Anton and Daniel 19

Mahault Bay, Guadeloupe

September 13, 2018

Jeremy Gates sends a burst of gratitude Sophie Wright’s way for the foul weather gear she gave him in San Diego. “She’ll be Christmas time,” Sophie replied when he asked. “It’ll be twelve bloody days of labor pushing Sky through the five golden rings, me singing like a calling bird. You’ll be leaping with your ten lords, you heartless fairy, no doubt,” Sophie predicted.

Mary Rule would really like Sophie, he decides once again. Jeremy is counting the days with Sophie like a favored uncle should. Jeremy flips his hood up and adjusts the rain jacket and safety harness before he begins the careful walk to Sirocco’s bow lines. Petit Canal and the bulk of Grande-Terre lie to the east where the land mass could shelter Anton’s ketch. The island does not spare Jeremy from the needles pricking his face and beating on the tough fabric of the rain jacket.

It is all a little too Ohio-roadside for Jeremy, coming as it does a week from reliving the abduction for the FBI. You know how parents don't talk to kids about their sex lives? Jeremy will never forget the set of his dad’s face as he had to blurt out, I'd like to ask my father to leave the room for a while. Someday, maybe, they would share the parts Jeremy could not share with both his parents.

Jeremy talked about the punch in Chillicothe and the barn he hoped would burn down, metal, it was metal, but he never mentioned the roadside beating on the hood of the Bronco as the rain chilled his near-naked body. Jeremy had ridden out cold squalls and rough seas without a thought to that awful night. He relished them. This tropical storm crowded the interview in Martinique, salt in my fresh wounds, he understood.

The dual anchor chains look sound. Jeremy tests the tension, knowing he has no idea if they are still set firmly in the bottom. Sirocco rides bow to the wind with both anchors set at 90 degrees to each other. Are the anchors dragging? That was the question that has brought him forward for a look. Anton would have some way to gauge the movement of his ketch. The shore? Jeremy wonders. He cannot say. The other sailboats sharing Anton’s thoughts are mostly where Jeremy remembers them. The fifty-foot yacht might be dragging its anchor.

Jeremy takes a last look at the wavering lights of Petit Canal and turns back to the shelter of the cockpit. Mary Rule is cruising the gulf coast and Zachary Jain has shrugged Fourteen’s rejection off. No telling where he is, Jeremy reminds himself. September storms all over the Caribbean, the brawny sailor is probably in some hurricane hole.

It was easy for Fourteen to turn the offer down. The Atlantic crossing was almost tempting. The romance of it all, but that was part of the problem. Fourteen was hardly Anton Schroeder, sixteen-besotted by Jared Hogan. Like shooting a bird, Fourteen overheard Zachary tell Anton and Daniel. There was no (fucking) Cordell malice in Zachary’s thought. It just summarized things nicely. Jeremy was looking for something more.

Romance was part of the problem, and then what would shooting birds with Zachary all the way to the Azores have done to the very necessary interview in Martinique? Would Zachary Jain be as trusting as Anton and Daniel had been? Can’t thank them enough for riding out that storm with me, Jeremy thinks. Jeremy is still carrying the baggage of Martinique with him, still making his two friends pins-and-needles around him. Just wanting dad back on the plane, hating-guilting the relief when his dad’s questioning eyes stopped burning into Jeremy Gates. You can need and not need until your mind is a muddle.

The hatch down to the cozy popcorn-shake of Sirocco’s salon is closed against the tropical storm. Jeremy has the watch. He could slip below, instead, he huddles at the helm and eyes the disposition of the ketch’s companions. The rain is a tearing percussion against the cockpit splash.

Daniel Ayers is reclined on the sweep of the salon’s dinette, hardly paying attention to the ketch fighting the anchor chains. His laptop is multiple windows open. His mind is multiple windows open too. Hurricane Isaac has been days coming in from the Atlantic Ocean and the islands are braced for far worse. Wind shear preventing intensification, just a tropical storm, the three companions watched the reports downgrade Isaac.

“The report says it’s passing between Martinique and Dominica now,” Daniel reports absently to Anton, who is sorting through his foul weather gear. “Wind gusts peaking at 53 mph. Martinique must be taking a beating.”

“Lance left on the sixth, I think. He would be well out of it.” Anton pauses as his ketch jerks to starboard, the anchor’s holding, he reassures himself. “I’d expect this will blow itself out crossing Martinique. By tomorrow, we will be back to tourist weather here in Guadeloupe.”

Daniel met Lance MacAulay on a minibus day-tour of rum distilleries, black sand beaches and historical ruins. Anton dealt with refit and provision while Fourteen distracted himself with a Creole cuisine cooking at Anton’s suggestion. I’ve met a Lance, Daniel began after he returned from his excursion. Anton could hardly dismiss this challenge. Lance’s arms were stronger than, well, he was quite sufficient. A fresh threesome cemented the partners’ reconciliation.

“September storms,” Anton remarked absently. Daniel and Anton whisked Lance away for a six-hour boat tour around the island. It was a long flirtation-seduction complete with Creole cocktails. The day Fourteen spent with his dad talking to the police, Sirocco reprised the tour with Lance. Then the partners waited for Fourteen, as Anton promised they would.

The partners had to satisfy their curiosity. Greyson Gates was handsome. “There, you see?” Anton murmured to Daniel from behind a tourist trinket. “I always knew Fourteen would look good in his genes when he was older.”

“You do not get taken by father and son,” Daniel replied emphatically.

“Bucket list, dear!” Anton essayed. “You’ll regret your heartlessness when I’ve died of cancer.” The partners let the Gateses go their way.

Daniel looks up from his laptop. Unresolved conversations, perhaps since San Diego in the marina. “You needn’t look at me like that. There is nothing to worry about,” Anton assures him with a tone that is hardly reassuring.

“How can you be so sure?”

Eleven was not too young for Valerie Avakian’s only son to recognize a user. He had been burned enough to know when stoves were hot. Jeremy Gates was too obviously anxious that Anton would beach him in Fort-de-France, as Fourteen beached Jagger Hearne so unceremoniously in Aruba.

Anton slips on his rain jacket. “It’s not in his nature. Fourteen cares for his friends. That doctor you told me about, Ed Harris, the one who did seppuku in Vietnam? Very loyal, our Fourteen.”

Sirocco dances a box-step under their feet. “Perhaps we should have gone on to English Harbour,” Anton suggests.

“Why?”

“Because it’s the best damn hurricane hole for a hundred miles,” Anton replies. He grabs his goggles, anticipating the needles on the deck.

“Why not, then?”

“No need to rush,” Anton turns to the ladder. “I wanted to see Guadeloupe. At times, it all seems like a blur, this rushing off to somewhere.”

“I mean why has Fourteen asked to go there?” Neither of them knows and Fourteen will not say.

Anton leaves the hatch open to the storm as he meets Fourteen at the helm. The boy is wet-cat plastered, managing to smile delight with the same facial flex he tries for serious. “It isn’t dragging.” It not she, this is Mary Rule’s influence. Leave it to a gay boy to be sensitive to gender language, Anton muses. “How’s Mary doing?”

“She’s not on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico yet. She’s bracing for her own problems on the Alabama coast. She’s a rare old bird, your Mary. Trust her to know her way through a storm.” Two Atlantic storms, one on the other’s shoulder. Mary Rule would find a snug and ride the storm breaking over Florida with six times the canny of Zachary Jain, man against the sea. “You go below now!” Anton commanded. “This is nothing. The fun’s south of us. I’ll be along soon enough.”

Anton frowns and catches Fourteen’s sleeve. “I wonder if you should have gone with Jain. Everything starts with my Atlantic crossing. Not really, not by half, but it seems like the beginning to me. Perhaps it was wrong you did not cross the Atlantic with Jain. It would be with you for the rest of your life.”

“I have enough to carry now,” Fourteen replies. 

“Yes, I forget that, sorry. Who’s to say? We all have a beginning. Yours will come to you in your own way, own time. Sorry, I should have not mentioned it.” Anton lets Fourteen’s sleeve go.

“No, honestly, you’re right.” Fourteen smiles warmly at the complex man. “Do I say thanks often enough?”  Fourteen would hate to be compared to Beckett Calibaba’s Off Reflex Projects in Easton, Maryland.

Fourteen vaults down to the warmth of Sirocco’s salon as Anton claps the bulkhead shut above his shoulders. He grins at Daniel like a defensive safety all covered in muck after stopping a fullback in his tracks. Daniel knew that look. He really takes to all this sailing, Daniel tells himself.

