Lorraine hung to the small metal sink in Davis’s cabin latrine, staring in the silvered mirror secured to the bulkhead, wiping her eyes. The ship rolled and she rolled with it, her face moving in and out of view. She filled a plastic cup with stale ship’s water from the tap and choked it down. Rubbing the back of her wrist across her mouth, she watched herself float in the mirror. Pastor’s assumption wasn’t entirely correct. Close, but not completely correct.
Lorraine had been up to the room twice today. First, just briefly, not even inside, this morning, she’d helped him back from the dining hall. Davis had been very quiet on the walk up—he was always quiet, the boy was like a stone—and at the door he’d said, “Thank you, Lorraine.” When she stepped in behind him, he’d said it again, “Thank you, Lorraine,” but stood there in the doorway, holding tight to his bleeding arm, like he didn’t want her to come in. “Listen, I better get some rest,” he’d said.
“You sure you’re all right?”
“Right as rain, Lorraine,” he said, and she giggled. She’d reached out and grabbed his hand then, squeezing it, but he was already half backing through his door and then the door was closed.
She’d had to work through the midday. Today was the galley, washing dishes. There were a bunch of girls in there today, all of them talking and passing the time, and Lorraine tried not to think about things too much. She showered after her shift. What with rationing they were only supposed to shower every three days, and short ones at that, but she snuck in anyway. None of her three roommates were back in the cabin, a nice change. It was hard to find any privacy on this ship. She powdered herself all over, luxuriating in a moment’s aloneness and the infrequent state of nakedness. She dressed in clean shorts and her last clean T-shirt, a purple one they’d sent from church back home in Indiana, to let her know they were thinking of her out here on the high seas.
This was the first she’d worn the shirt. A terseness had crept into the last few letters she’d sent home, and recently she’d stopped writing altogether. When the T-shirt had arrived from the pastor’s wife—in a package wrapped in brown paper bag, with a pound of stale brownies in foil—she’d shoved it in her drawer without a glance. Being out here was a mistake. Maybe this worked for some, this kind of life and service, but this was a mistake for her. She’d been out here three months and couldn’t do it much longer. Her pastor at home had talked her into it, talked her into joining the ship mission, when she’d lost her boyfriend and her job. Her boyfriend—Frank—was a member of Lorraine’s congregation; so was his wife. He was also Lorraine’s boss, branch manager of the bank she’d been a teller at since graduating high school. It was complicated.
A few weeks after he’d been transferred to Lorraine’s branch Frank started staying late, to help her close, even though it wasn’t his job to do that; he was allowed to go at five. He’d stand very close as they counted bills and closed-out drawers. He smelled good, she thought, with a thick chest and clean-shaven face. He never tried to take her out and ply her with drinks. It just was what it was, no pretending to be anything else. The first time had been on the old couch in the break room, with the burnt-coffee smell and the yellow refrigerator. She thought it was kind of cute when she realized he’d had it planned, fretted over, mapped out: “Lorraine, maybe if you don’t have to rush right out the door tonight…” It was cute. She put him out of his misery by kissing him, somewhat taken aback then at how ravenous he became. Like a switch thrown. Hands shaking, kneeling on the couch between her parted legs, he’d been so nervous he didn’t even get the condom rolled on all the way. But she’d put her arms around him, held him, not letting him feel bad, and they’d tried again with slightly better success.
