The Stranger in the Lifeboat(3)

Lambert throws up. He is on his knees, heaving over the side. His fat midsection protrudes from his T-shirt, and he is hairy at the navel. Some of the vomit blows back in his face, and he groans.

It is evening. The sea is choppy. Others have been sick as well. The winds are fierce. Maybe it will rain. We’ve had no rain since the Galaxy sank.

Looking back, we were still hopeful that first morning—shocked at what happened, but grateful to be alive. The ten of us huddled inside the lifeboat. We spoke about rescue planes. We scanned the horizon.

“Who here has children?” Mrs. Laghari suddenly asked, as if starting a car game. “I myself have two. Grown now.”

“Three,” Nevin offered.

“Five,” Lambert said. “Got you beat.”

“But how many wives?” Nevin poked.

“That wasn’t the question,” Lambert said.

“I’ve been too busy,” Yannis said.

“Not yet for me,” Nina said.

“Have you got a husband?” Mrs. Laghari asked.

“Do I need one?”

Mrs. Laghari laughed. “Well, I did! Anyhow, you won’t have any problem in that department.”

“We have four sons,” Jean Philippe announced. He rested a hand on his sleeping wife’s shoulder. “Bernadette and I. Four good boys.” He turned to me. “And you, Benji?”

“No kids, Jean Philippe.”

“Do you have a wife?”

I hesitated.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, you can start when we get home!”

He flashed a broad smile, and the group laughed a little. But as the day went on, the waves grew bumpier and we all got seasick. By evening, the mood had changed. It felt as if we’d been out here a week. I remember seeing little Alice sleeping in Nina’s lap, and Nina’s face streaked with tears. Mrs. Laghari grabbed her hand as Nina whimpered, “What if they can’t find us?”

What if they can’t? Without a compass, Geri has been trying to chart our course by the stars. She thinks we are heading southwest, away from Cape Verde and farther into the wide, empty Atlantic. That is not good.

Meanwhile, to avoid direct sunlight, we spend hours tucked under a stretched canopy that covers more than half of the boat. We must sit inches from one another, stripped down, sweaty, foul-smelling. It’s a far cry from the Galaxy, even if some of us were guests on that luxury vessel and some of us workers. Here we are all the same. Half-naked and scared.

The Grand Idea—the voyage that brought us all together—was Lambert’s brainchild. He told invitees they were there to change the world. I never believed that. The yacht’s size. Its multiple decks. The swimming pool, gym, the ballroom. That’s what he wanted them to remember.

As for workers like Nina, Bernadette, Jean Philippe, and me? We were only there to serve. I have labored under Jason Lambert for five months now, and I have never felt so invisible. Staff on the Galaxy are forbidden to make eye contact with guests, nor can we eat in their presence. Meanwhile, Lambert does what he wants, barreling into the kitchen, using his fingers to pick at the food, stuffing his face as the workers lower their heads. Everything about him screams gluttony, from his flashy rings to his obese midsection. I can see why Dobby wanted him dead.



I turn away from Lambert’s puking and study the new arrival, who is sleeping outside the canopy with his mouth slightly open. He is not particularly striking for a man who claims to be the Almighty. His eyebrows are thick, his cheeks are flabby, he has a wide chin and small ears, partly covered by that dark nest of hair. I admit I felt a chill when he said those things yesterday: I am here … Have you not been calling me? But later, when Geri handed out packets of peanut butter crackers, he ripped open the plastic and devoured the contents so quickly, I thought he’d choke. I doubt God would ever get that hungry. Certainly not for peanut butter crackers.

Still, for the moment, he has distracted us. Earlier, as he slept, we gathered to whisper our theories.

“Do you think he’s delirious?”

“Of course! He probably banged his head.”

“There’s no way he survived three days treading water.”

“What’s the longest a man can do that?”

“I read about a guy who lasted twenty-eight hours.”

“Still not three days.”

“He honestly thinks he’s God?”

“He had no life jacket!”

“Maybe he came from another boat.”

“If there were another boat, we would have seen it.”

Finally, Nina spoke up. She was the Galaxy’s hairstylist, born in Ethiopia. With her high cheekbones and flowing dark locks, she retains a certain elegance even here in the middle of the sea. “Has anyone considered the least likely explanation?” she asked.

“Which is?” Yannis said.

“That he’s telling the truth? That he’s come in our hour of need?”

Eyes darted from one to the next. Then Lambert started laughing, a deep, dismissive cackle. “Oh, yes! That’s how we all picture God. Floating like seaweed until you pull him into your boat. Come on. Did you look at him? He’s like some island kid who fell off his surfboard.”

We shifted our legs. No one said much after that. I looked up at the pale white moon, which hung large in the sky. Do some of us think it possible? That this strange new arrival is actually the Lord incarnate?