Fourteen pulls off the wet gear and carries it up to the forward head where it can hang and dry. After Martinique, Daniel gave the V-berth back to the teen. Posh crew’s quarters, Anton observed without mentioning the long weeks Fourteen sulked there in Jagger Hearne’s uncomfortable presence. Anton and Daniel visited the teen there when they thought 2 + 1 = 9 possibilities. They were all good at probabilities.

Fourteen comes back with a towel to wipe his hair and shoulders. Daniel looks at him speculatively. “I’m done with the burning, worried looks. My dad gave me more than enough.” Fourteen folds the towel and places it on the bench, because Jeremy Gates is that sort of kid. “Are you worried about me like Anton, or is there something else on your mind?”

“Are you sorry you didn’t take Zachary’s offer?” Daniel begins.

“No, I would love to follow his path some day, but not right now,” Fourteen replies. Somehow, he is standing there in the middle of the salon untroubled by the shifting deck below his feet. Fourteen finds his balance; Less likely to scrape a knee these days. “Is that what’s on your mind?”

“Anton is on my mind,” Daniel begins again. He closes his laptop and slides around the table closer to Fourteen.

“I don’t understand what you mean?” Fourteen answers. “You and Anton, you’re alright now, aren’t you? He isn’t dicking around again, is he?”

“You're talking to the police and your father,” Daniel elaborates.

“That went okay, like going to the dentist,” Fourteen assures Daniel. When was the last time I was at the dentist? “I’m glad it’s over. I’m glad I’m free to forget.” The good thing is that Fourteen does not have to look over his shoulder anymore. He can look ahead.

“And did you talk about us?” Daniel has to ask, because Anton seems so completely unconcerned. It is Anton that Daniel is concerned about. This fifteen-year-old boy, fourteen when they met him, has always been trouble waiting to happen from the day Anton said he slept with him. As long as he was running, Daniel could pretend it was not a problem. Fourteen was not running anymore.

“I said as little as possible.” This is low and defensive. Don’t answer that, the phrase comes back to Fourteen. Permission to protect, Fourteen needed that. He understands Patrick’s compulsion to tell his story. Fourteen recognizes the relief Levi Fisher felt in North Platte, finally explaining himself to Fourteen on a frigid street. Fourteen felt the weight rise off his chest when he told the half of it to Sophie Wright and Mary Rule. “I wouldn’t talk about you.”

Before and after shifts with Fourteen’s particular now. Before Patrick and John, of course, then the captivity with Levi, followed by the exile of (fucking) Cordell; each now in turn dividing a before with its transformed after. That is life. Before the Beretta Nano bark in Elvis Parker’s kitchen now, the sheltered after of Anton’s ketch has been broken, it seems, by Martinique.

Daniel looks at the table, then to this upright boy. When he stands, he has to grasp the fiddle running down the ceiling for support. Anton is master and commander on his deck, about his enterprises on shore, but his heart is a frail craft seeking a hurricane hole. Anton does not always find it. He trusts too much, risks too much, Daniel believes: generous-impulsive to a fault.

“Not yet, Fourteen,” Daniel counters. “Fifteen, the trouble you could do him after —“

Daniel only gets that far. Jeremy’s fist hooks out and connects with Daniel’s cheekbone. The indignation burns. Levi Fisher’s Fourteen Gates burns. Jeremy never asked for that. He does not know what to feel about Antigua now. Gratitude? Relief? Resentment? “I never asked,” he cannot complete the thought.

There is silence between them.

Fourteen’s fist is a reassuring response to Daniel’s anxiety. Beckett Calibaba would wave his accusation off with two fingers lightly pinching Anton’s latest check. Who knew how many Becketts came before? There would always be Becketts importuning Daniel’s Anton. That was why there had to be a Daniel.

Jeremy sways in the salon, balanced by a gyroscope that does more than keep him on his feet. Jeremy’s compass always comes around. It goes without saying, but perhaps understanding does not. Daniel clearly needs to understand how things stand with Jeremy.

“What do you think I would do?”

“Fourteen,” Daniel tries reasonably, just laying out the facts like he would for his little brother in Lafayette, Indiana. Adolescent scatterbrain …

Jeremy is growing tired of Fourteen. “Daniel,” he emphasizes-interrupts, “You don’t think I know how much Anton has done for me? The risk? Both of you, but Anton,” this part gets tearful-angry, “he saved me. Not like Levi —” that Antigua-tangle of Tuan and bedsheets cannot be explained to Daniel. “Anton has done nothing but help since San Diego. You think I want something from him? You think I would, what, accuse him of being like —” Again, this is more than Jeremy can put into words. “Fuck you, Daniel!”

They face off like this as tropical storm Isaac wastes its energy on the islands in its path. Daniel reaches out slowly to cup Jeremy’s head. Jeremy’s muscles resist the pull. Resist, not reject, the muscle tension in this exchange grows. This is a Jeremy-Bobcat response to Daniel’s overture; strength responding to strength. Jeremy enters the ring outclassed, and after everything, he doesn’t.

The resistance continues until their lips connect. Then it is a bristle-burn of flesh and flexing muscle, sending fuck you tactile messages between them. Jeremy wraps his arms around Daniel’s neck. It stretches his lean form up against the hard-body length of Anton’s partner. Fingers still latched onto the fiddle, Daniel fumbles Jeremy’s shorts open at the front. Daniel’s palm slips over a hip to grasp Jeremy’s ass. Connected as they are, Daniel swings around and starts moving them toward the V-berth.

It is an unsteady pairing made more awkward by Jeremy’s refusal to hang off Daniel’s strength. They careen a bit like bobsledders off the gangway walls. The progress is slowed by incidentals: Jeremy opening Daniel’s pants, a shirt tugged aside, a cock freed from constricting underwear. They make it to the V-berth lips connected somewhere.

Zachary Jain was wrong. Two separate realities can collide into infinite variety. Daniel is direct on Jeremy’s groin. It is a mouth fuck of sorts with Jeremy straddling his head. Jeremy crafts it better. Daniel’s cock head is stroked by one cheek and gnawed by cat-teeth. With better control, Jeremy ensures the cock goes slowly in and out. Daniel voices his enthusiasm with aahs and oohs while Jeremy is halfway in his mouth. Vibrating bliss, Jeremy is content to let Sirocco’s motion move him in and out of Daniel. The soft texture of his cheek feels good on Daniel’s tip.

Youth wins or loses. Jeremy comes in Daniel’s warmth. He pulls out and shifts on the tossing bed. Small show of dominance, the bobcat pins the lion to the bed with a knee on Daniel’s collarbone. Every ten licks, Jeremy takes his mouth all the way up and off Daniel’s package. He pauses for a few agonizing beats to tease Daniel before going back down.

“Just hang on a sec,” Daniel growls. He pushes the presumptuous knee off his chest and reaches around to one of Jeremy’s cubbies. He comes back with Icicles No. 5. Seven inches of spiral glass that like a reed needs wetting before lips begin to vibrate.

“Yeah, but,” Jeremy observes. Daniel is not interested in the lack of lubricant. He licks the glass perfunctorily and one-hand-lance-thrust spirals into Jeremy’s rectum with a popsicle-suck satisfaction.

“Go on,” Daniel suggests ambiguously. Is there more to be said, or more to do?

Jeremy falls back on Daniel’s long cock, no longer sure if Daniel deserves a finish (at this time). With the storm tossing Sirocco about, the next few minutes are a bit demented. The cat licks cream. It has been a mutual possessive spraying on the furniture.

Daniel tries for a pin with Icicles No. 5 previewing Daniel’s best intentions. Isaac wants to toss Daniel over Jeremy’s head and through the open bulkhead. The muscle tension returns to their coupling.

“Oh, now I am offended!” Anton’s voice interrupts them. “I nearly went overboard. There I’d be, floundering in the water, and you two, you two!”

“You had your safety line on?” Jeremy asks as Daniel screws with him.

“Hardly the point, you wretched little bitch!” Anton dramatizes for the plebes. “Literally, the end of my rope, and what is my reward for saving you selfish pricks? Leftovers!”

“Just letting the bottle breathe?” Jeremy suggests hopefully.

“You’re not getting off that lightly!” Anton flings his wet rain jacket at Jeremy’s face and starts to undress. “I’m going to just sit here,” he points emphatically at the end of the bed near Jeremy’s head, “with my pants open, until Daniel makes you come to your senses. Then I expect an apology from both of you.”

“You might shift a little this way dear,” Anton adds to Daniel.

It is an amicable arrangement for all of them.

English Harbour, Antigua and Barbuda

September 17, 2018

Antigua, An-tee-ga, Jeremy reminds himself. He usually says it wrong, adding an extra syllable. The island grows along the horizon with the familiar palette of old bronze, a brown smudge with anticipations of green. The horizontal swoops of land promise steep slopes on either side of the dark hint of the harbor’s mouth. Very strategic, Jeremy imagines. The old harbor’s teeth would be gun platforms flanking either shore.

