(11)

With the sun at full strength, Bob could not trust his temper. It would be better to delay the confrontation. The grievances he held against Jim might enflame in the passion of a midday argument.

“This is getting a little heavy,” said Bob. “Let’s table the subject. Besides, we’ve run way over the discussion hour. Almost noon. Time for games.”

Jim fell back on his bed and stared at nothing above him. “You know I can’t play games on the Sabbath,” he said. “This is my holy day, no matter where I am.”

The memories raced again within Bob, for he had heard these words before. They had dominated his childhood. Saturdays were suspended in time, the tractors were stilled, the mules dozed unworked, the toys rested forlorn. “This is God’s day!” commanded his father, when Bob had begged for permission to play with the other children, those to whom Saturdays were crowded with discovery and adventure and laughter.

It had seemed then that his religion actually stole two days of his week, for on Sundays, when the Methodists and Baptists and Catholics marched to church in scrubbed pants and starched shirts, Bob was alone again. Sunday, according to his religion, was just another day, the first of the week, not the last.

In the silence of Jim’s refusal, Linda lay back on her bed. The quiet hung as oppressivly as the heat. When there was nothing to hear but the murmurs of the sea, the condition of loneliness could grow malignant. Bob could not risk breaking the daily routine and inviting despair only because it was Saturday. Hurriedly he thought of some way to fill the hour with an activity acceptable to Jim’s code.

He thought of one. “How about this instead?” said Bob, pseudo-enthusiastic. “You wouldn’t object to a game based on the Bible, would you, Jim?”

And what would that be?

“Well, one of us has to think up a Bible character or situation, and the others ask questions about it. Whoever guesses gets to think up the next one.”

“You guys would have the advantage over me in that,” said Linda.

Bob disagreed, trying to kindle interest in his new creation. Linda had gone to Sunday school probably as often as they had. She could remember as many characters and plots as they.

She brightened. “Okay,” she said. “I have one.”

“Is it Old Testament or New Testament?” asked Bob.

Linda pursed her lips. “Old.”

Jim, suddenly interested, raised on his elbows. “Before or after the flood?”

Now Linda made a frown. “Hmmmmm,” she said. “Neither.”

Jim laughed. “Is it Noah’s Ark?”

Linda shrugged. “I guess it was pretty obvious,” she said, brushing a hand against the wall of the Triton.

“You see,” said Bob. “It’s fun. But they should be a little harder. Jim?”

Jim shook his head. He was not yet committed to the game.

“Then I have one,” said Bob.

The interrogation began again. Questions from Linda and Jim narrowed the subject down to a woman in the Old Testament, but after half an hour, she remained un-guessed.

“Give up?” asked Bob. The others nodded. Jim a little annoyed, for he considered his Bible scholarship to be excellent.

“Mara,” said Bob.

“Never heard of her,” said Linda blankly.

Even Jim looked puzzled. Bob moved quickly to elaborate. His subject was originally named Naomi, until she lost her husband. Then she chose, as was custom, another name. “Naomi took a name that expressed her feelings. Mara means grief, or sorrow.”

The revelation fell heavily on the other players. Bob realized that grief and sorrow were not the best subjects to introduce. But, then, their plight inside the capsized boat was so almost Biblical that most any theme could be affixed to their desperate situation.

In a few moments, Linda put forth Adam and Eve, which the men quickly guessed, and she followed with the miracle of loaves and fishes, which restored the game to a lighter plane, particularly when Linda jested mischievously that perhaps Jim could pray over their sardines and make the cans multiply. Only Linda could get away with such flippancy.

The game stretched until the late afternoon when the sun relaxed and the chamber cooled. It worked, Bob’s invention, even though he guessed most of Jim’s characters, even though he stumped the others more than anyone. It became quickly apparent that Bob’s theology was stronger than Jim’s, even though he had renounced the church and no longer permitted its characters to shape his life.

“It’s almost dinnertime,” said Bob. “Let’s quit.” He wanted to prepare a new milk shake for Linda and put new salve on her sores. In a few days, if the salve did not run out, they would be healed.

But Jim had one more situation. “Wait,” he said. “One more.”

“Is it Old Testament or New?” asked Linda, for she was now familiar with the narrowing process.

“Old,” said Jim.

“Before or after the flood?” asked Bob.

“After.”

“During the time of the kings of Israel?” said Bob.

“No.”

“Before Egyptian captivity?”

“Nope.”

“During the time of the Judges?”

Jim frowned. “Yes. But I warn you. It’s hard.”

“Is it Joshua?” asked Bob.

“Nope.”

Linda raised her hands in surrender.

“Did it involve a man of God?” asked Bob.

“Yes.”

“Were there other people involved?”

“Yes.”

Bob tried to put everything together, turning the pages of the Bible in his mind. He snapped his fingers in discovery.

“I know. Was it a prophet?”

Jim nodded.

“Elijah?”

“No.”

“Then it must be Elisha. I always get them mixed up.”

Jim nodded again. “But I want more than just Elisha.”

Linda backed away. “I can’t help you, honey,” she said. “The only thing I can think of are the walls of Jericho and that was Joshua.”

A smile came over Bob’s face. “Could it be when the bears came out of the woods?” He nudged Linda lightly, so sure was he that this was Jim’s subject. It would be a clever allusion to Linda’s anecdote about the bear and the bell and the whistle.

