Chapter 8

 

 

 

 

Donovan awoke first, too restless to remain asleep. He walked inland, moving through the foliage, startling a few small birds. He returned to the pool, soothed by the sound of the waterfall. In a moment he would wave the signal mirror out in the noonday sun, though he secretly believed it was useless without a clear target to aim for. Commercial jets had passed high overhead from time to time, but the island itself was probably barely visible from such an altitude, much less one pathetic man signaling with a mirror and waving his arms about.

He got it that Sam wanted to take things slower. He recognized that that was probably a good idea. But he knew one thing for sure. No one had ever kissed him like Sam had. No one had ever given him such an intense, powerful and all-encompassing orgasm. But it was more than that. Sam’s tenderness, his compassion, his patience, his grace… It was insane to even think it, but Donovan couldn’t deny it in his heart of hearts—he was falling in love.

And what of Sam? His emotions had been so open on his face after they’d kissed. There was lust, yes, but it had been suffused with tenderness and longing. Was that what love was? No woman had ever loved Donovan like that, but then, he’d never allowed himself to be vulnerable with a woman.

As Donovan stared into the rushing water cascading over the rocks, he realized his failure in prior relationships lay squarely with him. He had chosen women who were safe, who wouldn’t challenge him emotionally, who were as withdrawn and reserved as he was when it came to matters of the heart. It was safer that way.

But safe from what?

What he was experiencing now with Sam was dangerous, infinitely more so than with any past relationship. Not only because it was a homosexual experience, but because love was involved. Real love—the kind that can destroy or save, depending on circumstance. What was that old song lyric from that Police song? “Love can mend your life or love can break your heart.”

A heron distracted him, rising from a perch behind the waterfall. Curious, Donovan got up and moved to that side of the pool, peering at the ledge. There appeared to be a nest there. Leaning behind the stream of splashing water, he reached toward the nest, catching sight of the three white eggs nestled there.

Eggs!

Donovan’s mouth watered as he recalled scrambled eggs and bacon, buttery rye toast, and a large glass of fresh orange juice on the side. His stomach rumbled, the unsatisfying breakfast of their very last energy bar and some ping pong fruit a distant memory.

Tentatively he reached out, balancing against the slippery rocks as his fingers touched the delicate shell of the nearest egg. It was warm to the touch. Gently he cradled it in his fingers, lifting it from the nest of twigs and feathers. He hesitated at the thought of the mother’s return to a plundered nest, but at the same time he had to swallow to keep from choking on the anticipatory saliva welling in his mouth.

He imagined presenting Sam with a small, perfectly cooked hardboiled egg. What a treat. He leaned forward carefully to collect the other two.

He jerked his hand back, startled by the flap of wings and the angry squawk of a furious bird. Turning slowly so he wouldn’t lose his perch, Sam saw the mother heron hovering nearby, her long neck graceful as a swan’s, her beady eye fixed with reproach upon him. These were her babies. A meager meal for two men was this bird’s life work.

Was it fair of him to take them simply because he could? Before the shipwreck, he wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment. Survival of the fittest, he would have said, never giving a second thought to how his actions would affect those around him.

As the bird moved closer, delicately poised on a ledge only several yards from her nest, Donovan lightly dropped the stolen eggs back into the soft bed of feathers and leaves that lined the nest. Keeping his eye on the large bird, he climbed down from behind the waterfall. She didn’t move until he was safely away. Then she swooped back to her nest and settled herself over her eggs, still glaring at him.

Donovan went to the ping pong trees and collected handfuls of the fruit, tying them up in a pocket he made by knotting the bottom of his T-shirt. He collected wood and kindling on his way back to the encampment.

Sam was still asleep beneath the tarp, now lying on his side. Seeing him with fresh eyes, Donovan was struck by how thin he looked, his shoulder blades protruding between the ropy muscles. His own jeans bagged at his hips. They weren’t starving—not by any stretch, but their enforced Paleo diet was taking its toll.

Donovan wanted to share the story of the heron and her eggs, but Sam seemed to be in a deep sleep. He’d put Sam through enough hell with his temporary insanity after the plane flew away. He would let Sam sleep.

Quietly, Donovan moved to the tent. He removed the signal mirror from a little flap on the inner wall where they stored it. Then he walked down to the shore, forcing himself to have hope, knowing it was all that kept them sane.

 

When he returned to the encampment a while later, Sam was sitting up, stretching his arms into the air with a satisfied sigh. “I slept like a rock,” he said, smiling. “I feel like a new man. What about you? Did you get any rest?”

“A little.” Donovan sank down next to Sam. “Not much, actually,” he admitted. His body ached from exertion and fatigue.

Sam placed a light hand on his shoulder. “You look beat. Why don’t you take a nap?” He got to his feet. “I’ll go forage for dinner.”

