Topsy-Turvy

Jerry looked at me wanly. His eyes were glittering and much more expressive than any other part of his face. He responded his pleasure in meeting me in a rather weak voice. His eyes were boring into me, though, and I got the impression that he wanted to convey something to me, almost plead for something. But then Tom spoke again, naming beer brands they had on hand so I could take my pick, And Jerry’s gaze snapped away from me and looked beyond me to where Tom was standing. I saw the little guy’s eyes blaze up and then dim. Then Jerry looked down in his lap at his hands and said no more for the time we sat in the fantail, Tom and I drank beer and talked about boat maintenance and the Miami Dolphins as the yacht steamed out into the Atlantic.

I had worked hard, and there was a lull in the conversation, and both the sun I’d already taken and the beer I was drinking too much of got to me. My head went back into the cushions as the yacht steamed along and I dozed off.

My dreams were disturbed. I heard noises, disturbing noises, groans and moanings and sharp little cries. I jerked awake at the sound of a louder, muffled scream, my mouth sour from the beer, my head throbbing a bit from having had too much sun while scrubbing down the Chris Craft, and the sensation of not knowing whether the cry had been in my dream or was part of my sudden wakefulness.

Tom and Jerry were gone, but one of the white-clad crew members was standing at the door into whatever lay inside the ship’s main cabin beyond the fantail porch. He was looking at me, and when I was fully awake, he pushed the door into the salon open with a hand and pronounced in a low, gravely voice, “They are in here.”