“I found it!” she shouts.
She hands it to me, a brightly colored satellite phone just like the one my parents have, and I spin around to Stan so that we can all answer it together.
Except Stan’s not there when I spin around. He’s by Ted’s bunk. And the phone is still ringing.
“Hey, Ted. Hey,” he says, gently trying to shake loose a look from him. And the phone’s still ringing in my hand, and my hand is shaking. “Hey, Ted. Hey,” Stan says again, and tears are streaming down his face, and Ted’s not doing anything. Callie and Greta and Tara come running down. They stop in front of Ted and stare and reach toward the floor with claw-like hands, and as I watch them I name what it is they’re doing: weeping.
The phone’s ringing. It’s ringing and ringing. Emily takes it from my hand and sets it on the table, and we let it ring for a little while longer until it stops on its own and goes silent.
TED DIED IN his sleep tonight, while all around him we flung open the inside of this boat, looking for a phone that kept ringing. Whoever left us the phone is a mystery, the answer to which is residing on the other end of the call we missed.
Stan’s kneeling beside Ted. We put our hands on his shoulders, and he looks up at us in response to our touch, but then turns his face away again. His face is dry now, and his eyes are red. “Ted’s dead,” he says. His voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else.
Oh, Stan. We move to sit down by him, but he gets up. “I’m okay,” he says.
“Okay, no I’m not,” he tells us once he’s up. “Wait,” he says. “The phone call . . . did you get it?”
“We found the phone,” says Emily, flicking her eyes at me, “but not in time. Whoever it was hung up, and it’s been silent ever since. It’s on the table,” she says, pointing. “In case they try back.”
“Oh,” he says. He kneels down again and puts his hand on Ted’s shoulder, then moves his hand to Ted’s face. He stares at his brother, his dead brother, for what must feel to him like forever.
Emily and I go above deck. Stan isn’t alone. We’re still here. But Ted’s gone. And whatever Stan needs, we just have to find a way to be there for him.
He lets loose a scream like I’ve never heard.
FINALLY, AFTER SITTING up with Ted for so long I start to worry he might never leave, Stan sleeps. Emily and I stay on the course he made and taught us how to follow.
He wakes up, at sunset, announcing that he needs to use one of the two lifeboats and some of the gasoline. Emily and I look at each other, both knowing without asking that he’s going to use them to give Ted a burial at sea. It seems like something he needs to do himself, but we stand by in case he needs us.
“One thing that always calmed Ted was Vikings,” Stan says. “Looking at actors dressed as Vikings on TV. Touching books about Vikings. So I’m giving him a Viking funeral.” His hands are shaking as he tries to pour the gasoline on his brother, who is lying really peacefully in the small lifeboat. I dart my hand forward and help him hold the can steady. Emily grabs the rope that lowers the lifeboat. Stan’s got some matches. His hands are trembling as he and Emily carefully lower him down. Ted’s in the water now, and Stan takes a deep breath.
“Ted,” he says, “I wasn’t the best brother. And maybe sometimes you weren’t either. I was scared of you, and a lot of the time I resented the hell out of you. But I always . . . I always loved you. You’re the only brother I ever had. You were a loner, Ted. A rebel. And you saved my life. The only reason any of us are here right now is because you were strong enough, and smart enough, and had a heart big enough to save our lives. And I miss you. I really, really miss you.” He clears his throat and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. He lights a match and flicks it below into the lifeboat, the flame carrying what we can remember of Ted’s life off into the great beyond.
It catches quick. The flames stretch and grow and dance over the water and our eyes. Greta and Tara are standing by Stan. Callie takes hold of my hand. Emily’s crying. I’m crying.
TWENTY-NINE