On Hurricane Island

by Ellen Meeropol

  Along the second floor corridor there are windows. Maybe the storm is winding down because there’s a smudge of light in the sky. Not normal September evening light, more a splotch of yellowed gray, but enough to see that the hallway is empty. He makes his slow way to his office. He swears quietly as the door squeaks; nothing is immune to rust in this climate. He slips inside and closes the door.

  The venetian blinds are closed, and the room is dark. Probably still not safe to turn on a light. Who knows what kinds of extra surveillance Tobias has going. Arms extended, he shuffles straight ahead until he bumps into his desk, knocking over the framed photo of Cat and Melissa eating lobster. He feels the glass for cracks, then sets the photo right. Even after their big fight, even after Melissa went to work for that damn Congresswoman, he keeps her picture right next to his computer where he can look at it every day.

  “She voted against Iraq,” he yelled at Melissa. “That woman voted to cut the budget for the intelligence agencies and the military in a time of war.” Melissa gave him a look of such disgust, of utter loathing; he will never forget it. She left on the next ferry, and hasn’t been home since. Cat visits her in DC every few months, staying in the Georgetown apartment Melissa shares with three other legislative aides. When Henry asks how their daughter is doing, Cat says “she’s fine” and changes the subject.

  He’s too worn out to think about how he screwed things up with Melissa, and now with Cat too, but if he gets out of this mess alive, he will make it right with them both, no matter what it takes. Hands on the desktop, he circles around until he reaches his chair. Unhooking the gray cardigan sweater from the back of the chair, he pushes the chair away and crawls underneath, into the desk’s kneehole. He sits cross-legged on the floor and pulls the chair back to form a gate. He folds the sweater, knit by Cat for a long-ago birthday, and places it on the chair seat for a pillow. The dizziness is a little better when he closes his eyes; he rests his head on the worn wool and slides his hand into his pocket for the comfort of silk.

  He was ten the first time he wore his mother’s slip. It was a Friday. He got home early that day; the note from school said something about a teachers’ in-service program. His dad always worked late, and mom had a meeting she couldn’t reschedule.

  “Will you be okay alone?” she had asked the evening before. “Just until 5:30.”

  “Sure,” Henry promised. “I can take care of myself.”

  The thing was, the house felt emptier, bigger and quieter than he expected. He dropped his book bag in the hallway and hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. No, he thought. I shouldn’t. After his snack it was harder to not go upstairs, but he kicked off his shoes and spread his homework on the dining room table, a neat pile of notes and textbooks for each subject. At 4:30, he put his pencil down, perfectly parallel to the edge of the math paper and stood up. He only had an hour. Forty minutes, really, to be safe. He pushed the chair back from the table with a scraping, aching sound and walked upstairs to his parents’ bedroom.

  After that first time, he gave in to it whenever possible, learning to put his mother’s things back exactly the way she had them. When he was thirteen, he bought a black silk camisole, telling the saleslady that it was a gift for his mother’s birthday. She cooed at him, telling him what a devoted son he was. He felt bad, but only for a few minutes, because this was his own, and he could lock himself in the bathroom and put it on, wear it all day under his polo shirt. Occasionally, he wondered if other boys liked slinky fabric as much as he did.

  Henry repositions his legs under the desk and the painful surge of circulation returns. Pulling the silk slip from his pocket, he tucks it under his cheek. This slip is so much finer than the one he found that afternoon in his mother’s bureau or the one he bought himself as a boy. Between the embrace of the silk and the faint smell of wood-stove clinging to the wool sweater, he finally feels safe.

  Wait a minute; did he lock the office door? He isn’t sure. But he’s too tired to dredge up the memory, can’t even cling to the question in his head. No matter. He inhales the smoky wool and falls into sleep.

  45. RAY, 5:42 P.M.

  Just when Ray can’t bear waiting one more second, Bert returns to the guard post.

  “No sign of Henry up there,” he tells Catherine. “I decided not to ask Tobias about him. The guy is paranoid enough without being questioned. He told us this yarn about the two escaped women holding Austin hostage.”

