The Boat

This short story is a response to fellow blogger Kevin’s No Theme Thursday prompt post for this week. Kevin, thanks, lots of great ones!

Southport, NC was a good place to grow up in the 1950s. Located at the mouth of the Cape Fear River, it was surrounded by miles of swamps, oak woods, inlets and barrier islands. I knew the landscape like the back of my hand: The best fishing spots; the gator holes; the quicksand pits and the creepy places to avoid after sunset. 

And everything was great. Until one day it wasn’t.

Mom had been feeling tired, run down. She was never one to worry about such things, but as the weeks grew into months, and she grew increasingly tired and pale, Dad insisted on taking her up to Wilmington for tests. When they got home, she was her usual self: “I’m sure I’m just a little anemic… or something.” But something sounded false. She was worried.

A week later, the phone rang. My life–all our lives–would never be the same.

CLL…Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia… was what they called it. Something about her blood. To my ten-year old mind, it didn’t sound that bad. I was sure the doctors up at Wilmington…or if need be, Chapel Hill or Duke…would be able to fix whatever was wrong. Neither Mom nor Dad seemed overly concerned. They masked it well.

I had an older brother and sister, Toby and Ruth; Toby was 16, Ruth, 14. Sometimes they’d be talking in low tones in the parlor; I tried to listen but couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. And whenever I came in, they’d both stop talking and go back to their reading.

We did end up taking her up to Durham, to Duke Hospital. They tried everything, which wasn’t much back in those days. Back home, the hours dragged; she slept fitfully, tossing and turning. Sometimes she’d moan in pain. 

They prayed for her each Sunday; sometimes Pastor Jacksheimer stopped by after church for tea. Me and my dog Finn were sent outside while Mom, Dad and Pastor Jacksheimer talked about grown-up stuff. Toby and Ruth left during these visits and I didn’t see the sense in sitting on the stoop. I once heard Mom inside crying so hard, I thought her heart would break… so I’d wander deep into the woods with Finn, trying to think of happier stuff. 

But whatever happiness I gained disappeared the second I walked in the door. Our house…which until all this started had been an inviting, warm place… now had this oppressive pall over it. I think we all knew how it would eventually end, but nobody wanted to even consider it. 

Once when they thought I was out, their bedroom door was ajar. I heard bits and pieces “…don’t really KNOW him… when I’m gone… Toby and Ruth will be off to college… it’ll just be you and him…” A shiver went down my spine.

About a week later, after church, Dad looked at me. “Sam,” he said. “Whatever happened to that model boat kit you had? Maybe I could help you with it.”

My Uncle Hugh lived out west somewhere and sent it to me when I turned nine. I tried to build it, but it was just too hard, and Dad was always too busy to help. It had over 150 pieces, tiny pieces that needed to be cut, painted and glued. It had string rigging and sails and the whole thing needed to be varnished. I made a mess of things. One afternoon, I spilled turpentine all over the kitchen table. That was it. After I cleaned up the mess, I packed the stupid kit away in the basement closet. There it sat for over a year until this particular Sunday.

We spread newspapers over the kitchen table and Dad took out all the pieces, laid them out and unfolded the instructions. He studied them for almost half an hour, picking up pieces, examining them, seeing how they fit as Finn and I fidgeted. He mumbled to himself. “Mmm… I see… the gunwales have to go in first… and then comes the tiller…” Finally, he looked at me.

“Sam, you haven’t done a bad job here. It’s just very complicated.” He pointed to the box: Ages 16 and up. “Tell you what, let’s make this our Sunday afternoon project after the preacher’s visit.” I smiled; I had faith in Dad.

In the weeks that followed, my relationship with my parents changed. Mom was the one I was always closest with. She’d put notes in my lunchbox and take me shopping with her. She cut my hair, and we had long conversations about everything and anything as the scissors went snip snip. She taught me about faith and doing the right thing, and how it’s never too soon to start thinking about what I wanted to do with my life. She was always hugging me. 

I didn’t really know that much about Dad, only that he worked for a company in Wilmington. I didn’t see him nearly as much as Mom; maybe that’s why she and I were closer. He wasn’t a big talker. He left at sunrise and came home after dark. His weekends were spent working on the car, fixing stuff or helping Mom. Once in a while we’d go to a movie. Other than that, he was just Dad. Maybe that’s what Mom meant that one day the door was ajar.