Frank got bolder as time went by. They never took it out of the bank, and never, ever during business hours, but they seldom went back to the break room again after closing. This was fine with Lorraine; the old couch was itchy, and she had to eat her lunch in there. It was hard talking to the girls with the thoughts of that stuff just steps away from their table. Besides, she thought he looked stronger, more like himself, standing, holding her upright in a corner of his office. A few times he made her stand at the closed drive-through window and pretend to be with a customer—Good evening, Mister Montgomery! Do you want that all in twenties?—while he knelt before her under the counter. Once he wanted to be the banker at the window, and she knelt under the counter, his ultraclean smell filling her mouth. He had a smooth, pale penis that tasted like detergent. They had sex in the bank every day after closing, five days a week, for three months. There were only two breaks; once he took two days off to have a wart removed from the side of his foot, and once he took a week’s vacation with his wife and two daughters to Disney in Florida. Lorraine had never really been completely comfortable with things—his office, for instance, was covered with family photos—but while he was in Florida was the worst. In the bank she could pretend a different reality, that it was just the two of them, but a man doesn’t go to Disney alone and the weight of his kids became too much for her to bear, the thought of seeing his wife in her trim, fancy pink stuff on Sunday mornings at church too much. She told it all to her pastor, the whole story spilling out through tears after Thursday-night Young Women’s Bible Study. The pastor came by the bank on Friday morning with a leaflet for the missionary ship. She was young, she was directionless, she needed a change. That’s what he said. When Frank came back to work on Monday—his pale skin reddened from the Orlando sun, neck peeling—Lorraine resigned with a simple explanation: “We can’t anymore, Frank. It’s not right.” She went through the door promptly at five, leaving him to close alone. He came by her apartment that night. He’d never been there, and she’d never seen him in anything but a suit; he looked funny to her in chinos and a green polo. “How am I going to make it without you?” he pleaded, standing in the doorway, trying to push his way in. “You can’t come in, Frank,” she said. “It would be a mistake. It’s all been a mistake.” She was trying to close the door but he was persistent. Finally she took her keys and walked him out to his silver Buick. She wouldn’t get in, but she let him kiss her, standing by the trunk in the dark parking lot, his whole body so desperate. She pulled his rock-hard detergent-fresh dick out and with a couple quick strokes finished him off, poor Frank apologizing for the mess and then crying.
It wasn’t until later, alone in her apartment with the TV on, that she thought his sobbed sorrys might be for the whole mess, the whole thing, not just the stickiness that hit her shirt tonight. And then she felt even worse and did some crying of her own because Frank wasn’t a bad man, any more than she was a bad woman, it’s just how it was and they were weak, she thought, like most people they were weak, and like her pastor said at this point in her life she needed some time to cool off and get straight with God and with herself.
“And what a fantastic opportunity!” the pastor had said, those massive teeth of his framing the laugh. “Floating in the Caribbean sun! Wish I could go along.”
There’d been no answer to her knock. She’d thought about it a moment, then turned the knob and eased the door open. The cabin was almost completely dark, her eyes still narrowed from the afternoon sun. She heard him before she saw him; “Is dat you, Santee Claus?”
Lorraine giggled. No one else on this ship would have said something like that.
Davis was on his back in bed, sheet up around his chest, leaning against a pillow. She could smell the alcohol immediately, a heavy fume thick in the air. There was another smell, too, under the alcohol. She couldn’t tell what it was. He saw her eye go to the bottle sticking out from the top drawer of the night table next to him. “Care for a drink?” he said, and patted his hand on the mattress next to him.
She took a step toward him, next to the bed, then said, “I’d better not. They could send me home.”
“Would that be so bad?” he said.
She giggled again. “No.”
He pulled the bottle up and put it to his lips, taking a swig.
“What is it?”
“Rum.”
He patted the mattress again, and this time she sat down. “Maybe one sip,” she said. He wiped the top of the bottle with the edge of the sheet and handed it to her. She took a big swallow and grimaced, eyes going wide. She held it, then swallowed hard. “Strong!”
“Lorraine, Lorraine,” he said.
She took another swig and handed off the bottle, lying back flat on the bed, across his legs.
“Oh this boat.” she said. She closed her eyes then opened them, focusing on the ceiling. “I don’t know. I’m trying hard, I really am. But…” Her right hand had come to rest on the sheet over his stomach. She gripped the sheet in her fist, pulling it in a ball, then smoothed it out. Davis took a drink from the bottle, then said, “Don’t let it get you down, Lorraine.”
She turned her head to look up at him, and smiled. Her fingers were moving in circles now on the sheet over his belly. “You’re a sly one, Mister Chief Engineer,” she said, then swung her legs onto the bed and crawled up on him, chest to chest, nose to nose. “Hey there,” she said, and he laughed.
