Chapter 18
Some first dates end with a handshake, a kiss, or a ghosted text. Others sail off into the sunset on a backyard boat.
Ronald’s backyard had the modest ambition of a small miracle.
Sunlight poured over the fence like warm honey; birds fretted in the maple branches; the grass, patchy in places and zealously green in others, smelled faintly of hose water and clover.
At the centre of it all was docked a half-built boat, ribbed and resolute, perched on sawhorses and optimism.
It was the size of a van and the shape of a pretty good idea.
The latch on the side gate clicked; the hinges protested with a friendly squeal. Ronald nudged the gate open with his hip and swept a hand toward the wooden wonder.
Carrington stepped in and stopped cold, sunglasses lifting to get a better look, mouth parting in a small ‘o’. “What?!” they blurted, laughter creeping up behind the surprise. “You really are building an ark?”
“Dream big. Be big,” Ronald said, as if reading from a personal commandments tablet. Then, softer–because even a showman knew when to pitch to romance–he added, “Carrington, will you do me the honour of being the first human to share a sunset sail on the bow of my boat?”
“Um… YES!” Carrington agreed, feeling all the feels flicker up and down their spine.
“May I give you a hand?” Ronald asked. “Okay, watch your step… that board is loose. I have some work to do before she’s sea-worthy.”
Carrington ran a palm over the sanded two-by-four rail, admiring the neat arcs of the ribs and the confident joints in the frame. “Ronald, this ark is beautiful!”
“Have a seat here,” he said, ushering them toward a sturdy plank.
From a cooler nested beneath the thwart, he produced a small bottle whose foil already looked nervous.
With a twist and a pop, the cork leapt like a startled bird, and the sparkling wine answered with a hiss and a smile. He poured into mismatched flutes.
Carrington raised their glass, amused, “My, my, my!”
“Am I doing okay by you so far?” Ronald asked, eyes gleaming with the kind of hope that can only live in someone building a boat in a landlocked yard.
“You’re exceeding expectations,” Carrington said. “Am I really the first date you’ve had on your boat?”
“I just built it this week, so yeah,” Ronald said, proud and sheepish in equal measure.
“I’m not exactly sure why I felt so compelled to start this carpentry project.
I mean, maybe it’s like a subconscious manifestation of my fear of not being prepared when taking on something as big as launching a new radio show that absolutely must succeed at all costs or the boss ends up in a body bag?
Or a fire in the pit of my belly kind of compulsion to be in control of something when the whole world often feels like it’s spiralling out of control?
Or maybe it’s just an existential quest in the pursuit to matter, to leave some kind of monument behind in a desperate and kind of depressing plea to be remembered in some small way, if not to the world at large, then at least to the cats in my neighbourhood. ”
“Wow,” Carrington blew out a breath. “When do you think she’ll be ready to sail?”
“I have a couple of the animals lined up already,” Ronald said earnestly, “but I’ve been having trouble getting non-neutered female dogs. So, I started a website to search for some. You can check it out at That’s like the number 4, not the word. Bitches-4-my-boat dot com.
Carrington choked on a bubble and then laughed, eyes watering with delight, “That is… entrepreneurial.”
A brisk knock, knock, knock rattled the gate.
“Ronald? Ronald!” Rebekkah’s voice singsonged from the alley.
Another set of knuckles rattled out shave-and-a-haircut… 2 bits. “Ronald! Here and ready to work! I wore my tool belt like you asked!” Japheth called, eager and already winded from enthusiasm and the bike ride over.
Carrington tilted their head toward the gate, “Is that…”
“Rebekkah and Japheth!” Ronald grinned. “I asked them to come over for a twilight ark-building blitz!”
“We also brought snacks!” Rebekkah announced as she shouldered past the gate, cheeks flushed, hair escaping its scrunchie in curls and whisps.
“It’s dinner really,” Japheth confessed, slipping into the yard triumphantly and holding up a paper sack. “I just finished my shift at Saddles ‘n’ Spurs. Do you all eat chicken? Its jalapeno infused…”
“Got any ring of fire sauce?” Ronald asked hopefully.
“Of course!” Japheth said, as if love languages had always included condiments.
“Oh cool,” Carrington murmured, settling into the rhythm of the evening that had taken a detour from their hoped-for destination. “A double date with coworkers and deep-fried food.”
“Climb on up here, you two!” Ronald called, offering a steadying hand.
Rebekkah and Japheth ascended the little ladder and arranged themselves on the boat’s bench, unbagging the bounty.
The twilight made everything look lacquered: the battered chicken, the curves of the planks and even the dewy, friendly faces.
Rebekkah examined the spread like a matchmaker before announcing, “Carrington, I took you for a maple-glazed jalapeno-infused drumstick person?”
