Viator

—Please don’t hang up, he said.

—Thomas. Her voice was tired. What do you want?

—Just to talk.

—I don’t think that’s a good idea.

—If you didn’t want to talk, why’d you answer?

—I was falling asleep—I forgot to look at the caller ID.

—What time is it?

—After eleven sometime.

—Sorry.

She made a diffident noise and he said, You wouldn’t have answered if you saw it was me?

—Is this what you want to talk about? About whether or not I want to talk?

—No.

He would have liked to tell her about Cape Lorraine, the Iron Shore, but it wasn’t the kind of thing he could explain over the phone; he’d have to sit her down face-to-face and persuade her to listen to everything, to react unemotionally. He thought to ask how she was doing, canceled that because she would probably respond with irony, and finally said, I miss you, and added hurriedly, I realize that’s my fault, but it’s true nonetheless.

She was silent, then an indrawn breath, signaling that she had started to speak; then another brief silence. Would it make you happy if I said I missed you? she asked.

—No, it wouldn’t make me happy. Arlene, I…

—Why did you call? What do we have to talk about? Should I tell you the latest gossip? I got in the plasma TV Gary ordered for the bar. Is that what you’re after?

—If it works for you…Yeah. I’d settle for it.

Despairingly, she said, God! Why did you call?

—The truth? I was remembering watching you get dressed one morning. I got lonely.

He heard her television switch on, a voice blaring.

—It’s been ten days, she said.

That seemed too big a number, but he couldn’t prove it. I’m past the deadline, huh?

—That wasn’t my point. I was remarking that it’s taken you ten days to get lonely.

—Not really. It didn’t take ten minutes.

—All right. It’s taken you ten days to feel lonely enough to call.

—I didn’t mean it to go ten days.

—I know. You got busy. With your maps. Time just flew by!

Visible in the deck lights, a curl of fog squirmed against the glass of the port; over the phone, he heard what might have been a comedian telling jokes, an audience laughing. If I was to come into town tonight, he said, how would that be?

—I’m not going to answer that. It’s not a real question. You’re not coming in tonight. You won’t come in tomorrow. Eventually, I suppose, you’ll drag yourself into town, but I’m not expecting you anytime soon.

Her tone, in the span of those five sentences, had gone from embittered to angry, and he tried to mollify her, but she wouldn’t allow it, she kept talking over him, and at last she yelled, Shut up! Okay? Don’t say anything for a minute! Please! They had always been at cross-purposes, he realized. Always off by at least a degree or two, never quite equal in commitment or desire, in the direction they were seeking to push the relationship, always making slight, off-center shifts that left them imperfectly aligned—even at the beginning, when Arlene had been seductive, he had feared a disappointment and suppressed his emotions. Most of that was his fault as well. He’d had responsibilities.

—After tonight, she said, calm now, I don’t want you to call for a while.

—How long’s a while?

—I’ll tell you when I know.

He let four or five seconds drag past and was about to speak when she said, It’s okay to call if there’s an emergency. Or if it’s about supplies. Then I’ll put you on with Terry. But otherwise…

—I understand.

The recognition that she needed to be alone so she could kill off her feelings made him hate the world. He flung himself out of the chair and walked along the wall opposite, trailing his fingers over the Iron Coast, touching the Six Tears, six spots of rust in the lime sherbet sea, taking consolation from their strangeness, their valuable, validating strangeness, from all the strangeness of Viator. The immensity of the ship seemed to solidify around him, to grow suddenly palpable; he thought he could feel its shape and weight and dimensions particularly, the long, honeycombed half-cylinder of the hull wedged in place, as if the iron were a skin and he the nerve through which Viator transmitted its nightly report.

—Where are you? Arlene asked. In your room?

—Cape Lorraine and environs, he said, picking at a flake of paint on the edge of Mutikelio Island, wondering if he were to pull it loose, if the island did exist in the world next door, would that alter its geography?

—What?

—I’m in the mess.

After a pause she said, Did you call Lunde?

—I make my reports, but if you’re asking did I bring up what you told me…No, I didn’t.

—Why not?

—I haven’t got around to it. I’ll call him again soon.

—Don’t you want to know why he sent you here?

—I’m not sure him being Viator’s captain has anything to do with that. All it means is he knew about the ship.

—But why wouldn’t he tell you he was captain?

—Why would he?