“I’m gonna spill the bottle.”
“Roll over, you.”
“This is not Godly, Lorraine.”
“I’m just tending to the sick.”
He chuckled, reaching to set the bottle back in the open drawer, Lorraine pushing up off him a bit so he could roll over.
“I don’t know what you’re going to do back there,” he said. “I’ll have you know, I’m a virtuous man.”
She smacked his shoulder, laughing. “You’re bad.”
She pulled the sheet to his waist. He was leaner even than she’d imagined, her fingers moving over muscle and bone and a series of long, pencil-thin scars on his sides.
“What’s this?” she asked, tracing the raised scar.
“That’s life, Lorraine,” he said.
She pushed her finger down to a lower scar, the smoothness gone from his skin. It felt like a scab. She pushed harder and he flinched. Although Pastor had never said anything to the missionaries, everyone on the boat knew Junior Davis had been arrested, and that he was the reason they’d been delayed in Jacmel.
“Did they do this to you in that place?” she said. Davis didn’t answer.
Lorraine massaged from his neck to his lower back then up again, listening to his silence in the cramped cabin, the slow creaking sway of the ship. She rolled him over again, lowering her face down, pressing her lips against his. His mouth yielded just the slightest bit, a rough softness, face cold and eyes opening. Davis put the open palm of each hand on the sides of her face, holding her in place, then pushing her head up a few inches. They looked at each other but he didn’t talk, this guy never seemed to talk, but it didn’t make her nervous now like it had before. He put his hands down on the bed and sat up.
She’d been thinking he was naked under the sheet, but he pulled it back to reveal a pair of gray Army shorts. No mistaking what was underneath, though, and as he pushed himself up he did nothing to hide it; an unself-consciousness she’d never seen before.
She lay down flat on her belly, arms up around her head, burrowing into his pillow. It smelled of him, smelled of maleness. She snuggled her face deeper into the fabric. Behind her, Junior Davis crawled up on her, pushed up tight between her legs, tight against her. He sat there a minute, left hand braced against her lower back, reached for the bottle and took a healthy swig. Done, he leaned forward, until his face was in her hair. “You know,” he whispered, “this will work out much better for you without a shirt.”
“You’re bad,” she said, softly, then reached down and lifted her purple church T-shirt up and over her head, unsnapping her bra and pulling it free. Davis had his hands around her waist as she did it, sitting upright, keeping himself pressed hard into her clothed ass. Her arms around her head, she pushed herself back against him.
He was thorough. No piece of skin on her back and neck untouched. He would pause every few minutes, one hand in place on her body, the other reaching for the bottle. She had her head facing to the right of the bed, and even in the dim light could see the bottle level decreasing rapidly. He finally finished the bottle, reaching way low to a drawer under the bed, producing another. She’d never seen anyone consume so much alcohol in a short period of time. And he’d been up here all day, as far as she knew; she wondered how much he’d drunk beforehand.
It didn’t seem to affect his hands. He molded his calloused fingers into her, pressing, pushing, hard then soft then hard. His hands slipped down onto the fabric of her shorts, squeezing, drawing lines, then finally reaching around her thin waist to pop the button, fingers grasping the tops of the shorts and panties together and easing them down and then off. He reached up to press on her back as she tried to roll, tried to sit up. Lorraine put her head back down and his fingertips went to her inner thighs, tracing and circling, brushing lightly past and against her. She moaned, and he paused, to take a drink, then pushed her legs farther apart. She thought she knew what he’d do next and she pressed her chest into the mattress, lifting her bottom a little. But it was his fingers that went down, circling again then moving across her soft center, zeroing and picking up speed. She lifted higher, letting his fingers in, her breathing shallow now and quick, eyes closed tight.
If she could have seen him, she might not have relaxed. If she could have seen his face, she might have run from the cabin.
