer's wracked, shaking flesh. When Jennifer went shopping for wigs, it was Tracy who sang the chorus of optimism, Tracy who helped with all the feminine accoutrements he was so clueless about. And then, when darkness consumed his soul, it was Tracy who lifted him free and carried him back into the light. When Jennifer's white counts tanked near the end, when her body just couldn't fight anymore and she asked him to let her go, it was Tracy there by his side who kept him from shattering into a million pieces, Tracy by his side, holding his hand as he watched the doctor filling out her Death Certificate. Tracy who tried to piece him back together in the days after...

...and Phoebe had his other hand, holding on just as she had when their mother passed. Only on that funereal afternoon the roles had been reversed, and she sensed something fragile in her brother, something dangerously loose and frayed was coming undone. She stayed with him for weeks, watched helplessly as he began forgetting things; simple things at first, but then even greater dissolutions. Abstract ideas and vast legal frameworks became fleeting constructs his mind could no longer grasp, yet uncharacteristically, rather than fight this new world she looked on as he chose to turn away. As he ran from what he called "the crushing reality of death" -- to the cold embrace of the sea.

He rented the house and moved aboard Gemini with Charley, and as she looked on Phoebe couldn't stand to think he might actually sail away. She couldn't admit how much she'd come to depend on his steady hand, yet she realized how much life -- and death -- had taken from him. Because she understood him in ways no one ever could -- and no one ever had, not even Jennifer -- she knew she had to let him go. There was a unique connection between them, something beyond mere physicalism, perhaps something only twins can understand or relate to. A set of shared expectations borne in the womb, perhaps, or deeper still, in a place beyond understanding. She felt his pain, true enough, but because of her mother's intuition she understood the solitary landscape he walked, the music that played in his soul. Even so, she accepted his decision to leave without question, because she knew in the end he'd be okay. He was her unshakeable faith, he was the one who could do no wrong, who could shoulder any burden -- and always come out on top.

He always had, so he always would, and she trusted that.

That's just the way he is, she told herself. The order of her universe had always been expressed in the enduring terms of his self-imposed isolation, his innate indestructibility. She was the heart while he was the mind, she told herself over and over again, but as she watched him loading the boat before departure, for some reason she thought about John Lennon bleeding to death on those cold steps.

And then he was gone, and as she watched Gemini sail out into Massachusetts Bay, she wondered when, perhaps even if, she would ever see him again.

+++++

He sat up, looked around the deck -- everywhere he could in the morning's pale amber light -- but all he saw was a gull on a mooring pier...staring down into the water. He stood, felt his way through his light-headedness and nausea to the rail and looked down into the water.

And he saw the dolphin through the murky water -- perhaps a meter beneath the surface -- staring up at him, laying on her side -- then she too was gone...

"You're never going to leave me, are you?" he whispered hopefully. He reached out, grabbed a shroud and worked his way aft, sat on the edge of the cockpit coaming and rubbed the water from his eyes, then realized he was shivering. He looked down, saw he had on only shorts and Dock-siders and dashed below, flipping on the breakers for the heater as he passed into the galley. He got coffee going and made some toast, poured a huge splash of rum in his mug and pulled a jar of cherry preserves from the 'fridge. Yanking a sweater from his cabinet and sweatpants from a drawer, he bundled-up while the Espar heater primed, then kicked-in.

And by that time Deborah was up, wondering where the devil she was and why she smelled diesel fumes..."Are you up?" he heard her ask a moment later.

"Yup. Making coffee and toast. Want something?"

"Anything! I can't remember when I last ate!"

He looked down, felt Charley circling then squatting on the sole, and he groaned when the yellow puddle spread around his shoes. "Swell," he managed to say as he got a few paper towels and wiped the floor, then her nether regions, then he carried her to the "poop deck" and let her circle on the astro-turf. They both sighed when she dropped a curly log on the green carpet, and he carried her down below and finished coffees and toast, then set the stuff out on the table in the main cabin while the pup roamed the floor.

"How do you flush the toilet!?" he heard Deb ask, clearly perplexed.

He sighed again and just managed to laugh, then walked aft and flipped a switch, pushed a button. The macerator leapt into action and away it went, down into a holding tank.

