Chapter 12: Blackout to Blackdog

 

 

The regional medical and referral center known as Western Baptist Hospital is a huge complex. When we finally locate Robin in her private hospital room she’s sound asleep, a round lime-and-white “I’ve Been Turtleized” Green Turtle Bay sticker firmly affixed to the center of her broad forehead.

“She insisted,” the nurse says. “So we know where to return her.” She is a pert brunette in sky-blue scrubs.

“I’m surprised she didn’t order you to write ‘This Side Up,’ on her gown,” cracks Trish.

The nurse whose nametag reads “Meredith” laughs softly. “Your friend said you were coming. She’s doing much better, but we’re definitely going to keep her overnight.”

I look at the absurd sticker again; a pig-like snort escapes me. I’ve picked up Trishie’s not-infrequent mannerism. The general laughter that ensues wakes Rob.

“Hi guys. Meredith here informs me that I am in the hands of ‘the leader in cardiac coverage.’ So no worries. Who brought the beer?”

“That’s the last thing you need,” says Meredith.

“No, the last thing I need is a cigarette to go with my beer.” Robin winks. “I know, I know, you have your rules.”

“We do,” Meredith nods. “You ladies are welcome to stay 10 more minutes. Then this lil’ booger bear has got to get some rest.”

“Booger bear? Nice one,” says Robin. “They want to do some bloodwork. I’m stuck here for at least one more day.”

“Is there anyone I need to call?” I ask. “I’ll camp out in the lobby. Trish can take the marina van back and pick us up when you’re discharged tomorrow.”

“My family isn’t too thrilled with me right now,” says Rob, yawning as if the subject tires her out. “No need to get big sister in panic mode. That’s Renee. She considers herself in charge of the entire family.”

“What about mom and dad?” Trish asks.

“Mom passed away four years ago this month. We lost dad last year. I’m happy they’re together.”

“My dad hated — hated — that expression,” I say. “He always said ‘when I’m gone, I won’t be lost. I’m not like car keys.’ And my mom went ballistic when I referred to her as ‘beloved wife’ in his obituary. ‘Beloved!’ she freaked. ‘He would never say that!’ So I changed it to life companion and best friend.”

“Nice,” says Trish, absently fooling with her phone again. “My mom referred to my father as ‘your biological sperm donor.’ He was out of the picture before I was out of diapers.”

“Mine were so cool,” says Robin. The mauve circles underneath her eyes make them look sunken and enormous. “They owned marinas in Michigan. Always had nice yachts. They would understand why I live on a boat.”

“You need to get some rest, Skipper. I’ll be just down the hall — Holla back!” I kiss her on the cheek; she squirms but is too exhausted to resist.

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I’m here. Don’t argue. We are not leaving you alone in a strange place. Good night, Booger Bear. I’ll check on you later.”

Trish blows her a kiss. “Nighty night, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“Thanks.” Rob scratches at her scalp, squirming. “Now I can lay here all night wondering if the bed is infested.”

“Nope, it’s not,” says Meredith, returning to usher us out. “We’re not some rinky-dink outfit here, we’re — “

“I know, the leader in cardiac care,” Robin intones in her deepest register.

Since I truly enjoy perusing People, Architectural Digest, Southern Living, Lucky, More and all the other magazines I can’t afford, it’s no trouble amusing myself with the waiting room archives until I fall into a light doze on a chaise lounge in the tastefully decorated, deserted waiting room.

I’m nodding over a back issue of Better Homes and Gardens when Meredith pokes her head around the corner. It’s shift change. Gladys and Evelyn will be taking care of Robin through the night. I am assured that the patient is “resting comfortably in good hands.”

I skate along the edge of consciousness. If I dream I do not remember. The air conditioning is blasting; it’s too cold for night sweats. I get up a couple of times to use the restroom, stretch my legs in the corridor and peek in on Rob.

Trish is back in the morning with John, wearing the same clothes she had on yesterday. I whistle a snatch of “Johnny Angel.”

“Oh shush,” she whispers the minute his back is turned. “Is it that obvious?”

“Where are your panties? In your purse?” I hiss as John walks down the corridor ahead of us with, I note, a very satisfied swagger. “What did he pick off the pleasure menu?”

“Zip it,” orders Trish. “Seriously!”

The first thing John says to me is, “Hey, how’s Derek? Shame he couldn’t make the trip.”

