But it was his idea to blow up the Galaxy, Annabelle. Not mine. Had he not arrived on my doorstep last summer, shortly after you left me, I would have gone along my way, quietly bearing my resentments.
Dobby was more actuated. As a boy, he argued with our schoolteachers, fought the local bullies, led the rest of us kids down dirt paths on our bicycles, always speeding ahead, taking the turns first. He was a rebel in a boy’s medium T-shirt, loud, unruly, his dark hair mussed, his brow often furrowed and his lower lip hanging down, as if constantly being scolded by someone. He and his mother came to Boston two years after we did, after Dobby’s father, my uncle, passed away back in Ireland. I was nine. Dobby was eleven. I remember overhearing his mother telling mine, “That one runs with the devil in his shoes.”
But Dobby was smart. Incredibly smart. He read all the time, borrowed books from the library and read them as he ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He was the reason I took to reading, Annabelle, and writing. I wanted to be more like him. We had little competitions, like who could come up with the most shocking ghost story. He always won. He had a better imagination. He also burned for justice before I knew what the word meant.
I remember once, when he was fourteen, Dobby terrorized these four older kids who were throwing stones at a stray cat. He grabbed some metal trash can lids and hurled them at those kids, all the while screaming “This is how big a stone feels to a cat, assholes!” When they scattered, he gathered that cat into his arms and became a different person, tender and patient. “You’re all right now, you’re safe,” he whispered.
No one in my little world acted like that. How I looked up to him! He was only two years my senior, but at that age, two years defines the leader and the follower. He would greet me with a wink and an exaggerated “What’s uppp, Ben-ji?” It always brought a smile to my face, a sense that I was connected to someone who would rise above our poor little neighborhood. We were just kids back then. But I idolized him. And those you idolize as a child can hold sway over you years later, even when you should know better.
“These people are pigs, Benji,” Dobby said, when he first read about the Galaxy voyage in a newspaper. I was scrambling eggs in the Boston apartment we’d been sharing since he’d showed up broke and drunk and singing “Bella Ciao” in my doorway. I had not seen him in several years. The hair at his temples had turned gray.
“They think they can gather like lords of the planet, decide what’s good for the rest of us.”
“Yes, well,” I said.
“I can’t believe you’re working this clown show.”
“It’s Jason Lambert’s boat. I work on it. What am I supposed to do?”
“Aren’t you disgusted by that guy? He says he wants to change the world. But look at how he treats you.”
“Yes, cousin,” I sighed.
“Why don’t you do something about it?”
I looked up.
“What are you talking about?”
“I have a friend …” His voice trailed off. He grabbed the newspaper again, found a paragraph, and read it silently. Then he looked me straight in the eye. His expression was dead calm.
“Benji,” he said, “do you trust me?”
“Yes, cousin.”
He grinned. “Then we’re going to change the world.”
That’s how it began.
Dobby’s “friend” was a road manager for rock bands, including Fashion X, which was slated to perform on the Galaxy Friday night. Over the years, Dobby had worked as a road crew member with different acts. It was how he earned what little money he had. He was good with musical equipment, and he liked the travel, the action, the fast setups and breakdowns.
I always knew this. What I didn’t know was that he was parlaying his roadie connections into a terrible plan that involved me. His idea was to get his friend to employ him for the Fashion X concert, then preload equipment onto the Galaxy, including instruments, amplifiers, mixing boards, and one object that looked like it fit in but did not:
A limpet mine.
I did not know what a limpet mine was, Annabelle. I do now. Dobby told me. It is a naval explosive device that attaches with magnets to the underbellies of boats. Frogmen often affix them to hulls in secret, then blow them up from afar. Limpet mines have been used since World War II. How Dobby got access to one, I will never know.
But apparently he snuck this limpet mine in with the musical equipment. It was Friday afternoon, the last day of the Grand Idea voyage. He asked me to help him carry a drum case along the second deck. When we were alone, Dobby stopped, unlocked the top, and lifted it slightly.