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Chapter 18
“I know nothing about explosives,” Mason said to himself.
“Don’t touch it. There’s a little time left, still.”
“Okay. Is there any means to call the shore?”
“No. No, frankly, Mason; I swear I’ve cut it off. Relax.”
He sat down looking up at the stars above. He’d shown that star to Mary and then
had tried to embrace her, for one of the first times ever. He’d danced under the
stars with Julia once. Only once.
Elena sat, too. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”
“Why?”
“I want to know. Please. …Brother.”
Mason’s throat got blocked by a spasm.
“Okay,” he said with some effort. “Thinking whether it’s really the end, and how it
actually doesn’t feel like that. Thinking how I tried to embrace Mary once when
showing her the stars and how she shied away. How I’ve never told Julia I love her,
and what if I never again have a chance to.”
“Do you?” Elena asked.
“I do. If you ever try to hurt her--”
“I won’t.”
Mason took some deep breaths.
“Go on, please.”
“Thinking,” he went on looking at the stars, “if I will meet Mary up there when I’m
dead, and how I can explain to her why I’ve left Matthew all alone. Of course there’s
Julia and she will take care of my son, thank God; then again, I’m thinking of Julia
and our new baby who’s not born yet, and how she’ll grow without a father--”
“Why she?” Elena interrupted.
“Or he. I don’t know why I said ‘she’.”
“I know: because you’re trying to stir me to pity.”
“No, not – not consciously. You asked. How can I not be thinking of my children
when I’m at death’s door?”
“Oh, leave the children out. Anything else you’re thinking about?”
Mason looked at Elena but her face was hard to read. “Of my life; whether I’ve lived
an empty life or not. Of dad--”
“Mason!”
“No, really, of course I’m thinking of it: if it’s really so we’ll never get a chance to
forget all our petty squabbles and just live like father and son should.”
“You’re doing this again.”
“I can stop.”
“No. Go on.”
“There’s little left. I’m thinking of Mother and how I’ve never got a chance to get to
really know her. Then my siblings, including you. And finally--”
He paused.
“And, finally?” she prompted.
“Shakespeare.”
“Shakespeare???”
Mason smiled. “Yeah. I’ve been finding comfort in Shakespeare ever since the
moment I realized I could read it and understand what it was about. Now I’m trying
not to get too maudlin or sentimental, and quite naturally, I am trying to remember
Shakespeare instead. Something suitable for this solemn moment.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, Elena, I’m not. Is there a way to stop this?”
“No.”
“To get in touch with the shore or another boat?”
“No.”
“Is there nothing left that I can do?”
Elena shook her head. “Frankly, nothing.”
“Okay. Then, Shakespeare.”
There was another silence.
“Why not this,” Elena said slowly. “’Twelfth Night,’ isn’t it.
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
Only this is a love song, as far as I remember.”
Mason stared at her. “You mean you, too, actually know this by heart?”
“I’m your sister,” she said, and suddenly her face got distorted in a grimace of pain
and hate. “I’m your sister, damn you, and all I have, to recall at such a moment, is
Shakespeare, and my adoptive father, and what I’ve done to you.”
“It’s not over yet,” Mason said gently.
“It’s as good as over, believe me.”
“Then come here.” He put his arm round her shoulders. “Look up. Do you believe
people’s souls get to reach the stars?”
Elena shook her head. “No. I believe I’ll be fried in hell.”
“There’s no hell but for the one we’re creating for ourselves,” Mason said.
Any other time, he’d have been ashamed of proclaiming this; under the
circumstances it seemed quite normal.
“I know nothing about explosives,” Mason said to himself.
“Don’t touch it. There’s a little time left, still.”
“Okay. Is there any means to call the shore?”
“No. No, frankly, Mason; I swear I’ve cut it off. Relax.”
He sat down looking up at the stars above. He’d shown that star to Mary and then
had tried to embrace her, for one of the first times ever. He’d danced under the
stars with Julia once. Only once.
Elena sat, too. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”
“Why?”
“I want to know. Please. …Brother.”
Mason’s throat got blocked by a spasm.
“Okay,” he said with some effort. “Thinking whether it’s really the end, and how it
actually doesn’t feel like that. Thinking how I tried to embrace Mary once when
showing her the stars and how she shied away. How I’ve never told Julia I love her,
and what if I never again have a chance to.”
“Do you?” Elena asked.
“I do. If you ever try to hurt her--”
“I won’t.”
Mason took some deep breaths.
“Go on, please.”
“Thinking,” he went on looking at the stars, “if I will meet Mary up there when I’m
dead, and how I can explain to her why I’ve left Matthew all alone. Of course there’s
Julia and she will take care of my son, thank God; then again, I’m thinking of Julia
and our new baby who’s not born yet, and how she’ll grow without a father--”
“Why she?” Elena interrupted.
“Or he. I don’t know why I said ‘she’.”
“I know: because you’re trying to stir me to pity.”
“No, not – not consciously. You asked. How can I not be thinking of my children
when I’m at death’s door?”
“Oh, leave the children out. Anything else you’re thinking about?”
Mason looked at Elena but her face was hard to read. “Of my life; whether I’ve lived
an empty life or not. Of dad--”
“Mason!”
“No, really, of course I’m thinking of it: if it’s really so we’ll never get a chance to
forget all our petty squabbles and just live like father and son should.”
“You’re doing this again.”
“I can stop.”
“No. Go on.”
“There’s little left. I’m thinking of Mother and how I’ve never got a chance to get to
really know her. Then my siblings, including you. And finally--”
He paused.
“And, finally?” she prompted.
“Shakespeare.”
“Shakespeare???”
Mason smiled. “Yeah. I’ve been finding comfort in Shakespeare ever since the
moment I realized I could read it and understand what it was about. Now I’m trying
not to get too maudlin or sentimental, and quite naturally, I am trying to remember
Shakespeare instead. Something suitable for this solemn moment.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, Elena, I’m not. Is there a way to stop this?”
“No.”
“To get in touch with the shore or another boat?”
“No.”
“Is there nothing left that I can do?”
Elena shook her head. “Frankly, nothing.”
“Okay. Then, Shakespeare.”
There was another silence.
“Why not this,” Elena said slowly. “’Twelfth Night,’ isn’t it.
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
Only this is a love song, as far as I remember.”
Mason stared at her. “You mean you, too, actually know this by heart?”
“I’m your sister,” she said, and suddenly her face got distorted in a grimace of pain
and hate. “I’m your sister, damn you, and all I have, to recall at such a moment, is
Shakespeare, and my adoptive father, and what I’ve done to you.”
“It’s not over yet,” Mason said gently.
“It’s as good as over, believe me.”
“Then come here.” He put his arm round her shoulders. “Look up. Do you believe
people’s souls get to reach the stars?”
Elena shook her head. “No. I believe I’ll be fried in hell.”
“There’s no hell but for the one we’re creating for ourselves,” Mason said.
Any other time, he’d have been ashamed of proclaiming this; under the
circumstances it seemed quite normal.
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