Chapter Seven

The Shed Boys

 

When she first arrived at the Port Cypress Boat Yard and Marina, Dora felt at home like she never had in Las Vegas, a city that always seemed like it was only borrowed by people for a time and was not really designed as a place to live. There was a certain chaos to Port Cypress that appealed to her, not so much because of her new peripheral role in the community as opposed to the “stage” life she had in Vegas, but because of the diverse and random collection of personalities in the yard. There were days when she saw the wealthy elite of the yachting society, a closed circle so pleased with themselves and their world--that of ever increasing boat lengths and expenditures to top one another just as they were being topped--that they were unable to notice the lives of the little people below them.

On other days, Dora would note the craftsmen she so admired, with their orderly shops and intrinsic gift of precision that made their woodwork an art form rather than a mere repair job. They could take a rotted cockpit coaming or a split toe rail and scarf in a piece to repair it, bringing the strength and life back to the wood around the damaged area in such a way that this was how it was always meant to be, and the original work had only been temporary. Their talents could allow a wooden boat to live on forever, much the way it is still the same ax that lives even after the handle, then the head, are replaced several times. Dora wished she could marry one of these shipwrights, because she felt certain their lives, and their relationships, could be maintained the same way, by repairing cracks and damage to an even better state.

In Port Cypress, there were the eclectic lives of the liveaboards, the temporary guest appearances of the traveling boaters, and the minstrel locals, often alone but sometimes in troupes, presenting comic variety shows without even knowing they were on stage.

Dora rounded the turn in the walkway by the office. In the yard before her, Luke stopped George and said, “‘And he entered the temple and began to drive out those who sold, saying to them, “It is written, ‘My house shall be a house of prayer’; but you have made it a den of robbers.”

“Shut the fuck up,” George said. He slapped the Bible out of Luke’s hands and it fell to the gravel at his feet.

Luke bent over and picked it up as if it were a shiny penny that he had just noticed. He continued, “‘And he was teaching daily in the temple. The chief priests and the scribes and the principal men of the people sought to destroy him; but they did not find anything they could do, for all the people hung upon his words.’”

“You’re a babbling idiot,” Mel said.

“There came to him some Sadducees who asked him . . . .”

“‘Sadducees,’ huh?” Mel interrupted. “Now we’re talking. Tell us about these seductresses.”

Luke spoke to him with his Bible closed. “‘They asked him a question, saying, “Teacher, Moses wrote for us that if a man’s brother dies, having a wife but not children, the man must take the wife and raise up children for his brother . . . .‘”

“Okay, now I’m starting to like this story, for once.” George rubbed his hands together. “Take the wife.”

“‘Now there were seven brothers; the first took a wife and died without children; and the second and the third took her, and likewise all seven left no children and died.‘”

“So how ‘come you never told us this one before?” Mel asked him.

“This is sweet,” George said, still ubbing his hands together.

“‘Afterward the woman also died.”‘”

“Well, no shit!” George said.

“‘In the resurrection, therefore, whose wife will the woman be? For the seven had her as wife?”‘

“Huh?” George said.

“‘In the resurrection?’” Mel shook his head. “Hell, you sure know how to kill a story.”

“Yeah, for once you were almost starting to sound normal,” George said. They walked away from him, dismissing him with a wave of the hand.

Many people Dora encountered in the marina were like Porter, ordinary people with extraordinary dreams of their own personal triumphs in the future. They were castle-builders who could not fathom the short life of something made of sand. They clung to the belief that the careful planning that preceded their constructed actuality would be enough to hold it together. When it started to crumble from the weight of reality, they were ill prepared for the consequences. Porter had made the leap from dream to action that day they left on Poco only because of her prodding; otherwise, he would have remained at the dock, forever preparing and planning until his dream faded away, like it had for so many others before him.

But in Port Cypress, the most haunting encounter for Dora had been the shed boys, a group of teenage runaways, or run outs, kids who didn’t matter, mostly boys who had had their childhood taken away from them by neglect. They wandered into town and started hanging around the boat yard and marina during the first weeks that Dora lived there. They became a legend, sneaking into offices, shops and storage sheds to spend the night, helping themselves to food and cigarettes and beer and then slipping out in the morning before the tenants arrived. They’d leave a calling card, tagging the area they stopped in, just once, with a single red painting of an “X” in a circle on a wall. It was always one spot, almost as if it were a discrete thank you note. Some people kept theirs to show off like a trophy, but most scrubbed at the spots or painted over them, furious at the invasion.

