E= Glass-bottomed boat

"Glass-bottomed boat"

Stewart woke and reached for his wife. Her space was there, tangible.
She wasn't in the room at all, hadn't been for months, but there was
still an absence that was most keen in the bed beside him, to his left.
He had taken to laying a photograph of her on her pillow. This was the
photograph that someone, leaving no name, had sent to him, showing her
sitting underneath the iron bridge in the town, head leaning softly on
another man's shoulder.

If only his father hadn't been so talkative, none of this would have
happened. Old man Garvey, who had run the barber shop before passing
the keys to Stewart a year or so earlier, had been a talker. Boy was
he. Old man Garvey had an opinion on everything, places he'd never
been, jobs he'd never done, fish he'd never tried to catch, sports he
knew little about. Nothing prevented Garvey from sharing his views on
these matters with anyone who stood still long enough.

Stewart had learned at an early age that it was best not to say much to
his father, if he wanted a quiet life. When they worked together, it
hadn't been a problem. People had come to him if they wanted a quick
haircut and to his father if they wanted to linger and set the world to
rights.

But now his father mostly spent his days sat down in Bear Square
playing chess outside the Roald Coffee House (named after the statue of
the polar bear, that had been brought back on a whaling boat one day in
the Twenties, getting loose and killing a boy, looking like it would
kill everyone around until Johann van Ryme had shot it dead) or
drinking beer in Callaghan Square and telling tall stories.

People still came to the barber shop for a haircut and conversation.
They hadn't liked the way Stewart had been so quiet. The damn shop had
seemed like a funeral parlour, they'd griped. Can't get a word out of
him.

Only one thing loosened Stewart's tongue, and that was alcohol. So he
took to having a beer or two before starting work in the morning,
mostly before Billy got there to sweep up and clean the combs in jars
of pink and pale blue liquid. The beer made it easier for him to chat
to the customers. He was no great talker like his dad, but it unsealed
his lips, made him respond to the feeds they gave him.

After a while it was a gulp of whiskey instead of beer. And a while
later still, it had been into the washroom to lift the toilet cistern
where he hid a bottle of Wild Turkey and take a gulp more, just to keep
him smoothed out.

Stewart got dressed, and as he had done ever since he'd got the
photograph, tucked it inside his shirt pocket, right above where he
thought his heart was. He was a little out, but it was a gesture all
the same.

It was fair to say that the drinking hadn't gotten any easier when he
found out that Glenn had stolen Meg away from him. There was a small
quiet part of him that told him that he deserved it, that he hadn't
been any sort of man to Meg, that everything clean and good that had
been in him had been stripped away all-too easily, like pulling warmed
white paint off a door.

They'd had some times, Glenn and he. They'd been hunting together,
gotten themselves lost in the thick darkness of the forest and had to
make fire out of moss and twigs and a damp matchbook from the
Oystercross, told each other fears and hopes they'd never voiced.
They'd been in the car that day that Weingrass had knocked down that
kid, kept it quiet, never even telling anyone at the funeral after
Weingrass had choked himself with a leather belt off the back of his
bathroom door. He'd sat up with Glenn that time that Glenn had fallen
in love with that blue girl, Kate Croy, and she'd shook her head
quietly and handed him back the ring he'd pressed into her indigo
palm.

Glenn had been really in love with that girl, in spite of being blue.
The Croys lived out in the woods, three or four shacks about a mile in,
kept themselves to themselves. There was some sort of disease they all
had, made their skin a blueish tinge. Most of them light, like the sky,
but Kate had been like carbon-paper, real dark blue. Other than that,
she'd been a real looker.

Stewart didn't think she would ever find anyone better than Glenn. He
was a real nice guy, not all that smart, but the kind of person who'd
look out for you, take you home if you got too far gone in a bar and
were spoiling for a fight. Not that Kate Croy would do that sort of
thing, but it was a measure of the sort of person Glenn was. Not many
men would be prepared to marry a girl looked like the colour of the
sea, but he had been.

