The Memory of Place

"What do you have in mind? I'm not really going to be sailing until I get down to Marseilles, perhaps in August or September."

"What are you doing now. Luc said you were on your boat. I assumed here in Deauville."

"Not anymore, Doctor. I'm on the Seine now, the mast is down. I'm motoring across France, through the canals. Then I will put the mast back up, in Marseilles, and move on."

"Where? Where exactly do you plan to move on to?"

"I haven't decided yet. To Greece, perhaps, by way of Corisca and Italy. But I'm undecided, really."

"That sounds, I don't know, odd, yet nice. To not know where one is going -- yet...to just go. It sounds almost like heaven. You are very lucky. So?" she added, "you wrote a book."

"Ah, yes, my wife and I did. About a year ago, about sailing through the South Pacific."

"You are married?"

"No, like all good Americans, I'm divorced."

"Indeed. Most of the men in this room are from France, and most are divorced. Are all Americans so self-deprecating?"

"Yes, Ma'am. It's our defining characteristic."

"I see," she said. And there it was, the beginnings of a smile. Just a hint, really, the faintest echo of a smile touched the corners of her lips. "So. Perhaps I could join Luc and Claire for a part of your journey? Would that be good for you?"

Frankly, I didn't know if it would be good or not, but something in those eyes had me by the short hairs. I mean, they were looking right into the depths of my soul and my heart was pounding. I could see that her practiced eye was taking all that in, and that she was not unamused. Docs, by the way, can just look at a few key places and know exactly what's running through your mind...take my word for it.

"I would be honored to have you come along, Doctor." So said I, the humble world traveling expert sailor, in my most urbane middle school French.

"Ah. I hope you sail better than you speak our language, Mister Deaton." And with that she walked away. I think just then I remembered to breath again. Jean Paul, bless his heart, didn't even laugh at me, not even a little bit. I think he was watching the pupils of my eyes, counting respiration rates, all the usual bullshit.

◊◊◊◊◊

JP and I made the quick drive to Paris and picked up Mom on the anointed day, and had our ritual lunch at the Vefour; there's something inherently intoxicating about eating in a three hundred year old restaurant that used to be one of Napoleon's favorite hangouts. Anyway, the grub was good and Mom wasn't too jet-lagged yet, so we ate and reminisced and commiserated on the prevalence of divorce in the post-Tammy Faye Baker era. We drove back to Deauville and put Mom to bed in the middle of the afternoon; jet lag finally hit her and she slept for almost twenty hours. Jean Paul cobbled together a somewhat massive family get-together for the coming weekend -- even his soon to be ex, Marie Suzanne, was coming -- and Mom wanted to be rested for the affair.

I -- for my part -- wanted to get to the bottom of this nonsense with Lisa back in Charleston, as it had begun to weigh heavily on my mind. The idea of becoming a parent with Lisa was disconcerting to say the least, but the somewhat odd twist Liz had tossed out about a possible third party being involved only served to make me terribly ill at ease. I was hoping the matter could be settled over the phone, but was unsure how to proceed after my last attempt to talk to Lisa had ended so -- ambiguously? Something smelled fishy about the whole situation.

So, while I was sitting on the patio behind JP's house, looking out over the garden at the English Channel, I decided to call Liz. Again.

She was at the restaurant, working in the back office when I called that afternoon. I got right to the point: I asked her what she knew about Lisa and this alleged third party -- this Drew -- whoever he might be.

"Tom, I don't like all this he-said she-said hearsay stuff any more than you do. I'm just hearing things that worry me, you know?"

"Well, when I called her after I talked with you the other night she sounded fragile, but when I asked "who's Drew?" she hung up the phone. I think, well, I'm a bit flummoxed, you know what I mean? Bad enough she's claiming to be pregnant, but to me the situation appears anything but clear. Something's not right."

"Yes, I think so too, Tom. He's supposed to be a guy she's been seeing off and on for a couple of years. Drew Nicholson's his name, by the way. They were engaged a while back, too; at least that's the rumor going 'round now. Maybe high school sweethearts or something like that, but now I'm hearing that he's the one who ran off as soon as he heard about the baby. That would've made her nervous, you know, but I can't believe an attorney would try to pull something like this, make a false allegation. It's just too bizarre."

"You got that right, kiddo."

"You know, Tom, I never liked it when you called me 'kiddo'; you think we could do without that one from now on."