Late, late on a Sunday night, lights off, Tory’s breathing soft in her chilly barracks room. Maybe she’s sleeping and maybe she’s not. Jeans down and T-shirt off then under the covers with her. He’d rather be on the couch, even better his own room, but he’s been gone all weekend and there are already going to be angry questions—there’ll be so many more if she wakes up and he’s not in bed. It’s better, he’s found, easier, to explain away missing time if he wakes up next to her.
He’s tired, so tired, a tired he didn’t even know you could have. This is different from an Army tired, a workout tired. This is something altogether strange; a chemical imbalance in his muscles, and in his brain. So tired.
Tory’s back is to him, shirt off, in just a pair of his boxers. He tries not to move. His head is spinning, whipping, but he tries not to move, not to breathe, not to wake her. He’s so tired.
Her hand reaches back, fingers finding him, moving across his side and stomach.
He holds his breath.
“Junior,” she says.
He can’t answer any questions, can’t do it. So tired.
“Junior.”
He can’t answer. He pushes her hand from his belly down to his crotch. He wasn’t hard—furthest from it—but it’s a good soldier. He pushes against her, hands going around her, sliding up to her breasts. Tory has perfect breasts, he thinks, a perfect handful, firm. Not like the loose flesh he’d found his lips on earlier this evening.
“Junior.”
No questions, he can’t. He’s got both arms around her, and it’s about survival now, he’s in survival mode.
He nuzzles her neck, biting, his teeth grazing rough then lips to her ear. “Fuck me,” he whispers.
“Junior—”
“Fuck me,” insistent now. He pulls her tight, pressing hard against her bottom.
She wrenches away and rolls over, pushing him on his back, crawling onto him. Her face goes down in his, and even in the dark he can see her nose wrinkling, nostrils flaring.
Oh sweetie that ain’t gonna work,he thinks.You can’t smell what I been doing.
He circles his big open palms around her ribs, pulling her down, kissing her. She pulls her head up, though, and grabs a handful of his short, brown hair.
“Where have you been, Junior?”
He’s pushed himself under the fabric of the old floppy boxers she’s wearing, and he’s pushing, pushing, insistent.
“Junior—” she says, but he thrusts then, hard, holding her waist in place, tight, forcing up inside her. She yells—screams almost—and punches his chest, slamming her closed fist down on his sternum, and then she hits him again, but he’s thrust twice now, three times, four, spreading the wet, and her head goes down and she lays her palms flat on his chest, lifting herself and then dropping, and now she’s fucking him, like he wanted, head down and growling she’s fucking him and she’s crying. “I love you,” she says, panting, thrusting, and she says it again and then she smacks him, open palm, across the face. She loves him, loves all of him, and she wants to kill him, hurt him, make him feel it, feel it like she feels it. She’s slamming down on him, determined to fuck him harder than he’s ever been fucked, wanting to break him, break his cock, crying and moaning, and she makes a fist and punches him in the chest, then again, and when she hits him the third time he comes, deep inside her, yelling out loud.
Fingers in Lorraine, thrusting and circling, she’s silent and silent and silent then tenses then gasps, a quick audible breath and long moan, her body going rigid around his hand, contracting. He holds her there, on his knees behind her as she comes in waves, and—purely clinical now, on the job—thinks about wetting a free finger and jamming it quick up her smaller, tighter hole, wonders about her reaction, but then it’s too late, she’s done, he can feel it—her body collapsing into the mattress.
He’s done, too. This took too long, he’s exhausted, lost interest, drunk and bored and sick and just wants to sleep.Now I can, though, he thinks,now I can sleep. Just a few minutes.
But Lorraine’s button just got pushed. She turns, mouth all over him, cheeks and chin and forehead, trying to find his mouth as he ducks and moves.
“You liked that?” he says, low and laughing, but he’s somewhat disgusted, trying to keep his mouth away, her tongue going everywhere.
Her hands are on him now, pushing under his shorts, finding him limp, shrunk. She laughs. “We’ll fix that.”
Davis cringes, pulls back, but she’s got her hands yanking down his shorts.
“Lorraine,” he says, trying to push her away. “It’s okay. I’m fine, tired.”
“I’ll fix it,” she says, panting.
“It’s okay, I don’t feel great, really.”