Jeremy has come to love this. The indigo water, stonewashed by flecks and tears of white foam threads. The waves folding the ocean’s fabric into deep darkness, then into sunlight’s powder haze matching the sky. So many landfalls since San Diego, and this one different, because Levi Fisher has anchored him some way to English Harbour.

Falmouth Harbour opens wider to the left. Jeremy points toward it. Anton points back to the mouth of English Harbour. Jeremy nods, not caring to explain he was just pointing out new features. He grins at Anton. They share this love of sailing now.

Falmouth Harbour is ringed by Antigua’s mountainous western coast. Jeremy can see buildings colonizing Mount Obama. Antigua’s highest peak reminds Jeremy of Sugarloaf outside Chillicothe in Great Seal State Park. They are much the same height. There is something comforting about the mirror mountain close at hand. Jeremy could climb to the peak and, like Tecumseh, sit and think. There is always something to think about. My parents are going to love the idea of Mount Obama, Jeremy chuckles.

Anton watches Fourteen fidget. This has been the journey’s end since they first spoke in San Diego. Anton cannot imagine what the youth has come for. A foreign passport? It hardly seems enough. He was quite sure that Fourteen would go home with his father. It was clear from what his young friend told him that the all--important, not-to-be-avoided interview cleared the way home for Fourteen. Yet here he was, restless in the cockpit, settled on the idea of Antigua.

Fifteen miles from coast to coast. That’s like driving up to Kingston, Ohio from Chillicothe. St. John’s was almost exactly the same population as Chillicothe. From what Jeremy had read, everyone was packed into less than half the space. Jeremy can imagine that after his travels up the Lesser Antilles.

Anton, Daniel, and Jeremy make the final distance talking about what they know of Antigua and Barbuda. Anton knows people, of course. Not Oprah, Jeremy can see it pains Anton to admit that. They talk about the three-masted schooner that passes under diesel. Anton decides it is simply shifting from English to Falmouth Harbour. It is an almost great ship that reminds them all that Nelson’s Dockyard is the only working Georgian dockyard in the world. Jeremy feels the dread-anticipation flyingfish of this new venture.

Sirocco moves into the small harbor and up toward Nelson’s Dockyard Marina. Sails drop and the engine kicks in. Jeremy covers his nervousness with small tasks like wrapping the mainsail. “Daniel, raise the yellow quarantine flag,” Anton reminds his partner. They have to fly it until they are cleared in.

There are over fifty slips around a historic quay. Anton anticipates these things and one is waiting. He backs the ketch into their space with a delicate finality that he and Jeremy seem to share. Daniel is first to go ashore, then with his companions seemingly unaware of the significance, Jeremy steps onto Levi Fisher’s Antigua.

As skipper of Sirocco, Anton usually clears customs for them all. Jeremy comes with him this time. Clearing turns out to be a long and unhelpful process involving grumpy officials and unexpected fees. Anton whispers, “You have to do what you do.” He offers a fold of bills to Jeremy, “Pocket money.”

“No, I don’t need that,” Jeremy protests.

“Don’t be a young fool,” Anton insists. Fourteen’s plans make him nervous. Anton’s mother is definitely smirking at him. The tall man he saw in Martinique, and the mother who phones so often, he cannot help but feel he owes them something. “It, it might not be what you are expecting, Fourteen.”

Jeremy’s Antigua and Barbuda passport warms their reception. The speculation is clearly on the customs officer’s face. “Welcome back,” she says, perhaps ironically. Jeremy simply blushes under her scrutiny.

“We will give you time to think it over,” Anton holds up his hand to stop whatever words Fourteen plans to offer. He’s a kid, for god sake! Fourteen stands by him, curious and not quite confident. His young friend is clearly determined to follow some course he cannot exactly explain to Anton and Daniel. “For now, let's wash the salt off and maybe have a good dinner at the Inn.”

The heavy tree branches come down to touch the water beside Admiral’s Inn. Jeremy’s eyes sweep around his destination. There are more docks about the end of the harbor and sail ships, far larger than Sirocco, moored with their bows all pointing down the narrow bay. Another restaurant catches his eye. Half clad figures walk along the balustrade. It’s not your world, Jeremy reminds himself. Levi may not have left you a Luxor Winnebago luxury to park beside the fifth-wheels. He might be lucky to find Keon King’s adobe shed to snuggle in. Stepping away from Anton’s ketch, Jeremy realizes that Barry Gordon’s red bubble tent might be useful.

Fourteen Gates is somewhere in this area. Jeremy asked a handsome woman at a tourist information center for directions to Levi’s project. She did not recognize the name. “Everyone’s building up Antigua. Robert De Niro with his damn Paradise Found nonsense. Just scams to take away the land from us who own it in common.” The woman seemed to recollect herself. She smiled at Jeremy with her own citrus blend. “Don’t mind my words.”

He asked further, as he shopped stores to restock Anton’s galley. For the first time, he shopped for Anton and Daniel, conscious that the men would cook for themselves from this point on. “I think he might mean the old Mico School that looks down on the slipway and the Inn. That old place has been here forever, since the west dockyard. There’s work being done there, for sure.” Jeremy asked directions, and then paid for his purchases.

Admiral’s Inn and the Pillars Restaurant are on the waterfront within the tourist hive of Nelson’s Dockyard. It is Georgian stone with fresh white trim and delicate blue shutters. Jeremy is more curious than Daniel as they survey it. It was camouflaged from the dock by trees, but also gazebos artfully random about the restaurant patio. The rains come and go quickly in English Harbour. Four monumental capstans stand historic on the lawn. A high stone wall protects the privacy on the right.

Jeremy takes a seat where he can look back past the dock with its moored tenders, across the water, to the green slopes rising steeply from the margin. Anton and Daniel sit on either side, so they can share the view.

Anton looks at Fourteen over the menu. It is on the tip of his tongue to ask the youth if he has a plan. What has he learned of live-aboard, crewing, and hitting the beach since I first brought the kid on board? Except one (glorious) summer from New York to Key West and back, Anton has not crewed. He usually had his own boat. He never gave much thought to the young men stepping off his boat, or where they came from, for all of that. Some were young like Fourteen.

Sophie Wright stays with Anton because she brought Fourteen to his boat. There was a girl who knew her way on and off of boats. Anton could not believe she was pregnant when Fourteen told him. Girl’s too smart for that! Sophie should have known better, but there you are, Anton admits, unavoidable responsibilities.

“I’m going to skip lunch,” Fourteen announces.

“You are?” Daniel replies skeptically. Fourteen’s stomach Dyson-swirls food like this at almost every opportunity. The teen has table manners, but a Tasmanian devil moves across his plate at meal time.

“Just want to check out the harbor by myself.”

“Take the tender, we will see you later,” Anton agrees. He half hopes Fourteen will be discouraged by what he finds. Since Panama, he has relied on his young crew’s presence. Since Panama, the best-laid plans have gone astray. Anton has been so stubbornly determined to be in control. Adolescent rebellion gave him that. Sirocco with Daniel broke him (almost) free of Mirage Property Advisors and Valerie Avakian’s next step on to Avakian Fisher Empirical (scientific instrumentation, reagents and consumables, software and services to healthcare). “Queen Elizabeth.”

“What?” Daniel asks, watching Fourteen’s retreat.

“Nothing,” Anton replies. Valerie Avakian is like the old lady, destined to last forever. It is a comfort that Anton gets to play the (never) aging crown prince, free to go about his own pursuits. “I worry about the boy staying here. Has he said anything to you?”

“No, but his taking off gives me a chance to talk with you.”

Something ominous-inevitable in Daniel’s half-apologetic tone. Anton examines the faux-gracious chair across the table. Ornate tulip filigree on the Chinese lawn furniture. “So we have come to this.” He takes a sip of Wadadli. “What is our plan?”

“I’ve had a call from MacCubbing Design. They want to talk with me.”

“That’s so good!” Anton lies. He will order food despite the churning in his stomach. Fourteen is at the quay, pulling the tender closer so he can jump down in. Once more, Anton is struck by the decades gap between the three of them. Daniel is in the middle. If Fourteen seems less posed as he confronts this island separation, Daniel echoes his uncertainty.

The delight of Fourteen is to catch him in a childish moment. Anton sees the chick-breaking-through moments Remy and Greyson would kill for. Daniel will be twenty-five in months, Anton knows. Studied all his life for this independence. Sitting beside Anton at the Pillars in English Harbour, Daniel has Fourteen’s now look. Determination mingling with self-doubt. It is in Daniel’s mind that a successful interview is his final right of passage. It is a new thing, like stepping off the diving board into the water for the first time. That is the self doubt.