“Jim Dandy, thanks for asking. I’ll tell him you said hi.”

“Do that. Would have liked to do some pickin’ with him. Shame he couldn’t make the trip. Work, right? ”

“Yep. TCB.” Lame. Not convincing. Why didn’t I just tell him we’re divorced?

“Is he meeting you down in Florida or what? Where’s your boat?”

“We’re still working out the details,” I say. “It’s going to be a couple of hours before they spring Robin. Want to go say hi?”

Rob’s watching Regis & Kelly on TV. She’s looking perky; what a relief.

“Hey Trishie, did you feed KC?”

“Yessir, Captain Rob, and I walked her too. She keeps looking around for her main lady. Gonna be hot today, so I left her inside with the AC and TV on.”

“Wow, you must have been up and at ‘em early,” I drolly observe. Trish nudges. “Ow, watch it!” Trishie has very pointy elbows. I wonder if John has noticed.

 

The lovebirds head out for breakfast after I decline to accompany. “If you could bring me back some kind of breakfast sandwich, like a ham-egg-and-cheese croissant? Hold the mayo?” While not as extreme as Robin I’ve always been a plain Jane when it comes to condiments.

Test results won’t be available for a few days. Robin’s blood pressure is normal, she ate her breakfast and peed and pooped on schedule, so they’re letting her go home, much to her delight.

I realize that I can’t wait to get back to Blackout, either. Somewhere along the line she’s become home to me, too.

As we roll along the highway in John’s old, comfy conversion van, Robin comfortably ensconced in the rear seat, where she has already cracked a window so she can smoke, Trish switches on a country music station.

“What’s a bedonk-a-donk, anyway?” Rob asks. “Can you turn that down a little? I have a serious question.”

Oh no. Bad news. She’s worse than we thought. Dying, maybe. And running out of money. Or patience for freeloaders.

“I’m changing the boat name. Perfect place to do it. John, that freehand boat painter still around?”

I stop mentally packing my bags. “Yeah, old duffer’s still in the neighborhood,” he says. “Only works when he feels like it. Hell, that’s understandable. He’s going on 90. Seth, is his name. Seth Wannamaker.”

“Seth. He painted the original lettering on Blackout. His hand still steady?”

“Far as I know. Teetotaler. Lives in that little cabin in Grand Rivers just off the main street, the one with all the driftwood in the front yard.” We’ve all seen it on our golf cart rides into town to eat at Kitty’s, which serves some of the best Southern-style home cooking I’ve ever had the pleasure to tuck into. Robin is irritated by the lack of a cocktail menu in the dry county but is mollified by Kitty’s warm-from-the-oven bread, individual loaves blooming golden out of clay flowerpots. My mouth waters just thinking about it.

“Can you get ahold of him? I’d like to do it right away.”

“I’ll check soon as we get back. You girls still on for the BBQ tonight?” he rubs Trish’s knee with his free hand. “I got a mess of chicken and ribs ready to go on the grill.”

Rob begs off. Me, too. I don’t want to be the third wheel.

“If you’re sure you don’t need me,” Trish purrs from the passenger seat. The sexual tension is palpable. Electric. I’m surprised their feet don’t spark off the burgundy carpet.

“We’ll be fine,” I say. “Now tell us, Captain Rob. The suspense is killing me. Why do you want to change the boat name and to what?”

“I’ll tell you when we get home,” she says, stubbing out her cig on the rim of an empty Schlitz can. “Damn, I wish you had a full one around here, John. At this point even a warm Shitz would taste good.”

KC is beside herself with puppy joy, nuzzling Robin and talking a mile a minute in her whine-growl. Robin looks up at us from the salon couch, propped with pillows, an afghan over her knobby knees. “There have been way too many blackouts in my life. From now on, this pleasure vessel will be known as Blackdog. One word. And Miss KC here is Official Mascot and Admiral.”

“Woof!” It’s only the second time we’ve heard her bark.

“That makes it unanimous,” Robin says. “Done deal.”

Robin is out of commission for the next eight days, hobbled by debilitating weakness and bone-deep aches. “I hurt everywhere,” she says. Her stomach is also out of sorts. She attempted to sneak a couple of beers the first night back, subsequently alternating between nausea and diarrhea until there was nothing left to excrete, followed by dry heaving so long and virulently that blood vessels broke in her left eye, adding to her battered appearance. Administering the “little purple pill” prescribed by her doctor at the medical center turns the dull ache in her stomach into a stabbing pain. I don’t realize how pissed off and worried I am until without thinking I chuck the “Nexi-bum” bottle overboard with the lid off, so the little purple fuckers are sure to sink.

