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SEVENTEEN

E ddie is grateful for the stillness of the water tonight. The vision of the river’s angry dark waves swallowing stones just an hour (day, generation) ago has been eclipsed by the placid current now. Francis steers the skiff by its small, sputtering outboard motor through the slow waves, snaking out of the marina and into the open water. It’s a small thing, this boat, maybe ten feet long, with two slats of wood spanning across the hull, one in the back by the motor where Francis sits, and one in the middle for Eddie. A small tarp covers most of the front half of the boat, or as Francis says, bow.

“The front is the bow. The back is the stern. The left side is port and the right side is—” Francis stops, raising his eyebrows to invite Eddie’s guess.

Eddie shrugs.

“Starboard,” Francis says.

“You sound like an expert.”

“I used to drive an oyster boat in Jamaica Bay.”

Eddie’s mind flashes back to the conversation at the beach, the other day in 1930, when Vincent and Charlie were arguing about the ban on oyster fishing in Jamaica Bay. They said it took effect thirty years before. Which means Francis must have somehow—Eddie’s mind tumbles.

“We don’t have boats in Mesa Springs,” he says. “Other than a kayak or two on Rifle Creek.”

“I’ve always wanted to see Rifle Creek,” Francis says.

Eddie’s eyes widen. “You’ve heard of it?”

Francis laughs. “Of course not.”

Eddie swats his shoulder.

“Ouch!” Francis yelps, then turns to the river. “Tonight, we will have to settle for the mighty Hudson. Not a bad stand-in, I’d say.”

Eddie watches Francis’s eyes as he steers the boat confidently into the center of the river to catch the current. It’s lazy, but still strong, drawing them down toward the tip of Manhattan.

It’s warm out here on the water, warmer than you’d think from shore. Even with the breeze, the midsummer air is thick. Eddie drapes an arm over the side of the boat and drags a finger in the cool water, watching the reflected lights from the city and the moon glimmer in the tiny wake. His mind begins to churn again, trying to make sense of all this, but it only goes in circles. Stop trying to explain it all, Eddie. Don’t quash the magic. It feels good to be here, doesn’t it? Wherever, or whenever this is. It feels good. Maybe that’s enough.

But he doesn’t listen to himself. He has to ask. “How do you do it?” Eddie asks.

“Do what?”

“Travel? Move? Slip through? I don’t know the word to use. Whatever you call it. How does it work? How do you get from then to now? From there to here? How is it possible?”

“I don’t know,” Francis says, with something like wistfulness. “It’s almost like this current. It just sweeps you along, whether you want to go or not. You just go, and you end up where you end up. If you’re lucky, it’s a place you want to be.”

“But what if it’s not a place you want to be? How do you get back to—” Eddie stops himself. Back to where, Eddie? Where does Francis belong? Where is his home? “Back to somewhere you want to be?”

“I want to be here,” Francis says. “In our boat.”

“But I don’t know where you’re from. I don’t even know how old you are.”

“Not everything has an explanation. Some things you just have to trust. I’ve learned this.”

“Like what?”

Francis flips a switch and the outboard motor sputters once more, then stops. They are only drifting now.

“Like I am here. Like you are here. Like we are together, and time is on our side,” he says. He pulls his shirt up over his head and tosses it to one side, then scoots down to the base of the boat, onto his back, halfway under the tarp. “Come,” he says.

Eddie, drawn by the glow of Francis’s skin, slips off the slat and next to the beautiful boy. Soon, his own shirt is off, and they are kissing, slowly at first, taking their time, and then more urgently. Francis’s kiss tastes like caramel, like chestnuts, like seawater, like licorice, like all the flavors they’ve known together, like skin. Eddie takes greedy mouthfuls, hands grasping.

“Easy,” Francis says, steering them. “Let’s not rush. Let’s never rush.”

They move slowly. Somehow Francis knows to meet every one of Eddie’s gestures, and somehow Eddie knows to answer back, every motion a perfect synchronicity, every touch bringing them closer. Eddie’s hands around Francis’s shoulders, fingers interlocked behind him. Francis’s arms around Eddie’s waist, resting at the coccyx, just there. They whisper, and laugh, and ask, and answer, and when the feelings overwhelm them they shudder, each holding the other, protective, steadying. Lips pressed against ears, tiny sounds, the soft tap , tap , tap of the waves against the skiff, the distant hum of the city.

I am here. You are here. We are together.

How natural it all feels, how easy and relaxed, like a seamless recitation of a passage Eddie didn’t even know he’d memorized. He’s wondered about this moment for years, about what to do, about how he’d look, about what he’d feel, about bravery. In Francis’s hands, beside Francis’s body, following Francis’s lead, Eddie feels no doubt, no fear, no hesitation, no shame. He feels only alive.

“Is this a dream?” Eddie asks, curling over and on top of Francis. “Are you real?”

“Are you?” Francis replies, his voice a vibration as he wraps his legs around Eddie.

Eddie’s hands grasp at the boy beneath him, clutching hungrily at his waist, his thighs, his hands. “Yes,” he answers. “I am.”