And Dolores Sailed On

The indignation appeared to leave Littlewood’s eyes – but not entirely; after he calmed down and lowered the weapon, the Captain quietly returned to the cockpit and allowed his spleen to articulate itself one last time by punching out the lightbulb in there.  Then he looked down at the broken bits of glass and remarked to himself that it was a good thing he had brought some extra ones. 

And while picking up the serrated residue of his wrath, he got some cuts on his hands, but made no move to swaddle, and instead let the blood drip-drip on the wood floor, and drip on; then he slumped over the wheel like a study in unalloyed shame.

On deck, Stinson and Katrine worked to get Mrs. Juhl’s body back into the coffin.  The leather binds that had held her down must have been lost when she was lobbed into the water, so all they could do was straighten her up as best they could and pull harder on the ropes which restrained the box to minimise slack.

‘I’m so sorry...’ began Stinson.  ‘...for all this loss.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Katrine.  She seemed to be holding up quite well.  But Stinson knew a soft vizard when he saw one.  There was psychology in priesting too, you know. 

‘He was a lovely man,’ he said.  ‘And, I’m sure, a wonderful father.’

‘Step-father.’

‘But still...father.’

‘What is a father but a strange man.’

‘He wasn’t that strange.’

‘I disagree.  He was.  And I’m proud to say so.’

Masterson didn’t offer to help them with the body.  He retreated to port side and took out his pack of cigarettes which were soaked through and through from all the pandemonium.  He mooched through the box looking for the least-saturated one and was eventually able to have a damp and unwieldy smoke which disintegrated after about five puffs.   The ash he deposited made black veins quaver in the frozen water like the Shannon minnows he used to watch from the bridge in Athlone, except thinner and slower they were.  They were. 

Father Masterson was not unused to a spot of brutalising.  Indeed, he liked to brutalise.  So why now was he feeling so troubled?  Normally he would celebrate such grand events of provocation and contest.  But now – nothing.  Nothing but the minnows.

As Littlewood started the engines up, Father Geissel wept further in the cubby room.  Among the scattered books, he noticed the last book Walter had been reading before the fall: a book of poems by Keats.

He picked it up, put the Elgar record on, and leafed through its pages of nightingales and men as Dolores Costello sailed on.