The mood of the ship has lightened, what with Sloat gone and Bliffil restrained. Bliffil’s recovered enough from his fight with Mr. Jenkins to start in to bullying the youngers again, but he don’t mess with Jenkins no more. Mr. Jenkins tries to look out for the squeakers, but Bliffil is a sneaky one and he gets in his shots, though not as much as before ’cause now he knows someone may call him on it. I stay well out of his way, as his nose ain’t quite so pretty no more and he knows who to blame.
The prospect of a port visit, too, especially one like Kingston is enough to lighten any sailor’s load.
I’m stitching a line of white thread across the bodice of my dress to take the place of the lace, which the ship don’t stock. The sun is high and bright in the afternoon watch, four bells I hear from down below, when I’m surprised to see Jaimy’s head and shoulders coming up over the edge of the mizzen top. He don’t say nothin’ right off, just sits down lookin’ miserable. I don’t say nothin’, neither.
“Why don’t you come up in the foretop with the rest of us anymore?” he says finally.
I shake my head. “No, Jaimy. I just make all of you uncomfortable.”
More silence.
“I’ll bet you regret getting the Brotherhood tattoo now, don’t you?” he says all sad and downcast.
We saw just how far that Brotherhood went, didn’t we, I think, but I say, “No, I don’t regret it. When I got it we was all mates and I’ll always remember that time fondly.”
Jaimy seems to be trying to say something to me but he just can’t get it out.
“What do you want to say to me, Jaimy?” I put up my needle and look him in the eye. He won’t meet my gaze.
“When I was mean to you . . . I thought I . . . I was becoming one of those sodomites,” he says, the words not coming easy. “Not with anyone else. Just with you.”
Well.
“You’ll just have to get over that, won’t you,” says I, all brisk and cruel. “As it ain’t natural.”
I return to my sewing.
He don’t say nothin’ at all, not for a long while.
“I know it’s not natural and I know I’ll have to leave the Service,” he finally manages to say, hardly above a whisper. “Good-bye, Jacky. None of it was your fault.” He begins to rise.
“Wait,” I say, getting to my feet. “Before you go, I want you to hold this up so I can measure it.”
“Wh—What is it?” he asks, all confused with the turn in the conversation.
“A dress,” I say.
“A dress? For whom?”
“For me. Now stand up.”
As he gets up, I pull off my white overshirt and pop open the top four buttons of my vest. I run my hand over my hair, fluffing it up a bit in the light breeze. I take a deep breath. “Ah yes. That certainly feels better. Now, Jaimy, hold it up against me . . . Take the dress, Jaimy, come on. Don’t be shy, now. Tuck it up against my ribs . . . Right, push it up there, while I mark it. Hold it now. There. Thanks.”
He stands stunned.
I sit back down and resume sewing, but I don’t put my shirt back on and I don’t button up my vest. I look up at him. “What’s the matter, Jaimy? Ain’t-cha never seen a girl?”
It’s a good ten minutes he stands there staring. Then he sits down for another ten minutes just lookin’ at me. At last, he finds he can speak. He stands up.
“What are we going to do, Jacky?” he asks, all stupid.
I get to my feet. I face him, square on.
“Well, Jaimy,” I says, “you can kiss me, if you love me.”