Sea Story

Laughing and knocking rain from their hair and shoulders, two young men pushed through the double glass doors into the bright fluorescence of the hospital lobby. The middle-aged receptionist didn't smile or speak when they stopped in front of her; she raised one eyebrow and the opposite corner of her mouth in an inquiring sort of grimace.

"We're here to see Otis Sanders," the shorter of the two announced. The receptionist wrinkled her nose slightly and sat back in her chair. The smell of stale beer wafted across the desk. She looked down at her watch and then back up at him through her eyebrows.

"Visiting hours are over at eight-thirty," she said. "You only have ten minutes."

"That's OK." The short one smiled and waited. The receptionist eyed the paper sack that the tall one held partially concealed behind his hip.

"Do you know his room number?" she asked, looking again at the short one.

"Nope." His eyes didn't waver from hers. His smile broadened a little. She sighed and slowly consulted the list in front of her.

"One-twenty-one," she said, nodding to the hall that led away to the right.

They followed the hall past some offices and examining rooms. "I hate the smell of these places," the tall one said. "They always smell like old, sick people. I don't like it."

They passed a nurse and the short one stopped and turned to watch her walk. "You're too damned sensitive, boy," he said. "I love it."

"One-twenty-one," the short one said, pointing ahead to a door. "You got the sack?"

"Yes."

"Come on."

A teen-aged boy lay in the bed by the door. A woman sat holding his hand, gazing red-eyed at him. The pale slack-jawed boy looked as if making an expression would be too difficult for him. A metal frame with a cloth screen divided the room, and Otis Sanders lay behind it in the bed by the window. He was a large angular man, perhaps twice the age of either of the young men. He lay on his back with his face turned toward the dark rain-streaked window, but his eyes were closed.

"Hey, you old sombitch," the short young man said.

Otis opened his eyes quickly and a look of panic flickered for an instant across his face before he smiled weakly and said, "Hey, Ben. Steve."

"How you feelin'?" Ben, the short one, sat on the edge of the bed; Steve remained standing near the screen, his back to the couple on the other side.

"Aw, I'll be all right," Otis said, but he said it quietly, as if he didn't want the news to get out. "What're you boys doing ashore?"

"The power steering went out on the cable boat again this morning. Me and the skipper tried to horse it for a while. We took turns at the wheel, but the seas were running four to six feet and we were both beat down to parade rest inside of an hour."

Otis nodded. "All three boats come in?"

"Yeah. No use keeping the shot boats out without the cable boat. The oil company boys are pissed. They're threatening to pull out and hire themselves some other boats."

"How long you be in?"

"They said it would take at least a couple days to fix. So, me and ol' Steve were headin' for Houston to get laid, and decided to stop in and surprise you."

Otis smiled wanly and nodded. He looked down at his hands.

"How's the leg?" Steve asked.

"OK I guess. They put a steel pin in it. It'll be a while before they know if it's going to mend."

"You'll mend," Ben said. "You're too damned ornery not to." He leaned forward and tapped Otis on the shoulder with the back of his hand; Otis flinched as if it had hurt. His face looked pale and sticky in the stark fluorescent light; his lips and stubble-covered jowls were slack and tremulous.

"No..." Otis started to say something, but he stopped and looked away. Ben leaned in close again, leering, and whispered loudly, "You been getting any of this young stuff running around here?"

Otis shook his head and tried to smile.

"Come on now. I'll bet you've goosed every nurse here at least once. Even the ugly ones."

Otis managed a grin.

"When you think you'll be back?" Steve asked.

"Aw..." Otis looked at the window and blinked twice. The wind gusted in the darkness outside and rain whispered against the pane. "I don't 'spect I'll be back," he said. "I think I'll stay ashore for a while and see if I can't get me a regular job."

"Bullshit," Ben said.

"No, I mean it."

"Why you old fart, you couldn't live ashore no more than a fish could." Ben paused, but Otis didn't respond. "Besides, you got to come back so we can get some decent chow. The skipper didn't have time to hire another cook after you got hurt. On the way out to sea that morning he asked if anybody in the crew could cook until you got back; and guess who volunteered?"

Otis shook his head slightly.