“Yeah, okay,” Donovan agreed, suddenly unable to keep his eyes open. “Thanks, Sam. For everything.”

 

When Donovan awoke, the smell of roasting fish assailed him. He sat up, surprised he’d slept most of the day away. It was late afternoon and the island was bathed in the golden glow it seemed to take on each day at this hour. He scrambled out from beneath the tarp, his limbs stiff, his bladder full. After relieving himself, he walked over to where Sam was cooking fish in a pan of coconut milk.

Sam looked up. “You were out cold so I decided to let you sleep. You should have seen me, Donovan. I caught a fifty pounder, but I let it go.”

“Yeah, right,” Donovan said, cocking an eyebrow. He peered into the pan, which contained four small fish that would barely come to more than a few mouthfuls. For whatever reason, Sam didn’t have a knack for catching fish, and usually left the task to Donovan. Donovan didn’t mind. He enjoyed bringing back a string of fish that would make a full meal. Tomorrow he’d be more productive.

Now he sat cross legged by the fire. Sam handed him a cup. “I made something new. It’s coffee coconut milk. See what you think.”

Donovan took the offered drink and sipped it. It was pretty horrible, but Sam looked so expectantly happy that Donovan took another sip and said, “Hey, that’s not half bad.”

“Right?” Sam said, still grinning. “It wasn’t hard to make, either. I just made some coffee and then let it cool and mixed it into the milk. Voila. Maybe I can patent it when we get back.”

“Yeah,” Donovan said dryly. “Good luck with that.”

They ate a meal of fish, steamed seaweed and ping pong fruit, then walked together to the pool to rinse their pot and plates. Sam didn’t say a word about the events of the day before, and Donovan, following his lead, held his tongue.

That evening they made a large bonfire on the shore. They used most of their wood supply, but they agreed they would stockpile more the next day. Donovan brought out one of the blankets and they sat down near the fire, scanning the horizon and the sky for any sign of a ship or plane.

As the night deepened, the stars came out, like sugar sprinkled across the black sky. “Just think,” Sam said, staring upward. “the light from those stars takes years to reach us. Some of them might not even exist anymore.”

Donovan lay back on the blanket and put his hands behind his head as he stared up into the heavens. “So, in a way we’re looking back in time.” He took a breath. “Do you ever wonder, if you hadn’t gone on that cruise? If you could go back in time and do it again…”

Sam sat up and hugged his knees, rocking himself as he stared out at the water dappled with light reflected from the stars. “I’ve thought about it, sure. There are so many paths we could take—a dozen decisions a day that affect the course of our lives.” He shrugged, his eyes still on the water. “I don’t really like to think of things in terms of ‘what if’. It doesn’t really get me anywhere. Things are what they are. And who knows, if I’d stayed back in Brooklyn, maybe I’d have been hit by a bus.”

“Ha. I should have known you’d have the philosophical answer,” Donovan retorted with a laugh. He lifted on his elbow to regard Sam. “It’s kind of amazing, when you think about it, that we’re both from New York, right? I mean, I bet people come from all over the place to go on that cruise.”

“It’s a coincidence all right,” Sam agreed. “I heard a lot of different foreign languages on the ship. We’re lucky in a lot of ways, you and I.”

Donovan looked at Sam’s face in the starlight, trying to gauge any underlying meaning in the words, but Sam was just smiling in that soft, understated way he had. Donovan suddenly wanted to know more about him, but he felt oddly shy after their intense encounter. He decided to stay on safe ground, and so asked, “If you were back home right now, what do you think you’d be doing?”

“Let’s see,” Sam said slowly, looking upward. “I guess I would have just had my first big gallery show.” He turned his head toward Donovan. “Before the cruise, I’d been working basically around the clock for several months to get everything ready.” He sighed softly. “I wonder if Tim went ahead with the show without me. I wonder if Tim thinks I’m…”

He trailed off, but Donovan knew exactly what he was thinking. “I wonder if Tim thinks I’m dead.”

Not wanting either of them to dwell on that line of thought, Donovan said quickly, “Tell me more about your art career. Do you have a studio where you do your painting?”

Sam perked up at the question. “I used to rent this tiny space in an art cooperative, but just before the cruise, I found this really cool loft. As soon as I got back, I had planned to get it in shape to use as my studio and maybe live there, too.”

“Sounds sweet,” Donovan encouraged, glad he’d brought Sam away from any morbid thoughts.

“Yeah,” Sam said, enthusiasm back in his voice. “Sometimes I dream about it here at night. I’m in my new studio, the light slanting across the canvas, my paints ready. Other times I dream I’m painting here, an easel set up on the rocks by the waterfall. I would love to try to capture the rich colors of this paradise.” He lapsed into silence, staring upward, lost in thought.

“You must really miss painting, huh? It’s not just a job for you—it’s a passion, a calling.”