  “That’s a damn lie,” Ray says.

  “There’s more.” Bert looks at the floor. “Tobias says that he’s in charge now. Says that Henry has been relieved of his command.”

  Catherine squeezes her eyes closed.

  “What are we waiting for?” Ray grabs his slicker. “Tobias is crazy. I don’t want those women alone out here.”

  “We better find them tonight,” Bert says. “I’m supposed to meet the day shift at Storm Harbor. Bring them out to begin an island-wide search at first light.” He takes a rolled map from the shelf over his desk. He spreads it out, anchoring the corners with an ashtray, a paperweight shaped like a lighthouse, a stained coffee mug and his right elbow. “Do you know where the women are now?”

  Ray examines the map. Once Austin points it out, darned if Hurricane doesn’t kind of look like a lady running from the bigger islands, just like she says. He runs his index finger over the woman’s backbone, the wooded spine of hills down the middle of the island that opens into the granite cliffs of the quarry. His finger stops at the southeast edge of the oval pit.

  “Austin is heading for the east rim cave.” He looks at Bert, who knows the waters around the Three Sisters Islands as well as any living man. “She says she heard something about a hidden cove near there. You know about that?”

  Bert points south of Ray’s finger to an indentation that’s a mere squiggle on the island coast. “I’ve seen it. From the map, you’d swear there’s nothing there. How’d she hear about that?”

  Ray studies the map. “Who knows? Can you get a boat in and out?”

  “The cove is tiny, and timing is tricky.” Bert glances over to the chart tacked to the bulletin board. “We’ll ride in on high tide, which isn’t until after midnight.” He looks hard at Ray. “We’ll need the outgoing tide to get out. It’ll take some luck too.”

  Ray nods. That trip will be much nastier than the ride across the sound from Storm Harbor. Following the rocky coast of Hurricane will take them around the woman’s right leg right out into the open bay. Too risky?

  Bert turns to Catherine. “What’s your plan?”

  “I don’t really have one. I guess I’m going up there to look for Henry. And try to get him off the island before Tobias finds him.”

  Crazy woman. But then, Nettie would do the same thing if it were Ray up there in trouble, maybe real sick, with a crazy guy running the place.

  “Well,” Bert says. “We can’t access the cove until high tide. So I’m going to walk Catherine up the hill, make sure she gets into the building. And I’ll find Cyrus. He’ll help us.”

  Ray isn’t so sure about that. Maybe he will, maybe not. Family trumps pretty much everything else up here, but Cyrus is career Army. While Bert fiddles with his wet slicker, Ray asks Catherine, “Do you know how to get to the east rim cave?”

  “I think so,” she says.

  “Meet us there, with Henry. We’ll give you both a ride out.”

  Catherine studies the map for a minute. She reaches for her slicker, but Bert takes it and helps her on with it, just like it’s a fur coat or something posh. As they move towards the guard post door, Bert hands Catherine a flashlight and slips something dark into her other hand.

  Ray probably isn’t supposed to see it, and he only gets a glimpse. But he’s pretty sure it’s a gun.

  46. AUSTIN, 6:16 P.M.

  The cave is quiet except for the breathing of the two sleeping prisoners. No, she shouldn’t think of them that way anymore. Now it’s the three of them together, and they are all fugiti
ves. That word freaks her out, and she doesn’t want to think about it.

  She takes the packet of letters from her pocket. There’s something romantic about reading them here, in this spot where Margaret and Angelo made love. Okay, maybe not romantic—given the bad things that happened to them—but still significant. Besides, maybe it will take her mind off the mess she’s in now.

  She blows out one candle. Better ration them. It could be hours before Pops gets here. Holding the letters close to the flame, Austin rummages through the pages, looking for the last paragraph she read on the ferry. Margaret vomiting on her way to meet Angelo, the day her world fell apart.

  I left my dripping cloak and bucket at the cave entrance and paused a moment, as always, to let my fingers trace our entwined initials before going inside. The cave was empty. Something bad must have happened. Angelo was never late. I felt faint again, those green-gold specks sparkling before my eyes, flittering like confused fireflies, and my stomach roiled.

