But neither you nor your father appears very excited for the Festival and I gather that he drives this boat. Deckhands give him shit for being in costume and the Captain of this particular trip steps out of the wheelhouse and insists on getting a picture of you and your old man. You don’t want a picture but your old man insists and I’m tempted to storm across the deck and start a mutiny. But I have to let you and your dad work this out on your own. I know when you need your space. That’s why I got the beard.

Your dad asks you if you want a drink and you shrug.

“You want to make this as hard as can be?”

“I just said, I don’t know.” You sulk and you turn into a teenage girl around your father, which makes a lot of sense.

“Well, Guinevere, do you or do you not want something to drink?”

“Coffee,” you snap. “Fine.”

He called you Guinevere and a group of semidrunk Chuck Dickens fans are starting to sing Christmas carols and some fat guy in a Ben Franklin getup (oh, America) is trying to pass by and loses half of his beer on me. And the air is thick with mothballs and salt water and Coors and I do not like it here one bit. Because you ran away to see your dad who is alive (alive!), and because I want to be there in case you need me, I am gonna have to sell a fucking Dickens on eBay to cover the expenses of the motel, the costume, and the psychotherapy I’ll no doubt need when I realize I am permanently fucked up from that day I froze my ass off in pantaloons and stood on a deck with a bunch of quarter-wits. The half-wits are at home watching Great Expectations, the movie.

THE only thing worse than the boat trip to the festival is the festival itself. The Public Rape of Charles Dickens is an atrocity, Beck. Who knew such crap existed? You knew. You stay away from your half brother and your half sister, both of them kids, little ones, six and eight I’d guess, in costume, everyone in costume, and Charles Dickens would be disgusted that his entire life’s work is celebrated by rich old retirees who have nothing better to do than blow money on rented knickers and petticoats and wigs and cross Long Island Sound only to gather with other like-minded nitwits and stroll about the village of Port Jeff, where they compliment one another on their fucking costumes and gorge on candied apples and act like it’s fun to tour old homes and listen to eighteenth-century guitar and gorge again on caramel popcorn and get their faces painted (as if painted faces have anything to do with Dickens) and listen to chamber music. Honestly, Beck, of all these white motherfuckers on this boat right now (seriously, no black person would ever do this), how many do you think could pass a test on Oliver Twist? How many do you think read his lesser-known works?

But there was no way for me to not follow you into this town. And it’s a good thing I’m always here, the Kevin Costner to your Whitney Houston, because people get weird in costumes, even old white dullards from Connecticut. They’re slightly soused on beers (day drinking is allowed when you’re celebrating Dickens), and more than a couple of dudes have gotten a little too cheerful with you and I’ve got a list in my head of everyone who needs a beatdown. I’d never hit a woman, but your stepmother doesn’t like you and she’s jealous of the attention you get and her kids aren’t all that and our kids will be cuter and how does my anger with you always soften into love?

“Guinevere,” your stepmother says. Your dad calls her Ronnie and she’s fighting forty with Botox and bronzing powder and Spanx. You’ll embrace your age and you’ll be beautiful unlike Ronnie, who barks, “Did you give me change from that vendor with the candy apples?”

“You gave me a twenty.”

Your father looks like he’s gonna explode and he turns his attention to the shitty little kids, as if they need him right now, which they don’t.

You pout. “The candy apples were like five fucking dollars a pop.”

Now your dad gives a fuck and he chastises you. “Guinevere, honey, come on.”

“Fine,” you say, so brittle you might break. You pull both your hands out of your muff and the muff hits the pavement and you start fishing around in that giant Prada bag and your stepmother picks up one of her unimpressive children and lodges the kid on her hip.

“Prada,” she says. “Did you get that on eBay?”

“It was a gift,” you say, and sometimes you do tell the truth. You hand her two dollars and she takes it and you look up at your dad.

“Can we go?”

THE Dramamine I bought in the gift shop isn’t working and the ride back is worse than the ride out. I’ve spent the bulk of it in this tin can of a bathroom and the colonial Connecticunts are all banging down the door because they’re all sick from too much food and fun. And this beard itches and this boat rocks and this toilet won’t flush. I jiggle the handle. Some asshole fists the door.

“Some of us got colons too, buddy!”

I don’t dignify him with a response but the goddamned boat breaches—is the Captain drunk too?—and I get slammed against the wall and when I throw up I try to move my nonrefundable beard and it drops into the mess in the toilet.

Plop.

There’s no way out of this one and the faucet gives barely more than a trickle. If I don’t get out of here soon, I’m only going to draw more attention to myself. There is nothing for me to do but bow my head and pray like hell that you aren’t part of the lynch mob forming outside of the door to the latrine. If there is a God, you are holding it until you are back in the safe confines of the Silver Seahorse.

And there is a God. There are only four people waiting and it sounded like a dozen and I make a run for the stern. The wind bites back there and hopefully I will be alone and hopefully I can ride out the rest of this trip without ruining your day. I think you would be scared if you saw me and I think it would sound like bullshit if I told you that I went to meet family and there are tears streaked across my cheeks and I can’t tell if I’m crying or if it’s the wind. I miss my warm, scratchy beard and the pantaloons are made of paper and my legs are fucking freezing.

Finally, the boat slows as we ease into the harbor and then something unimaginably horrible happens to me, something so bad that I might jump off the boat. If it was summer, I would already be in the water because your little half brother and half sister are playing hide-and-seek (great game to let your kids play on a boat, Ronnie), and I hear Ronnie calling for the little tykes, who are hiding behind a box right in front of me.

Breathe, Joe. Breathe.

I hear Ronnie running and she gets here fast and grabs each kid by the hand and looks at me. “What a day, right?”

She’s flirting with me because she’s jealous of you and I’m on team Beck and I know how to get back at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

She didn’t like that and my ma’am had a two-fold purpose. It was supposed to make her feel old (done), and it was also supposed to make her go away. But then two deckhands come out of nowhere and the boat is turning ever so slightly and the deckhands are unraveling rope and the tired, drunk Connecticunts are coming this way because it’s just my fucking luck that this boat docks and offloads from the stern.

And if there is a God, then you are fighting with your father and you are lost in conversation. If there is a God, I will be the first one off this boat. If there is a God, this slow-moving steel beast will get there already so your stepmother can take her kids home and feed them the mac and cheese they’re screaming about. And if there is a God, then we are docking right now, we are, and there is a kid on land hoisting a ramp, there is. We are getting there and I will be third, maybe fourth off this boat and people are starting to get pushy.