"Reneau." Ben opened his eyes wide. "That damned coon-ass told the skipper he could cook good. And guess what? Since then we ain't had nothing hot to eat but shrimp gumbo and rice. Three meals a day! That's all he can cook! Why, I went into the galley the other day and begged the old bastard to fix some potatoes, but he just laughed at me. If the freezer hadn't been stocked with cold-cuts, I'd have starved. Nossir, you've got to come back."

Otis smiled but didn't say anything. Ben frowned at Steve and motioned for the paper sack. "Looky here," he whispered. "We brought you something." He took out three cans of beer. "This'll cheer you up."

Otis shook his head quickly. "No, I can't have those in here," he said. "If they catch me I'll get in trouble. And if my old lady finds out, I'll be in even worse trouble."

"Come on, Otis. Hell, you never refused a beer in your life."

"No, really. I appreciate it, but I can't drink 'em boys. Y'all go ahead. I'm gonna quit."

"Haw, haw," Ben said.

Otis hesitated; his hands shook as they twisted the sheet over his chest. Finally, when Ben continued to hold the beers out to him, he took them and placed them inside the stand beside the bed.

"They'll help you sleep," Ben said, winking.

Otis shook his head. "When my old lady found out I was drunk that night I fell off the dock, she packed her things and was ready to leave me. She's threatened to do it before, but I only just managed to talk her out of it this time. She said she'd stay if I quit drinking and got a job ashore."

"She'll get over it."

"Not this time, I don't think. In the nearly thirty years we've been married, I've been either drunk or at sea most of the time. She's put up with a lot of crap, but she's always taken good care of me. Now she's calling the debt due."

"Hell, Otis, you'd go crazy living ashore."

"Maybe, but I've been working the boats since I was fifteen. A man can't stay at sea forever; sooner or later he's got to stop acting afool and grow up."

"But what will you do?"

"The wife talked to some of her people up in Tulsa, and they give me a job in their store."

"Are you serious?"

Otis nodded.

Ben shook his head in disbelief. "And you're sure enough on the wagon?"

Otis nodded again.

"I'm not believing this," Ben said.

"Well, I guess you'll have to. I haven't had a drink now since I fell a week ago."

"Surely one or two little old beers ain't going to hurt."

"No, I'm sorry."

"Tell you what. Let's just open them three right here and now. We'll each have one for old time's sake, and then me and Steve will shag it for Houston and some pussy."

"No. You boys drink it if you want to, but I can't."

"Well, I'll be damned."

A nurse poked her head around the screen and announced that visiting hours were over. Ben stood but he continued to stare down wide-eyed at Otis. Otis watched his own hands, still twisting the sheet.

"I guess we got to go," Ben said.

"Yes. Thanks...for coming by."

Steve stepped up to the bed and extended his hand. "Otis, you take it easy," he said.

Otis tried to smile, but his face merely trembled.

"You sure enough ain't coming back?" Ben asked.

"No."

"Well...you can at least come down to the docks and visit when we're in port."

Otis blinked several times. "We'll see," he said softly.

"I'll bet six months from now you'll be back at sea good as new."

"I don't..." Otis brushed a shaking hand across his eyes. "You tell the skipper to hire another cook," he said. "Tell him I said so."

"Jesus, Otis, I..."

"You tell him, y'hear?"

"OK, I'll tell him. But he won't believe it."

"Yes he will. Tell him I ain't comin' back."

Otis turned his face toward the dark window again. Ben frowned and shifted from foot to foot. "Well..." he said.

In a muffled voice, head still turned, Otis said, "I wish you'd take the beer."

"Naw, hell..." Ben sidled to the screen. "Well, take it easy," he said.

Otis raised a hand and let it drop; he continued staring out into the darkness.

Outside in the parking lot, Ben slammed the car in gear and squealed the tires on the wet pavement.

"You want another beer?" Steve asked when they were on the highway again.

Ben thought a moment. "Yeah," he said. "Hell yes."

Steve reached into the back seat and extracted two beers from an ice chest. He opened them and handed one to Ben. Steve fiddled with the radio for a while, but snapped it off when he couldn't find any music to suit him. Outside in the darkness, lightning flashed occasionally far off, and the rain hissed against the windshield.

"It's kinda sad," Steve said.

The wipers made soft regular tocking sounds. Ben sipped his beer carefully and then placed it on the seat between his legs.

"Ol' Otis," he muttered. "Jesus."