“So you’re going to go through with it?” Dr. Piltcher asked, not expecting an answer. “Take this with you, I copied some of the Apocrypha of Zorastrus for you. It might help.”
Kenny took the sheaf of papers from his friend and mentor and placed them next to his backpack.
“Be careful, Kenny. We’ll look for you after it happens… if we can.”
“Thanks. The group meant a lot to me.” Kenny’s voice cracked, so he immediately lowered his head, holding back the rest of what he had planned to say. Instead he and Dr. Piltcher stared at their shoes for a full minute and then Kenny managed to steady his voice long enough to tell them, “I’m going now.”
Dr. Piltcher nodded and then shook Kenny’s hand, as did everyone in the group except Mrs. Wayne, who knocked his hand away and wrapped her arms around him. When she finally released him he saw tears in her eyes. Turning away quickly to hide the moisture in his own, he climbed into his battered Toyota. He backed slowly down the driveway, knowing he probably wouldn’t see any of them again. They were all still waving good-bye when he turned onto the main road and drove out of sight.
2. The Entrepreneur
Until meteorites fell in 1803, scientists were certain that reports of stones falling from the sky were legends. It makes one wonder what other mysteries should be revisited.
—E.Suzuki, Belief and Behavior
Naples, Florida
PreQuilt: Saturday, 9:03 A.M. EST
The Entrepreneur was a thirty-five-foot fiberglass deep-water sailboat, rigged for the open sea. The original production hull had been modified with a three-foot cabin extension, bowsprit and pulpit, and webbing of double lifelines. The mast was forty-five feet of extruded aluminum supported by one-quarter-inch stainless steel shrouds. A gleaming white, slim hulled beauty with a fin keel, the Entrepreneur was everything Ron Tubman always wanted in a yacht, and more, and it was finally his.
Carmen and her daughter were aboard, stowing gear for the voyage. Ron still thought of Rosa as Carmen’s daughter, though they had been a blended family, or at least mixed, for eighteen months now. Everyone was consciously trying to blend, and Chris had surprised him, warming up to Carmen as quickly as Ron had. He remembered joking with Carmen about her close relationship with her new son, suggesting a reconsideration of Freud’s theory about Oedipal conflicts.
Rosa was a different story, however, with no sign of an Electra complex toward Ron. She was cordial with her new brother Chris, even affectionate at times. Brother and sister roles were new to both of them, and they had quickly formed a bond. Even before the marriage, Rosa had gone out of her way to do things with Chris—just as she went out of her way to avoid Ron. Maybe, Ron thought, it was the age difference between Rosa and Chris that made it easy for them to be friends. Rosa was six years older than Chris, and they had different interests and roles in the family. The spliced siblings had never competed for affection from their parents. But Rosa remained deliberately distant, cool and aloof to Ron. She visited her father every other weekend and made it clear she didn’t need another. Ron didn’t know if Rosa had harbored fantasies about her parents reuniting after their divorce, but Carmen’s remarriage would have abruptly ended such a dream.
Still, Rosa had shown feint glimmerings of interest in the sailboat, and that tiny spark was more than Ron had seen in eighteen months. Now he was hoping that the time at sea, away from the distractions of school, television, and boys, would help him form a bond with Rosa. If not, at least he’d have the pleasures of sailing.
Ron shouted down the dock at Chris, who was leaning over the bow swishing a piece of line in the water.
“Hey, Chris! Permission to come aboard?”
Chris looked confused for a minute and then stood erect, brought his hand to his forehead in a salute, and said, “Permission granted.” Ron returned his salute and then climbed over the double railing. For perhaps the hundredth time, Ron saw that Chris was a miniature version of himself, with sandy blond hair, blue eyes, and fair—now sunburned—skin. It looked like Chris would someday reach at least his father’s five foot ten inches. Both were dressed in nautical white T-shirts, shorts, and deck shoes, and Ron admitted to himself that father-and son outfits made him feel a little silly.
“Ready to sail, First Mate?”
“I’ve been ready for an hour. …I mean, everything’s shipshape, sir.”
“I’m going to check on the stores.”
Chris ran back to whatever he was doing on the bow while Ron stepped down into the cabin. With only eighty-five square feet of living space, it was tightly packed with necessities and comforts. A propane stove, a refrigerator, and a sink with foot-pump faucets, one for freshwater, and one for saltwater, made up the Entrepreneur’s galley. The table in the center of the cabin was actually the cover for the two-cylinder diesel engine. The berths doubled as storage space, and the head was forward in the bow. A small chart table folded down from the wall, and the Entrepreneur’s speedometer, chronometer, dinometer, and compass were mounted on the wall above the folding chart table. The radio direction finder, depth finder, and the short’ wave radio were mounted below it.
