Dead Sea

speaking, not wanting to disturb them. The kids had the top racks on each side. Mitch and I had taken the bottom bunks. The other two beds remained empty, and I figured there must be enough berthing areas that we wouldn’t have to share our quarters with two more strangers. Tasha snored softly, and Malik cried out once, and then was still. I wondered what they were dreaming about. Were they reliving the day or creating zombies out of loved ones in their sleep? I’d done that in the past-pondered the dreams of various partners as they slept beside me, presuming to know and understand their dreams and nightmares since I didn’t have any of my own.

Eventually, Mitch crawled out of his bunk and flashed a pack of cigarettes, indicating that he was going outside for a smoke. I nodded, and he tiptoed to the door and opened the hatch. Despite his efforts to be quiet, the steel door clanged when he shut it behind him. The kids didn’t stir.

The ship rocked gently back and forth. You didn’t really notice it unless you tried to walk around or if you were lying on your back. That was when the sensation became strongest. It was a constant, steady swaying. My stomach lurched each time it rolled. Sour bile burned the back of my throat. My eardrums throbbed. I wondered if it was just seasickness or some kind of delayed shock from the night’s events. I was exhausted, but didn’t think I’d be able to sleep. And then I did. Fell asleep thinking about Alan and the supermarket and the bitch I’d shot in the head.

If I dreamed, I don’t remember it.

I never did.

* * *

The next day, I saw for myself what Mitch had meant. The Spratling really was nothing more than a floating museum. All of the ship’s original interior features had been restored, but much of the equipment was inactivated. I wondered what worked and what didn’t. Luckily for us, it was still able to sail. Throughout the ship were framed mementos of its years of service: uniforms, replicas of weaponry, old photographs, pages from the ship’s logs, menus, and other things. Many of these were set up behind glass displays complete with recorded sound effects and narration, and red velvet ropes to keep the tourists from getting too close.

We found the showers easily enough, but they weren’t working. A white guy named Murphy was standing at the sink, peering into a cracked mirror as he shaved with no soap, water, or shaving cream. He winced with each scrape of the dry razor. His big nose was lined with the red veins of alcoholism. After introducing himself, he gave us a bottle of spring water so that we could at least brush our teeth. Mitch had a tube of toothpaste in his backpack. Tasha, Malik, and I used our fingers for toothbrushes. We didn’t have any clean clothes, either. My pants felt crusty and stiff. If I’d leaned them up in the corner, they could have stood by themselves. A middle-aged white woman in the next berthing compartment, who introduced herself as Joan Barnett, lent Tasha a T-shirt, but Malik and I were shit out of luck. Mitch had one spare pair of clean underwear in his backpack, but that was all. I noticed that after he’d washed up and dressed, he holstered a pistol at his side. The other weapons were still stashed in our berthing compartment.

Most of the people onboard the ship had gathered in the galley. A guy named Cleveland Hooper and an Asian dude named Tran were serving breakfast—little boxes of cereal, canned pineapple, granola bars, and Jell-O. No bacon or eggs or pancakes or fresh fruit; that would have all spoiled by now. There was coffee but no milk; just the little packets of sugar and powdered creamer. They had plenty of bottled water, though, and concentrated orange juice, which tasted better than anything I’d ever drunk in my life. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had orange juice.

“Good to see you, brother,” Hooper said as he put some pineapple chunks on my tray.

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“’Cause we the only two niggas onboard this ship. Everyone else is white, except for Tran here, and he don’t speak no English. It’s just you and me, player. We can divide up the women. Show them some good dick.”

“Yeah?” I feigned heterosexuality and tried to sound interested, but all I really wanted to do was eat. The sooner I could get out of this conversation, the better.

“Hell, yeah, man. It’s pussy central, brother. There’s some honeys onboard. Just hope half of ’em ain’t dykes. Know what I’m saying?”

My expression hardened. “No, I don’t know what you’re saying. And I’m not your brother. Don’t call me that again.”

Hooper put down his ladle. “What’s your problem, dog?”

“You. You’re my fucking problem.”

I walked away, rather than let it turn into a fight. Behind me, I heard him muttering that I was an Uncle Tom. I sat down next to Mitch. Tasha and Malik sat on the other side of us. My shoulders felt tense, my jaw tight. The ship continued to roll.

“All the people left alive, and that homophobic asshole had to be one of them. We should have left him behind.”

Malik stopped chewing and looked up at me. “What’d that word he used mean? Dyke. What is that?”

“It’s a bad word,” I said. “People use it when talking about women who are gay, but it’s not very nice.”

“Gay?” Malik nibbled his granola bar. “So a dyke is like a girl fag?”

“Malik, don’t say that.”

“Say what?”

“Fag. Faggot. It’s not a nice word. Do you know what it means?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. It’s when two guys is kissing and hugging on each other.”

“That’s one way to describe it, I guess.” I shook my head. “In any case, you shouldn’t say it.”

“Why not? All my friends say it.”

I sighed. “Remember when we were at your apartment last night?”

Both of the kids’ faces grew sullen for a moment. I immediately felt guilty for stirring up bad memories.

“Yeah,” Malik said. “I remember.”

“Do you remember when you said nigga and I told you not to? Told you what it really meant?”

“Uh-huh. I felt bad after it. You ain’t ignorant, and that’s what it meant. I ain’t gonna say it no more.”

“I bet your friends called you nigga, right? But they probably didn’t know what it meant, either. But has anyone ever called you a nigger?”

“With an ‘r’ on the end?”

I nodded.

His expression hardened. “Once, a long time ago. There was this white dude on the light rail when we was coming back from the grocery store. Tasha and me and our momma was all in the same seat and he couldn’t find one. Had to stand and hang on to the rail. He said under his breath, ‘No seats except for the niggers.’ I don’t think he meant for us to hear it, but we did. It pissed me off. I wanted to kick his behind, but Momma and Tasha said not to.”

“Yes, we did,” Tasha agreed.

“How did it make you feel when he called you that, Malik?”

“Bad. It hurt my feelings. I… I wanted to cry, but I didn’t.”

“Well, the same thing happens when you say fag. It hurts gay people’s feelings.”

“Yeah, but there ain’t no gay people around here, Lamar.”

I turned to Mitch and winked. He frowned in confusion. Then I turned back to Malik.

“How do you know there aren’t any gay people around here?”

He shrugged. “I don’t for sure, I guess. There just ain’t.”

“Malik, I’m gay.”

He stared at me, mouth open in astonishment, half-chewed granola bar stuck to his tongue.

“Y-you’re gay, Lamar? You like other guys?”

I nodded, smiling. “I sure am, and yes, I do. And when you say fag or faggot, it hurts my feelings just as bad as when someone calls us niggers. Faggots were bundles of sticks that people used to start fires with. When you call someone a fag, you’re really saying that you want to burn them alive, even if you aren’t aware of it. So don’t do that anymore, okay?”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that’s what it meant.”