Borealis by Ronald Malfi Page B

yourself out, man.”
    He returned his gaze to the sea. “Not hungry.”
    â€œThen take a nap.”
    â€œNot tired.”
    Defeated, Charlie bent and rummaged through the underside of the console for the first-aid kit. Once he located it he stood, his spine cracking, and cast one final glance at Mike Fenty before taking the first aid back below the deck.
    Joe was curled in a fetal position on his cot when Charlie entered the cabin. His eyes were closed but he spoke Charlie’s name when he entered. Charlie sat on his own cot and opened the kit in his lap. Bandages, adhesive strips, a needle and thread, a syringe, even a flare gun and two flare cartridges. Eventually he located some Dramamine. Joe dry swallowed two tablets without opening his eyes.
    Charlie slid the first-aid kit beneath his cot and stood, unsure if the creaking sound he heard was from the cot’s struts or his own tired bones. He suddenly felt a million years old. For whatever reason, he thought once again of Gabriel. The last time he’d seen the kid had been six months ago, back at the trailer in Saint Paul Village. He’d been sitting on a telephone book at the kitchen table, shoveling spoonfuls of some sugary cereal into his mouth. Through the kitchen windows, the tawny lights of an Alaskan predawn bled up into the sky behind the black serration of distant firs. The boy was up early for school, dressed in oversized corduroys and a Batman sweatshirt. Though seated at the table, he already had his matching Batman backpack strapped to his back.
    Charlie tousled the boy’s hair and kissed the top of his head. He too was up early, it being the first day of a new season. Down at the shore, the trawlers would be lined like soldiers along the seal rookeries, dressed and ready for a trek across the Imarpik. He grabbed a bowl for himself and, in sleepy silence, sat opposite his son at the small table, pouring his own bowl of cereal and milk. They ate without talking, content merely with their proximity, for the boy loved his father and the father loved the boy, and in the pauses between their crunching, Charlie could hear Johanna’s light snoring emanating from the back bedroom.
    When he’d finished eating, Charlie stood, raking the legs of the chair across the linoleum, and paused to grip the boy’s chin. Pinched him gently.
    â€œYou do good in school,” he told the boy.
    â€œI know, I know.”
    â€œI’ll see you in a couple weeks.”
    â€œYou do good too,” the boy said.
    â€œI know, I know,” he said, mimicking his son’s tone.
    Yet two weeks later, Charlie Mears returned from the great salt seas to an empty home—empty, it seemed, for so long that the smells representative of his wife and child no longer haunted the empty rooms…
    â€œWhere you goin’?” Joe practically croaked from the cot. The sound of his voice dragged Charlie back from his reverie.
    â€œFinish talkin’ with our no-name little guest in the next room,” he said and left.

8
    Unable to prepare any warm food without the use of the petrol stove, he entered Mike’s cabin carrying a bowl of cereal and a glass of milk. The girl stood beside the dresser, holding one of Mike’s framed photographs in her hands. It was a glamour shot of Mike’s wife, one of those airbrushed, angelic portraits you can get at K-mart or some such place, her hair a nest of springy platinum curls, too much makeup on her face.
    â€œShe’s pretty,” the girl said, setting the picture back atop the dresser as Charlie came in.
    â€œBrought you some food.” He set the bowl of cereal and glass of milk on the dresser. “I wanted to pick up where we left off before.”
    â€œAbout your friend who died?”
    â€œAbout who you are,” said Charlie. He sat on Mike’s footlocker, folding his hands between his knees, and motioned with his chin for the girl to sit on the cot. She sat