Forgetting about everything for a moment – Paul, Dickie, Frank and Sally Parker, even the approaching storm – I laughed until my sides ached.
TWENTY
HURRICANE HELEN STRENGTHENED OVERNIGHT TO A CATEGORY 3 HURRICANE WITH WIND OF 100 KNOTS. CONDITIONS IN ABACO SHOULD BEGIN TO DETERIORATE THIS EVENING. EXPECT 100 KNOTS OF WIND FROM THE NE, WITH STORM SURGE TO 12 FEET, FOLLOWED BY SOUTH WIND TO 80 KNOTS AND CONTINUING STORM SURGE AS HELEN EXITS TOMORROW.
Chris Parker, Wx Update, Bahamas, Thur 4, 10a
It seemed odd to be preparing for a hurricane when the sky was blue, the sun shone, and the winds blew no more strongly than usual. If you didn’t listen to Barometer Bob, download your weather from the Internet, or have CNN nattering away ad nauseum, you’d think it was a fine day for sailing. Hey, ho, the sailor’s life for me! Out you’d go, then blammo!
At one o’clock, however, Radio Abaco reported that Hurricane Helen had made landfall on Eleuthera with wind gusts up to one hundred miles per hour. She continued to steer our way.
Most of her staff had evacuated over the weekend, but Gabriele Mueller had stayed behind with a skeleton crew of volunteers to help prepare the resort for the coming storm. Although she was holed up in her father’s office rather than in the club room with the rest of the peasants, she appeared around two o’clock on Thursday just as everyone was getting settled in. She wore a beige, v-neck, button-front Calvin Klein sundress I’d seen in the window at Nordstrom, and Tommy Bahama flip-flops with a flower on the toe.
‘Welcome, everyone,’ began her walk-and-talk. ‘I’m Gabriele Mueller. My father asked me to apologize for not being here with you today, but he’s returned to San Antonio to be with his young children. I speak for my father and my brother – who’s out with some staff securing our grounds but hopes to be with us soon. I speak for everyone at Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina, when I say I hope you will consider this your home for the time you are with us.’
Gabriele had reached the bar. She continued talking, trailing her hand along the polished wood as if checking it for dust. ‘Of course we’re hoping that the storm will pass through quickly and do as little damage as possible, but in the meantime, the bar is open.’ She spread her arms gracefully, like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune, showing off a prize. ‘There’s plenty of ice, water, and a limited supply of fruit juice and cold beer, and although the kitchen isn’t available, Jeremy Thomas here . . .’ – a big smile for Jeremy, one of the college boys who had shucked his TTR uniform in favor of shorts and a wife-beater tee and had been busily schlepping bags into the shelter for Alice Madonna – ‘ . . . Jeremy will do what he can to make you comfortable.’
She smiled, bowed slightly, and wafted off in a cloud of ylang-ylang and patchouli.
After Gabriele had retreated to her sanctuary, Molly and I helped the staff move the outdoor furniture inside. We turned patio tables upside down, nested chairs and placed them on top, then used the tables to barricade the double doors leading out to the patio bar.
Two of the canvas loungers we saved for ourselves, dragging them to a corner of the club room near the gas log fireplace where Molly and I had set up camp. ‘This feels like Girl Scouts,’ Molly said as she unfolded the lounger, adjusted the back and spread her blanket on top. ‘Maybe we should sing “White Coral Bells.”’
I arranged my lounger next to hers, retrieved a paperback novel and a flashlight from my duffle, then slid the bag underneath my chair. ‘I vote for “Do Your Ears Hang Low.” Can you believe they still sing that in Scouts? My granddaughter, Chloe, was driving me nuts with it not too long ago.’
I tossed the paperback on the lounger, sat down, and arranged my rolled-up sleeping bag behind my back like a pillow. I wriggled in, testing for comfort. ‘This should do nicely,’ I said, plumping up the bag with my fist, ‘but it’d be nicer if I were wearing a bathing suit sitting by the side of the pool.
‘Where is everybody?’ I asked after a moment.
Molly shrugged. ‘“If you build it, they will come.” Gator went off to fetch Justice. I saw him a while back building a cave underneath a table. And Alice Mueller seems to have gone off to hire a decorator to spruce up her little spot behind the bar.’ She frowned. ‘Which brings up an interesting point. What happened to all the booze? Those shelves behind the bar used to be lousy with it.’
