June 11, 2026 Nonfiction

What's the Name of the Boat?

Stephen Brown

My niece chokes on her laughter. Her grin betrays the same streak of wickedness I have in me. We're a decade apart. She's in town for a personal tragedy. We've gone out for drinks with two of my closest friends, Linda and Melm, to unpack and offer consolation.

Except she can't stop fucking laughing.

On September 16th, just a few weeks in the future, we and the rest of our massive extended family are cordially invited to attend my father's 70th birthday celebration, an hours-long cruise.

Moments ago, we messaged him a simple question. It bore very special fruit.

***

I throw up all morning.

The drive from Philly to the shore town where my father lives takes just over 2 hours. It's filled with dutiful light chatter from Linda and Melm, whom I’ve dragged along. I spend much of the time in quiet contemplation. Their families may be imperfect, but they're more perfect than mine.

They don't know my father gets goofier the more stressed he is—My father's weight crumples me against the back of some arbitrary piece of furniture. The bottoms of my feet flatly find his chest. Years of ballet and dressage converge unexpectedly on the point above his heart, sending him sailing across the room into the back wall of my closet. On the other side sounds crash from the family's computer room, which is kept locked for our protection—My father leans in with a lopsided smile, eyes very nearly bugging out of his head. He invites us in, greeting me as "Steve-o" or "Steverino," bullish and boyish, offsetting the subtle trepidation in the twirling fine lines of his face, "How about a tour? Cocktails?"

The jewel-toned walls and gleaming wooden tables each boast robust eclectic curation of little sculptures, fine art prints, and smaller original works. A mantel above the fireplace displays pictures of my brothers, sister, and I ripped from our social media accounts.

A few years older than my father, my stepmother carries herself swan-like. She's a yoga instructor, and placing her hands tenderly on my shoulders at the base of my neck—My stepmother wraps each elegant finger around my older sister's throat, giving it three firm shakes. She's followed us, berating, up from the dinner table, into our doorless rooms. The family cat throws his body against hers. I beat her away by slipping off my shoes and flapping them, gayly, and every other shoe in the world, as hard as I can at her face—Her first words to me are a soothing, "How is your practice?"

Someone balks mildly in my peripheral.

I don’t do yoga. I say, "It's going well."

It’s my first time here. The house is huge.

"Are many more of us staying over for the party?" I ask, implicitly, after my siblings, none of whom really speak, not out of resentment, though there’s some, rather … for lack of tether.

"Nope!" My stepmother claps once. "You've got our undivided attention."

Linda and Melm share a single bedroom. It's for children. There are bunk beds, and the same bright motif carries throughout. Before they open their suitcases, one of them asks if my stepmother has any dental floss, motioning toward their teeth.

"I'm sure we do. How much do you think you'll need?" She measures out a few variable lengths with her hands, like demonstrating the size of a fisherman's catch.

Someone’s eyes widen and shrink. They don’t know how to respond.

I answer for them.

Across the hall, what the room I’ll be occupying lacks in bold primary colors, it makes up for in adult-sized furniture and beachy hopefulness.

"Feel free to change your clothes before it's time to head to the dock."

"Thanks." There's a certain novelty in closing the door on her, however gently.

"Hey." My father materializes to stop me and deliver my drink. We share a moment of dedicated eye contact. "It means a lot," he starts, his voice fading off before the statement is fully realized. There's a swell. Neither of our features change, but the air does, by virtue of some quiet psychic resonance.

Alone, precious pale pink cocktail in hand, I absorb the muffled interactions between them and my friends, "I see you're not wearing a bra. Tell me about that."

***

On the boat, a large central banquet room is surrounded on all sides by a walkway-deck dotted with tall highball tables. I anchor myself at one of them and can never move again. My niece appears and soon holds court. Her little boy, not yet school-aged, shows everyone the toy he brought with him while I deflect offers to secure me a plate of food.

Most of my relatives occupy the banquet room. The idea of treating them as anything other than strangers is more nauseating than even the rocking of the water. It's a zone promised free from politics but for the extended loop of cousins I see floating by, every third or fourth of whom wear the same red cap, until my grandmother, the widowed matriarch, parts them like a curtain.

We rarely see one another despite my having lived with her for a time in my teens.

"You said you would visit."

The response I give is unintelligible. Better to avoid another frank, circular discussion about emotional manipulation, lack of intervention, and my discomfort with the company she keeps. Given her current circumstances, she's got few choices in who she surrounds herself with—My father has eight sisters and together, technopathically connected via a group chat and prayer, they form the Mega Aunt, an amalgam of pastor's wives, international missionaries, televangelist preachers, faith-based social workers, and proud Christian business owners. She has advanced degrees in such things as sociology, psychology, religion, and nursing, and almost that many children for each of her eight heads—except for a long time, my grandmother did have choices. The old woman is soon distracted away by my friends, on whose heavily tattooed arms she pretends to rely and admire while discretely inquiring what they do for a living, leaving the Mega Aunt to fill the space left behind at our table.

We all smile so much.

She looks at me as if through the many, multi-nested eyes of an arachnid. Our conversation is a contest to exchange every pleasantry possible. "When Stephen was this old," she indicates my niece's little boy by hovering one of her sixteen hands above the crown of his head, "I used to babysit him, practically every day! Isn't that right? We used to have this cat named Cici, remember? And any time he and his cousins sang 'Old MacDonald Had a Farm,' Stephen would sing Old MacDonald had a Cici! The boys would get so frustrated!"—I catch the tail end of the Mega Aunt informing my niece that she's going to Hell for being a witch. They're alone. My niece is dressed as her favorite character, Hermione Granger. She's three or four, the same age her son is, the same age I was when I sang Old MacDonald Had a Farm. I bristle, inviting the Mega Aunt to leave. I'm happy to involve anyone she likes. That will not be necessary—"He always had his own way of doing things, even then."

The sensation of my stomach eating itself into a lovely inward slope sustains me. Keep smiling.

"See? We get along," the Mega Aunt determines with a Jedi wave of her hand. Then, she about-faces. Successful interaction complete.

***

The sky is black when we dock. The boat looks beautiful, I'm sure, and my father is aglow in the satisfying celebratory embrace of his family, but I keep walking, pausing only when I hear the gradual decline of the gravely footsteps from the two friends to my left, and to my right.

"Do you, like? Wanna say goodbye?"

My answer isn't immediate. It begins as a breathy laugh that wants to … really wants to, bubble into something more free.