But working on the boat drew us closer. As we used tweezers, an X-acto knife and a magnifying glass, I learned stuff about him that I never knew. He told me about his boyhood, how he and Mom met in high school. He had fought in the war, in Europe, and he had lost several good friends. Maybe that’s why he was so quiet and had a little limp. After the war, he studied civil engineering at NC State. He wanted to build bridges and dams; but it sounded like he worked on other, less interesting, stuff. Storm water drains and parking lots.

So as Mom lay in her bed, surrounded by medicine bottles, shades mostly drawn…sleeping much of the time… I found myself sort of withdrawing from her; while my relationship with my Dad deepened. I felt bad for Mom, I didn’t love her any less, but I didn’t know what I could do for her and it was scary to see her getting weaker and sicker. Maybe it was just my way of coping and preparing myself.

Work on the boat continued. I was amazed at how Dad was able to figure out how everything fit together and how his big grown-up fingers were able to make such tiny knots. When we finished work for the day, we’d bring it into Mom to show her our progress. She never failed to give us a compliment and me a hug. “What are you going to name her?” she asked one day. I looked at Dad. “Could we name her after Mom? The Louise?” Dad smiled.

We painted Mom’s name on the stern; I was impressed by Dad’s cursive script using a little tiny brush. When the paint dried, we took it in to show Mom. All that was left were two coats of varnish.

Something was different about her that day. Her cheeks were rosy and she seemed to have more energy than she’d had in months. She sat up in bed and talked and held The Louise and said what a great job we’d done. She even laughed a little. 

Hope flooded me… was she finally getting better? She pulled me close and took my hand. “Close your eyes,” she said. I felt something in my palm, then she closed my fingers over it. “OK,” she said. “Look.” I opened my hand and in it was a very old silver coin with weird letters and symbols on it. I looked puzzled.

“Do you think you’re the only one who knows these woods?” she laughed. “When I was about your age, I found this. Daddy took it to a coin dealer and he said it was an 18th century coin from Spain. It was probably dropped in the woods by pirates.” I stared at it. “I want you to have it. And if someday, you have children, I want you to give it one of them.”

She laid back on her pillow; as fast as her sudden rush of energy had come on, it also disappeared. She fell asleep almost immediately.

I was the one who found her the next morning.

She was laying in her bed, facing the wall; she must have gotten warm during the night, because the blanket was down to her waist and above it, she had on only her thin pajamas. “Mom?” I said quietly. “I’m going to school now.” No answer. “Mom?” I went over and gently touched her shoulder. She was cold and stiff, and her eyes were closed. I screamed and ran for the phone to call Dad at work.

The next few days were a blur. I remember ambulance lights, people from church dropping off food, Pastor Jacksheimer, all of us crying. Her funeral was attended by everyone in town. I overheard Dad talking with her doctor and he said it was common for people to get a big burst of energy right before the end.

Mom was cremated. We weren’t really sure what to do with her ashes, so they just sat in an urn on the hearth for several weeks. 

Finally I had an idea, and everybody thought it was a good one.

The next Saturday, late in the afternoon, the four of us took the ferry over to Bald Head Island. The tide was dropping and the waters of the Cape Fear were moving swiftly out to sea. To the west, crimson skies meant fair weather tomorrow.

We waded out until we were up to our knees; I was holding the Louise. Dad took a spoon and carefully scooped some ashes out of the urn until the little boat was filled. Then we closed our eyes, each saying goodbye in our own way.

I bent over, put the Louise in the water, and gave a little push. Immediately, it was caught in the outgoing current and as we watched, became smaller and smaller, bearing away Mom into the setting sun. You’re going home, Mom.

On the ferry ride home, we split up. I stood at the bow, the waves and gulls quieting down for the night. I looked at Mom’s pirate coin over and over, as though I was seeing it for the first time. I had almost snuck it aboard The Louise before Dad added her ashes; but I remembered what Mom asked me to do.

I’m glad I did. I carried it with me for twenty years when I was in the Merchant Marine. It’s crossed the equator uncounted times. When the time was right, I gave it to my son; and he, in turn, passed it to his oldest daughter. 

One of these days, I’m going to tell my granddaughter Louise all about her namesake. And her coin.

And a familiar little boat I found on a deserted Pacific beach.