“Hey, that’s expensive!” Robin is flabbergasted. “And you shouldn’t pollute the bay.”

“Screw that poison!” I snarl viciously, before bursting into tears. “I’m sorry. I’ll pay for them.”

“Don’t worry about it —”

“Don’t every say that again. Please.” I’m losing it. “Every time someone tells me not to worry about it, something to worry about happens. It’s a stupid, fucked-up expression.”

“Whoa. F-bomb!”

“I’m sorry, Rob. I’ll try to get a grip. How ’bout a Pedia-Pop?”

“Why not. It’ll be something different to throw up,” she says, chuckling weakly. “Hey, maybe we’re both having a nicotine fit?”

We made a pact. I won’t smoke if she abstains. It’s lasted 14 hours. I don’t think either one of us can hold out much longer. Cigarettes are crazy cheap in Kentucky. Trish even remarked on it. “Gosh, maybe I should start.” But she was only kidding because she still gives us those Lord Help Me looks every time we light up.

“Knock knock, here’s your laundry!” The sotto-voiced singing-out is followed by a quick boarding. One of the Laundry Mat Bitches has come calling. Apparently Robin did it again: washed a load of boat rags, stuck them in the dryer and forgot they were there, causing great consternation in the floating hut crowded with two coin-operated washers, two dryers and a long line of women with their panties in a bunch.

“I’ve folded everything,” the buxom middle-aged dyed-blond, visor-wearing Brunhilda proclaimed. She clearly has experience as a Welcome Wagon Lady. Robin remains prone on the couch as I lurch to the side door to intercept the invasion, grasping our bleached wicker basket by the handles. The bottom is filled with tri-folded hand towels that we use to mop up various boat spills.

“More rags,” Robin mutters low to me. “No big deal.” Louder she calls over her shoulder “Thank you, I appreciate that. Sorry I forgot to get the stuff out of the dryer.”

“No problem,” she says, “I just took care of it. I know you’ve been under the weather. They were sitting there for over an hour while we were all waiting to use the dryers.”

“I’m so sorry,” says Robin.

“No problem,” she repeats. “Everything was dry so I just folded it.”

“Oh, that was so great of you, thank you so much!” Taking Robin’s cue I jump in with the praise. We’ll never get rid her otherwise. She must have suffered greatly on the Mississippi, where there are no laundry rooms past Alton. Our own pile on Blackout was erupting out of the mesh bag when we sorted it for washing a few days ago. The vital stuff — undies, tees and sweats — was laundered long before we went to the hospital.

She wasn’t going to let us down easy.

“I had four loads myself, so I just pushed you on through,” she chortled, a laugh not really a laugh. “OK then, anything else I can do for you? No? You have a good night.”

“You too,” we echo sweetly. How can we miss her when she won’t go away?

“Here’s my boat card, we’re on Summer’s Eve,” she says. “How are you feeling? Sounds like you had quite a scare the other day.”

Again I lurch, grabbing the card, intercepting her before she can step into the salon. I hate having strangers on the boat, especially while Rob is recuperating. I can feel her unhappiness because we haven’t welcomed her aboard for a tour. Tough.

I’m glad Trish is off with John. She’d scold us for our behavior and invite the dame in for coffee no doubt. Robin and I are at ease with being dismissive; as long as we’re overly, ridiculously polite about it we figure no harm done.

“I’m fine, thanks. Just catching up on my sleep. We really appreciate your help. You have a good night now.” Robin murmurs effusively from the couch. Nodding my head like one of those bobble dolls, I advance, smiling, and shut the door. In her face.

“Sincerity and brevity — you’re my hero,” I tell Rob, stuffing the rags back into assorted spots: under the galley sink, near the grill on the back deck and in the cleaning locker where we have stocked all manner of detergents, glass cleaners and polishes.

“I can’t believe random women keep folding our rags. We’ve been here way too long,” Robin says. “And if I ever get that OCD, smack me.”

