Well, I went through about half the case, drifting around the bay, contemplating the meaning of life and more specifically wondering if I'd done and said the right things with Susan. I thought I had, and I justified my not telling her I didn't buy her story by reminding myself that she was borderline nuts even under the best of circumstances. I wasn't looking to destroy her or the marriage. I really wanted things to work out. I mean, on one level, we were still in love, but there's nothing more awkward than a husband and wife living together when one of them is having an affair, and the other one knows about it. (What I had done is called a fling. Susan was having an affair. Bellarosa had explained that when we were all having dinner at The Creek that night. Right?) Well, you don't sleep together, of course, but you don't necessarily have to separate and file for divorce, either. Especially if you're both still emotionally involved. There are other less civilized responses, I know, like having the big scene, or one or the other spouses going completely psychotic and getting violent. But in this case, the entire mess had evolved in such a bizarre way that I felt I shared in the responsibility.
Actually Susan had not verbally acknowledged that she was having an affair with our next-door neighbour, and that sort of complicated the situation. To make a legal analogy, I had made an accusation but had never presented evidence, and the accused exercised her right to remain silent, sulky, and withdrawn. And in truth, though Bellarosa had tacitly acknowledged the affair, my evidence was purely circumstantial as far as Susan was concerned. So, I think we both figured that if we just avoided the issue and avoided each other, we might eventually both come to believe none of this had happened. It was sort of the reverse, I suppose, of our sexual fantasies; it was using our well-developed powers of make-believe to pretend that what was happening was just another sexual melodrama, this one titled, "John Suspects Susan of Adultery." Anyway, somewhere around the tenth or eleventh beer, I realized that it was Frank Bellarosa who stood in the way of a real and lasting reconciliation. Well, the sky was turning purple, and the gulls were swooping, and it was time to go back. I rose unsteadily, went below, and retrieved a fire axe that was clipped to a bulkhead. I went into the forward head and swung the axe, cutting a five-inch gash in the fibreglass hull below the waterline. I pulled the axe out and watched the sea water cascade down the hull between the sink and shower. I swung the axe a few more times, cutting a good-size hole in the hull. The sea gushed in, swamping the floor and spilling out into the forward stateroom. I went topside and opened the flag locker, pulling out seven pennants and clipping them to the halyard. I ran the pennants up the main mast. Proud of my idiocy, and with the Paumanok listing to starboard and me listing to port, I lowered myself onto the aft deck and pulled a small inflatable life raft from under the cockpit seat. I put the remainder of the beer aboard the raft along with two small oars, and I sat in the raft. I popped a beer and drank while my boat settled deeper into the water around me. The sea came over the starboard side first, sloshed around the tilting deck and raised the life raft a few inches.
The Paumanok took a long while to sink, but eventually the stern settled into the water and the lifeboat drifted away over the swamped stern. I watched my boat as it settled slowly into the sea, listing at about 45 degrees to starboard, its bow rising up out of the water and its mast flying the seven signal pennants that proclaimed to the world Fuck you. It was nearly dark now, and as I drifted away, it became more difficult to see my boat, but I could still make out the mast and the pennants lying almost perpendicular to the water. It appeared as though the keel had touched bottom and that she was as far down as she was going to go.
I drifted with the tide for a while, working on a fresh beer and thinking about this and that. Obviously, what I had done was a very spiteful thing, not to mention a class A felony. But so what? I mean, someone was being very spiteful toward me. Right? I saw Alphonse Ferragamo's hand in this, and Mr Novac's hand, too. And perhaps even Mr Mancuso's hand and possibly Mr Melzer's influence. No good will come of your trying to take on forces more powerful than yourself. True, but I was enjoying the fight.
What I didn't enjoy was the loss of my boat, which in some semi-mystical way had become a part of me over the years. The Paumanok had always been my ace in the hole, my rocket ship to other galaxies, my time machine. That's why they'd taken her from me. Well, as the signal flags said, Fuck you.
Of course, if I hadn't been so spiteful and impulsive, I'd have gotten the boat back after I'd come up with the taxes, but that wasn't the point. The point was that the Paumanok was not going to be used as a pawn or a knife in my ribs. It was a good boat, and it should not suffer the indignity of a government tax-seizure sign on it. So I hoisted the beer to her and lay down in the life raft and drifted around the bay.
Around midnight, after counting a billion stars and wishing on a dozen shooting stars, I stirred myself and sat up.
I finished the last half of a beer, oriented myself, and began rowing for shore. As I pulled on the oars, I asked myself, "What else can go wrong?" But you should never ask that question.
PART VI
At two hours after midnight appeared the land at a distance of two leagues.
Christopher Columbus
Journal of the First Voyage,
October 12, 1492
CHAPTER 34
"You gotta try the sfogliatelli," said Frank Bellarosa.
Susan took the pastry and put it on her plate beside two other 'gotta try' pastries. Oddly, this woman, who looks like a poster girl for famine relief, packed down an entire 'gotta try' meal without even turning green. Anna Bellarosa was watching her weight, as she announced about six times, and was 'just picking'. She picked her way through enough food to feed the slums of Calcutta for a week. She also picked out two pastries, then put artificial sweetener in her coffee.
Where this was taking place was Giulio's, and it was now mid-September. Actually, it was Friday, September seventeenth, to be exact, and you'll see shortly why the day sticks out in my mind.
As for the great unveiling, I understand everyone loved the painting, and everyone had a good time that night. Terrific. I had a good excuse for missing the art event of the year, of course, if I had wanted an excuse: "Sorry, but I was busy sinking my boat to piss off the Feds." Regarding that, I hadn't heard from the IRS yet, and I doubt they even knew the Paumanok was gone. It didn't mean as much to them as it did to me. Maybe in the end, it was a futile gesture, but I wasn't sorry I'd done it. And if they asked me about it, I'd say, "Yes, I sunk her, just as my ancestors dumped tea into Boston Harbor. Give me liberty or give me death." I'd probably get about a year and a six-figure fine. But I did have a closing date on the East Hampton house, and I'd probably be able to settle my tax delinquency within a few weeks. Then I could get out my scuba gear and remove the tax-seizure signs from the Paumanok. Regarding my marital status, I'd accepted Susan's suggestion and remained in residence. However, we were married in name only, as they used to say when describing a couple who shared the same house and attended social and family functions together, but who no longer engaged in conjugal sex. This may have been all right for our ancestors, but to most modern couples, it's the worst of both worlds.
Anyway, back at Giulio's, the fat lady was still singing, belting them out in Italian, a mixture of sweet melodic songs and sad songs that made the old goombahs weepy, plus a few numbers that must have been pretty raunchy judging by the way she sang them and the reaction of the crowd.