  Something must have delayed him. I was so worried, it’s hard to remember how long I waited, or what I did. But I remember searching the cave, thinking he might have left me a message. I even looked in the narrow back exit to the cave, even though it was full of spider webs and I hated going there. The webs were undisturbed.

  Back exit? Austin thinks. She better check that out. After she finishes reading.

  Finally I heard footsteps thud outside the cave. I scrambled to my feet, but it was your Aunt Carrie inspecting our intaglio initials in their leafy embrace. I figured this was the place, she said. She opened her arms and hugged me. When I stopped crying, I apologized for not telling her before. Why couldn’t you fancy a local fellow, she asked. Fabrizio is handsome but he’s not like us. He’s trouble.

  No, I insisted. Once you get to know him, you’ll love him too.

  You still don’t understand, Carrie said. He’s gone. The Italians were sent away last night.

  All those men with their wives and mothers and babies herded onto ships and sent out into the Atlantic Ocean filled with prowling German U-boats? I stood with one hand resting on my belly, where you were beginning to grow, Angelina. My monthly was over five weeks late. How could I do this without him?

  Carrie stared at my hand on my belly. Let’s go home, she said.

  I felt so confused and betrayed and angry. I swung the metal bucket at his stupid carving. A small chunk of granite cracked off the leafy circle and fell onto the ground. I started to follow Carrie but I couldn’t leave that piece of Angelo lying in the dirt. I slipped it into the pocket of my black-eyed Susan skirt.

  Austin takes the granite leaf from her pocket and brings it closer her face. Pink specks in the rock reflect the flickering light from the candle. Amazing that this piece of rock has survived, even though all the people involved are dead, and Margaret’s story has been hidden and dormant too. Rubbing her thumb over the carved ridges of the leaf, the bumpy texture, the rough place, Austin returns to the letter.

  At home, Mother was waiting for me on the divan. She looked at me hard—at my face, at my bosom, and finally at my hand resting on my middle—and a hot river rushed over my burning cheeks. Until that moment, I had never felt ashamed. I reached into my pocket for Angelo’s carving, and my fingers found courage. I returned Mother’s gaze and nodded.

  The Italian boy, she asked.

  Yes.

  That night the quarry office was bombed. The fire destroyed records and burned the payroll. The owners decided to cut their losses and close down. Everyone would be moving back to Storm Harbor. Except us. The next day, my father accepted the job as caretaker on the island. Our family would stay over the winter.

  Mother told me that when we returned to Storm Harbor the next summer, my baby would be raised as her child. I objected, but Mother held up her hand. You have no choice, she said. We will never again speak of the Italian boy, of any of this.

  I was forced to agree. But I insisted the baby be named after Angelo.

  Every day I grieve for you, Angelina, for my family, for the people I grew up with. I grieve for my islands, for the granite cliffs of the quarry, even for that damp, smelly cave.

  I live with the constant sorrow of leaving you. Abandoning you, some would say. Did I do the right thing? I still don’t know.

  Austin sniffles and tries to picture Angelina waking up one morning with no beloved big sister Margaret. Abandoned by her mother, even if she didn’t know Margaret was her mother, with just a chunk of granite left on her pillow. She reaches for the last letter. This one is short, just one page. Wait a minute—this one is dated 1945. What happened to all those years? Did Angelina ever forgive her mother and write back? Austin has a moment’s pity for Margaret before hardening her heart again. The woman left her kid—how could anyone forgive that?

  A noise makes Austin look up, but it’s not from outside. Gandalf is moving around, probably trying to get comfortable. The last letter will have to wait.

  47. HENRY, 6:42 P.M.

  Henry jerks awake at the slow creak of his office door. He must not have locked it after all. Tobias could be right that he’s losing his edge. Willing his terror quiet, he listens intently as footsteps shuffle across the pine floor. Is the power still out or does the intruder prefer the dark? No, he has a flashlight. The small disk of light sweeps across the floor. Henry stares at the floor just beyond the edge of the desk, his small slice of window into the room, while he considers his options: to continue hiding or wait for an opportunity to use the element of surprise and overpower the guy.

