Working Title: “Slow Boat, Bitter End”

A Rony Boston Mystery by RJ Stewart

TAD TURNED TO HIS partner and smiled, a behavior that reminded me of the look Henry had given Ruthie earlier, and I realized the two couples had something important in common: They appeared to enjoy being with their partners.

Okay, I told myself, you snap out of it. These two men have as much or more to share about companionship than you, Self, a ship-wrecked, pathetic male searching for positive reappraisal.

Gungor, hoping to steer the conversation toward something more productive, asked straight out:

Tell me what you two hope to take away from this trip. If you feel like it, tell us also how that might differ from what your other travels provided.

Well, I certainly knew what I hoped to “take away” from my adventure, and I was not especially interested in sharing it now with strangers, especially Griselda. I hoped Gungor would not persist with this ice-breaker game.

Tad spoke first, presenting a set of pseudo goals having to do with seeing the world, learning about cultures, watching people, etc., etc., etc.

Geoffrey paused when it was his turn. He was not ready to speak. He stroked his stubble, that kind of unkempt three-day growth that has become commonplace among men these days. He removed his non-descript sunglasses to reveal a pair of unaligned and drooping eyes. They looked as if fate had cobbled them together only this morning, dropped them into place haphazardly, like spilled coffee beans. I thought he may have been run over by a truck as a child, his face smushed on one side, the surgeons hopelessly wringing their hands and scratching their heads with no idea of how to tidy it all up. He was not exactly disfigured, just loosely assembled. His mouth rounded as he thought, a kind of doughnut unsuitable for smiles. The teeth that were visible in this contemplative state were those of a chipmunk, no evidence of any more than the large upper two, and they seemed to be at odds with each other. His hair was attractively thick and dark, mussed but promising. He clearly gave it no regard. Locks flapped here and there, strands dangled, and new growth crept down the back and sides of his neck like an army of black ants.

Something this lady said, Geoffrey began, Helen, I mean Ruthie, isn’t it; Ruthie, excuse me, Ruthie, something you said suggests what I hope from this trip. You were discussing the Greeks, how they changed your thinking. You expected you and your faith would direct them to a better life, but you experienced an epiphany as they showed you that their own ideas about life were not bad and certainly did not need fixing. And Henry … you mentioned religious studies about the ancient Greek ideas of man and gods and now you’ve settled your faith into the Anglican church. As you talked my mind wandered away, forgive me, but I thought of the words from the Odyssey itself, how it tells of choice even in a god-filled universe. Correct me if I am wrong, but isn’t there a section where Zeus and other gods reflect on the problem with mortals? They always shamelessly blame the gods for their troubles, he says, conveniently forgetting that their own recklessness has made their lives miserable. I think religious studies must lead any student to the conclusion that free will must be constrained by love and by destiny. It is complex. I think out here on this boat as we visit historic sites and talk of battles and changes in cultures and influence and power and the like, I would like to take away a little better understanding of myself. It is easy for one to feel sorry for one’s self and to find someone to blame rather than to own up to one’s own failings.

Ouch. He had turned to me when he said these words and I took them very personally, even though he could not have known a thing in the world about me. I looked away. He went on:

Take the events with Calypso for example. What sticks in our minds is the seven years Odysseus lost during his journey home to Penelope and his son, Telemachus. He wants to see his wife and kid. But he got to Calypso’s island Ogygia in the first place because he pissed off one of the gods, Poseidon. And then there he is for seven years in the controlling clutches of a nymph who desires him as her husband. I mean, the nymph Calypso, like all nymphs, is beautiful, seductive, playful, shrewd, and potentially disastrous. But in the end, the gods dissuade her, and she helps get Odysseus back to his journey. The moral of the story for me is that one needs to consider the consequences of one’s actions, and mocking fate is not a good idea. We might call it bad karma.

Gungor raised his glass again and we all mouthed saloon-a once again. I smiled along with everyone else with hopes of not betraying my self-doubt, but when I caught a glimpse of the nymph sitting to my left, I was quite sure that if invited I would have stayed on her island.