Anton has to step off the diving board himself. Or perhaps Anton is doing one of those trust exercises still. Fourteen’s sage advice, “You won’t know if you can trust someone till you trust someone.” Anton folded his arms and closed his arms for Beckett Calibaba, fell hard. He knows he has to do it all over again for Daniel. Daniel is waiting anxiously for Anton’s response. The anxiousness is so reassuring. It matters to Daniel, what comes after this decision.  It’s what Daniel needs and you want to give him what he needs.  Anton manages it without a catch in his voice, “So back to Chicago, when?”

“Seattle actually, tomorrow,” Daniel answers quietly, “I’d have to leave tomorrow if I’m serious about it.”

“You make me cry,” Anton replies. “Of course you are serious! No question!” Anton tries the local beer again.

“It’s just that you dislike Chicago. We can sail from Seattle, together,” Daniel goes on, “Your place on the water.”

“We can get something bigger, something newer.”

“I like the size and age, Anton. I loved it when I saw it.”

Fourteen Gates, English Harbour

September 17, 2018

The harbor is a shelter for impressive yachts and sailing ships, all dwarfing Anton’s Sirocco. The Zodiac runs past a line of ships. Like Anton, Jeremy is unimpressed with the size and ostentation. He would leave the envy to Beckett Calibaba and Jagger Hearne. Duo-sailing with Anton on Sirocco, or going solo as Mary Rule does, has soaked into Jeremy’s bones.

He is destined for the farther slipway. Someone told him it was the Royal Navy’s first dockyard in the long ago before. Now, it is a very industrial-busy enterprise servicing this collection of tall ships and incidental tourists. This harbor is an old world.

The green slope of the approaching shore rises to the top of the hill shielding the harbor from an Atlantic hurricane. Above the business of the gritty marina there is a road lined with houses leading up. Across the street, and to the left of the shoreside activity, someone has cleared a swath of trees. It is mostly empty, waiting for harbor view villas, no doubt. Jeremy can make out four long buildings just above the marina older than Nelson’s Dockyard. He learned so little about Fourteen Gates in Martinique.

The sign is wood, about ten feet long and three high, set on posts about five feet high. In a smooth plank with a border of carefully stained and polished wood the words are carved out: “Fourteen Gates Apartments.”

Walking up the short asphalt drive he comes over a slight rise to see a tall single-story building settled on the edge of the pasture; the harbor and sea make a beautiful backdrop on most sides and the stunted, low woodland is still scenic where there are no water views.

As he approaches he sees two sides that look very attractive with a natural stone and old brick surface though one side of the building is surrounded by some sort of construction vehicles— he sees a couple of stake trucks by the far end to his right. Coming closer Jeremy notes that the building has what appears to be a series of patio walls along the perimeter on the one side he can fully see. Everything is made of a mix of natural stone and some very old looking brickwork.  

Approaching the front face of the building there's a small wooden sign in the same style as the big one saying “Fourteen Gates – Office” on a door at the corner to his left. Jeremy walks that way but decides to visit the office after he has a chance to survey the place. Continuing to his left he reaches the corner and realizes the building is larger than he thought and clearly a square or rectangle. Along this new side he sees four generous patios with walls not much taller than he; and a wall of windows on each apartment. It seems evident to him that these are four apartments, each with its own patio. Every patio has one tall tree that looks to have been planted fairly recently; and each seems to have been landscaped a little differently with colored gravel or pavers and a variety of greenery.

Nearing the first unit he observes that its patio has a gate leading out to the external walkway, the gate is fairly elaborate wrought iron with the image of some sort of tropical bird worked into it, and the number “1” next to the bird.  Looking down the line he sees each wrought iron gate has a different tropical looking plant or animal worked into it along with a different number. Overall the similarity in design unites them but the difference between each patio and each gate makes them feel individually unique.

 And as he stands at the corner by the office he sees that the walkway splits, one part following the outside of the buildings, and the other leading into a central courtyard, scraped down to the dirt, and cluttered with piles of stone, brick, bags of cement and mounds of sand and gravel. Clearly construction is ongoing.

Walking into the center, there are four buildings forming the rectangle, almost but not quite square, with each corner providing access from exterior to the courtyard; and the entire building is tied together with a wooden-beamed slate roof. Each apartment has a second tall bank of windows on the courtyard side, and a door onto the courtyard. In fact he can see all the way through one unit to the harbor; it seems obviously unoccupied.

“You need somethin' star?”

He is startled by the sudden appearance of a large man, obvious from his boots and dirty denim, work shirt, and scuffed safety helmet that he must be a construction worker.

“Oh, I just wanted to look around.”

“This private property, boy, you shouldn't be here.”

“Well, I don't want to upset anyone, it's just, well...I guess I'm the owner.”

A big guffaw from the burly black man. “Tap lie, big fella, you 'guess' you the owner! Tell me 'nother one!”

“Really, my name is Jeremy Gates, Fourteen Gates is my nickname. And I do own this place. Well the Fourteen Gates Trust owns it for me.” Jeremy’s dad is learning more about the trust, but Jeremy cannot explain it better. The whole idea of owning something bigger than a car to haul his friends about eludes Jeremy. You have a college fund, Jeremy, there will be plenty to get you through. Okay, something sitting there in a bank, untouchable. These things are hardly real.

The man is skeptical-amused. Jeremy shifts his feet and resists the temptation to jam his fists into his shorts. “Well big property man, you're pretty young for ownin' dis... but I pretend your parents own it 'til I know different. What are you here to see then, baas-man?”

“I’d appreciate your showing me around if you will, what's your name, I'm Jeremy; or Fourteen, whichever you like.”

With a laugh the man extends his hand. “Hello Fourteen Gates, I am I, Clarence Williams; people call me Clarence.”

“Is your boss here Clarence? I don't want you to get in trouble.”

“Little baas, eh? No, that baas is me, I'm in charge of construction work here. You want to talk to the property managers there's Mary works in the office to rent an’ make sure the apartments are ready when someone needs. She probably at lunch or cleanin' or somethin'. Then the money managers are in town, the big baas dem, but I guess you know dem.”

“Not really. See I just found out about this place recently, from... well no matter. I just learned it was here and I wanted to see it for myself.” Jeremy looks around at the old buildings, not sure what he is supposed to see. “What construction are you doing? How old is this place? How many of the apartments are being used?”

“For the big baas you got a lot of questions, so I just show you. Look yah.” The man turns and they walk around a stack of stones on a pallet to see the sides of the building that Jeremy hasn't had a good look at;

“This here buildin' was a school in my grand's day, maybe his faada's day. About sixty years ago they turned dem into pretty cheap flats. You tellin' me you don't know what work I'm doin' here?”

“Like I said I just found out. Someone, well a good friend set up this trust for me, and he died, and I didn't even know about it.”

“I was startin' to believe you white boy, you got me doubtin' again. Well no matter we been tearin' the guts out an’ buildin' a concrete floor an’ structure with the old stone an’ brick to face it. Makes it stronger an’ safer than the stone walls dey was built with original. New electric, new pipes, new septic, we addin' a patio on each one. Fourteen Gates will be sell off when we done. Me and my yutes just do the rough work, another crew comes in and does the inside finishes. We got the place almost halfway done now. They start an’ stop the work; I guess they don' have the money. But me an’ my two sons always get the call when they need us.”

As they walk Jeremy sees a boy in shorts and a wife beater tee-shirt with a helmet, not much older than himself. He is mixing cement in a wheelbarrow with a big rake or shovel of some kind. The boy looks up with the echo-open friendly look his father displays.

“Hi.” Jeremy is tentative.

“This here is Marcus, my boy. Marcus say hi to the big baas, name of Fourteen, Fourteen Gates. He sayin' he think he the owner!”

“Jeremy,” he corrects.

This one hits the boy hard enough to pull him into outright laughter. “Taal! He thinks? A true, puppa?”

“What he say.”

“Well sorry Mister Gates.” The teen smiles at Jeremy. He looks at his father. “Taking deh'ya up to Ford before it sets.”

“On your way,” Clarence turns back to Jeremy, “that's mortar for the stone, got to get it in pretty quick. It's fast settin'. Ford, my other son, he's a good stone mason and concrete man. Plantain sucker follow the root.”

“Oh. I don't know much about construction I guess. I lent a hand building a dirt bag house, once. Have you ever built with dirt bags?” Jeremy circles a finger like he is laying down the long coils of Inez’s dirtbag bedroom. He vaguely wax-on, wax-offs with his palms to imitate the plaster finish. Clarence watches this pantomime with amused uncomprehension, so Jeremy shrugs a conclusion. “I put in solar panels, in the desert, sort’a just helped. Just know a little,” Jeremy concedes.

