Russell Banks - Continental Drift

“Jesus. What about the kids?”

“Baby-sitter. Tonight. Woman across the way. Otherwise, me.”

“Jesus.”

“It’s worse. Ruthie, she’s got … she’s got some problems, emotional problems, and now the school says she’s got to get some kinda special treatments at the mental health clinic down in Marathon, and who the fuck can afford Blue Cross these days? I used to have a great health insurance plan when I was fixing oil burners, but working for yourself like this, you know, you just say forget it, I’ll take my chances.”

“Yeah. I don’t have any health insurance.”

“You don’t have any kids, either. That’s really what I’m talking about. I got to make more money.”

Ave says, “Well, Bob, there’s ways.”

“Yeah, I know. But I got kids and a wife, like I said. I can’t take the kinda chances you take. Anyhow, what I’ve been thinking is, there’s a way I can get a bigger share of the boat, which would let me keep a bigger share of the profits. But I need you to help me.”

Ave listens carefully, like a bank director, as Bob unfolds his plan: Ave will loan Bob forty-five thousand dollars, which Bob will then pay over to Ave for the rest of the boat, and then, with Bob’s increased share of the profits, he will pay Ave back, say, a minimum of five thousand a year, or whatever Ave thinks is right, with interest, which should also be whatever Ave thinks is right. Bob will pay for all repairs and maintenance, operating costs and so on, everything associated with the Belinda Blue, just as if she were his own boat.

“It would be your own boat,” Ave points out. “That’s the trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

Ave sighs heavily. “I owe a lotta money, Bob. A shitload. And the Belinda Blue’s my collateral. I can’t sell her without paying off the bank what I owe. They got the title. For the apartment they got it. If I hadda come up with that kinda money, to buy the title back, plus loan you forty-five more, I’d be talking close to a hundred grand. More, maybe. I haven’t checked lately what I owe on the apartment. And even if I could come up with that kinda money, look where I’d come out. You’d own the Belinda Blue for a total of sixty grand, and I’d be out fifty grand minimum plus my three-quarters of the profits she turns, which ain’t much, I know, but it makes a difference.”

“Well, there’d be five thousand a year, plus interest …”

“You don’t call that money, do you?”

Bob sinks lower into his chair. “Shit,” he says. “I thought you owned the boat outright. I didn’t know …”

“No, man! The bank’s got me by the nuts. Just like everyone else around here. Why the hell do you think everyone with a boat is running dope, for Christ’s sake? It’s not to live good, pal. It’s just to live. It all ends up going back to the banks. I couldn’t run anything with the Belinda Blue, she’s too fucking slow, so I hadda borrow money to buy a boat fast enough to make enough money to pay back the money I borrowed in the first place. That fifteen grand you gave me for your share of the Belinda Blue, man, that gave me the down payment for the Angel Blue . You talk about vicious circles. We’re all in one. Circles inside of circles.”

Bob lights a cigarette, inhales deeply and slouches further down in his chair. “How come the bank let you sell off one-fourth of the boat, if you’d gone and borrowed against it? I never dealt with any bank, I just dealt with you. I got that bill of sale you wrote out, that’s all.”

Ave gets up from his chair and stands at the stern, looking over at the broad bow of the Belinda Blue rocking lightly in the water. Then, his back to Bob, he says, “I suppose you could get me into a heap of trouble with that bill of sale.”

“Jesus.” Bob feels himself falling backwards and down, as if down a well. In front of him and inside a small circle of blue light is Avery Boone’s back, getting smaller and more distant, while he himself descends faster and faster and waits for the crash when he hits the bottom, for that’s all that’s left to him now, a backwards plummet and then a crash, and then nothing. It’s over. He’s ruined everything, he’s lost everything, he’s given away everything. There was the house in Catamount and the Boston whaler, their furniture, shabby and mostly secondhand, but theirs, and his job at Abenaki Oil and promises of an eventual office job there — there was a life, and because it was under his control, it was his life; and then he traded a big part of that life for one with more promises and less control, but even so, it felt much of the time like his life, for there was still a part of it that he controlled; and then he made another trade, giving away control for promises again, property for dreams, each step of the way, until he’s ended up tonight with nothing but promises, dreams and fantasies left to trade with. And no takers.

He’s run his life backwards, from what should have been the end to what should have been the beginning. He’s reached the end too soon, at thirty-one, and has nowhere else to go. You could say he shouldn’t have listened to Eddie, he shouldn’t have listened to Avery Boone, he shouldn’t have trusted these men, his brother and his best friend, men whose lives, though slightly more complicated than Bob’s, were no more in control than his, and you’d be right. You wouldn’t get any argument from Bob Dubois, not now, not tonight aboard the Angel Blue in Moray Key. He knows, however, that even if he hadn’t followed his older brother to Oleander Park and hadn’t followed Ave on down to the Keys, if instead he’d struck out for Arizona or California, where he knew no one, a stranger in a new world, he’d still end up one night just as he is now, his life a useless, valueless jumble of broken plans, frustrated ambitions, empty dreams. He’d end up with nothing to trade on.

It’s not bad luck, Bob knows, life’s not that irrational an arrangement of forces; and though he’s no genius, it’s not plain stupidity, either, for too many stupid people get on in the world. It’s dreams. And especially the dream of the new life, the dream of starting over. The more a man trades off his known life, the one in front of him that came to him by birth and the accidents and happenstance of youth, the more of that he trades for dreams of a new life, the less power he has. Bob Dubois believes this now. But he’s fallen to a dark, cold place where the walls are sheer and slick, and all the exits have been sealed. He’s alone. He’s going to have to live here, if he’s going to live at all. This is how a good man loses his goodness.

Ave turns and faces him. Someone aboard a ketch a few slips down is running a blender, making margaritas. “I can get you some quick money,” he says. “Not a shitload, but enough. Enough to pay for Ruthie’s shrink or whatever.”

Bob speaks in a low, thick voice. “Not drugs. No. I still got kids. I can’t afford to lose. Like you can.”

“Who can afford to lose? Nobody can. Anyhow, no, not dope. Haitians.”

“Haitians?”

“From the Bahamas. Five, six hundred a head, whatever the market bears. It’s easy. You just drop them off along the beach someplace — Key Largo, North Miami, they don’t give a shit. You can load up with ten or twenty of them over at New Providence, drop them off before daylight and be home by breakfast. Tyrone knows the lingo. He can set it up for you. All you do is drive the boat. And what you make is yours, less the twenty-five percent or whatever you work out with Tyrone. Look, I owe you, Bob.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you do. A lotta people owe me. I’m starting to see that.”

“You can always do dope, you know. The money’s bigger, and the work’s steadier. I mean, you run outa Haitians after a couple trips and have to wait till some more come over or save up the money for the ticket. Same with the Cubans from Mariel. But there’s always a market for coke and grass, and there’s always somebody looking for a boat to take it to the marketplace. It’s riskier, of course. They got a lot more guys out there from Customs than they do from Immigration.”