Covet (Sinful Secrets 3)

I remember them packed in their church, their heads all bowed in prayer, some cheeks wet with tears. I can see the women clutching rosaries, the men pulling on jackets and stepping into boats. I remember the lights at night as boats arrived and departed. Each time they came back empty handed, more tears.

Despite the circumstances, Dad and I were welcomed right into the fold. I remember helping an old lady knead the dough for bread while my father went out in a boat and helped search. I remember all the misty rain. I shut my eyes, seeing Dad’s face when he stepped back onto the dock for the last time. His eyes were closed, but hers were open. That’s what I remember most. This little girl wrapped up in blankets, with a dirty, sunken face and ropes of tangled red hair. And weird eyes.

I remember how they stood out in her pale, grimy face. Unlike all the other eyes I saw, hers hadn’t leaked with tears. They seemed as depthless as the sea itself, and hot, almost like brownish-yellow fire. I think they stuck with me because I couldn’t pinpoint the emotion in them. Not for years.

A gull caws, bringing me back to the moment. I can hear the swish of waves against the boat, can feel the wet fog on my face.

I did it. I’m back here. I laugh. Genius or crazy?

I don’t have time to decide before someone slaps my back. I turn around and give the captain a smile. For the next hour, I’m Homer Carnegie—household name. I tell myself to buck the fuck up, try to act like the record-breaking Red Sox pitcher they expect. I sign everything from baseballs to a woman’s sports bra, telling jokes and answering a bunch of questions while the chef serves me two omelets I can’t taste.

“Thanks, man. Real good.”

I sign his apron, listen to someone’s account of a record I broke last summer. When I can, I steal away to have a smoke and hide my shaking hands.

I close my eyes and try to feel the warm sun on my face, but all I feel is pressure in my throat and chest, behind my eyes.

“Hey, dawg.” I look up and find one of the crew lighting his own smoke. I think his name is Chris. He’s kind of short and wiry, with brown hair hidden beneath a gray beanie. He’s another one of the American crew members. “Just want to tell you thanks. My kid loves the Sox. He’s gonna be so happy when he sees that ball.”

“Yeah—no problem, man.”

“If you don’t mind my asking…whatcha doing way out here, in the middle of the ocean?”

I smile tightly. “Here with the Carnegie Foundation. We’re laying new phone lines. Maybe internet, too, if we can find a way to make it work.”

He nods once. “Riding back to Cape Town with us?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn, that’s eleven weeks. I’m surprised you can be gone that long. Aren’t things firing up?”

I guess this guy’s an actual fan. I shrug. “I’ll miss some, but it’s a one-time thing.”

He nods. “Yeah. It’s cool you’re doing what you’re doing. It was nice to meet you.” He holds his hand out. I shake it, squeezing harder than I have to so he can’t feel my fingers shaking. “You’re an idol to so many. Don’t forget it.”

I give him a small smile and a nod, and, thankfully, he turns and goes downstairs.

I spend the next half hour packing up and helping haul wooden crates—full of supplies provided by the foundation—to the boat’s ledge. From there, they’ll be lowered in an elevator type of apparatus that’s hooked onto the boat’s side, and eased into a boat from Tristan.

Since the island’s coastline is mostly rocky cliffs, with just one tiny harbor, ships dock out about three hundred yards, and islanders come out in small boats to get visitors like myself.

Morning crawls toward noon. The fog burns off, and I can see the island more clearly. Is that a seal? Fuck, there’s a bunch of seals or sea lions on the cliffs. I reach for my phone, snapping a few shots. I remember those guys.

Finally, I spot the smaller boat—a nickel-sized brown dot moving from the island toward Miss Aquarius. The crew shuffles around me. I step closer to the rail, stopped short by a hard lump in my throat.

Meanwhile, two crewmembers go overboard on rope ladders to attach the smaller boat from Tristan to the side of this one. After that, the crates are slowly lowered.

I fill out some departure forms, toss my pack over my shoulder, and move to the boat’s edge, where my gaze falls down a rope ladder to the waiting boat. It’s pretty small, maybe even smaller than a cabin cruiser—the smallest of all yachts—and looks like it’s powered by a single motor on the back. I’m watching two guys strap down the crates when the captain’s voice startles me.

“Pack off,” he says. “We’ll lower it. Just climb down and you’ll be on your way.”

Then I’m over the boat’s side, clinging to the ladder as I inhale salt and brine and the scent of wet rope. I can feel the dim sun on my shoulders, the boat’s slight rocking underneath my boots. One rung at a time, and I can see the sea shifting between my moving feet. Then I step into the boat and turn to greet my island escorts—two ordinary-looking, middle-aged men in ordinary, working-class clothes. One—in a pair of oil-smudged coveralls—reaches to shake my hand as the other tips his ball cap.

“Homer Carnegie,” the hat-tipper says, as the hand-shaker says, “I’m Rob.”

“Mark,” the one with the cap says. “You got everything?” His face is creased with sun-lines, and his pale brown eyes are kind.

“Once you’re here, you’re here to stay,” Rob chuckles.