“Well most don't 'less they work at it first.” The man narrows his eyes, looks at the boy with sudden skepticism in his broad face. “You a want work?”

“Oh well, I need to find a job, I want to stay in Antigua, be close to this.” Jeremy’s gesture encompasses Fourteen Gates.

“I can use a man knows what he's doin' but you look too young and I don't want an apprentice, not now. Plus I don't know about havin' the big baas man workin' on my crew. Who'd be in charge then?”

“I see you still don't think I'm really the owner, but that's okay. I have a boat that I crew with right now, I need to get back to it, I just was curious about what's happening here. So you've rebuilt half the place and going to do it all?”

“Oh maybe they don't have much money your managers maybe you should give them more.  We can do it faster if we have a bigger crew, baas. Anyway we got six dem done an’ when this one is done we'll be off to do some other projects until they call us back.”

“Well I'll have to see about that. Hey, Mr. Williams, it was good to meet you, I hope I see you again, sometime.”

“Yes, I be here for a while I think. If you don't fire me, baas man! Cool out!”

From his smile, Clarence doesn't seem much concerned about the prospect of that happening.

Antigua

September 18, 2018

Early the next morning, Jeremy has another look at the property before he walks back down to the slipway to try the bike rental that seems to run out of the marina. The sign says Winston’s Jet Ski, but there seem to be more scooters in the shop than jet skis.

Jeremy waits patiently for maybe-Winston to get off the computer. Jeremy earns a glance and then seems to be forgotten. “Oh my god, Cynthia, just look at this!” The grieved tone draws a heavyset girl about Sophie Wright’s age over from the back. “What am I going to do now?” Winston waves helplessly at the laptop screen.

The young woman wipes her hands on a clean cloth as she peers over the man’s shoulder.

“I rent them the scooter at a discounted price of $60 because they are taking three,” Winston is saying. “They got the scooters at 8:30 am and came back after 3 pm.” He throws a glance at the young woman. “He never called to say that he had a problem. When he comes back, waa cry, yuh only look pan dem an dem cry! About everything and he wanted $20 back. Now he writes this terrible review everyone will read.”

“You’re the only rental in English Harbour,” Cynthia reminds him, “what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Winston begins to type and the rest comes out slow with his fingers, “I was willing to give him back at least $10 because of the problem, but his behavior wasn't well received.”

He turns back to Cynthia. “I'm simply saying if the scooter was so bad why not call and have us come and exchange it?”

“If it was so bad, why did you let it out of the shop?” Cynthia responds. She is a bundle of energy fresh out of business school. “If yu waana be good, yu nose affi run,” she scolds her uncle. Truth is, they need the good reviews.

Winston returns to his keyboard, sounding out the words as he types. “You used a broken scooter all day and then complain. Come on!” Satisfied, Winston sends the reply. Finally, he turns to Jeremy. “You want to rent a jet ski?”

“A scooter, um, one that works.” Jeremy grins.

Winston gives him the once over. Despite the bad review splashed across the home page Cynthia set up for him, business is good. Winston smiles at the youth. “You’re staying at the Inn?” Probably not, a patron there would expect a drop off.

Jeremy begins to point towards Nelson’s Dockyard where Sirocco still rests, then he swivels around and points up the hill. “Fourteen Gates,” he tells the man. “I was going to look around the island. St. John’s is only twelve miles, right?”

“That’s a forty minute drive,” Cynthia volunteers.

“I’ll just need your driver's license and we can get you all set up.” Winston pulls a form off a stack. “Just for the day?”

“I don’t have a license,” Jeremy confesses. Anton would smoothly take some twenties out of his pocket and hold them casually where the man could see them. Jeremy Gates has not thought of that.

“I can issue you a temporary Antigua license, no problem.” The boy is not eighteen. Winston can see that. The boy stands uncomfortably with his hands in his pockets. “I see,” Winston does not have the time for this. “You are eighteen, of course?”

Jeremy is not. He turns away and steps back out into the light. Fourteen Gates is his, not his. The gap from fifteen to eighteen is vast. He only broached the possibility of emancipation with his parents. That will take time. There has to be a way to make it on his own. There is no Uber, but he could always get a taxi. How much would that cost? Nearly an hour to drive across the island to St. John’s, and what Jeremy planned to do was explore as much as he could.

“You said you are staying at the flats up the hill?”

Jeremy turns toward the young woman. “Well, not really, not yet. I came in on a sailboat yesterday. I guess someday I will be living there. That’s my plan, anyway.”

“I see the work,” Cynthia replies. So many Americans are coming to the island for a second home in the sun. This is the future. She does not begrudge the influx. “Fourteen Gates,” she says the name.

“That’s me,” Jeremy smiles and it is infectious, “Jeremy Gates.”

“So your parents?”

“No, just me,” Jeremy explains. He looks back at the row of scooters, still wishing he could get one. “Never mind,” he shrugs. Nobody here believes him. If Jeremy asked, Anton would rent something for him, but Jeremy wants to face Antigua on his own.

It is hard to explain Fourteen Gates to people, but Jeremy finds himself trying. Cynthia is intrigued. Everyone is looking for an opportunity in Antigua. The story is unbelievable. Some old doctor he befriended like some Dickens story. If it were true, then a little good will might help her business down the road when the apartment renovations are finished. If it is not true, well, the American with a Caricom passport still needs a scooter.

“You wait here,” Cynthia tells Jeremy.

She comes back with a scooter. “My uncle Winston just fixed the brakes. The speedometer and lights don’t work, so keep it filled and don’t drive at night.”

“I don’t have a license,” Jeremy warns her.

“So don’t let Babylon catch you,” Cynthia advises. Jeremy looks at her quizzically. “The police,” Cynthia explains.

“How much do I owe you?”

They settle on $60, which Cynthia slips into her pocket. The bike is not ready to rent, her uncle will not notice.

Jeremy guns the little scooter past a vaguely Swiss building with the sign Ondeck. It has a heavy second-floor balcony and drawn blue blinds swaying in the heavy heat. “Water Sports Center,', that seems to be the thing here. Jeremy imagines living in English Harbour, friends with Cynthia, and dropping in to Ondeck for this or that. The road takes him past a gated community of solid stone walls, white middle-American picket, followed by proud plaster balustrades, or chain link. Everything built behind the fences is eclectic, and single-story tropical.

Jeremy is still the stranger here. He is unaware when he actually leaves English Harbour for the next town. The road widens, things spread out, but still the homes are everywhere. He can push the old scooter faster.

It is finally countryside, but nothing agricultural, nothing with the intensity of Ohio farmland. It seems like neglected pasture. A cement plant reminds Jeremy that Antigua means building. It stands to reason Levi Fisher picked this island. Antigua is one sprawling opportunity, but not without its failures and missteps. That is what Jeremy is worried about, failing. A billboard at the intersection suggests, “This is How We Work,” a man sitting on driftwood looking at the ocean. Jeremy is pretty sure it is not going to be that easy for him.

Back to the coast where the trees and houses grow much larger. Jeremy does not realize how high the scooter climbed until he is abruptly cruising down the curving sweeps of the highway overlooking the ocean. He ends up on a beach that seems deserted.

The absence of houses and shops, sailboats and people, surprises him after the ant-hill press of his ride over the highlands. The beach is perfect. Blue-green water between the dark ink of the horizon and the ever-moving foam on the perfect sand. Half Moon Bay is worth the visit. After the relentless bustle of English Harbour — nice, but so very KOA-marina crowded — this bay looks perfect for a quiet getaway. He can picture a sailboat floating over the coral. This is the Antigua so many want to escape to. Jeremy will remember it.

The scooter does not give him trouble until he is racing up the windy east coast. A car comes straight for him down the center of the narrow lane. He hits the brakes and feels the front brake give way. The best he can do is drop his feet to the pavement and drag the scooter to a stop as it wobbles dangerously to the edge. After that, he drives very slowly and lets inertia slow the scooter as much as possible. He has more heart-thumping moments when some obstacle crosses his path. Cynthia gave him a number to call, but Jeremy is reluctant to end his adventure.

The cautious ride takes him to Parham and another beach. Flags shivering in the wind. There is an overcast and umbrellas predict a passing shower. Jeremy parks the scooter behind some spectators, or perhaps they are officials. One of them has a loaded clipboard. He is conscious of a white police truck with a big man nearby.

He has had a very solitary drive south and east coast toward St. John’s. Jeremy has been absorbing the land, imagining it becoming the familiar, colorless over-the-river-and-through-the-woods to Grandpa Herb’s and Grandma Mary’s place. He imagines being so tuned with the scenery that he will notice a new wall, a finally-finished building. He imagines Antigua is home.