“Afraid not,” said Jim, folding his arms in no small pride across his chest.

Bob mused aloud. “I can’t think of a single other thing Elisha did. Tomorrow I could probably name twelve.”

“Give up?”

Bob nodded.

“Do you remember,” asked Jim, “when Elisha was building a boys’ school, and an ax head flew off and went into the water?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, everyone was in despair, for it seemed the work could not be finished. And Elisha prayed. He prayed and he prayed and suddenly the ax head rose from the bottom of the river and floated. They got it and put it back on and finished the job.”

Linda applauded lightly, Bob joining her in congratulations.

“Do you know why I think that story is important?” asked Jim.

“Tell us,” said Linda.

“Because,” said Jim, “it shows the power of prayer. It demonstrates to us how faith and prayer can work miracles. Elisha believed and God caused that ax head to float.”

Leaving his sermonette behind, Jim hoisted himself through the hole and went topside. Usually he tried to absent himself when it was time for Linda’s salve applications.

That night Linda prayed before she slept. Bob could not hear her prayer, but he could feel her lips moving rapidly and silently as her body trembled. He wondered if she trembled from illness or from newfound fear of the Lord.

On the morning of August 1, Bob carved the date on the calendar beside his bed. Then he put down his knife and listened to the sea. Rarely did he go outside anymore. It was his belief that he could best conserve his energy by lying still. And, of course, it frightened Linda when she was left alone.

Today the winds must be at least fifteen knots, he estimated, and they were erratic again. Ninety per cent of the time the winds came from the north and west, giving Bob daily hope that the Triton would sooner or later run into shore. But if they ever turned and blew steadily from the east, then the Triton would be expelled deeper and deeper into the Pacific.

“How many days?” asked Linda weakly. She had slept well past the 7 A.M. wake-up, but Bob had not disturbed her. She was sleeping more and more.

Quickly Bob scanned the calendar. “Today begins the twenty-second,” he said, kissing her gently. A bluish cast had come over her skin, and the blood vessels at her temples threatened to push through the taut skin. During the nights, when she complained of her fingers being cold, Bob placed her hands under his armpits to keep them warm and often rubbed them to stimulate her flow of blood. Then during the days he held her fingers in his mouth; they were ice.

Picking up the water jug, Bob poured Linda a morning swallow. The water supply was going quickly, for she required more and more. At first Bob had sacrificed half of his daily cup to his wife, then he asked Jim if, in addition, they could increase her ration. Immediately Jim agreed. Now Linda was drinking from three to four cups a day. On this morning, there were but five gallons remaining from the thirteen discovered in the outrigger. But a pinch or two of powdered milk remained. The eggs were gone. Linda’s milk shakes would be impossible to prepare within the week.

Since both men knew that Linda was failing, Bob worked harder to combat the gloom. Daily he tried to introduce new games. At night he would lie awake, desperately rummaging through ideas, hoping to hit upon a situation he could turn into a game to make the morning hours less long, less silent. One he devised was called Wedding Gifts. It excluded Jim, but he spent more and more time topside anyway, looking out at the empty seascape. In his absence, Bob thought up a certain wedding gift, then challenged Linda to determine its identity, who gave it to them, and where it had been placed in their house. Enchanted by the memories, Linda liked the game best of all, playing it for hours, sometimes falling asleep in mid-interrogation, then coming to and resuming her questions without knowing that she had gone limp in Bob’s arms. Over and over they guessed the set of stoneware and the hand-carved teak fruit bowl and the tie-dyed wall hanging from Africa, and the braided rug her parents had given them.

Once, when they had momentarily run dry of gifts to remember, Bob began to talk of the piece of land they owned outside of Kelso, Washington—three acres of heavily wooded land, on the side of a hill, with a view of the college town and the river that threaded below. They would build their dream house there when they returned. It would be of rough-hewn timber and shakes, with interior walls of stone and wood. As naturalists they were committed to preserving the character of the site so they had agreed not to cut down the trees necessary for a yard. Their house would be settled among the trees as a member of the forest, not an intruder.

When Linda stopped talking for a while, Bob permitted her a brief meditation. Then he broke into her thoughts.

“What are you thinking about?”

“I was just arranging furniture in the house. I have every room all planned.”

Realizing that the dream of their house sustained Linda better than any of their talk or games, Bob found a piece of styrofoam and quickly whittled a rough model. When that was done, he pulled off a bracing beam from the Triton and began to carve the model in wood.

As she watched the rooms emerge from the block of wood, her dulling eyes brightened. She reached out to touch the house, and Bob let her hold it. Later, as he worked, Linda began considering an architectural problem that had been of concern to both of them. They did not want to cut down trees for a yard or a patio, but how would they create an outdoor area with lawn furniture and a barbecue pit, a place to watch the sunsets?

“I’ve got it,” she finally said weakly. “Couldn’t we build a deck on top of the garage and put in a funny spiral staircase? It would work, wouldn’t it, Bob? Couldn’t we do that?”

Bob immediately agreed. Privately he had no idea if the garage could support a deck, but he would not extinguish the faint light that danced in his wife’s eyes. For he knew, as he carved, as he held her, as he struggled to sustain a pleasant face when within him there was fury and fear, he knew that unless rescue came soon, the time left to Linda could be counted in days, if not hours.