It was a bad day for Stewart. He could feel the drink calling at him, a
real pull. When he stuck to two or three beers he could fend it off,
but it was scotch he needed. Scotch or bourbon. Everytime he closed his
eyes, he could see it filling a glass, the dull clink of ice-cubes, the
burn in the throat.

If he went into work, he would drink. He was sure of that. A day
talking of nothing to dull men all wanting the same haircut, scissored
short at the back, but nothing fancy. That would do it. That would push
him back into drink, for real this time. He would start and just not
stop. How much could a man do, if he just cleared his bank account,
took himself down to the Oystercross and told Carmine to keep sending
them over ? He could feel the thirst in him build as he started to
think about this. He imagined chewing up an ice-cube, felt it in his
jaw as he thought about it.

Day like this, the best thing to do was to walk. He had some walking
that needed doing.

He didn't even want to pass by the shop and tell Billy not to open up.
Let them wonder. Maybe some of them would fear he was dead and think
kindly of him. He walked around the Knot, where the buildings came
close together, wanting to avoid both Bear Square and Callaghan Square
for fear of seeing his father and having to talk to him.

Stewart saw the man who called himself Ice, wearing a fancy suit and
smelling like almonds and caramel; he'd known Ice when he was just a
kid who used to come out and paint. Meg had been a painter too and they
had spent time up on the cliffs painting, out on Glenn's boat to paint
the coastline. The boy had come along too, making Meg gasp at his
ability, the way he pulled the sea and the sky out of the world and
onto his canvas. But the place was different now, since Ice's father
had given up running the factories and his brother had gone mad up on
that clifftop, building something out of stone that served no purpose.
Stewart nodded at Ice, now a man, but Ice did not catch his gaze,
lowering his head to glance at his expensive watch instead.

He wandered on, along by the jetty and the boardwalk with its greying
boards and faded posters, the smell of saltwater taffy and damp sand
floating past him. He found himself where he had always known he would
end up that morning, at Whales and Sails.

What else was there to do ?

He patted his shirt pocket, which contained a photograph and three
hundred dollars folded together.

"Morning Glenn, " he said, putting as much ease as his voice as he
could.

Glenn came out, he had a stubby beard which wasn't quite taking, longer
in some places than others. He had a hold of Jack London's lead, Jack
London being his Newfoundland dog, almost the weight of a
pro-footballer and strong with it.

"Don't want any trouble, " he said, cautiously. His rib had only just
healed up from that crack with the bowling ball and he was a gentle
fellow, not accustomed to brawling. Despite being naturally broad, he
had never taken to football at school, preferring baseball. Even now,
with his sea-whipped muscles, he would rather spread his hands and talk
trouble out than throw down. But if it came to it, he would do what was
required.

"Not looking for any, " said Stewart, having to lean against the low
gate as the cravings took him again, "I just want to go out on the
Clara Pandy, that's all. "

Glenn had a few boats for hire, sailboats and a few rowboats, but the
Clara Pandy was his real boat. The glass-bottomed boat that would seat
a dozen comfortably and was built to go right out to sea, show people
what the ocean was like, maybe cruise beside some whales. That was what
Glenn liked best of all, although the sailing wasn't as raw and fierce
with an engine as with a sail.

He told the dog to sit and wiped his hands on a cloth, "Not sure I'm
taking the Clara Pandy out today friend. There's no custom. "

"I'm here, " said Stewart, "And me and my hundred bucks say we'd like
to go look at some whales. "

That first kiss. It hadn't been planned. There had never been any spark
between them, never even a look. He had come to the house to talk with
Stewart, or more realistically to share a beer and watch the game while
neither of them spoke much. Stewart had gone out and Meg had been
trying to bathe a cut on her face, just near her eye. She had lied to
Glenn, but he'd known that Stewart had caused it.

He helped her to clean it and had then found some antiseptic cream in a
cupboard, squeezed out a little jelly stripe of it onto his index
finger and smoothed it over the cut. She had winced a little. Glenn
would never forget the way she had taken hold of his finger, gripped it
like she was a baby catching hold of it and the way that she moved into
the kiss, soft at first and then both of them hungry, clumsy.