And now her mouth is on him, taking all of him in her mouth, not seeing, not seeing the look on his face, and as his skin enters her mouth he grabs her hair and pulls her off, a yell from his throat, “No!” and he’s off the bed and in the latrine, door slammed closed behind him.
He’s in the latrine five minutes. When he comes out he’s in sweat pants and a black T-shirt. He thought she’d be gone, but she’s not. Lorraine is curled up on the bed, face buried in her arms. He sits next to her, touching her arm, and she shrugs his hand off.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s not you.”
“I don’t understand,” he hears, her voice from deep in the sheets.
Davis lies down, stretching out.This won’t take long, he thinks.It won’t be long now.
Junior closes his eyes. A minute goes by. “I don’t understand,” her voice again. He’d forgotten she was here. “I thought…” and her voice trails off.
“I’m sick,” he says, not sure who he’s talking to. “I’m pretty sick. There’s rules.”Christ, he thinks,how much did I drink? then remembers the pills, the handful of good ones he just swallowed.
How many did I take?
You took ’em all.
Yeah?
Yeah.
That’s probably not safe.
Nope.
Well, I was saving them.
Yeah.
Junior Davis hears a voice again, sort of floaty, “…I just thought…” There’s a hand on his back, moving in circles, kind of nice. He likes that, pushes into it.
“Oh, I like that,” he says, not sure if he did or not.
Who’s back there?
New Jersey, I think.
Yeah? I dunno. I thought she was mad.
I think it’s New Jersey.
All right.
A hand on his chin, rough, yanking his head. He opens his eyes.
You’re not New Jersey.
“…drank too much. Oh, honey, you did.”
She’s probably right. He doesn’t feel well. Maybe he did drink too much. She doesn’t look unsympathetic, though, whoever she is. Doesn’t look mad. Maybe she drank some, too.
She’s smacking his cheek now, and he has to open his eyes again.
Hey, cut that out.
She’s not looking at him now, she’s looking across the room, shaking her head. She looks sad.
What’s wrong with her?
She’s bummin’. Doesn’t like the Jesus freaks anymore.
Oh.
“…use your shower, Sweetie.”
Where’d she go?
Who?
That chick.
Which one.
You know. Skinny chick with the fat pussy. Chick with the smack.
Huh. Dunno.
He opened his eyes or thought he did but he wasn’t sure so closed them again. He rolled over, pretty sure he did that. The air was warmer, down here in the blanket. Thick in his lungs, thick.
Junior.
What?
Junior, where have you been?
I, uh—
All the time. You’re gone all the time now.
Was with Scaboo. Went drinking with fucking Scaboo.
He hasn’t seen you.
Yeah?
Wasn’t any use lying about it. They all knew now. She knew.
Downtown, Jersey. Took a few trips down range.
What do you mean? What—
There’s that hand! Shaking his chin again. The fuck…
Who ARE YOU?
“Honey, these yours? Did you take these? All these?” Rattling something, in his face.
Damn.
Yeah, that’s mine.
In his face. Crying, why’s she crying? It’s all good, really, not like—
Hold on, hold on.
Slap her, slap her, man! She’ll come back.
I can’t—
Slap her, man! She’s going out, fuck, she’s—
Gimme that, hold it here, right here man hold it here steady yeah tie it off
Too much, too much, she went over
No, more more
can’t be here I can’t be here can’t be found here they’ll put me out
His face slapped, hard.
“No!”
Junior? That’s your name? C’mere. Don’t worry about that.
Yeah, no, we—look, I can’t be here, I tried but she’s gone out there and I can’t—
No, c’mere, lay down baby
Hands, those hands, long fingers, those rough hands everywhere. Hands better than, well, better than anything better than all of it, chemical, mineral, animal, melts in your mouth not in your hands
damn, Junior, you ARE a soldier, aren’t you? Isn’t that the strongest one ever. Damn that’s sweet. Junior.
Who’s
I’m
Yeah
yeah, now, c’mere—oh
you kids want—?
yeah, yeah
tie it, tie it off
put your finger there
there
yeah