Sam glanced over at him. “Yeah. Without question. I couldn’t imagine doing something I wasn’t passionate about. What about you? Is practicing law a passion?”

Donovan laughed. “Not really. It’s more like a forced destiny. It’s what the men in my family do. It never occurred to me to question it. It was understood I would follow in my grandfather and father’s footsteps and become an attorney.”

“And, do you like it?”

“Do I like it…” Donovan repeated. It wasn’t a question he had spent much time on. “I guess I like it well enough. It never really occurred to me that I had a choice. I was pre-law as an undergrad. I went straight from college to law school and then I took a position with a large firm, with the understanding I would cut my teeth there and eventually move over to my dad’s contract law firm to run the place when he retired.”

“So, that’s it? You’ve got your entire career path mapped out at the ripe old age of twenty-seven?”

Donovan shrugged. “I guess, yeah. As long as I don’t fuck it up and get fired or something. As long as I stay hungry, as my dad would say, and give it everything I’ve got.”

“That sounds passionate.”

Donovan laughed. “No. Driven is more like it.”

“Well,” Sam said philosophically, “you’re still young. You can always do something else if you discover being an attorney doesn’t make you happy.”

“Make me happy? What’s that got to do with it?” Donovan snorted. “That’s why they call it work, boy,” he intoned in his father’s voice.

“It doesn’t have to be like that, Donovan. You have choices. You do,” Sam insisted. “Is there something you are passionate about? I mean, if money were no object, and you didn’t have this family legacy, and you could do whatever you wanted to in the world, what would you do?”

“Maybe I’d be a writer,” Donovan ventured, startled to realize he meant it. “I used to keep journals as a teenager.” He chuckled, remembering the angst-ridden diatribes. “I took a creative writing class my freshman year in college to satisfy the English requirement, and I really enjoyed it. We worked on this series of vignettes about people we’d seen on the subway or in a supermarket or whatever. The assignment was to imagine what their life was, just based on observing them for a few minutes. I had a lot of fun coming up with the stories. I didn’t really take it seriously, but the professor told me he thought I had real potential, if it was ever something I wanted to pursue.”

“Wow, that’s great. So, did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Pursue it?”

“Nah. I was too busy gunning for the grades so I could get into law school. I haven’t even thought about it in years.”

“Maybe you’ll write about us one day, once we’re rescued.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Once we’re rescued.

And if they weren’t rescued?

Donovan shook away the thought, unwilling to let it drag him down into a negative place. To change the topic, and also because he was curious, he asked Sam, “So, what do you do when you’re not painting? Do you have a significant other at home?”

He found himself hoping the answer was no.

Sam shook his head. “Not for a while now. I was kind of seeing this guy for about a year, but I ended it a couple of months before the cruise. He’s a cellist with the New York Philharmonic. It was an on-again, off-again thing, based on who else he was more interested in at the time.” Sam gave a small, sad laugh. “It wasn’t like he’d lied to me. From the beginning, he warned me he liked to play the field, and I could deal with that or not, as it suited me. At first, I was okay with it. Or I told myself I was.” Sam shook his head. “But it’s really not my style. When I love someone, I love him all the way, and I guess I need that in return.”

“So, you broke up?”

“More like we faded away. The last couple of times he tried to breeze back into my life, I told him I was busy. When he pressed me, I said it just wasn’t working out for me, and he graciously vanished. I never should have gotten involved with him in the first place, but I’ve always been a sucker for musicians.”

“I can play the piano—badly,” Donovan offered, grinning. “I suffered through years of lessons when I was a kid, though I never showed much aptitude. My mom—she was the one with the musical talent, not me.”

Donovan felt the touch of Sam’s hand on his thigh and he caught his breath, afraid to move, afraid Sam would pull his hand away. “I bet you’re better than you think,” Sam said warmly. “You’ll have to play for me someday. And I’d love to read your short stories, if you still have them.”

Donovan smiled at this nod to a future—a future off this island.

They were quiet for a while. Sam’s hand had fallen away, but Donovan was keenly aware of it, just inches from his leg, resting lightly on the blanket. But instead of moving any closer, Sam asked, “How about you? What would you be doing back home right now?”

Donovan thought a moment. “I’d probably be cramming for some case, files piled all around me, trying to get a handle on my arguments. Before the cruise, I had been gearing up for my first big trial—a case I’ve been working on for months. The cruise was supposed to be a chance for some down time so I could be my best for the trial. Believe it or not, when we were drifting around in that raft, I kept obsessing about how someone else was going to take the case if I didn’t make it back in time.” He stared up at the stars spangled over the vast night sky. “Now I’m like, who gives a fuck? I’m just glad to be alive.”

“Yeah. Something like this sure does put things in perspective, right?” Sam agreed. “I was thinking about how I’m glad I don’t have a significant other waiting at home—someone who might assume I died in the shipwreck.” He sighed deeply. “I hope my parents aren’t worrying, but of course they must be.”