‘They make good projectiles. Wouldn’t want to be killed by a flying bottle of Jack Daniels. You’d never live it down in North Carolina.’
Molly chuckled. ‘There’s Gator, now,’ she said, pointing.
We watched as Gator shook the folds out of a blue tarp and held it over one of the shuttered windows while a staffer secured the tarp to the wall with generous lengths of duct tape. One done, they moved on to the next window. Taking it down would be hell on the wallpaper, I thought.
‘What’s Gator done with Justice?’ I asked. ‘I thought pets weren’t allowed in shelters.’
Molly chuckled. ‘Everybody breaks that rule.’ She pointed. ‘Justice is under the table. You can just see his nose.’
‘I thought there’d be more refugees by now.’
‘There’s hours to go yet,’ Molly said. ‘But we’ve got some powerboaters in the corner over there. They put blankets down to reserve the spot, then went off to get their stuff together.’ She grinned. ‘I hope it’s beer. Ever been confined with a bunch of stink potters when the liquor runs out?’
I laughed. ‘Not pretty.’
‘The sailors will be the last to show,’ Molly continued. ‘They’re down at the marina now, checking their anchors, adjusting their lines, and swearing up and down they’re going to ride out the storm on their boats. But, they’ll change their minds at the last minute, come staggering in, wet and wild, just as we’re about to bar the door.’
‘Except for Gator, I don’t see any of the locals, Molly.’
‘You really expect to?’
I thought about that for a moment. Right. After fighting Mueller’s development tooth and nail, if I were a local, I wouldn’t be caught dead under the rubble here either. I’d be up at the All-Age School settling in with my friends and my family. And the food would be better, too.
I reached in my duffle and pulled out a bottle of Myers Rum. ‘Recreational beverage.’
Molly pressed her hands together. ‘You are a love!’
I popped a can of pineapple juice, filled a plastic cup to the halfway point, added a glug-glug of rum, and handed the cup to Molly. She took a sip and melted into the cushions. ‘Ummm. You think of everything.’
‘Just conserving our water.’ I mixed an identical drink for myself and leaned back against my makeshift pillow to sip at it and wait.
I had closed my eyes and drifted off when my handheld radio crackled. ‘Scarlett, Scarlett, this is Rhett. Come in.’
My eyes flew open. Paul? What the hell?
I sat up so quickly that my head swam. I reached under my makeshift cot and dragged out my duffle, pawing through it looking for my radio which continued to say, ‘Scarlett, Scarlett, this is Rhett.’
Next to me, Molly struggled to sit. ‘Paul’s in radio range?’
‘Evidently.’ I finally found the radio in an outside pocket of the duffle where I’d put it so it’d be easy to find.
‘Scarlett . . .’
I mashed my thumb down on the talk button, stepping on his transmission. ‘Rhett, this is Scarlett. Over.’
‘Hannah, this is Paul. I’m with Henry Allen. We’re in his plane and we’re coming in for a landing.’
‘What? In this weather? Are you out of your freaking mind?’
‘Don’t argue with me now. We’re just north of Scotland and should be touching down on Hawksbill shortly. The crosswind’s pretty stiff, but Henry’s confident we can make it. Out.’
I tucked the radio into the pocket of my shorts. ‘Where’s Gator?’
‘Hannah, you’re not going out . . .’
‘Of course I am! What if he crashes? Oh my God! Gator!�
�
The wind blew hot, churning the water of Poinciana Cove into white froth like Armageddon.
I stood next to Gator on the muddy banks of the runway, panting after my hundred-yard dash, desperately scanning the sky, hoping for a glimpse of the bright-yellow speck that would be Henry’s Savage Cub. To the northwest, cirrus clouds were strewn like spun cotton across the blue sky, but dark clouds had settled over Man-O-War to the south, building layer upon layer of gray.
‘Can they land in all this wind?’ I shouted to Gator.
‘Henry’s done it before!’
Wind whipped noisily over my ears, but still I heard it, the drone of an engine, steady and strong. ‘There they are!’ I yelled as the plane came into view.