When the Sheriff started prowling the yard at night looking for the shed boys, they moved to the marina, sneaking aboard the finest yachts in groups of two or three, sometimes as many as ten on the largest unoccupied vessels, hunting the spoils of the lifestyle in the lavish refrigerators and the mahogany liquor cabinets.

The shed boys defied detection. At first they boldly wandered the docks, suddenly disappearing into a yacht as if they had vanished. Another time they rowed up in small dinghies that they had liberated from other boats in the marina. Later they slithered naked between the hulls in the water, climbing up on swim steps and jimmying a door or hatch.

They rarely damaged anything, which began to make the boys seem like young Robin Hoods to the ordinary people who lived on the little boats. No one condoned the theft, of course, fearing their boat could be next. But they secretly admired it. The red “X” was a symbol for getting what the others had, for what was fair, for finally getting what you deserved, damn it.

One evening, just after sunset, Dora returned to Willow with her clean laundry. She had never locked her boat because there really was not much worth stealing and she figured no one was going to escape too fast with a stolen sailboat. So when she stepped aboard and immediately felt something was not right, she set down the canvas bag in the cockpit and looked below. The main saloon and forward berth looked empty, but it was too dark to be sure. She took hold of the rail to the right of the companionway to lean in farther.

A hand shot out from the quarter berth below her and grabbed her wrist. She was off balance, and when the hand yanked down, she lost her equilibrium and tumbled head first into the cabin, slamming onto her shoulder and rolling on her back into the base of the table. She felt herself fade to black and then reappear in what she hoped had been just a second. She saw the silhouette of someone staring down at her, but it was dark; she felt him breathing, deciding what to do next. She panicked, trapped, cornered with no way out except through him.

“Are you okay?” It was the crackling voice of a young man, not much more than a boy.

“I’m not sure,” Dora said. And she wasn’t.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said.

“What did you mean to do?” she asked him.

“I was just hungry, looking for something to eat. You sure can do your laundry fast. I watched you leave and never thought you’d be back this quick.”

“Can you light that oil lamp next to you? That would help.” She needed to see him to size him up, and she needed to see herself and all her pieces.

“You aren’t going to scream are you?”

“No. I don’t think I could scream right now. I can hardly breathe.” She hadn’t moved since landing.

There was a long pause and Dora felt her wind return and her body relax a little. She figured the boy was still trying to decide whether to light the lamp or to bolt.

“I could use your help,” she said to him. “Could you light the lamp and help me up?” She needed to see him.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he repeated.

“I believe you,” she said.

A wooden match burst into flame and he fumbled with the glass flue until he figured it out. When the wick ignited she could see him. In the dark, he had sounded like a boy; in the lamplight, he looked like a man. He was an Asian/Caucasian mix, with a black mohawk that was short on top, shaved on the sides, and braided down his back. He was shirtless, muscled for his youth, strong and sinewy with tattoos of vipers on his shoulders and dramatic black leaves on his forearms. He wore a large, medallion-like earring pierced through the top of his right ear, above the lobe. He was exotic, handsome, too striking to let down her guard.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I could kill you.” His voice suddenly turned from timid to seething; he narrowed his eyes and looked down at her.

Dora stared right back. He’s testing me, not threatening me, she thought. “I don’t believe you really want to do that,” she said to him. “I won’t rat you out.”

He cocked his head as if to straighten her image. He kept staring at her, then slowly offered her his hand. She started to reach up for it but was stabbed with pain, her shoulder probably separated, she thought. He stepped over her and stooped down for a closer look.

“Do you want to try to sit up?” he asked.

She nodded; she did, because she felt too vulnerable, lying on her back like a turtle. With his help, she straightened and leaned against the bulkhead.

“Shit,” she said; it hurt like hell. “I hope nothing’s broken.”

“I better be going,” he said, as if about to skip off to school. “I mean . . . .”

“Who are you?” Dora asked.

“What?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m . . . . You people call us the shed boys. The sheds are our squats.” He looked at her to see if she understood. “It’s where we live right now,” he added.

“Yes, I know that,” Dora said. “But who are you--what’s your name?”

“I am Medusa.” He stood back up above her. “The Gorgon who could turn to stone anyone who looked at her.”

“I see,” Dora said. Her head and shoulder ached. She was confused by his words and dazed by her fall.

“I have to go,” he said, moving away from her.

“So did you find something to eat? I think you picked the wrong boat.”

He turned back to her. “I had a banana.”

“Well, I sure am hungry, and I can’t make anything for myself right now.” She didn’t want him to leave; she was afraid she’d pass out again, and--she was surprised to admit it to herself--she was intrigued by him, an intruder in her world that she held so private. “Can you cook?” she asked him.