Carrington tilted their head, “Ummm… I’m not sure what that says about me?”
“That you’re sweet and spicy and you don’t mind the bone,” Rebekkah said with beneficent certainty.
“Fairly accurate, actually. Thank you,” Carrington conceded, accepting the drumstick like a sceptre.
“And Ronald,” Japheth added, rummaging in the bag, “we just got you nuggets…”
“Not because you’re little!” Rebekkah blurted.
“Oh no! No, absolutely not because you’re a little guy!” Japheth backpedaled, already passing the sauce as an apology.
“It’s okay, guys, I love nuggets,” Ronald said, amused, popping one like a communion of comfort.
“They got this dinner matching down,” Carrington murmured to Ronald, eyes sly. “Ronald, you are a snack.”
“I know,” Ronald said cheerfully, then leaned back against the hull. “So now that we got some listeners for the radio station and some advertisers, too, will the Ferrari family pump the brakes with the threats?”
“I don’t think Rino was threatening anyone,” Japheth said, dusting batter crumbs from his fingers, “he’s just very forceful when speaking. He commands a room.”
“Let’s press pause on crushing on the Italian Stallion, Japheth,” Ronald said gently, “at least until we figure out if it’s safe to climb that mountain.”
“I just think we all jumped to a lot of assumptions really quickly,” Japheth insisted. “Just because he’s Italian, doesn’t mean he’s in the mafia.”
“Obviously, but I prefer you alive, just in case,” Ronald said, smoothing down Japheth’s features in both an agreement and a friendly warning.
“The Ferraris, Rino included, have probably had a really hard time fitting into Greater Napanee,” Japheth went on. “This is a pretty White small town.”
“Uh, yeah,” Ronald said, smiling without humour. “As one of the only Black families in Napanee, I did notice it’s awfully White around here. But the Ferraris are White.”
“They’re Italian,” Japheth corrected, helpfully.
“White.” Ronald remedied with a tight smile.
“Mmm… Italian.”
Carrington set down their drumstick on a napkin in their lap, “Shall I call Rino?”
“I don’t think we need to bother him,” Rebekkah said quickly. “It’s dinner time. I think that’s pretty rude, especially for Italians.”
“You’re joking right now, right?” Ronald asked, looking from one face to the next.
“Hmm?” Japheth said, innocent as one of the dandelions bobbing their heads in Ronald’s backyard.
“With all the… the...” Ronald exhaled. “You’re serious?”
“About what?” Japheth blinked.
“Oh, my goodness! You’re all so…” Ronald gestured broadly at the world. “Rino freaking Ferrari did not have a hard time growing up in this town! His parents own two car dealerships! He looks like… like…”
“Antonio Sabàto Jr.?” Carrington offered, unabashedly cultured by way of Us Weekly.
“David Gandy?” Rebekkah suggested, hands framing an imaginary cologne ad.
“John Stamos?” Japheth tried hopefully.
“Sure, like any of those White guys!” Ronald shot back.
“John Stamos is Greek,” Rebekkah corrected.
“Rino did not have it tough. He still doesn’t have it tough.
He’s likely eating homemade rigatoni for dinner tonight that you so kindly don’t want to interrupt.
So, I’m just gonna lay it out for you all nice and simple.
Italians are White and so are Greeks!” Ronald said, his half-dipped nugget midair like a punctuation mark.
Carrington dried their fingers on a paper napkin, this date was getting heated, but not in the way that they’d hoped. “Ronald, I understand your frustration right now. But some Italians don’t consider themselves White. And others do. So, it could be either or neither.”
“Seriously?” Ronald said, throwing his hands up and accidentally over boarding the nugget into the yard. Its sacrifice only served as an exclamation point in his argument. “See, another way White people can bend the rules and do whatever they want.”
“Rino didn’t choose to be Italian, and you didn’t choose to be Black and Jesus didn’t choose to be White,” Rebekkah said, as if placing a warm blanket over the smouldering argument to extinguish it.
“What?” Ronald blinked.
“Rino didn’t choose to be Italian, and you didn’t choose…” Rebekkah began again, then paused as Ronald’s expression settled between baffled and amused.
“I heard what you said,” Ronald sighed, “but first Rino isn’t White and now Jesus was?”
“Is,” Rebekkah corrected, though her choice to digress into a semantic discussion was ill-timed. “And before you ask, not just because he’s a ghost.”
“I’m just gonna jump in here,” Japheth said, palms raised, showing no weapons but his words. “No disrespect Rebekkah, but I don’t think Jesus was or is White.”
“Thank you!” Ronald exclaimed, relief breaking like sunshine through stormy skies across his face. He sat back, thankful that finally someone, his new best friend, was on his side.