Free Body of Immorality by Brandon Berntson Page A

The ship was too far in the distance.
    Something told him otherwise, though. The ship on the horizon was over five-hundred-years old. It was five-hundred-years old, and it was calling him. Something…he couldn’t quite make out the words, but it was…
    Love.
    Of all the years he’d spent on the ocean—thinking about dad, his life on the shore, the vacations he’d spent with Tommy and Art—Carl Tallard was witnessing a real. full-fledged miracle.
    “I’m staring at a ghost ship,” he said, aloud. “A five-hundred-year-old ghost ship.”
    When the words came out, he couldn’t believe them, but something rang true.
    He couldn’t prove it, of course. The fading light was a factor. He couldn’t see as well either with dusk approaching. Yet…
    You are looking at an ancient vessel. Don’t be afraid to let it romance you, to sway you into slumber. It is true love. Your true love. Of course, you were meant for more. Didn’t you know?
    A strange familiarity stirred his breast, a voice whispering nostalgic thoughts. He put it off as the easy sway of his imagination and the sea.
    Tallard was tempted to turn Preservation toward the ship. By morning, he would have a better look.
    First—before he got too carried away—he needed a second opinion. Maybe his forty-plus eyes were playing tricks on him.
    They’re going to take you away from it, you know? They’re jealous. They always have been. Your silent life at sea. They join you for comforts, but they’re brimming with resentment. They’re plotting the perfect time to throw you overboard without a lifejacket. They’re going to feed you to the sharks.
    “That’s crazy,” Carl said, scaring himself by answering the voice.
    “Did you say something?” Tommy asked, black hair curling into his eyes, Dos Equis in hand. He was wearing Bermuda shorts, no shirt, black chest-hair glistening. Tommy spent most of his time on the houseboat drinking and bathing in the sun. “Vacations are about doing as little as possible,” he told Carl on a previous trip. “You didn’t invite me out here to put me to work, did you?”
    The light to the east was dimming fast. Carl was having a hard time making out the bulk on the horizon suddenly. Drunken Tommy probably wouldn’t notice anything anyway.
    “Come over here, Norton, my friend,” Tallard said. “You have to see something.”
    Tommy looked up and saluted Carl with a beer. “Aye-aye, Captain!”
    Tommy stood up awkwardly, unaware of how tipsy he was, and ambled across the deck in a crooked line toward his captain.
    “Norton, my friend,” Tallard said. “I’ve got something to show you.”
    “Norton, is not my name,” Tommy said, not catching the joke. “Call me Molly. Call me George. But Norton is not my name.”
    Molly was a nickname Art had come up with somehow though Folleter, because Molly wanted to be an attorney at one time before his career in real estate. Art warned him it was a folly of a profession. Attorneys are sharks. Don’t take it personally, Molly.
    Molly hadn’t taken it personally. His reply was simple:
    “I always thought chefs were sort of dainty,” he’d told Art. “You know, all that time in the kitchen. Like male decorators. I mean, what’s up with Christopher Lowell?”
    Langly didn’t reply. He’d shaken his head and grinned at Molly.
    Back in the world of ghost ships, Tommy tried a pirate’s accent. It fell inanely short: “What, pray tell, dost thou seekest from thy first mate?”
    Carl handed him the telescope and rolled his eyes. “Take a look and tell me what you see.” He pointed to where the ship was winking out of sight, the sun dipping below the horizon.
    Tommy peered through the telescope and said, “Aye, ’tis a be-autiful sunset. And the water’s glow is most becoming! ’Tis from the heavens, master!”
    Carl ignored him. “No ship?”
    “Ah! Yes. A ship. I can see it! A damn speck it is, too!”
    Tommy took the telescope from his eye and put a hand to his brow