Lynn Strong - Hold Still

Jack’s small arms quiver in her grasp as she slips the life jacket over his shoulders and snaps him in. “Nor?” he says.

“We’re good,” she says. “Don’t worry.” Without thinking, she kisses him — the first time that she’s done this — on the top of his head. He smiles and Ellie feels that she’s accomplished something great.

The sail flops as she uncovers it and pulls the lines. Her arms reach up, one and then the other, full fists pulling down, old metal ratcheting up and up, as sweat trickles slowly between her shoulder blades. The sail jerks into place and fills a moment with a rush of wind; Jack sits quietly near the boat’s front, hands holding both sides of his life jacket, his eyes steady on the sail. The red-faced boy comes out, hat off and sunglasses pulled down, and helps to push them from the dock. Ellie holds the tiller straight and then slowly turns it — the weight of it sluicing through the water is exactly as it was when she was small.

They drift slowly from the dock out toward the channel. They tack once, and though it’s certainly imperfect, and Jack squeals in fear as the boat dips and lifts, they right themselves and his knuckles eventually hold less tightly to his side of the boat. For a second, Ellie feels full with her own competence. A gust hits them once and the boat dips, water splashing at them, and Jack’s body lurches forward, his face almost falling on the metal wheel that controls the centerboard. But Ellie stays steady, loosening the sail until it luffs and the boat sits flat again. Her forearms and her hands burn with the weight of holding the tiller and the sail.

Usually, her mom would steer. Her mom would hold the mainsail too and El and Ben would split turns loosening and pulling in the jib. But she’s settled into the feel of both the line that tightens the mainsail and the tiller working in her hands at the same time. It’s almost less frightening, being in control. She smiles over at Jack, as he seems to settle in his seat, watching the thin red telltales fly back straight against the sail.

They hit a little enclave on the other side of the inlet; the wind is light and they practice turning, catching puffs of wind and moving swiftly for small stretches, then letting the sail luff again and trailing their hands in the water as they drift. Jack begins to shout instructions to her as she lets the wind catch in the sail again. They’ve been researching all morning, and he remembers all the proper terms. She calls out to warn him each time she tacks. He calls back in response. She lets him hold the tiller briefly, then they watch together as the sail fills and the boat heels hard with a strong puff that Ellie’s seen headed toward them, picking up speed, Jack holding tight to her.

She’s sitting lower in the boat to keep one hand on Jack but she can’t see as well as if she were sitting on the rail. They slip into the channel. Ellie isn’t practiced enough to keep an eye out for the powerboats. The wind fills the sail once more. The boat heels, dipping farther down than it has since they’ve been out together. A wave of water washes in the right side of the boat, and Jack’s face transforms to shock as his lower half is drenched. Ellie stops, wanting to reach for him, wanting to pull the boat back flat, but not sure how. She grabs hold of the tiller, but she turns too quickly and another puff fills the sail before she’s able to loosen it. The boat dips hard and suddenly, its edge nearly going underwater, and Ellie watches, too afraid to move, as Jack tips out of the boat.

Ellie dives in after him and the boat falls behind her, the sail slapping hard against the water, then filling slowly and dipping down. She keeps her eyes on Jack. She’s only under for a minute. She opens her eyes wide — they sting — and there he is, the bright yellow of his life jacket bobbing a few feet from where she is; Ellie scoops Jack into her arms. He isn’t frantic; he looks confused and scared, but too surprised to have reacted yet. They’re in the channel and there are boats coming at them from both sides and Ellie waves, screaming loudly to be sure the people in the boats see them, and finally, bobbing up above the water, Ellie keeping hold of him, Jack begins to cry.

Things devolve quickly after Caitlin’s pronouncement. Maya watches as her food seems to age years over a period of minutes, wilting and congealing, looking suddenly inedible, when just an hour before it had seemed the most nourishing assortment that she’d ever seen. No one’s touched their plate now for a while. Maya gets up and attempts to clear the table before Caitlin tries to stop her. And though Caitlin motions effusively and begs a couple times for Maya to stop, she finally acquiesces and Maya has a brief respite, washing and drying dishes, putting away the pots and dishware for which she can find the proper place.

The conversation has fragmented. Charles sits close to Caitlin, on the edge of his chair, leaning toward her, his legs crossed. The color rises in Caitlin’s cheeks and she looks impossibly young, lovely, even. Her eyes look larger with her hair pulled off her face and she smiles easily, not thinking about the shape her face is making, not considering the things she says before she speaks. Alana has moved to the bed again to feed the child. Maya, holding a rag and a large green pot, watches as Alana cups her breast with her right hand, and cradles the child in the crook of her left arm. Vivian has a dark shock of hair and wears a yellow purple-polka-dotted onesie. Her hand is wrapped around her mother’s pinkie as she nuzzles into her and latches on.

Bryant sits back in his chair and sips the scotch he brought. A book, Maya thinks, a book. It’s more than a child because it might outlive one, because it will stay still once it’s out in the world. But then the book has no chance to ever be anything other than the thing it is right now.

“You didn’t have to do this.” Caitlin spreads both her arms, smiling. She’s close to Maya, suddenly, and Maya starts, setting down the pot.

“I wanted to,” Maya says.

“Well. .” Caitlin looks down. She takes the pot and places it on top of the refrigerator. “Not much room,” she says.

“I didn’t know you and Charles were so close,” Maya says. This is wrong. Not what she meant to talk about. Caitlin’s hair has wilted and a sweat-wet chunk of it sticks to the right side of her face.

Caitlin stands very close to Maya. She’s picked up the dishrag and starts drying as Maya washes the last dishes from the sink. Their fingers touch as Maya passes her a white ceramic plate.

“I was sort of in love with him awhile,” Caitlin says.

Maya pulls a pan from the stove and lets the water scald her as she scrubs. She remembers the day in her office, Caitlin’s unraveling, all the tears, the way that Maya’d talked and talked to calm her down.

“I was in love with an idea of him that’s probably not real.”

“You dated?” Maya wonders how this sounds. She thinks she feels Caitlin harden at the shape of Maya’s words.

“No. No,” Caitlin says.

The man she’d spoken of then had been tactful in his disinterest. Caitlin had felt worse, in fact, she’d told Maya, for the delicacy with which he’d declined. Maya watches the thickness of Caitlin’s ankles underneath her smock dress, the awkward way her shoulders slump as she curves her toweled hand around a pan.

“I’m more of an admire-boys-from-afar, live-life-vicariously-through-books-and-other-people kind of girl anyway,” Caitlin says.

Maya smiles. She wants to take care of her again, to hold her close, to straighten her shoulders and wipe the hair out of her face.

Caitlin shakes her head. “We’re better as friends.”