"I'll try, Liz. Old habits die hard, you know? What do you think I should do, by the way?"

"I don't know, Tom, really I don't. Hire a P.I. maybe, or just confront her; well, that probably wouldn't accomplish much over the telephone. But it's suspicious she hung up on you, that's for sure. Anything else going on over there?"

"Mom flew over; we're having a family get together at JPs house this weekend."

"Oh, that ought to be lovely this time of year. I wish I could make it. How are Jean Paul and Marie doing?"

"Uh, getting a divorce, or at least thinking about it."

"Oh, no, Tom! That's so, that's such bad news. What's wrong with this world? Is nothing permanent anymore...?"

I actually thought that was an odd comment coming from her. Somewhat ironic, as a matter of fact, but I politely kept my mouth shut. The silence stretched out for a moment longer...

"Well, I wish I could be there. I love those people," she said.

"Oh, remember Luc and Claire from Moorea?" I shot back, wanting to lighten the mood a bit. "I ran into them at JPs a couple nights ago. Small world, huh?"

"Oh, my, yes. I remember Luc. What a great ass that guy had!"

"LIZ!" Just when you think you understand women they hit you with something like this.

"Oh, Tom, just kidding. How are they doing, anyway?"

I filled her in on the rest, leaving out talk of Luc and Claire joining me on the river this summer, and I didn't mention Madeleine Lebeq, either. When it's over, it's over. No reason to rub salt in that wound any longer. I thanked her for the info and that was that. Cordial. No bullshit, no hysterics. Just like old friends. So goddamn weird!

I sat looking out on the garden as the sun fell closer to the western horizon, and resolved to be nicer to Liz in the future. Then I called Lisa.

◊◊◊◊◊

"Mullins and Associates," the voice on the other end sang out. Associates? Who was she trying to fool?

"Lisa?"

"Tom, is that you?"

"It is indeed. I have that on good authority, too."

-- silence -- then --

"I'm sorry about the other night."

"Listen, Lisa, I want to get to the point here; I'd like to know what Drew Nicholson has to do with this. Is that asking too much?"

"No, Tom, it's not. And you have every right to be angry with me."

"I do? So, this pregnancy is not related to anything you and I -- to what we did? The baby isn't mine?"

"Correct on both counts, Mr Deaton."

"So, well, excuse me, but why? Why all the calls and letters. And I've heard he's run off. Is that the score?"

"Yes."

"I'll be damned."

"I doubt that, Tom. I might be. But not you. I treated you poorly, and I'm sorry." The line went dead again.

This was about the weirdest string of conversations I'd ever had in my life, and after the line went dead I wanted to get well and truly drunk. I wondered if JP had any rum in the house, but knowing he was French, I doubted he even knew what rum was.

Boy, was I wrong about that.

◊◊◊◊◊

We drove Mom back to the airport a week later. She was looking frail, and it turned out she had grown terribly lonely without Dad. She mentioned selling the ranch back in Colorado, asked me if I wanted the place when she passed on, and I told her that no, my ways were pretty well set now. I'd live aboard until it was my turn to check out -- then she tossed out a bombshell.

"I'm thinking about moving back here, Tom. To be with family." I could see Jean Paul looking nervously out of the corner of his eye just then; I think he very nearly lost control of his little Citroen.

"Oh?" I recall saying, ever the master of understatement.

"There's no one, no family in the States for me, Thomas." Uh-oh. Whenever she uses Thomas I know she's like a tick on a dog's neck -- all dug in and ready for a fight.

"You know, Mom, if that's what you want to do, I'm all for it." That took the wind right out of her sails, and she actually looked disappointed.

"What about you? Where are you going to settle, Thomas?"

"Wherever the anchor drops longest, Mom." She shook her head at that.

"No children. Such a waste." Now that I didn't expect.

"Well, Mom, you never can tell about these things."

"Oh, that's a wonderful thought. My grandchildren being born on a sailboat, being raised like gypsies."

"Ce la guerre, Momacita."

Jean Paul looked as if he was going to explode when he heard that. He was laughing so hard he almost missed his exit for the airport. We'd all been drinking rum the past few nights, and I've heard that hangovers from rum are the worst. Maybe that was behind all this nonsense about children, and moving. Hitting a little too close to home, I suspect.