Jeremy is drawn to the beach crowd, appreciating that they are not tourists (like himself). This now reminds him of travelling with Levi through America, always the disregarded stranger. Amongst this crowd is a Cameron Kreuger with another face, Rafael Martinez, Paolo Doria are standing close. He could know these people's lives like he knew those three boys. Jeremy does not have to be passing through.

The volleyball play is amateur, some players amused, others showing an Olympic intensity to win. One tall man plays the hero and with a reach sends the volleyball off towards the ocean, when he should have bumped the ball to a teammate.

“What my father told me, you. Can’t be selfish in a threesome.” This from a speaker color-commenting on the state of play. They are mixed teams, three on a side, male, two females. “You have to know when to share,” the man observes.

The fluttering flag beside Jeremy is not gay pride. It is white on black: MOUNT GAY, Barbados Rum, EST. 1703.

“Why you talking about threesomes?” a color-companion asks cautiously. Jeremy glances around, ready to share this entendre with anyone who thinks it funny.

“Well, no you can’t. In a threesome, you can’t be selfish,” the first voice insists earnestly. “You got to take away the ball!”

There is a mutter from the companion. “Is this from personal experience?”

“My dad, he was a volleyball player.”

“Oh.”

“You’re more than welcome.”

Jeremy’s attention is captured by a handsome man about Daniel’s age of twenty-four. His voice is brashly American and he is video blogging the volleyball action, talking to his followers, drawing bystanders into his virtual conversation. “What's up good folks?” the American is saying. “Gonna come to a phone party? Neon is the word.”

Half the time, the man is talking to his live stream, responding to comments people are leaving. His phone shifts constantly between his face and the two men he is trying to talk with. “Different parts of the world,” this might be a response to a streaming comment. “Me, I’m brown, I’m brown, he’s light-skinned.” The phone’s camera is shifted to a companion. The American glances at the Antiguan, “You falling in the light-skinned category.”

“Who are you?” the American asks Jeremy suddenly. “Come say hello!”

“Hello,” Jeremy responds helplessly to the man’s outstretched phone. When he is asked, he explains he is from Ohio. The man goes back to reading his screen intently. An arm comes down across Jeremy’s shoulders and he is hugged a little closer to the camera. “Look, look, they can’t get away from your shine, dog.” The stream is illegible. “You are lighting up my stream. You want a girlfriend? The bitches here want your number, dog.”

Jeremy laughs at that. “I’m into boys, man, tell them I like men, sorry.”

“Oh, oh, he’s into the boys!” the American tells his audience. “Hey, you!” He turns his phone to a cute boy with cornrows and a hint of dreads. The teen’s tracksuit top is over his shoulders. Jeremy takes in his slim form, fitting into a white undershirt and bright pink shorts. The teen is taken back by the American’s forwardness. “My man here thinks you look mighty fine!”

“Right, right, right,” the Antiguan boy replies, but his face is unimpressed. He turns his attention to Jeremy, “move from here!”

“They want to know if you have a boyfriend,” the American tells Jeremy. “Ohio, you been to the Caribbean restaurant down the street? They have oxtails, ribs, get it and give me your review. Who catches your eye, dog?”

The Antiguan police officer has been listening to this. He moved away from his truck to mingle with the crowd. The boy’s tangerine has captured his attention. More than a few white people on this beach so far from the nearest resort. Well, the teenage boy being set upon by the American with his phone is stunning, and so naive trying to hit on the local boys.

The country as a whole can be unwelcoming to batty folk. Fortunately, the island is tourist driven. The chi chi yute should have stayed at his safe resort. The employees would understand, or be willing to put their beliefs aside during work. Unfortunately, as Branko learned years ago, Antiguans as a whole were overwhelmingly not accepting of numba two.

Branko takes a second look and changes his mind. The teenager doesn’t look quite like a tourist. The young newcomer’s eyes dart-delight, soaking everything in, but he dresses like a well-worn shoe. The brash American with his phone pushed into everyone’s face is saga boy, dressed off-the-airplane fine. The youth is wearing a much-abused ball cap and boat shoes. His shirt and pants are salt-worn. Branko makes a guess that this boy did not come in at V.C. Bird on United.

Branko Mensah had served as a constable in Antigua for more than twenty years. He keeps his secret. Branko still hears the slurs in the station. Nasty batty boys should be locked up, how can a man kiss a man? One of Branko’s supervisors called being gay “an abomination” to his face.

Branko recognizes Cecil, the boy with the dreads, talking to his usual friends, pointing the white boy’s way. Nothing will come of it, Branko is fairly certain. Cecil is chill about the gay thing. Probably, telling his posse sata. Still, crimes against LGBT people are only taken seriously by officers like Branko.

One time a trans friend of Branko’s was stabbed and badly wounded. The police refused to help her. Instead, behind her back, Branko heard them call her antiman. Branko is pretty sure this cute mamma man is going to come to no harm, but he decides he should set the threesome of Antigua teens straight about what was not going to happen and warn the American boy to be more discreet.

“Are you enjoying the festival?”

Jeremy turns to face Branko. Branko is classically handsome with an intimidating set of muscles, a gold front tooth, and a fierce look. His soft voice is surprising.

“Um, hello, um, yes, it’s cool.”

Jeremy’s first thought is this Gareon-Brantley-worthy police officer is suspicious about the scooter he is leaning against. The irony, all this time fleeing from the law for murder, finally safe after the interview in Martinique, just when he is going to start life in Antigua, and he gets busted for driving without a license.

“You need to be more careful,” Branko says softly. He points to the teens who have returned to watching the girls watching the volleyball players. A rally ends with a spike by a brash player Branko would be glad to date. “Check fa that man strutting his stuff. Looks good, but he doesn’t play well with his partners. Gotta be careful with that one.”

“You’re gay?” Jeremy asks.

“Not something we ask each other, you are?”

“Jeremy, Jeremy Gates, I’m gay,” Jeremy replies, not sure what the police officer is asking.

“Your hotel must be a little dull. We want you to have a good visit. You need to understand most of the people you meet are not going to be friendly about,” Branko pauses, “your being friendly. Take my word for it, star.”

“I heard that, star, what does it mean?”

“Just a young fellow like you,” Branko points at the three Antiguan teens. “Nothing to it, I’d call them stars too.”

You’re gay? the boy asks him. Like the boy beside him, someone would have to ask the question. Neither wears it in the way he moves. Branko grew up in Guyana, one of eleven children. His older brothers labored in the gold mines, but Branko didn’t want that – it was hard, risky work. When he saw an advertisement seeking police recruits to work in Antigua, he applied.

From the start, some officers made sexual advances to Branko at the police academy. But at nineteen, he embraced religion and what he had grown up with. Even after he accepted being gay, he constantly hid who he was, even from his family in Antigua.

“You enjoy your vacation, Jeremy. Just don’t be too open about your feelings.”

“I’m not on vacation. I’m going to live here. I’m a citizen,” Jeremy finds himself telling yet another person. “Why can’t I just be me?”

“Be you quietly. In Antigua, if you stand out, you become a target. So where are you going?”

“I was heading for St. John’s, just to look around. Then I was going to take the scooter back to English Harbour. I’ve been crewing on a ketch.”

“So you stopped to watch volleyball?”

“No, the scooter is busted. The brakes went on it.”

Jeremy was considering phoning Cynthia for help. A phone call to Anton and Daniel would get him out of this jam, but he had to start doing it on his own.

“Let’s take care of that.”

Branko insists that Jeremy put the scooter in the back of his truck, and they drive down the road to a friend the police officer says can fix it. While the mechanic takes a look, Jeremy and Branko keep on talking. “Why would you want to live here when you could live in America where nobody would bother you? Antiguan boy your age might jump at a chance to live,” Branko throws a question Jeremy’s way.

“Ohio?” Jeremy wonders if the Antiguan police officer knows where that is. He draws in a deep breath. Oh my god, it doesn’t matter if he tells people this. His biggest worry at the moment is if this friendly (gay) police officer is going to ask to see his driver’s license.

“It’s just easier this way.” It is still difficult to explain his situation. “My folks know what I’m doing,” Jeremy adds. He gazes around this new world he needs to learn to live in. “The guy vlogging, with the phone?” He checks to see if Branko knows who he is talking about. “He didn’t care if I was gay. I mean, it's not like I was making the moves on anyone. We were just talking. Back home, Ohio? I’d do the same, I think. It’s not like I want to start a Pride Parade. I just want to be accepted. No hiding, trying to pretend I’m into girls or something.”