“Promise. No more laundry trips for now.” I can see the veins under her alabaster skin, a frail road map. The view beneath her skin is stark, discomfiting. But the ugliest aspect of lupus doesn’t show. Sufferers collapse in throbbing agony, but like lower back pain there’s no way to x-ray or otherwise pinpoint the source. As I tend to Robin as she allows, I’m also reminded of CFS, chronic fatigue syndrome, another very real condition too often called into question as something a wilting-flower hypochondriac might claim, a lady lying in gentile repose on her fainting couch. When Cher started talking about her CFS, it gained more acceptance. After all, who could imagine Cher as a willingly lethargic poseur?

Each day Robin is a tad peppier. She’s “antsy to get moving” before another wave of Laundry Mat Bitches arrive. The name-changing project is a healing diversion.

Green Turtle Bay is calm enough that Seth Wannamaker decides he can paint on the new name while the boat is in the water, saving the trouble of lifting Blackout in the hoist and positioning her on stationary stands in the boatyard. With his ancient, hooded eyes and habit of tucking his neck in as he lowers his head to his work, the venerable artisan himself bears close resemblance to a turtle. He has tied his beautifully curved white wooden rowing dory named Carol Lee (after his wife) to Blackout’s stern rail.

Trish and I take turns standing guard for errant Jet Skiers and other rowdy water traffic that could rock the boat and splatter the paint. Seth is confident he can match the original gold lettering perfectly and congratulates Robin on a choice requiring only three letter changes. The previous day, he’d lightly sanded off the o-u-t and applied a black base coat.

In between pulling the boat apart to ensure that every item that bears the old name, from logbooks to the floating keychain to her Blackout cap and denim shirt, is either discarded or otherwise obliterated, Robin keeps examining the paint job from every angle. She even walked all the way over to the opposite docks to see how it looks from a distance. None of us can tell where the new black paint begins and the old paint ends. The job is seamless. Still, ever the perfectionist, Rob warns him more than once “if it’s going to look cobbled together just repaint the stern and do the whole name over.”

“Now, now Miss Robin, I did it properly once, I can match it properly this time,” he soothes.

Seth entertains us with the long version of the story of how he painted the Coppertone Suntan Lotion billboards all around the south by hand (getting the exact flesh tone of the little girl’s exposed hiney was particularly dicey), as well as the Weeki Wachee billboards featuring the famous mermaids. As he talks, his skilled fingers trace in a pencil outline barely discernible on the black hull before he takes up a series of brushes and applies the gold paint with exacting strokes. He’s chosen early morning for the project, because the water is calmer and the rear of the boat is in shade. “The late afternoon sun will dry it nicely,” he notes, “but you would never want to paint it in direct sun.”

We invite Seth to stay for the denaming and renaming ceremony, but he declines. “A body gets to be my age, it’s off to supper and bed before the sun goes down,” he says. “Carol Lee is expecting me. After 50 years, I know better than to disappoint my bride.”

As the shank of the day softens the light, cruisers curious about the ritual and willing to participate in anything that involves cocktails join Robin, Trish, John, KC and I on the pier. “Here,” says Rob, thrusting the piece of paper into my hand. “You read it.”

It’s a copy of John Vigor’s Interdenominational Boat Denaming Ceremony. They must have printed it for her in the office. Robin is not a computer-savvy person and does not wish to be. I realize that I haven’t really missed being online myself, although e-mailing may be a good way to contact my mother and the kids. I’m going to have to let them know I’m alive. The truth is I’ve lost track of time, a common traveling-boater ailment or blessing, depending on whether you need to know what day it is. Since my immediate family and I speak so seldom, maybe once every couple of months, I doubt anyone has even gotten around to wondering where I am. Except for Derek.

But I don’t want to think of him right now. Or ever. The boaters watch as I take position on Blackout’s — soon to be Blackdog’s — bow. I’m grateful I don’t know any of them except John.

When I told Robin and Trish it would be best if I stayed in the boat during the ceremony they balked. “The Laundry Bitch recognized me. I should play it safe.”

“She thought you looked familiar. Big whoop,” says Robin. “What would she or anybody else do about it anyway?” Trish is nodding.

It’s nice, feeling free. I savor that simple, unknotted feeling as I take a deep breath:

“In the name of all who have sailed aboard this ship in the past, and in the name of all who may sail aboard her in the future, we invoke the ancient gods of the wind and the sea to favor us with their blessing today.