◊◊◊◊◊

Two days later, with Mom's revelation still much on my mind, I slipped lines from the municipal quay in Caudebec-en-Caux and motored upriver against the current, toward Paris. As much as I wanted to stop in Rouen and visit the cathedral there, I resisted the impulse; the docks were an oil-soaked mess, and I really wanted to move on to the big city. Rolling hills rich with trees and fertile farmland gave way to a broad expanse of generic industrial landscape over the next three days, and I struggled to handle working locks on my own. Still, I felt almost like a salmon struggling upriver, and too soon aquaTarkus and I were enfolded in the very fabric of Paris, surrounded by that ancient, gorgeous landscape. And I was early for my reservation at the "marina" too, but the manager found me a temporary spot to tie up near Le Petit Palais, right under the Pont Alexandre, and I had the Eiffel Tower right off the stern for company now, as well as, I think, about two million uncomprehending tourists walking by the boat at all hours. The funny thing about it was I don't think many of them could believe their eyes, because right there on the banks of the Seine -- smack-dab in the middle of Paris -- was a sailboat flying an American flag, hailing from Newport Beach, California. My bare feet propped up on the cockpit coaming, I sat there munching Reese's peanut butter cups while I finished rereading Conroy's Beach Music for the umpteenth time, and all in all, I think I made for a most unusual diversion from the well beaten tourist path they were on.

Ce la guerre, indeed! Je suis comme le Hollandaise Volant, condamnés à errer dans le monde seul...

◊◊◊◊◊

I met Luc the next morning, and we walked the block or two from the hospital where he and Claire worked to have lunch. We talked about the proposed journey down the Seine toward the first canal, and the rigorous trip to Lyon that would follow. The more I talked about the journey, the more poor Luc got worked-up about making at least some of the trip. By the time lunch was over he wanted to make the entire trip -- all the way to the Med! Clearly I'd have to lay on more rum if that turned out to be the case, but he was fun and enthusiastic about making the journey, and after working just a couple of locks by myself I knew I needed the help.

He gave me directions to pick up a cell phone that would work particularly well in rural France, and that would be cheap as hell to boot. And toward the end of lunch, he asked me what I thought of Madeleine Lebeq, and would I mind them coming down to the boat this evening to see it. Madeleine was, or so Luc said, very interested in seeing a sailboat, and in learning to sail generally.

And he was so subtle about Madeleine I could almost feel his elbows digging in to my sides.

So, yes, I told Luc I liked Madeleine just fine, at least she seemed nice after the few minutes I'd spent with her, and that tonight would be fine. I would have drinks ready about seven. I recalled now that Luc could throw down rum with the best of 'em, and I hoped Claire would warn Madeleine to be prepared for a seige.

Drunk sailors on the Seine! Who woulda thunk it!

◊◊◊◊◊

Arriving fashionably late, Luc and Claire knocked on the hull about seven fifteen; Madeleine, they advised, would be along shortly. I'd laid on some cheese and crackers and sliced pears, and had mixed up a pitcher of Suffering Bastards for my poor, unsuspecting friends. The drink has a long and storied history, but Trader Vic's used to describe it as a "forthright blend of rums" mixed in with a tiny bit of fruit, but the simple truth of the matter is two of them will knock most people on their can, so it's a good ice-breaker (ahem). Anyway, we sat in the cockpit and shook our heads, thinking that the last time we had all been together -- almost three years ago to the day -- we had been sitting in Cook's Inlet, Moorea, which is surely one of the most beautiful lagoons in the world. We had been deep in French Polynesia, and now we were in deepest Paris -- sitting in the same cockpit. The incongruity of the scene was startling to us, as memory was juxtaposed against the reality of our surroundings, bound together as one in the modest confines of my boat's little cockpit. I know it's hard to describe, let alone relate the immediacy of the moment, but boats have a way of transporting much more than the physical; our souls' had been rejoined by the memory of place, and it was all as simple as that.

Luc tossed down his drink in the spirit of the moment and asked for another. Against my better judgement, I demurred and poured. By the by, and I hate to dwell on this, but if you've never had a Suffering Bastard, head to the nearest Trader Vic's and be prepared for the unexpected. You've been warned. Anyway, Luc finished his second while Claire and I cautiously sipped our first, and I looked on utterly amazed while Luc started in on hers.

Madeleine arrived and I helped her negotiate the jump up onto deck. The girl had run out to buy a pair of boat shoes after work, she said, and I complemented her on her choice as I helped her duck into the cockpit. The little teak table attached to the wheel was up and ready for action, and she marveled at the varnish on it. I had to bite my tongue; Liz had probably spent a week layering twenty coats of varnish onto that table little more than a year ago. She had taken such pride in her varnish work. So many memories crammed into such an impossibly small space!