"Nothing's easy on a boat," he grinned as he walked forward to get Charley's chow, then he sat and waited for Deborah.

She came out wearing one of his old VS-32 t-shirts -- and nothing else -- and he marveled at her legs once again. "You know, I hate to say this, but you're really gorgeous."

"You hate to say it? Why?"

"I'd feel, well, a little foolish if you got the impression I was simply a shallow misanthrope -- only interested in your ass."

"Are you?"

"Yes," he said, grinning, and they laughed.

"Good, I'm glad. I could use a little shallow, misanthropic attention this morning."

"Last night was delightful," he saighed, "and I wanted you to know that. But I had a visitor this morning, and I need to tell you a little story about him."

"John? He was here?"

"Ah-yup. Sunrise, on deck." He looked at her, watched as the words sunk in, wondering how to proceed.

"A story," she said, "about him?"

"Yes. I was a kid when he was killed, but I was there. I mean right there. I held his hand, when he was down on the stairs in our building, bleeding to death. He smiled at me, or tried to, I think. That's what I remember most about the whole thing, and the look in his eyes as he passed."

She felt light-headed, almost dizzy as his words slammed into her, and he saw the expression on her face and stopped.

"You okay?"

She shook her head, looked down at his hands. "That means this isn't random," she whispered. "He wants something from you, or us, perhaps."

"Look, I'm not sure I believe in all this stuff..."

"That really doesn't matter, Sumner. Something obviously believes in you."

"What? What makes you say..."

"You're a link, maybe the link, to something important. Something in that moment, perhaps. He tried to tell you something, did he?"

"I don't know, don't think so?"

She shrugged. "I don't know either, Sumner...Sumner -- summoner? What's your full name?"

"Sumner Holden Collins, Jr. Why?"

"I don't know. Are there any other connections between you that might exist?"

"Music. My mom was a...she taught the piano to me and my sister..."

"You have a sister? How old is she?"

"I think I'm twenty minutes older, something like that."

"You're twins?"

"Uh-huh."

"What's her name? Tell me it's not Phoebe, please."

"What? Why?"

"Is it Phoebe?"

"Yes?"

"Oh," she said slowly, turning pale as she sat there looking at him. "Holden and Phoebe, brother and sister. The Catcher in the Rye. His dream, the children on the cliff. That's what Chapman sat reading, right after he shot Lennon. He sat down on the sidewalk and started reading, and he kept saying..."

"'I just shot John Lennon.' I know. I heard him."

"There are no coincidences, Sumner. I believe that, and now I think I know why he came to me out there."

"Oh?"

"Somehow I'm linked to him, through you..."

He chuckled. "Or to me, through him."

She looked up, looked into his eyes. "True." She reached over and took his hand. "I'm not sure I'm capable of leaving you. I started to feel that way last night, and the feeling has only grown stronger since. It's like I know you, I knew you somewhere before."

"I think I'd remember those legs..."

"Bosh! So, you're a bit pervie, are you? Got a thing for legs?"

"Only good ones."

She shook her head. "Incorrigible, aren't you?"

He nodded his head and grinned. "Well, do you need a ride into work?"

"What time is it? Seven yet?"

"Ten 'til."

"I'm okay, but I'll need to take a taxi. I can change there."

"Need another shower?" he said, just as Charley jumped and tried to climb up his legs. He picked her up and let her settle on his lap.

"Not if you're going to get me worked up again!"

He smiled at the thought. "I seem to recall you enjoyed yourself."

"I'd forgotten just how much I love those feelings."

"Me too. Good exercise, as well."

"I keep forgetting...you're an American. Sex is exercise, food is sex!"

"Damn right. Come on, I'll turn on the shower..."

+++++

He was with her in the taxi, along with an unruly wad of canvas stuffed in the 'boot' -- the staysail that needed to be repaired at the North loft in Gosport -- and he dropped her off, kissed her on the forehead before she left. The cabbie looked at him in the rearview mirror after that...

"Know Miss Debbie, you do?"

"Old friends," Collins replied.

"Is that right...? So, Gosport, is it? That's a quite a fare, you know?"