Branko nudges the boy and leads him away from the mechanic’s open door and down the street to where people are coming in and out of a convenience store. A fine-looking woman by the door gives him the eye. Then gives the good-looking boy beside him a second look. People wonder about Branko, his good looks, his good job. He tells everyone he isn’t interested in a serious relationship. Some people see this as a red flag for being gay. Branko with the beautiful American boy, another red flag moment.

Branko lets the woman by the door know how fine she looks. “Puppa Jeezas you look fine holding up that wall! Yes, woman! We in di lime tonight.” He shows her a flex.

"Look pon di big man pompasetting." She laughs his antics off, pleased to be noticed. Branko might party with her later. It helps.

“Sometimes I still date women,” he confides to Jeremy.

“Oh yeah,” Jeremy understands completely. “Take a ride on the Ferris wheel, kiss a little so nobody talks. It’s not sick-making.” Jeremy shrugs, thoughts on Sophie Wright.

“No, not sick-making,” Branko agrees.

Branko thinks about the young boy’s answer. There is nowhere a boy like Jeremy can live where he will be completely accepted. He stops in the middle of the street. “Your parents know all about you?”

“Pretty much,” Jeremy nods.

“Good, good; for me, it is still torture, because I can nah speak to family or colleagues about who I am,” Branko says. “The two fives at the station are all about their girlfriends. You hear the bulla, the insults. It keeps me in the closet.”

“Yeah, I get that! That’s why I never told my friends.”

A car is coming down the narrow road. They move off to the store and Branko lets Jeremy buy him a cold drink. Back on the street, Branko points back to his friend’s mechanic shop.

Branko knows that if people knew he was gay, he could be attacked. He could be evicted from his rented home. Some of Branko’s colleagues suspect. “Twenty years, it’s getting better. They show me respect, but when my back is turned, tear batty. Gotta live with that,” he starts again with Jeremy.

“So why are you talking to me?” Jeremy asks him.

“We stick together,” Branko replies. “You are a tourist, it is my job to keep you safe. Make sure you spend all your money happily.” Branko jogs Jeremy’s shoulder to share the joke.

“I’m not a tourist. I own property in English Harbour, sort of, no yeah, I do. I’ve got citizenship, just like you!” Jeremy flings a hand out, encompassing the not quite strangeness of Antigua. “Gonna stay here. Don’t care if people are pissed off that I’m gay. Can’t let that hold me down anymore.

“I don't know, I guess you would say my family invested in an apartment building here in Antigua. So, I'm going to live here from now on. I never really thought about what people here think about being gay. I just assumed everyone was okay with it these days. A guy doesn't really fit in, but you don't expect things to be too bad. What I'm really worried about is finding a job and a place to stay.”

“If your family has invested in our island then you hardly have a problem do you?”

“It's not so much my family as it's me. I sort of inherited this old place in English Harbor. I just saw it for the first time, it's not really ready yet, it's not ready for me. So I have to find some way to get by until it's ready for me. I don't want my family to help.”

“Well you're not eighteen are you?”

“I'm in trouble about the scooter aren't I?”

“Don't worry about the scooter. I'm just saying that it's hard to find a job if you're not from here and not eighteen. People come from all over, I came from Guyana, because there's work here. But there are a lot of people looking for work and most of them are more experienced than you. 18% youth unemployment.”

“Yeah I’m getting that from a lot of people. But there must be some job I could do? I could work at a fast food place. I know how to cook.”

“No Mcdonalds on Antigua, sorry. We have Kentucky Fried Chicken and Burger King.” Babylon Fast Food, Pita Pocket, GEO’s, there was fast food and a line of people looking for the jobs.

“I’d like to think I could do better than that.” Jeremy dismisses an idea he hoped might work out.

“We have cooks in Antigua. Mr. Citizenship Investor, you're supposed to be making jobs, not taking them.”

“Hey, well I think I am making jobs. I have three or four people working on my place right now anyway, doesn't that count for one little job for me? Hey, I’m a sailor.”

“This is Antigua, people are very big on sailing in Antigua. You noticed the ocean? Many people sail.” But Branko has to think about this, the white boy had something local boys do not have. He is white, he would be comfortable-familiar, tourists would love his fresh face and North American relatability. Nothing fair about that, Branko knows.

“We are very entrepreneurial here on the island. If you want to make some money, you’re going to have to sell yourself.”

“Yeah no, I’ve seen that, no thanks.”

Branko takes a friendly swipe at Jeremy’s head. “Not talking about such a thing, sell who you are. Like the man said, you shine. You have to play on that. There you go, that grin there on your face and the friendlies you give off. Maybe don’t be so quick to tell strangers about who you like to kiss.”

A boy like Jeremy could only help the gay community if he stuck it out on the island. Branko sees hope in this boy’s generation. The three boys at the volleyball tournament, they probably did not care much. It was all pastors talking in church to the grandfolks, making hellfire threats. The youth are starting to laugh it off. The tourist industry needs the income. New ideas rub off.

“Don’t let this old man’s life —”

“You’re not old!”

“Blessings,” Branko smiles, “I see less discrimination on the street among younger people, they’re more tolerant,” he allows. “It’s the media, how queer folk are portrayed, and the information available. Also, a lot of people have family elsewhere, like Canada.”

“So you’re telling me to stay in the closet?” Jeremy asks the police officer.

“Don’t step out dan dan, in a dress. Just don't expect too much. There is still fear. Are you seriously going to stay in Antigua?”

“Seriously!” Of course there is that pesky problem of a place to stay, a job to find.

Branko writes a number on a business card and gives it to the boy, MESH. “You’re not alone. Like I said, we stick together, makes it easier for everyone. You’ll do fine,” American white boy mixing with the tourists and the industry that pays the bills, “just stay chill. Feel free to call me.” One of Branko’s friends started the organization: Meeting Emotional Social Needs Holistically (MESH). He and his friends documented abuses against gay people.

“So where are you off to next?” Branko akes the boy as they head back to the mechanic shop. Jeremy’s rented scooter is out beside the door, ready for him.

“St. John’s, hope to spend the night somewhere.”

“I wish I could show you around, but I’m still on duty. Let me give you the names of some friends. They can take you around.”

“Help me find a place to stay, find a job?” Jeremy asks hopefully.

“Ah yute, there’s the shine I was talking about.”

Jonas Road, Antigua

September 19, 2018

The road is so narrow it is hard to remember which side he should be driving on. Parked cars point left, so when the traffic comes his way, Jeremy remembers to squeeze left.

Telephone and power lines run along the road. They switch from side to side. From St. John’s back to English Harbour, it has felt like a suburban street. Each property has fences to the road, some new, so many old. Everything is built: new, tired old, construction either rising or falling. The new houses are two-story and always dark balconies. The old ones are box-bungalows with porches facing the street.

On an uncommon straightaway, Jeremy sees the green hills running down to the road. He thinks he has broken free of the urban sprawl, but they have simply shifted back into compounds behind affluent screens. Two-car houses with sleek trailered powerboats waiting on curved driveways.

English Harbour is ahead. Jeremy has finally broken away from Antigua’s optimistic density for a stretch. An unexpected intersection stops him in the road. One sign points to Clarence House. It is somewhere beyond a stone-framed gate. Dow’s Hill points left.

Antigua Slipway (Boatyard and Chandery) lies straight ahead. It is where he started. Decisions lie at the end of this road. Jeremy drives through the intersection.

The crowded island brush ends on the left and Jeremy is back at the ambitious clearing edging up to the colonial school Levi bought him. It is one more development Jeremy has seen started and delayed. It scars the landscape worse than the urban sprawl cutting through the center of Antigua.

From this approach, an abused chain-link fence follows right up to Fourteen Gates. At the development, the road dips down to a sharp bend lost in trees. The left turn runs along the side of the property, up the hill he drove up first. Right after the turn is the Inn at English Harbour; neighbor, rival? Jeremy is not sure which.

Jeremy turns right and into the parking lot of the marina where he rented the scooter.

St. John’s was fun, despite the disturbing, not unexpected news that Daniel had left again to take an interview. Branko’s we-take-care-of-each-other network embraced him. A mixed company of young locals took him on the town. They made the possibility of staying in Antigua more believable. It reminded Jeremy of visiting Los Mochis with Rafael and his girl friends. Female camouflage, bright-brash girls on his arms, friendly kisses while Jeremy and the boys measured each other.

Radcliffe Street, where the cruise ships disgorged their mobs of passengers for a day’s bloodletting, reminded Jeremy of the Fair midway. Milling-willing spenders and the island’s hawking hustle. Jeremy thought how nice it would have been if Shane, Shay and Wade had seen him for who he was that night. If Fiona had simply taken a friendship-Ferris ride with him. Lips would join as friends, because the closeness would have stirred the adolescent heat regardless. His being gay might strip the angst between them and make the kiss simply joyful being. Shane would roll his eyes when Jeremy paused to grade a passing boy, just something between them.

