Midian Unmade (28 page)

Owen was waiting at the back of the boat, pacing like a hound in a yard. He pulled me up by the wrist, calling me a stupid bastard.

Then it was the fisherman's turn. We each extended a hand to him and he reached up to us.

As we took his wrists and pulled, a gust of wind got underneath the hood of his raincoat, flipping it open. The face that had been hidden underneath was, I knew at that moment, the most awful thing either of us had ever seen. As we hauled him aboard he let out a scream so wet and animal that we nearly let go of him then and there.

God help us, though, we didn't.

*   *   *

The sun had fully set behind the escarpment and with it had gone the full force of the ocean. In the darkness outside, ripples lapped soft against the hull.

My wet clothes were stretched out in front of the heater in Owen and Lydia's room, next to the old rags that the fisherman had been wearing under his raincoat. The raincoat itself he'd patted down with a towel and put straight back on.

Gideon Skillet was his name.

He chewed the fish we'd served him like a cow chewing cud, the flaking skin around his jaw folding and stretching as it worked its circles; small flecks of skin detaching themselves and floating into his lap.

The man was a dermatological nightmare. Where his skin wasn't scaly and flaking, it was marked with jagged fissures and heaving boils that were either scabbed over or oozing with congealed blood. I thought of the tectonic maps we'd studied, long ago in geography class at school. Gideon Skillet's face was how I imagined the crust of the earth would look if we stripped away all the water, soil, and rock and were left with shifting plates atop a molten ball.

He apologized to us in a crackling old English voice for screaming when we'd hauled him in. “The shoulders get awful crook if you pull on them,” he said, tapping himself where it had hurt and baring incomplete rows of browned teeth.

He was an ancient man. A widow of decades now, married again to the sea like so many woolly-haired geriatrics before him. His locale was a tiny beachside community nearby called Burning Palms.

We knew of the place, though never suspected anyone lived there full time. It was one of those weekend retreat destinations that regular visitors preferred to keep hushed about. No roads led to or through—it was only accessible by boat or a long hike down the escarpment. I couldn't even remember having seen power lines or a generator among those few salty cabins.

“So Gideon,” said Owen, now into his fifth scotch, “the fuck is an old bloke like you doing rock fishing?”

Gideon chuckled, showing those terrible teeth again. “Long time looking at the lid, Captain.”

He would punctuate a sentence by keeping eye contact with whoever he was addressing until they'd looked away, and he did this now with Owen, who flinched.

We exchanged glances while our guest busied himself with removing a bone from his fish. He had a remarkable dexterity when he did this—sawing around the tiny bone with the serrated tip of his steak knife and flicking it out of the meat with one swift gesture when he was done.

Shannon was staring at him from her spot on the bottom bunk bed, frowning. He became aware of her as he chewed, turning to her and poking out his purple and white tongue, bringing his thumb to his nose and wiggling his scabby fingers. She smiled weakly in response and flopped backward onto the bed again. He chuckled and returned to his fish.

Lydia fixed Owen with a wide-eyed stare. He mouthed
What?
at her, then looked at me and shook his head, downing the rest of his scotch.

“I'm afraid we can't drop you home in the dark,” said Owen. “We didn't really plan for this eventuality when we left. But we'll put some sheets down and you can make the most of the couch.” He referred to the built-in bench that ran along one side of the table. It was padded but short—the sort of place I could have easily crashed on during my twenties, but wouldn't dream of using now. “We'll get you home first thing tomorrow.”

“You're all very kind,” said Gideon, staring us down in turn as he spoke. “Samaritans at sea. The rarest. Very kind.” He chewed, smiled.

*   *   *

I dreamed that the ocean breathed as it smashed against the cliff faces; a lusty breath that came from its deepest throat.

When I woke, Gideon Skillet was there by the bunk bed I shared with Shannon, breathing hoarse and lusty as the sea had breathed in my dream, staring at Shannon's bunk beneath me and rocking his pelvis.

She woke and screamed, instantly rousing me out of my confusion. When she ran out of breath, she inhaled deep and screamed again.