"Yup. Got to drop this sail off, but I'll only be in there a few minutes if you'd like to get the fare back."

"Sounds good to me. The address?"

"21 Wingate."

Once the address was in his GPS they were off, and an hour later he carried the sail into the loft, an order to repair three areas of blown stitching confirmed. He rode back to Brighton in silence, and the cabbie dropped him back at Deborah's café.

"I'm going back in a week if you'd like the fare," Collins said, and the man gave him his card, thanked him and drove off. He went to the café and took a seat, and more eyes fell on him, more than a few full of suspicion -- until Deborah came over and kissed him on the lips.

"Try some tea again? A scone?"

"Yes, please," he said, then "When are you off?" he added in whispered awe, looking at her legs again.

"Mid-afternoon by the time I get my baking done."

"I've got to do some grocery shopping. Anything you'd like me to get?"

"Just you."

"I can handle that." She walked to the kitchen and he pulled out his phone and checked emails. A confirmation from the sail loft, two more from Tracy, and what? One from Phoebe? It had been months...another coincidence?

He opened hers first and read through it in silence, wincing a few times as her words washed over him. Her husband had passed in late August, just before the new term began, and though she was staying on through this semester...she had no further plans, no home to return to. The questions in her words were plain to see.

He replied: 'Will be in Paris for Christmas. Expect to see you there. Let me know if you need a ticket. We can get caught up then.' He sent it, and her reply came just a few minutes later...

'I miss you so much,' she began, 'and can't wait to see you. Too much to talk about now, so set aside a few days!'

'Tracy is making noises about coming over with her kids,' he sent back. 'Ambivalent about that, at best.'

'I know you don't care for her much,' came the reply, 'but she's not the worst person on earth!'

'A ringing endorsement! I think she'd have been Caligula's soulmate.'

'Too much! Can I bring anything with me when I come?'

'You'll be staying forward, so no steamer trunks.'

'Got it, lil brother.'

Deborah slipped by with tea and scones sometime during the exchange and looked at him once, the curiosity on her face plain to see, but she saw he was busy and left him to it. He sipped the tea, a vile herbal concoction, but her berry scones were light and warm, and he munched his way through one before while he worked through Tracy's notes.

'Delighted to come to Paris,' the first said. 'Tell me when.'

The second was more problematic. 'Assume we'll stay aboard with you?' was the main thrust of that one, and he replied that Phoebe would be staying onboard, but he'd be happy to see to her accommodations once he arrived in early December. He didn't expect to hear from her after that, but if she did, and if he and Deborah became an item, well, then he'd have to put an end to all these meandering obfuscations.

"Looks like you enjoyed the scone and hated the tea," he heard Deborah say, leaning over from behind. He felt a breast astride his neck and sighed at the implied invitation.

"Another scone would be just fine, and maybe something I can put cream in?"

"Okay, so English Breakfast it is. You like the berry? I have some cherry coming out in a few minutes."

"Is that what I'm smelling? It's a bit like heaven."

"You have an oven onboard, don't you?"

"Yup."

"Okay, I can take care of that. Oh, there're two markets nearby, I wrote the addresses here."

"Butcher and a place for fresh fish?"

She leaned over and pointed out the window. "Tell Marco I sent you." She kissed him on the cheek and skipped off to the kitchen, and as he watched her he was lost in the simplicity of the gesture, and the timelessness of her growing hold on him. She brought the pastry and tea out a minute later and sat opposite him...

"I can't begin to describe how badly my feet hurt..." she whispered.

"Rumor has it once upon a time I gave a pretty good foot massage."

"I should've known," she giggled.

"Do you have a copy of Catcher?" he asked, and she grew thoughtful.

"You know, I just might. Want me to bring it by?"

"No hurry. You know, these are about the best scones I've ever had. Light, but with substance. Like you, I suspect."

She smiled. "Another loyal patron," she swooned. "How's the tea?"

"Oddly enough, the best I've ever had, as well."

"They never get the water to a boil in America. No body, no depth."

"And I'm now a serious fan of clotted cream."

She raised her eyebrows. "About fifty percent fat, so best keep that in mind."

"Sheesh, no wonder I like it!"

She grinned. "I'll see you later?"

