Forty years ago, Nicole Hinault would sunbathe on the bow of my small boat while her seven-year-old son, Davide, sorted his baseball cards. Davide knew nothing of baseball or America; he would just stare at the mystery of the cards. Occasionally, Nicole would help him with an English word, but mostly she slept, a hand in the water, trying to sober-up with the sun on her face.
We would drift in the Peconic Estuary. Depending on the tide we either drifted towards or away from the Atlantic.
I was responsible for their afternoons. Nice work, if you can get it.
Those days were heaven for me, and existed between the time Nixon invaded Cambodia and when I reported for basic training. I was indifferent as to whether or not Nicole would take off the top of her suit; she sure didn’t look pregnant. I planned to surprise Davide with a picture book; she sure didn’t look pregnant.
Nicole often spoke in English about the day she told her husband that the baby she was carrying wasn’t his. I heard about the note she left, how she packed Davide and her expensive luggage. They took a jet, then the Long Island Railroad to the marina where her lover’s yacht was moored. For Davide’s benefit, Nicole joked in French about a problem they had with a cabbie.
I met them on their first day at the marina. Part of my job was to ferry people to the yachts. Nicole spent her nights on a yacht and most days she’d drift with me. The man she stayed with wore linen pants and tailored shirts. Each night, before I scrubbed the bait-buckets, I had to check the lines, mooring-by-mooring. I would hear ice clinking in her hi-ball glass.
Most days, Nicole drifted with me.
One calm day, the owners thought it would be easier to ‘party’ if they tied their huge boats side-to-side. I spent an hour pulling and pushing and throwing lines. I thought I had it right, until I watched Davide climb down a side-ladder, then drop himself into the bay. A small breeze picked up and he was crushed-to-death between two yachts.
When I fictionalize remembrance Nicole screams, but she was mute. They returned to Normandy, Davide in a box. The summer of 1970 ended.
* * * * *
Today when I travel for business, I carry a Blackberry that enables me to check my e-mail. To kill time I use ‘Friendhunter’ to find guys who were with me when we fought the current in a beautiful estuary in Vietnam.
Sometimes my little screen flashes, “Hello, from Corporal Tony Bukoski. . .”
It’s my habit to stride through a hotel room, stand on a terrace, and
face east towards the Atlantic. I’ve tried to find Nicole: Nothing. ‘Friendhunter’
will work. I’ll continue to wait. Countless hotel rooms and terraces. I’ll wait until I get, “Hello, from your old bilingual friend . . .”
And then I’ll invite Nicole to drift.