“Living here is not as interesting as people may think,” Chris Aska, one of his new friends warned Jeremy when he explained his plan to stay in Antigua. “It’s not like all beaches, all day, every day. There isn’t much to do other than going to the beach. Maybe go to the movies. Other than that, there isn’t much to do. For the most part, it is mostly just school, which is a pain, but I’ve got to get it done.” Chris was studying business, and it made Jeremy think of Rita Clement, owning Fourteen Gates, making emancipation work.

“Who doesn’t love the beaches?” Zion Baptiste, the prettiest girl shrugged. When Jeremy asked her how it was being gay, she replied, “It’s kind of hard in the Caribbean, because people don’t tolerate it. I’ve seen a video on the internet of a boy in Jamaica who got killed because he was gay and cross-dressing. They stoned him and beat him up. It was mortifying to see, barbaric, really.”

There was a current between Zion and Jeremy that was almost Sophie-right. Sensual, despite their different preferences. It was the midway fever of youth. A touch from Zion was as electrifying as a brush against Chris. The Antigua teenagers let Jeremy in, and he was so very grateful.

Jerry Roberts was sixteen. Closet gay like the rest, and very Jeremy-like in his easy manner. He set Jeremy straight. Finding work was a problem for them all. It was as Branko told him. Young people had few chances. “I don’t see myself staying on Antigua. One, the whole me-being-gay thing. Two, better job opportunities.” As soon as Jeremy mentioned owning Fourteen Gates, he was a person of interest to them all.

It was a hustle no different than Raül, José and Lacinta in Topolobampo, or Sergio Ochoa in Puerto Vallarta. Opportunity, if you had the right connections. Jeremy couch-surfed for a night (worrying about the scooter). Housing would be a problem. Flats are so expensive! one girl warned him. It made Jeremy think about Fourteen Gates. Fourteen flats to rent, he had no idea what the mysterious trust would earn. Levi Fisher was so smart, count on his old partner to make the right choices for him.

It was a hustle that could end like (fucking) Cordell Faulkner’s, if Jeremy was not careful. Jeremy would not steal. He was pretty sure he would be as bad as Raül at that. Sergio’s prostitution, another ugly end. Jeremy would have to learn the angles. His new friends in St. John’s, all safely on his Galaxy contacts, friends like Branko, possibilities, opportunities, not feeling quite so abandoned if he stayed in Antigua.

If I stay? That thought confronts Jeremy as he stands on the dockyard with Fourteen Gates at his back and Nelson’s Dockyard across the bay. Anton is alone for the moment. His skipper won’t abandon him. Should I have gone with Zachary Jain?

Galleon Beach

September 19, 2018

The inviting expanse of sand stretches in a shallow crescent from the Inn close to Fourteen Gates until it reaches another inn closer to the mouth of the bay. Jeremy walks past deserted sunshades and the short pier he used to hold the tender. A pale blue wall separates the clean beach from shorefront enterprises and a street Jeremy needs to explore. Two rowboats, one turned over, below stunted palms suggest the bustle the day might bring to this celebrated beach. He turns to look at the clear water and the sailboats floating in the still bay.

At the end of the crescent, irksome thorn trees block Jeremy’s way. The rocks along the shore are easy to navigate. They lead him to a second smaller beach, then he is back to flat black slabs that take him to the mouth of English Harbour. He wants to see the Pillars of Hercules. They could not be missed as Sirocco entered English Harbour.

The sheer rock cliffs really flank both sides of the harbor mouth. The ocean has sculpted the horizontal sediments into flat-topped columns that scatter along the tide line, some with their feet in the brine. Looking up the high cliff face, Jeremy is amazed by the buttresses created by wave fingers digging into the soft rock. It is a true curtain wall of corduroy folds.

The folded cliff at one side and the pillars on the other, this is the canyon Levi Fisher promised Fourteen in Arizona. Somehow, Levi found a way to transport the spirit of the Grand Canyon to Antigua. Jeremy scrambles through the rocks. At one point, he finds what looks like a face etched in the rock. He wonders if it is supposed to be the face of Hercules himself, gazing out to sea.

Jeremy has a memory of pausing by the cadaverous skull along the trail in La Paz. Perhaps this visage is not Hercules. Perhaps this is Ed-Harris-Levi telling him that they will never part ways.

Jeremy sits on a rock near Levi. He has come too early to Antigua. If ever Levi thought Jeremy would find his way to Fourteen Gates, after some Tuan-necessary presence in Vietnam, the trust property does not seem to be ready for Jeremy. If he stays, he will be homeless, jobless. It is so discouraging, he has come too soon.

You could dive off cliffs in Acapulco, Daniel and Jeremy discussed doing that. High drops, and a person would have to launch themselves far out away from the cliff to safely reach the water. Jeremy turns from his sea view and measures the top of the cliff behind him. Man, you would need to cannon out fifty feet just to hope the water was deep enough to take your plunge! Not here, at the Pillars. Driving the scooter up the east coast of Antigua, Jeremy saw places he might try a dive. The guys in Acapulco knew what they were doing.

Climbing safe cliffs with Keon King at the Pueblo, taking a stormy watch on Anton’s ketch, hey, even holding Raul and Jose at bay in Topolobampo, Jeremy recalled the exaltation. At eight, his grandparents took him to the Cleveland pool. He watched the boys and girls climb up to the high diving board. He argued briefly with Grandma Mary, then joined the line.

He climbed the ladder, conscious of the other kids, wanting to be like them. It was high, and not like a tree where you could clutch the trunk, or looking down, imagine branches you could grab as you fell. Straight down to shifting water that seemed more like hard ground than the cushion he wanted.  

Jeremy would not be the first boy to turn around and climb back down the ladder. He was only eight. Was Antigua the Acapulco cliffs or the tree he climbed under his mom’s watchful eyes? In Martinique, Jeremy told his mom and dad he thought he could be a success, on his own. There were ways to do it, to live out here. “I want to try making my way for myself here in the islands.”

His mother said, “The only way to move forward, Jem, is to be who you are, who you authentically are.”

I can always find my way back to this spot, if I decide to go. If I stay, there must be branches I can grab before I hit the ground. Anton is probably waiting for me.

Nelson’s Dockyard

September 19, 2018

“I don’t know,” Daniel tells Anton with uncertainty, impatience, and the self-aware exasperation of a young man who has to admit to both.

“You blew them away, I’m certain.” Anton declares.

“Listen to you, suddenly all enthusiastic.”

“I have to overcompensate, dear,” Anton explains. “I’ll pin Fourteen to the boat and come and join you.”

“Well, I see you are not so carried away that you have lost your priorities.” Daniel chuckles. After a pause, he continues, “Don’t come, Anton. They will take a few days, and then I will probably be back on the plane to join you.”

“Never forget, I had to spoil your last round of interviews, couldn’t leave it to chance, your brilliant, hard-working, absolute eye candy about the office and construction site. The next poster boy in some tight shirt, your dark beard looking like you’re too dedicated to shave, cute yellow helmet squared on your head, jeans just a bit too tight, blueprints in your big hands.”

“Don’t work yourself up! I’d be squirrelled away in some office like a drone.”

“A happy drone,” Anton adds.

“Yes,” Daniel concedes. “You’re where?”

“I confess, the restaurant where it is air conditioned. Fourteen just called. He has been wandering about. He should be back across the bay soon enough. I think he is going to stay on the beach.”

“You and Fourteen with your salty beaching talk!” Daniel sighs with frustration. “Send him home! For god’s sake, just send him home to Ohio. That’s where he needs to be.”

“Have you ever had someone try to force you to do what they thought was right for you?”

“This is completely different. He is a fifteen-year-old boy.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” Anton closes the discussion. “You’re where?”

“I’m at the window of your condo, looking at the rain.” Daniel cannot see much past the dock where Anton usually berths Sirocco. Everything is distorted by the rivulets running down the pane, or lost in a dreary mist. “Am I insane? The weather here is so bleak!”

“Chicago wind,” Anton stops at that. The argument is tired-old and this is a win-win, not to be diminished. “You’re not insane. I was the one who went crazy. I’ll come home, be with you,” Anton tries again.

“Just wait it out. Me here, you there, pinning Fourteen to the boat. You’ll see that he’s okay? I wouldn’t ask for me, but he’s had a time. This stubborn independence, I just don’t understand it, but you will make sure that he is not forgotten?”

“Hmmm,” Anton replies.