He nodded, looked her in the eye then at the glowering people in the café, left some money on the table and left. He walked down the street to the fishmongers, introduced himself to 'Marco' -- a rotund man at least ten years older than he -- and asked him to pack up some salmon on ice for pick-up in a half hour, and when he finished shopping at the market he picked up the fish and took a taxi out to the marina.

He was up on deck finishing work on a balky halyard winch when he saw Deborah walking out the pier with a couple of sacks in hand; he hopped down and walked out to meet her, took the bags from her and walked beside her out to the Gemini. He noticed the way she was walking -- gingerly -- and remembered she'd said her feet hurt.

"You need better shoes," he said. "Those heels are going to kill your feet."

"Hmm? Oh, well, I'm not going to wear sneakers to work!"

He shrugged his disapproval. "What's in the bags?"

"Just some stuff to bake with, and a few things for me, just in case..."

"In case?"

"I stay over again."

"Oh."

"Is that a problem?"

"No. It just doesn't look like you brought a lot of stuff, if that's what you had in mind."

"Well, I thought it a bit presumptuous to move all my belongings onboard."

He chuckled, looked at her as she walked. "The shower actually makes a decent bath -- if you'd like me to fix one up for you -- then I can work on those feet for a while."

"You're not, like, a foot freak, are you?"

He laughed at that. "The only thing about feet that freaks me out is foot-odor. I can't handle that at all. Beyond that, I doubt anything turns me on as much as your eyes."

"Not my legs, then?"

"Close second, but no, the eyes have it." He put her bags on deck then climbed up, took her hand and helped her up. They got stuff unpacked and he turned on the bath and filled it, let her get situated in the small tub then put out some towels and some lotion. He went forward and grabbed Charley, let her do her thing aft, then put on some music and went into the head, leaving the pup to play on the berth. He sat with Deb while she soaked, looking at her eyes all the while, liking very much what he saw.

"Hard day at the office, dear?" he grinned, trying to keep humor out of his voice.

"Oh, shut up!" she smiled back, then she grew serious. "Did you do this for you wife?"

He shrugged. "Not often. She was a hard core independent, not real touchy-feely, yet she was affectionate in her way. She didn't age well -- her words, not mine, by the way -- and I think she was self-conscious of those changes. Once the lights were out though, she was a hellion."

"And you? How did you feel about her, being somewhat aloof?"

He looked away. "You know, for years we were consumed with our jobs..."

"For years?"

"For most of our married life together, yeah."

"Were you more friends than lovers?"

"Maybe as time passed, but still, in a good way."

"I'm not so sure that's a good way for a married couple to be," she said. "I mean, to me these days the cornerstone of any relationship would have to be intimacy. I never thought about it much when I was younger, beyond simply loving sex, but I've been without for so long now I don't think I want to live that way, ever again. I look back and realize that emptiness was, for me, well, it's a wasteland. Self esteem perhaps, or a broken relationship lead some people there, but I was always very sensitive to rejection, physical rejection..."

"What do you mean by rejection?"

"Just that. Sarcasm can seem funny to some people, but when it's directed at me it hurts, I feel rejected, I get depressed. Then I guess I close down, pull away. I've always been that way, even at work. Someone jokes about my baking and I walk away, take it all very personally and I just shut down. Who is this playing, by the way?"

"Pat Metheny Group. The First Circle."

"I like it."

He nodded. "I couldn't handle The Beatles today."

She sighed. "I've been thinking about him off and on all day. Or, trying not to think about him, I should say."

"I don't think he's dead," he said. "Not really. I think he's alive in every one who knew him, even if it's only through his music, and somehow we bring him back to life when we need him."

She smiled. "Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

"I don't know how else to explain it."

"Some things can't be, you know. Can you explain love? Or the way you feel when you watch a nice sunrise? We can toss words out there, and who knows, maybe words come close sometimes."

"They're all we have, Deborah."

"Really? When we first kissed, when I looked into your eyes I felt a million things I don't have a word for. And what if I stopped and tried to think of words? Pointless, that. Isn't it just better to open up to your feelings and accept them? Let them wash over your soul and hold them close. My heavens...what's the name of this song?"