I fixed a Bastard for Madeleine and she flinched when she sniffed the drink, then she took a tentative sip at the thing. Her eyes went wide and a little shiver ran through her body. Luc commented that 'this was a real sailor's drink' and the poor girl gamely took a long pull from her glass. One thing about Bastards: they hit hard but get real smooth after about three or four good pulls, but after that -- look out! Luc was already three sheets to the wind and going for broke, Claire looked on with a wary eye at her husband, while Madeleine -- on learning that a Suffering Bastard was in fact an honest to God sailor's concoction -- gamely tossed her drink down in one fell swoop.

I thought the girl was going to have a seizure right then and there! Nous devons charger les mitrailleuses!

But mon Dieu, she was up for another one!

"Listen, I know we've just met and all, but could I get you an Evian, or perhaps some Perrier?"

"Oh no, I'd like another Bastard, please!"

It's fair to say that I knew where all this rum was going to end up. I mixed the next round with a lot more juice -- which led to choruses of derision -- and while I remixed the pitcher to a nice healthy octane rating (equal to, perhaps, something akin to jet fuel), I asked them if they'd like to go out to dinner.

"Let's whip something up here!" Madeleine said. "I can't believe you can cook on a boat!"

That, ladies and gentlemen, was the wrong thing to say to both Claire and your modest storyteller. Quicker than you could say 'butter my muffin' we were down below whipping up all kinds of nonsense, and by midnight we had dispelled any delusional notions of inferiority that poor, demented Madeleine might have harbored about galley facilities on yachts.

I'm not saying that having had four Suffering Bastards clouded the woman's judgement. No, not at all. On the contrary, I'm sure she was quite sober after diving into the Seine -- buck naked, mind you -- while a tourist barge motored by, it's spotlight trained on her bare ass while she sputtered and screamed like a drowning child. Hadn't she mentioned she didn't know how to swim?

Thus are memories made.

In due course, Luc and Claire helped me fish Madeleine from the river, and we dried her body and tears and we consoled her while she raved about being (almost) forty and not having learned how to swim. It was official, she declared to us all in front of God and three hundred laughing tourists, 'I am going to take swimming lessons! starting tomorrow -- so help me God!' or words to that effect. I think the fact that she was stark naked on the deck of a sailboat in the middle of Paris had something to do with the solemnity of her oath. But maybe that's just me.

Ah! We had also cleared up one other item of vital importance. Claire and I could cook a mean Gran Marnier soufflé -- even if we were on a goddamned sailboat!

◊◊◊◊◊

I doubt if it would surprise you to learn that within a week Madeleine and I were going out with one another almost every night. She belonged to a tennis club that had a very nice swimming pool, and I cheered her on while she took lessons in the evening. We would follow that on most nights with her beating me at tennis (and by humiliating margins, too), then we would head out and grab a quick bite before returning to the boat for some serious exercise.

It was all very nice.

Paris is like that.

Nice.

Of course, there were riots in the suburbs, almost unbearable heat as June droned along and old people were dropping like flies, and then there was Madeleine's looming commitment to return to Darfur in September for another three month stint. But, like most people in Europe, Luc, Claire, and Madeleine were scheduled to take their six week vacation in July and early August. Accordingly, I planned to take off from Paris and putter along slowly for a couple of days until they could join me for the rough passage through the canals toward Lyon.

That was, of course, just before Jean Paul called to tell me that Mom had died.

◊◊◊◊◊

Sitting in an Air France 747 flying over the Atlantic, I watched as hundreds of miles of ocean passed underneath in what felt like the blink of an eye; those miles are hard won in a sailboat, of course, and I thought about that for a while. Perhaps that seems out of place, given the circumstance, so perhaps I'd better explain.

Jean Paul was with me that morning, and we sat quietly as the jet arced across the Atlantic towards America, and I suppose we were lost in all manner of thought. I was sitting by a window on the left side of the jet, looking down at the sea as time reeled by slowly, and I was lost in the idea of my mother's passing -- her patient, excitable smile now gone from this world. I'd felt cold and empty since he told me, and the passage of time had seemed to grow slower with each passing minute; I guess that's what was really on my mind. Not the passage of miles, but the passage of time -- time within a family.