The Son of Every Man

Chapter 9.3

The next day, just as the remnants of the early meal had been cleared away, something happened to the boat's motor. It never became clear to the boy exactly what went wrong. But there were several people on the boat who knew more than a little about the mechanics of combustion engines, and it took them almost no time to deem this one unsalvageable. He might have predicted that himself, because it hadn't simply stopped but first emitted a sharp metallic bang and a series of rhythmic clatters. For days, the constant thrum of the motor had been a comforting reminder of their steady progress. The silence that followed the motor's death rattle disturbed him.

Just as disturbing was the strange, drifting trajectory the boat had suddenly adopted. The sun, still his only reference point, occupied new spaces in the sky it wasn't supposed to, changing locations each time he looked up in a disorienting spiral.

At first, the reaction among the crowd was subdued. Perhaps they were in shock, but as a whole, they remained determinedly quiet for a long time, as if collectively they could think their way to a solution. It was the boy's first opportunity to learn a very hard, but very important lesson in life: Sometimes there is no solution. Several rubber gasoline bags still bulged with the liquid, strung up by thick rope along the wall of the driving room, but there was nothing for them to fuel. Spare parts for the wasted engine were located hundreds of miles across the water.

Amazingly, most of the people on board hardly modified their behavior. They acted as it they were not off course at all, still beating on toward that great destination—the promised land that was Malaysia. He was astonished by the unbreakable attitudes as he wandered, smiling faces somehow still not not facing reality—at least as it occurred to the boy. Eventually he found himself huddled down in a corner of the boat, once again next to the young pregnant woman.

"Is it true what you said?" he asked her. "About the gasoline—is it true that there wasn't enough to make it all the way?"

"It's just something I heard," she replied softly. "I don't know for sure." She looked very pale and generally not well.

"If it's true," the boy reasoned slowly, "then it doesn't matter if the motor is broken."

"I guess that's right."

He looked at her. "Are you feeling okay?"

"No. I am feeling very sick."

"What can I do?"

"Nothing," she said. "There is nothing anyone can do. I will just have to feel this way for now."

The boy couldn't think of anything worth saying to try and improve her situation. No response felt adequate.

A moment passed. She leaned in like someone revealing a secret. A tear left a thin, glistening trail on her dry cheek. She told him, "I think there is something wrong with the baby."

He crouched, put his arm silently around her shoulder, no clue in the world as to what could possibly help. He asked again if there was anything he could do. She said she was thirsty. So he set about fetching her some water, even though it was not time for the rations to be distributed. As his special request met the ears of two women (mothers already) who watched over the tanks, they were alerted to the grave condition of the young woman, and they brought water over to her themselves, asking the crowd to make way as they went.

They boy knew her well enough by now to guess that she wouldn't like the attention. But perhaps it was for the best. Even as they drifted at sea with no working engine, a new crisis had been set into motion, as the hours that followed saw her condition deteriorate.

He wanted desperately to be by her side, but he was shooed away by one of the women. He felt better upon overhearing that one of them had been a nursing student. A shrill call was made for any doctors on board, but no one stepped forward.