“Mighty Neptune, king of all that moves in or on the waves, and mighty Aeolus, guardian of the winds and all that blows before them: We offer you thanks for the protection you have afforded this vessel in the past. We voice our gratitude that she has always found shelter from tempest and storm and enjoyed safe passage to port.

“Now, wherefore, we submit this supplication, that the name whereby this vessel has hitherto been known, Blackout, be struck and removed from your records.

“Further, we ask that when she is again presented for blessing with another name, she shall be recognized and shall be accorded once again the selfsame privileges she previously enjoyed.

“In return for which, we rededicate this vessel to your domain in full knowledge that she shall be subject as always to the immutable laws of the gods of the wind and the sea.

“In consequence, whereof, and in good faith, we seal this pact with a libation offered according to the hallowed ritual of the sea.”

Robin insisted on a Miller Lite toast. “I can’t stand champagne,” she says. “And anyway, Miller is known as the ‘Champagne of Beers.’ ” The assemblage whistles and claps as she cheerfully hoists a can.

“Do I pour it out West to East or East to West?” She asks.

“Do both,” I advise. “Use a full can for each. The gods want only the best, and they want it all.”

“Here’s to you, Neptune, Poseidon, Eel-lust…”

“It’s EE-oh-lus,” I correct and for once she obligingly pronounces the slaughtered moniker properly without argument. The spectators cheer. One of the Laundry Mat Bitches waves her visor in the air.

A ruddy-faced, white-haired gent, from a 50-foot classic Trumpy Yacht named Irish Eyes, insists on passing up a bottle of Glenfiddich. “Add that to your christening liquids,” he shouts over the loud crowd, smiling merrily. “We could all use a bit of the luck and a blessing from the gods. The bottle will break on the bow — a bit more smashing than an aluminum can, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hadn’t thought of that,” admits Robin. “Thank you. But I have to tell you, I’m glad I don’t have to drink it.

“Trishie, Hailey, come over here with me.” KC is already sitting at her feet — actually on her feet-cowed by the crowd but excited to have her beloved’s attention. “KC, move just a little sweetheart. There you go. Ahem,” Rob rattles another sheet of paper. “Thank God this part is a lot shorter.” The spectators laugh.

“I name this ship Blackdog, and may she bring fair winds and good fortune to all who sail on her!”

“Let’s get the sheet,” I nod to Trish. We board the boat amidships and head for the back deck, to the draped stern. We each grasp a lightly taped corner, pulling the tarp off to reveal the gleaming gold new name. “OK, Rob, let ’er rip!”

As we move forward to join Captain Rob and Admiral KC, we hear the busting glass of the Scotch bottle breaking on the bow, accompanied by applause, as John softly plays “Son of a Son of a Sailor,” vintage Jimmy Buffett, on his guitar. A few people are clicking away with phone cameras and real cameras. Shit. Hadn’t thought of that. By sheer luck I’m out of range, although I have gussied up for the occasion, digging out the peach sundress and espadrilles stuffed in the bottom of my ditch bag.

“To Blackdog!” Robin toasts.

“To Blackdog!”

“As soon as the shirts are done, we’re outta here,” Robin tells Trish and me. “I ordered them yesterday, along with a scarf for KC.” There’s an on-site embroidery and silk-screening shop. I should have guessed she’d need Blackdog replacements for her Blackout hat and shirts.

“Did you ask yet?” says John, stepping up next to Trish and placing a possessive paw on her derriere.

“What?” I’m wondering if Trishie’s gonna jump ship. I can tell Robin’s thinking along those lines, too. It would be a shame, but it seems to be her pattern, moving from guy to guy. Who am I to judge, me with my adulterous sport-fucking and drunken driving?

“Well I, that is we, were wondering — if it wouldn’t be too much trouble — if John can travel with us down the Tennessee. You can say no, I mean, I know it’s an imposition, but he could help at the locks and do some of the driving.”

“I’ve got a couple of weeks of vacation time coming,” says John. “Just an idea, but we thought it might be fun. And I can pitch in with expenses.”

It isn’t my place to say no, but I’m thinking “No!” as hard as I can. Doesn’t do a bit of good.

“Sure, why not,” says Robin. “As long as you remember who the captain is. And you bring your own beer.” She winks. Trish squeals. I’m trying to smile.

The more the merrier. Yeah, right.