“I can do anything,” he said without pausing. He stared right through her with his hardened black eyes.

“So where are the rest of the shed boys?” She knew she should be afraid of him, but the smooth confidence in his manner reassured her.

“Don’t ask questions about them,” he said. Then he seemed to change his mind, as if he were now volunteering the information. “My brothers are somewhere else, because sometimes I need to be alone.”

“I can understand that.”

“Do you live on this boat alone?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said. “There are a lot of times I like to be alone, too.”

“Do you want to sit up on the couch?”

“That’s called a settee.” Dora realized he probably didn’t like to be corrected by her, but it was a reflex, a habit, really; she felt it was her duty to correct the mistakes others made when using boat terminology. She realized now that it was probably an annoying trait.

Medusa just shrugged his shoulders, lifted her in his arms, and set her on the cushion. He was surprisingly strong.

“Aren’t you getting cold? I could lend you a sweatshirt or something,” she said.

“I don’t get cold.” He stood up and backed away from her to the steps.

“Okay. Well, there’re eggs in the cooler there, and some bread and butter. I don’t have much . . . is that all right with you?”

“It doesn’t matter what we eat.”

“That’s an interesting name, Medusa,” Dora said while he looked through the ice chest. “Where did it come from?”

He turned to face her with three eggs nestled in his right hand and the butter in his left. “My brothers chose it for me. I had to forget my other name when I joined them, so they picked a new one for me.” He set the food by the stove and looked for a pan.

“I couldn’t help but notice that it’s the name of a woman.” She was afraid she was crossing the line, but he merely shrugged again and answered.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s a name of strength; that’s all I need.” He looked at her again, and she realized why his brothers had picked it--he could turn a person to stone with those cold eyes.

“I like your earring.”

“It’s the Medusa pendant--you can see how wild she is . . . she has snakes for hair.” He leaned over toward her so she could look. Then he whispered, as if sharing his most important secret. “This pendant is my source of strength.” He paused and stared at her. “What’s yours?”

“I don’t know,” Dora said, surprised at the question. She looked away.

“That’s too bad.” Medusa turned back to the stove to melt the butter.

Dora wanted to change the subject. “I really don’t mean to pry, but . . . .”

“Then don’t.”

“But since you came into my boat . . . without permission . . .” she said, ignoring him, “I’d like to ask you something, if you don’t mind.”

“What?”

“Are you and your brothers homeless by choice?”

“I am homeless because my family was homeless. When my mother had another baby, there wasn’t room in the van any more. Since I was the oldest, I left. I didn’t want to be a burden on them. It was hard enough.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Why do you have to say anything?”

“Have you seen your family since then?”

“No, I won’t see them again. That boy is dead and Medusa is alive.”

They ate the scrambled eggs and toast in silence. When they finished, he washed the pan and their plates and utensils and set them aside in the dish rack.

“You’re a good cook,” she said.

“Anybody can make scrambled eggs.” He rolled his eyes at her, as if she was clueless.

“Not everyone your age can.”

“Why does everyone base everything on age?” He seemed suddenly angry. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re right. I guess it should be experience.”

“Yes. It should be.” He paused. “I can do anything.”

“Hey, I’ve got an idea. My friend Lou has a cafe. I could get you a job with him.” She suddenly wanted to save him. She wanted to teach him and feed him and help him.

“You don’t need to do that,” he said. “I’m not asking for anything from you.”

“You were asking for food.”

“I wasn’t asking; I took what I needed.”

“If I got you a job . . . .”

“I don’t need help from you.” His eyes turned her to stone. He climbed through the companionway and disappeared into the night.

Dora spent the next day so sore she could hardly move, but she made herself walk to the corner store, more to think through the encounter with Medusa than to buy food. She felt an overpowering need to get him out of his situation, as if he was a message, a cause she had been looking for. Perhaps he was why she ended up in this lonely place. Maybe he was the reason that was at the end of her search.

It took her an hour and a half to get to the store and back, because she was moving slowly and looking for Medusa the whole time, hoping to spot him somewhere so she could talk to him. She took the long way back. As she struggled to climb aboard Willow, she sensed he was there.

“Are you feeling any better?” he asked when she looked into the cabin.

“You’re not going to pull me down again are you? I’m a little stiff.”

“Did you go see a doctor?”

“I don’t think anything’s broken.”

“Well, you never know . . . at your age,” he said, “your bones are pretty brittle.” She started to get offended, then realized he was kidding. At least she thought he was.