The Cub headed straight for the runway, flaps down, wings dipping right, then left. With its chrome yellow struts and black trim, the Cub reminded me of a giant bee. It lifted, then dipped, lifted then dipped; with each dip my heart thudded against my ribs. ‘Come on, come on!’
I watched, fingers tightly crossed as the Cub closed the gap between us. I could see Henry now, struggling with the control stick as the plane slipped right on a sudden gust of wind. Henry won, and the little plane steered straight for the runway again. The big tires skimmed the water, sending up rooster tails. It skipped, bounced, then touched down lightly at the end of the runway.
My arms shot up, and I started to cheer, but the cheer caught in my throat. As I watched in horror, another gust seized the Cub by a wing, spun it, flipped it, and sent it sliding sideways into the cove.
I ran forward, flat out, with Gator pounding right behind. We reached the end of the runway in time to see the plane, with Henry and Paul still in it, settle back in ten feet of water with a gurgle and a sigh, its wing lying broken on the starboard side. The propeller still spun.
‘The door’s on the port side,’ I yelled. ‘Help me get them out!’
I splashed into a sea as warm as bathwater. When it got to my waist, I started to swim, reaching the plane in a dozen strokes as the wind and the tide bore me out. Through a curtain of rain I could see Henry in the pilot’s seat, struggling with his seat belt.
When had it started to rain? The drops fell faster, splattering coldly on my face as I hung on to the fuselage and worked my way around to the port side. A wave broke full on my face and I swallowed a mouthful of salt water. Coughing, I braced my feet on the wheel support, grabbed one of the struts and pulled myself up until I was standing on it, trusting it would bear my weight. In the single seat behind Henry, Paul slumped. Blood oozed from a cut on his temple.
I grabbed the door and pulled, but I couldn’t get it open. ‘Help me, Henry! Where’s the handle?’
Henry moved, and suddenly the door was outside the plane. It slid past my legs and tumbled into the sea, which was strangely flat and calm where the fuselage sheltered it from the wind. I watched it sink to the bottom. With the door gone, I grasped one of the seat supports for balance, leaned in and spoke to my husband. ‘Paul! Paul! Are you OK?’
Paul squinted at me groggily. ‘I think so.’
‘Can you swim?’ I asked as I struggled to help him with his seat belt.
‘I think so.’
Gator had joined me by then, bracing one foot against a strut and the other on the side of the plane. As Gator struggled for balance, Henry tore out the pilot’s seat cushions to make room to work. Leaning over the auxiliary stick, he helped me extricate Paul. Together we handed him down to Gator who eased Paul into the water, holding on tight to his belt. I watched him float my husband slowly to shore, fighting the wind and the waves every stroke of the way.
‘What the hell were you thinking?’ I wanted to scream at Henry, but this didn’t seem like the time for it.
‘Are you ready?’ asked Henry.
I nodded.
‘After you,’ he said.
And I jumped in.
Getting back was much harder as the weather was against us. For every two strokes forward the waves would push me one stroke back. I wasn’t sure how strong a swimmer Henry was, so I kept checking to make sure he was still with me. Stroke, kick, stroke, kick. Turn, look back. It seemed like hours before my feet touched sand and I could stand up and wade on to the beach where Gator was sitting next to Paul. He’d propped my injured husband up against a piece of driftwood.
I fell to my knees in the sand, crying with relief, checking Paul’s wound gingerly with my fingers. ‘You scared me half to death!’
Paul looked at me, then closed his eyes. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said.
‘I’m not crying, you idiot. It’s the freaking rain!’
The corners of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. ‘I was worried about you, Hannah.’
Gator eased his hands under Paul’s armpits and urged my husband to his feet. ‘Let’s get him back to the resort.’
The rain stung my face, the wind slashed at my hair as I lifted my husband’s arm and eased under it. ‘Is this what it feels like to skydive in the rain?’
Gator snorted. ‘A few minutes later, Henry, and you wouldn’t have made it.’
Henry’s head wagged and water dripped off his earlobes. ‘That’s as close to death as I ever want to get.’
As we straggled back to the resort, supporting Paul who stumbled along between us, I said to Gator, ‘You know that mini-sub that Jaime deep sixed?’
‘Yeah?’
‘He lied. It’s out there. Under the plane.’