It wasn't anything he had wanted but he had known right there that he
wasn't giving it back now it had happened. Whatever would result, he
would have to deal with. Didn't mean he didn't feel bad about it.

Stewart listened to the engine and smelled the petrol. They were some
way from the shore now and the air was thick with salt. The chop was
helping to take his mind off the booze. He looked down through the
glass bottom of the Clara Pandy, to see what there was down there. It
was deeper than he could see. He put his cupped hands over the side and
pulled up a pool of seawater.

"Look at this, " he said to Glenn, "This is transparent. Yet from the
beach it looks blue and out here it looks green. Water tries to trick
you when it gets together. "

He could see how men set adrift could become mad and drink sea-water,
there was something about it that was mesmeric, the way the horizon
moved up and down. It would never slake your thirst, you'd always want
more.

Glenn eased off on the throttle, letting the boat bob on the sea for a
moment. He fumbled in a plastic container, finding two biscuits for
Jack London, which he balanced on the dog's nose. They were gone real
quick.

Stewart could see the white pillar that Gladstone had constructed,
maybe he was getting close to finishing. It looked some size from out
here.

"What do you think of that ? " he asked Glenn, as he put a hand on his
own belly and pushed softly, like he was trying to feel an infant
kick.

"Meg says its a folly, " said Glenn, "Rich folks used to build them.
Show everyone how artistic they are. "

"Folly, " said Stewart, trying to pretend that hearing her name hadn't
hurt, "What's the kindest thing anyone ever did for you Glenn ?"

"Talkative today, " said Glenn, fearing that Stewart had been drinking,
those were the only times Stewart talked, but not usually this way,
"Probably my father, when I watched Butch Cassidy with him. I was all
tears at the end and I said to him, did they make it ? He told me that
they both got out and had carried on to Australia where they robbed
plenty more banks. Maybe I knew he wasn't telling the truth, but it was
a nice thing to say. "

The sea made noises alongside the boat, it sucked and roared.

"If I had a boat like this, " said Stewart, "I'd sail it out to the
Arctic. Get it up as close as I could, then get on that ice and walk to
the North pole. No supplies, no dogs, just like this. "

"You'd be dead in a few hours, " said Glenn, giving the dog another
couple of biscuits.

Stewart shrugged.

"I never meant to fall in love with her, " said Glenn.

"I know, " said Stewart, "But you never put the brakes on either.
"

"Do you want her back ? " asked Glenn, "You were treating her awful
bad, near the end. Throwing a glass at a woman, for God's sake. "

"You didn't see her, " said Stewart, thinking back to the stream of
tawny liquid chuckling out of that bottle and onto the sink, how
watching it go to waste had been so painful, like seeing someone set
fire to his house. The glass hadn't broken, but it had struck her hard.
He had saved some of the bottle while she had been crying, taken
himself off to finish it.

The glass had little dimples on the bottom of it and was heavy. Had it
been a wedding present, or had he got it at a gas station ? So much was
lost to him now.

Black shapes passed by the boat, so large and daunting. Glenn pointed
the whales out to Jack London, who didn't get to go to sea all that
often. The dog was very interested by them and put his front paws up on
the edge of the boat, fat pink tongue lolling out of his mouth.

"I want her to be happy, " said Stewart, "Just not with you, that's
all. "

And this was it. This was what he had been leading up to. There was no
physical violence he wanted to inflict on Glenn, even if the big dog
hadn't been there. That sort of hurt heals with medicine and rest.
Stewart wanted to hurt him the same way as he'd been hurt. Show him the
photograph that had given him the chance to pull things around, that
photograph of Meg and her lover, that photograph that didn't show
either man on the boat. Meg had gotten herself someone new.

They were both, and he laughed, in the same boat now.

Having that power made everything slightly different. Stewart opened
his mouth but instead of speaking, he began to weep. Not loudly, not
with heaving sobs, but quietly, without fuss.

Glenn just let him cry it out. There didn't seem any point in saying
anything and they'd never been the sort for physical contact, not even
that rough and tumble that some men have.

"Luke bowls a terrible game, " said Stewart finally, "Two spares last
night and he then bowls a two the next ball. And none of us like him.
"