  As if he could overpower anyone in this state. His head starts to spin again, just thinking about it. Breathe, he reminds himself, and he fills his lungs, slow and easy. He must feed the monster in his chest. The intruder’s footsteps stop at the desk, inches from Henry’s hiding place, and he can see the toes of the guy’s shoes.

  Lime-green boots.

  “Cat?” he whispers. “Down here.”

  There’s a rustle of oilcloth as she steps behind the desk and squats. “Henry?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think? Looking for you.”

  That’s good, right? He’s so confused. “What time is it?”

  “Almost seven. How do you feel?”

  “You’ve got to leave. It’s not safe. Why are you here?”

  “Henry.” She slowly pulls the desk chair out, revealing his burrow, then sits down next to him. “Listen to me. Austin Coombs told her grandfather that you were sick, and Ray called me. What happened? Are you okay?”

  “The pain is gone now. But you’ve got to get away. Tobias is out of control.”

  Catherine brushes the hair from his forehead. “Bert will meet us at the quarry cave. He’ll have boats to get us off-island.”

  “I’ve got to stop him.”

  “Stop Bert?”

  “Tobias. It’s my fault, Cat. I should’ve seen it coming. He’s done awful things.”

  “We’ll deal with that later. First let’s get you to a doctor.”

  “I want to make things right. With my job, with you.” He looks at her. “Does this mean you forgive me?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything, except we can’t figure out anything if you’re dead. We’ll get off this island and get you medical care. Then we’ll talk.”

  “You haven’t told anyone, have you? Melissa?”

  “No, of course not.” After a long pause she adds, “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “I looked it up online, about what you do.”

  “No,” he interrupts. “What I am.”

  “Yes.” She stands and helps Henry up. “What you are. Like I said, we’ll talk later. Now, let’s get out of here.”

  He nods. “I’ve just got to grab a couple of things we’re going to need.”

  48. TOBIAS, 6:59 P.M.

  Tobias slams the door to the monitor room, throws the deadbolt, and punches the master switch. The power grid better be back on line soon, or som
eone’s head will roll for sure, and it won’t be his, no matter what the Regional Chief thinks. How long has it been since JR conducted an interrogation himself, even fired his weapon? Years probably. That’s what happens with these guys, they get promoted up the food chain until they forget what it’s like in the trenches. Until they lose any street smarts they might have once had. But this isn’t about sucking up to the Regional Chief any more. This is about loving his country and doing the job right, even if every single person on duty in this place wimps out on him.

  Speaking of everyone else, where’s the rest of his staff? He jabs the extension for the dock guardhouse and listens to the ringing. Strictly speaking, Bert’s shift ended, but doesn’t he have a sense of duty? And what about the soldiers? He hasn’t seen anyone since the meeting, going on three hours. He trusts that Cyrus is getting his ass out to the quarry caves as ordered. He’s a soldier. He’ll do the right thing.

  One monitor screen hums and flickers, then brightens. Good, the generator feed to the emergency surveillance system is on board. At least something is going his way. He reaches to activate the feed from Interrogation Room D and then hesitates, his finger hovering millimeters above the button. In spite of Henry’s deteriorating leadership, in spite of the ugliness of the past few days, Tobias feels reluctant to actually view Henry’s body.

  Not that the guy doesn’t deserve what’s coming. His actions are practically treason. But in the early days, Henry tried to be a friend and mentor. He was clueless about it, like when he offered sympathy after Lois left. Clueless that Tobias was better off without the bitch, just like he’s clueless now about how to fight terrorism.

  Tobias rubs his eyes. He doesn’t consider himself a cruel man, not like those guys who love inflicting pain. His older brother is like that, never the same after the First Gulf War and probably still causing global mayhem with the private security firm. Sometimes when the adrenalin rush is overwhelming and glorious during an interrogation, Tobias wonders if that’s how his brother feels in the Sudan or Pakistan or wherever he is.