The Boatmaker by John Benditt Read Free Book Online Page A

that has happened, after every blow she has delivered, psychic or physical, he needs her love exactly as he did when he was a boy. When his brother died, he wanted to save her. He knew he could never take his brother’s place, but he thought he could save her from darkness and drink. He couldn’t. When he reached out to hold and comfort her, she pushed him away, more roughly each time. His boat will make her see him differently. He is sure that in her eyes he will never be as good as his brother, but perhaps he can be betterthan his father—better than he feels at this moment, shamed in yellow light. His mother works methodically, her jaw clenching and unclenching as the needle passes through and out of cream-colored fabric.
    â€œWhy don’t you ever talk about how he died?”
    â€œ Who? ” She looks up, her face flushing a deeper red. His guts turn to water, and he wants to run, but he makes himself hold his ground.
    â€œMy brother.” His breath is tight. He can’t believe his audacity in mentioning his brother. He is sure she will explode. But she doesn’t. Her tone is low and even. It feels worse than an explosion, if that is possible.
    â€œYou know what happened. Everyone on this nasty spittle of an island knows it. You can hear them whispering in the dark.”
    â€œI want to hear it from you.”
    For a moment, she just looks at him, then says, in a deep, raspy voice: “Your father killed him. You know that. ”
    â€œI don’t know it. You never talk about it. All I know is what people say.”
    Her face darkens until the red seems black. “There’s no mystery. Your father took him into the sea and drowned him. He knew how much I loved that boy. He did it because he hates me. And because he’s a weakling.” She leans over for her bottle, brings it up and drinks.
    He is getting what he came for, and that is important. But it is harder to bear than if she had exploded and beaten him.
    She looks straight ahead, away from him, in her own thoughts. “ He was the one, ” she says quietly, as if to herself. “He was so beautiful. What a man he would have been. He could have been anything he wanted. He could have left this spitfleck of an island and gone anywhere. Big Island. The Mainland. Europe, even. He could have been anything. Not like his father—that half-man. Or the other one—another weakling. Crying and wanting what I don’t have.”
    Tears run down her face. She wipes her nose on her sleeve, takes another pull on the bottle. As she swallows, she looks up at him as if she is surprised to see someone standing in her house. He knows that when he leaves this house, he will want a drink—badly.
    â€œI’m leaving.”
    â€œYou left before.”
    â€œI’m leaving Small Island.”
    â€œAnd how would the likes of you leave Small Island? You have money for passage on the steamer? I doubt it. ” She spits.
    â€œI’m building a boat.”
    â€œA boat? How do you know how to build one? On this island, only the boatbuilder families do that.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œWhen are you doing this?”
    â€œSoon.”
    She looks at him long and hard, sets the bottle down and gets up, leaving her embroidery on the chair. The floorboards creak under her bare feet, which look as large and tough as tree roots. She leans over, opens the top drawer of her sideboard and takes something out. She closes the drawer, turns and comes toward him holding what she removed from the drawer. When she is close to him, her head is level with his shoulder. He wants to touch her, but he’s sure that if he does, she will slap his hand away.
    She takes his hand, lifts it up and puts something made of linen into it. “Take this. It’s all I have. Now leave me. ”
    He turns and walks down the wooden steps, leaving the door open. The boards are loose. He should come back and fix them. He