I threw off the covers and leaped out of bed in my pajamas, left heel twisting slightly as I landed.

Gideon held his hands up and backed away. His pelvis continued to rock. “No harm meant at all sir, nothing to fear,” he said.

Owen erupted naked from the cabin he shared with Lydia, his half-erect penis bouncing around like a dredged-up fish. He seized Gideon Skillet by the front of the raincoat and hurled him to the ground.

The old man went sprawling backward into the cabin, his arms and legs flailing in the air.

“A misunderstanding,” he was saying as he scrambled to his feet. “Misunderstanding is all, and all will be cleared up.”

“You're too right it will. Get the hell out of here.”

“Oh, yes Captain,” he said, flashing Owen a smile before he turned to climb the stairs.

“Get into bed with your mother,” Owen said to Shannon. She nodded, her eyes wide. She moved slowly, her blanket wrapped around her. From within I could hear Lydia. “It's okay, sweetie, come here, it's okay. What happened? What happened, Owen?”

“Shut up and stay in there. Me and Charlie are going to sort this out.”

After quickly scanning the kitchen for something to wear, Owen wrapped a towel around his waist and went up the stairs after Gideon. I followed a few paces behind, conscious in that moment of not having his ass too close to my face.

Outside, the air was quiet and the world was colored by that dimness that comes in the hour before dawn. Owen held Gideon by the front of his jacket and had backed him right up to the edge of the stern railing.

“What the fuck was he doing to my daughter, Charlie?”

I held back a few paces and patted the top pocket of my pajamas, knowing there wouldn't be a cigarette there. “I don't think he touched her. He was just kind of standing there panting when I woke up.”

“An old man's got to catch his breath sometime, Captain,” said Gideon, both his scabby hands caressing Owen's balled fist. I felt on the verge of throwing up.

“Was he catching his breath?” Owen turned his head to look at me. Over his shoulder, Gideon was staring at me, too. “Come on Charlie. Speak up.”

“I think he might be a pervert, Owen. He was kind of … humping the air as well.”

Owen's head snapped back to face the fisherman, his index finger hovering right underneath the man's nose. Spittle flew from his lips. “What the fuck, old man? That's my daughter!”

“And what quarrel if she is then?” All at once, Gideon's sincerity vanished. His teeth savaged the air as he spoke and his top lip twitched between words. “Can't a man long for the forbidden sea on your vessel, Captain?”

“The sea? What are you talking about?”

Owen was holding the man over the edge of the railing, both hands gripping the front of his raincoat.

“I think we need to take a step back here, Cap … er … Owen,” I said. “Let's just get him to shore and work it out from there.”

Gideon winked at me from over Owen's shoulder, revealing a scab on his eyelid.

“I'm talking, Captain, about the young, young sea between your daughter's legs,” he said. “What a fresh salt!”

Owen drew back his fist and hit the man, three times in the face. The frail old body shook with each blow, flopping about in Owen's grip. The crunching of brittle bones filled the morning.

Then Owen shoved him over the railing and into the water.

“Oh no,” I said, darting forward to the edge as the splash came.

Owen put the back of his hand to my chest and we watched the ripples clear. Gideon's body was about a foot below the surface, staring up at us and smiling, still. Blood had darkened the water around his head and his face looked shattered, as if all the cracks and boils had erupted at once. His raincoat rippled around him like the boneless fins of a ray, its edges bleeding a black smoke. A spasm went through the coat and it billowed up at us.

Then he sank into the deep.

*   *   *

I stood at the front of the boat as water rushed underneath, the midmorning sun cooking one side of my face. I took big, burning gulps of whiskey in place of the cigarette I was craving.

Nobody was talking. Lydia was sitting at the table inside, clutching at a royal-family tabloid magazine with white fingers. Shannon had locked herself in the bathroom and answered every knock with silence.

Owen I could see every time I turned my head. He was on the upper deck, at the wheel, frowning into the horizon. I decided to go and talk to him—for my sake more than his.