“I think my brittle old body survived this one.” She crawled through the companionway. “Have you had supper? I was just going to make a tuna sandwich.”

“I’ll do it; you can sit down and rest.”

“I’d argue with you, but I guess I’m too old, and way too sore.”

He helped her onto the settee and opened the can of fish, set four pieces of bread out in neat order on the cutting board, and sliced a tomato.

“Did you think about what I said about working in the cafe?” she asked him. “Lou’s a great guy, a great chef, and he could teach you so many things . . . .”

“I told you I wasn’t looking for your help.”

“But you could get off the streets, out of the sheds. You could be safe and secure.”

“That’s why I have my brothers. We watch each other’s backs.”

“But you wouldn’t need to, if . . . .”

“If I led a normal life? Is that what you want to say? My life has never been normal, and I really don’t think it ever will be.”

“It could be. It would be a wild change for you, but it could. You might actually like it.”

“What do you know about normal? You live on a little boat all by yourself.” He seemed to be mocking her. “Where’s your family?” he asked. “Is your life so tight that you think you can help me?”

“I . . . .”

“I only ask because you can’t tell me what would be better for me. And I can’t tell you what would be better for you either; that’s the way it works. We can’t possibly imagine what each other’s lives are like, what the other feels inside.”

They ate their sandwiches. Dora wanted to tell him she had sort of been homeless herself for a short time. But she knew he didn’t want to hear it.

He stood up to leave. “Thank you for the food again. I really just wanted to see if you were okay.”

“I want to help you.”

“I know you do.”

“Don’t you ever think about a settled life? Wouldn’t you like to be going to school? Don’t you dream?”

“My life hasn’t ever been about dreaming. My life has only been about reacting.”

“Do you miss your mother, your brothers and sisters?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“You can’t forgive her, can you?”

“How could I?” His eyes glossed over. “If she wouldn’t have gotten pregnant; she promised she wouldn’t any more . . . .” He looked again more boy than man.

“If you can begin to forgive her, you can begin to forget your pain.” She knew that sounded trite, so she added: “I know that sounds a little . . . .”

“I’m not sure I want to,” he said in low voice.

“Forgive or forget?”

“Either. What do you know about it, anyway? Like I said, you can’t imagine what my life is like.”

“You’re probably right there.”

“You’re living here, on this boat, the perfect life.” He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know.”

Dora laughed. “I haven’t lived here my whole life.” She realized he could never really know her, either. She paused and looked at him, scarred, tough, impermeable. “I never knew my father, and my mother drank herself to death and left me alone when I was about your age. I was lucky though; I had an aunt who finally took me in. So I can sort of understand what you went through.”

“Then I will give you more credit than I had been giving you.”

“What do you mean?”

“The thing most other people seem to have is a really easy life, and most of them are still unhappy. That’s why we’re different, the shed boys.” He looked at her and cocked his head to the side, smiling.

“I want to help.”

“I know.” Medusa nodded. “I know you do; I think you might be the first person who really meant it. But maybe you should help yourself first. Maybe you should try to find your own source of strength.” He hopped into the cockpit and disappeared.

The next morning, she went looking for him again. She finally stopped to see Lou, and over a cup of coffee she told him about Medusa.

“He’s this amazing kid, his presence, his confidence. If only we could help him, somehow channel him in a different direction . . . .”

“You can’t help people just because you think they should change.”

“But . . . .”

“Besides, the Sheriff raided a shed where they were staying last night. They all escaped--the Sheriff’s an idiot--but I’d guess the shed boys are a long way from here by now. It just adds to the mystery with them. Everyone’s been talking about it this morning.”

“They’re gone?”

“As suddenly as they came.”

Dora left Lou’s completely dejected. She felt like she should have been able to do something. She should have taken control. She felt like she had been chosen to spare him, to help Medusa build a real life. She felt like she had failed him, just as she had failed her mother, unable to keep her alive, and later, her aunt.

From behind her, Luke said: “‘He looked up and saw the rich putting their gifts into the treasury; and he saw a poor widow put in two copper coins. And he said,

”Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all of them; for they all contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty put in all the living that she had.”‘”

Dora ignored him and walked along the waterfront. Maybe Medusa hasn’t left, she thought. Maybe he’ll reconsider and take up the offer. She could find him a place to stay, help him turn his life around. She had so much she could teach him; he had so much potential. But in the end, she knew she would probably never see him again.

When Dora returned to Willow, she found the Medusa pendant hanging from the latch in the companionway.