While I'm Waiting...

I thought I’d post three samples of Story for a Shipwright. Three samples, because (as a handful of you already know), there are primarily three voices to this story. Samuel’s, Marlena the Storyteller, and Marlena. For those who haven’t read any of my ‘literary’ work, and may be a little interested, I shall post one excerpt for the next three days.The trick of it is not giving away the storyline.

The following excerpt is Samuel's. He's a 32 year-old boatwright, struggling with family responsibilities:

That evening, quite a few guests socialized at the house, so I grabbed a quick sandwich and ate it out behind the boatshed by the old marine railway. We called it the ‘working’ side of the yard, where we hid away the Travelift and wintering boats so as not to ‘clutter up’ the view from the bed-and-breakfast. Its seclusion offered the illusion of privacy, a good place for quiet conversation, or silent meditation. We also yanked out the ‘moaning chair’ beside the back door, when some project had gone to crap—when I’d measured three times and it was still too short. Sometimes Derek and I’d hang out there when guests overran the house. Back in high school, we used to light up a joint every now and then and felt as if we could get away with anything when out of my mother’s sight. Tonight, I just wanted some solitude.

The summer solstice had approached, so it stayed light until around nine o’clock. A little later than that, Billy appeared with a six-pack. I was sure he intended the gesture to soften me up, and I had to admit, it did slightly temper my dread. We each drank our first beer in silence and I waited to see if the next four were mine. When he reached for his second and took a long gulp, I joined him and could feel the alcohol diluting my resentment. He merely stared off and seemed to have no agenda—not that I believed it for a minute, but at least he deferred the pace to me. I took another swig. “How are you enjoying your visit?”

“Good.”

Beside us, fallen over on its side and half-buried in weeds, a dilapidated pram blistered and splintered, long relegated to the worthless, like old anchors, buoys, and decaying lobster traps, now as much a part of the landscape as the boulder into which it was disintegrating.

Tipping my beer toward it, I directed Billy’s attention. “You remember that summer, when I was nine, when Dad helped us build that?”

“Yeah,” he said, pensively, “I remember…but it was Buck who helped us build it.”

“No, man, I distinctly remember Dad—he had on that red hat and a plaid shirt.”

“Didn’t say he wasn’t there…he was. Except, he was passed out in the corner. Remember? Buck was the one who taught us how to use the drawknife…’cause Dad cut himself and had to sit down.”

I vaguely recalled it…remembered how Dad didn’t get up from that chair for the rest of the day. Billy didn’t say anything more about it, only that it was Buck who’d taught us how to build a pram.