“Chuckles,” he said, as I reached the top of the ladder. He didn't turn around. I walked over and sat in the spare seat next to him.

“Hey mate. I thought I'd come and see how you were holding up.”

“Oh I'm great. I'm a fresh pack of fucking Juicy Fruit.”

“Yeah.” I tried to smile. “Stupid question I know.”

“But seriously, good job Chuckles. You and that old fuck made a hell of a team.” He turned to me then, predatory smile across his face.

“Come on Owen, what the hell?”

“You trying to get your dick into my wife, him trying to get his dick into my daughter. Hell of a team.”

“Jesus Christ.”

I left him there, returning to the front of the boat with my bottle of whiskey. Far ahead in the distance I could see the docks. I thought about all the cigarettes I'd smoke when I finally got off.

“Can I have a sip?” Shannon appeared next to me, her long hair tossing about in the wind.

“You realize your dad is just there?” We each glanced up at Owen, who was scratching at one of his wrists. I turned away quickly.

“I wish I could get drunk so bad right now,” she said.

“How do you know it'd fix anything?”

“Well, you're doing it.”

I looked at the bottle and grinned, in spite of myself.

“We all just have to pretend like nothing happened, don't we?”

I took another swig. “You know, it's actually easy to pretend. Especially when it's something you'd rather forget.”

“Like you and my mum?”

I frowned. “Get out of here will you.”

She started to leave, then paused and turned back to me. Her brown eyes were like perfect marbles catching the sun. “What was the deal with that old guy?”

I took another swig and paused, thinking about what I should tell her. “Look Shannon, I'm just trying to get him out of my head, like everyone else. He was a bad man. That doesn't make what your dad did right, but it kind of does make it righter. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

She shrugged.

“Give me a clue?”

She rolled her eyes. “I already know he was, like, a pedophile, so you don't need to shelter me.”

“Yeah, all right. He was a dirty old pedophile.”

“But there was something else.”

I replayed the memory of Gideon Skillet in the water, his coat of smoke flapping and his body sinking into the deep. I took another swig.

“Well, I'm sure he's not the only ugly old pedo with nasty vibes.”

She examined me for a moment, nodded, and left.

*   *   *

Two weeks later my phone came alive with Owen's number on the screen.

“Owen … hi.”

“Hi Charlie.” It was Lydia.

“Lydia! How are you?” I cursed my enthusiasm as soon as I'd spoken.

“Charlie, I … we're in some trouble.” She was in tears.

“Oh Lydia. Oh no. What's going on?”

She tried to speak, but she was all at once crying so hard that I couldn't make her out.

“All right Lydia, I want you to take a deep breath and just say yes or no—the rest can wait. Do you want me to come over?”

She sniffled a few times and then said, “Yes.”

“Be there as quick as I can.”

I hung up and got straight into my car, only realizing when I was more than halfway there that I hadn't done up my belt.

*   *   *

Lydia answered the door and collapsed onto my shoulder, shaking with sobs. I put my arms around her and stroked her back.

“We'll sort this out, whatever it is,” I said into her ear.

She pulled away after a moment and walked down the hallway, her socked feet silent on the wooden floorboards. I took my shoes off and followed her, noticing at once the smell of old cigarette smoke penetrating through the lavender air freshener.

She led me to the kitchen, where several bottles of red wine sat on the counter—one of them half full of cigarette butts.

“You're smoking again?”

“Don't, Charlie.” Her eyes were red-rimmed and deep-set.

“Where's Shannon and Owen?”

She reached into her jeans and took out a pack of smokes, shaking one loose and lighting it off the stove. “Shannon's at her grandmother's,” she said after a long drag. “Owen…” She shook her head and her lip trembled.

On the bench was a folded-up piece of paper. She slid it toward me with trembling fingertips and then looked away.

Nausea crept up on me as I unfolded it. I recognized Owen's scrawl.

Chuckles,

If you're reading this it means that I'm screwed and you're not. That's hardly fair, but neither is what happened to Ned Kelly.