“My dad doesn’t waste time worrying,” Donovan asserted. “It’s not productive. Fury is much more his style. He takes action, damn it.” Donovan slammed his right fist into his left hand in imitation of his father. “I’m sure he’s feeling righteously vindicated about now. He didn’t want me going on the cruise at all. Said it was irresponsible to take a vacation your first two or three years out—not if you want to make partner.”

Sam frowned. “No, Donovan. I’m sure you’re wrong. He’s got to be out of his mind with worry.”

Donovan shrugged. “Maybe.” He tried to imagine his father as anything but in full control, and failed. “He’s probably stressed out, sure,” he finally conceded. “But wringing hands and shedding tears are definitely not part of my father’s skill set. He’s no doubt already filing the class action lawsuit to take the cruise company for everything they’ve got. Take a negative and turn it into a positive, he would say.” He heard the bitterness in his tone, but was unable to help himself.

“The guy sounds like a real piece of work.”

“Yeah, that’s one way of putting it. If he knew what I was doing now—what you and I have done together—he would fucking freak. ‘McNairs are not queers,’” Donovan intoned in his father’s deep bass. When Sam said nothing to this, Donovan continued, “He’s got my life all mapped out for me. I’ll claw my way up the ladder at work, and eventually come over to his firm. While I’m doing that, I’ll marry at thirty, join the country club in Scarsdale by thirty-five, and have the requisite two point five kids along the way.”

Sam laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Only a little,” Donovan said, laughing too. It felt good to laugh away some of the bitterness. His father was far away, and Sam was good company—so different from the cutthroat go-getters he worked with.

“You must miss your mom,” Sam said softly.

Sudden tears pricked Donovan’s eyes. He blinked them away. “Yeah.”

“Your dad must miss her too. Maybe that’s why he’s focusing so much on you. Especially seeing as you’re an only child.”

“He would never admit it, but he’s pretty lost without her. That’s one reason I haven’t moved out yet, even though I’m earning enough now to get my own place. As much of a hard ass as he is, I think he still needs me there.”

“You’re a good son,” Sam said. “It’s been what, two years since she passed away?” 

“Yeah. She got diagnosed just as I was finishing law school. My father was unable to cope with her illness.”

“I can only imagine,” Sam said, shaking his head. “That had to be so tough for him—to watch the woman he loved dying before his eyes.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but you wouldn’t know it by how he behaved,” Donovan said, deciding not to sugarcoat his father’s reaction as he usually did for the rest of the world. With Sam, he knew he didn’t have to pretend. “He acted like the real issue was the inconvenience of it. My mom ran the household. She paid the bills, did the shopping and cooking, handled all the day-to-day aspects of making sure her husband’s life was smooth and well-ordered so he could devote himself to the business of running a law practice. When she got sick, she continued to handle all of it for as long as she could. She was like him in that regard—determined to power through any discomfort, since McNairs don’t complain. They just bow their heads and keep moving forward, no matter the cost.

“It would never have occurred to either one of them to hire help. McNairs do for themselves, and they had a perfectly good son who they’d just spent a fortune educating, as my father never missed an opportunity to remind me. It was the least I could do to move back home and take care of things while my mom ‘rested’ as the two of them euphemistically liked to insist was all she was doing.”

“Man, Donovan. That sounds really tough for you.”

“It was hard watching her waste away, that’s for damn sure,” Donovan replied. “The chemo made her sicker than the disease, so it seemed to me, and on top of that, it didn’t work. The cancer just kept doing its horrible worst. She made the decision to stop treatment, which infuriated my father, as McNairs never quit, no matter what.”

“I’m sensing a theme here,” Sam said dryly.

“No kidding,” Donovan affirmed. “It’s one of the few times I’ve actually stood up to my dad. I backed up her decision. She was in agony. I would have helped her end it sooner if I could have. Nobody should have to suffer like that.”

“I can only imagine,” Sam said softly. “You must have felt so helpless in the face of her pain.” He rolled toward Donovan and reached out, lightly tracing the track of a tear on Donovan’s cheek he hadn’t realized he’d shed.

Then Sam reached for him, and Donovan opened his arms. They moved together, holding each other close. Donovan no longer tried to hold back the tears that coursed silently down his face. He wasn’t crying—at least it didn’t feel like crying. He wasn’t mourning for his mother, though her loss would always remain in his heart. He wasn’t even feeling sorry for himself. He was just letting the emotions course through him and, for once in his life, not trying to censor them. All he knew for sure was that he felt safe in Sam’s arms—safe to let the tears fall without worrying about any greater meaning. For the moment, he didn’t care if there was a plane out there somewhere looking to rescue them.

For now, locked in each other’s arms, they would rescue each other.