TWENTY-ONE
SATELLITE WIND DATA, AIRCRAFT RECONNAISSANCE AND LOCAL REPORTS CONFIRM HURRICANE-FORCE WIND OF 100 KNOTS IS LASHING ABACO. EXPECT A WIND SHIFT AS THE CENTER OF HELEN PASSES IN A FEW HOURS, BUT A CONTINUING BLOW AS HELEN CONTINUES TO INTENSIFY THROUGH THE NIGHT AND WIND IN HER EAST-QUADRANT WILL BE AT ITS HEIGHT.
Chris Parker, Wx Update, Bahamas, Fri 5, 10a
Rain blew sideways into the club room as we stumbled through the double doors. It took both Gator and Henry to pull the doors closed, lock them and drop the hurricane bar into place.
‘Anybody got a first aid kit?’ Molly shouted when she caught sight of Paul.
‘It’s in the kitchen,’ Jaime called out. ‘I’ll get it.’
Molly hustled off to the restroom to dampen some paper towels, while we settled Paul into my lounge chair and covered him with the sleeping bag. Kneeling next to the lounger, I rested my head on Paul’s chest, grateful for the strong, steady heart beating against my cheek. ‘What were you thinking, Paul?’
His hand found the back of my head and rested lightly on my hair. ‘Henry’d flown his wife out to Lauderdale a couple of days ago, but wanted to get back to the park. The captain goes down with the ship and all that.’ A laugh rumbled up from his chest. ‘We’d been in touch . . . well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.’
‘I’d listened to the reports,’ Henry said from behind me. ‘I was sure we could get as far as Treasure Cay airport before the storm hit, and I was right. But the skies looked good over Hawksbill, so we decided to come on in. Rookie mistake.’
Beneath my cheek, Paul stirred. ‘I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you, Henry, for a masterful job of flying. Sorry about the plane, though.’
‘That’s what insurance is for.’
When Molly returned, she took the first aid kit from Jaime, motioned everybody out of the way, and got to work.
‘Better hurry before the power dies,’ Jaime advised. ‘I’ve just come back from checking the generator, and we’re running low on fuel.’
‘I used to be a nurse,’ Molly said, dabbing lightly at the cut on Paul’s forehead. ‘Once we clear the blood away . . .’ She leaned closer, patted Paul’s knee. ‘You’ll live. Won’t even need stitches.’ Using a pair of scissors she found in the kit, she cut a strip of adhesive tape into a butterfly and used it to close the wound. ‘You’ll have a headache tomorrow, but that’s what aspirin’s for!’
‘Aspirin?’ Paul frowned. His eyes shot toward the empty bar. ‘Don’t we have anythin
g stronger than aspirin?’
‘I can make you a Bahama Mama,’ I said helpfully as Hurricane Helen began to howl, took hold of the doors and rattled them against their hinges in her fury. She threw rain against the roof, hard as marbles. She clawed at the hurricane shutters. There was a screech of tearing metal as something was ripped from the roof and carried away.
I fixed Paul a drink, then sat on the floor next to his chair with my back against the wall. The whole building seemed to vibrate, humming like a cello. I pulled my knees up under my chin and hugged them, making myself as small a target as possible as the wind screamed like the engines of a 747 preparing for take-off.
‘Gotta go while there’s still a restroom to go to,’ I whispered to Paul after a while. He mumbled sleepily.
‘Wait for me,’ Molly said.
I took her hand and headed toward the Ladies’ room with the wind pushing against our backs as we staggered drunkenly along the narrow hallway. ‘It’s a wind tunnel,’ I shouted as something crashed against the roof. I flinched and we jumped back, pressing our backs against the wall. ‘Something’s open somewhere.’
I dragged Molly the last few feet along the wall, and we fell through the door into the restroom.
Inside, it seemed quieter. I entered the stall gratefully, feeling safer somehow as I closed the door and threw the latch. Stall, inside restroom, inside building, with me cocooned in the center like a Russian nesting doll.
Yet Hurricane Helen had long fingers. As I sat down, she stirred the water in the toilet, sloshing it up against the sides of the bowl. On the inside of the stall, someone had posted a sign: If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down. Classy. I was feeling grateful for the Tamarind Tree Resort power generator so I could read the sign, and thankful for their desalinization plant, too, as I did what I had to do, then flushed.
Without a Grave Page 21