Carmen and Rosa were sitting on the opposing bunks talking when Ron stepped down into the cabin, but stopped as soon as he came in. Rosa and Carmen were nearly as similar as Ron and Chris, sharing short brown hair, brown eyes, and thin arms and legs. But while Carmen was filled out, teenage Rosa still looked gangly.
“Are you ladies ready to go?”
Rosa looked down, folding her hands into her lap, and Carmen gave Ron a “don’t make a big deal out of this” look.
“Rosa doesn’t want to go.”
“But it’s all set, and it’s only overnight.”
“No, I mean she doesn’t want to make the sail to Bermuda. A month on the ocean is a long time to be away from your friends.”
“It’s not just my friends,” Rosa said. She raised her head and stared defiantly at Ron. “It’s my dad, my real dad. I don’t want to be away from him that long. I mean, Mom, you have Ron, and even Chris, but Dad’s got no one but me. If I’m gone he’ll have no one.”
Out of the comer of his eye, Ron saw Carmen bite her lip. Given the history of Rosa’s father, Ron doubted the man would be lonely. Ron knew Carmen’s marriage had broken up because of her husband’s repeated affairs. He also knew Carmen had hidden that from Rosa.
“You’ll be together,” Rosa continued, “but he’ll be alone for a month. I just can’t do that to him.”
Ron wanted to protest that it wasn’t a month at sea, only a week. Well, he reflected, a week each way, with a two-week layover—but he heeded Carmen’s warning look.
This trip was meant to be a trial run for the Bermuda voyage. They were to sail out from Naples, Florida, spend the night, and then sail back. The kids could get their sea legs, and Ron could prove to the kids, and Carmen, that he could navigate. He even planned to do it without the RDF system. This was supposed to be a warm-up for the big event, and he wasn’t ready to give up the voyage to Bermuda yet.
“Well, I think we can talk about this,” Carmen said. “Can’t we, Ron?”
Ron nodded, but hoped that after a couple of days at sea Rosa would fall in love with deep-water sailing, just as he had.
“Let’s talk about it at sea,” he suggested. “I think so much more clearly when there is nothing to see but blue sky above and blue sea below. Rosa, loose the stern lines. Carmen, help Chris with the bow lines. We sail!”
“Don’t you give me orders, Captain Bligh,” Carmen warned playfully.
“Please?”
Carmen smiled, wrapped her arms around Ron in a brief hug, and then climbed up on deck. His good feelings restored, Ron thought of gliding across the sea using the stars to guide his way in the calming emptiness of the ocean. Then he thought of Rosa. “Please love sailing, Rosa,” Ron whispered to himself, “please.” Then he climbed to the deck and started the engine.
3. Gun In The Dark
At
that time a great wonder occurred. The forests were ignited and a multitude of abominable vermin appeared.
—The Shu King, the Canon of Yao
Oregon Caves
PreQuilt: Saturday, 10:25 A.M. PST
Dr. Terry Roberts was watching his wife feed Wheat Thins to the chipmunks. Ellen was making a trail using little pieces of the crackers, trying to entice the chipmunks closer and closer. The chipmunks were resisting, though, as if they thought she might lead them to their doom. Terry stifled a laugh at the absurdity of the idea. Ellen was the last person who would harm chipmunks. Terry had even seen her digging carefully in the garden to avoid hurting worms.
Her head down, Ellen was laying a trail for another chipmunk. Her curly brown hair was just long enough to hide her profile as she bent over. In her oval face, the brown eyes, nose, and mouth were distributed and proportioned nicely. The chin was narrow, even pointy. Still, most everyone who met her would call her pretty, although no one but Terry would call her beautiful. At five feet ten she was nearly the same height as her husband. After walking together for twenty-five years they had developed the same gait, and from a distance it was hard to distinguish one from the other.
Though Terry’s brown hair wasn’t as curly as Ellen’s it was almost her shade. Otherwise he was about as average physically as a person can get in height, weight, speed, and strength. Only Terry’s intellect was exceptional, but even there he didn’t quite qualify as truly brilliant. A guidance counselor had once referred to him as “marginally gifted.”
A short, stocky young woman dressed in a park ranger’s uniform walked through the people milling around the entrance to the caves. With a serious look on her face she announced in a businesslike manner that all those holding tickets for the ten-thirty tour should gather together. As Terry and Ellen joined the group, the guide gave directions.
“Please enter the caves single file and wait for me inside the entrance. Have your tickets ready.”
Ellen went first and Terry handed theirs to the guide. She tore it neatly in half and then handed it back. Terry and Ellen joined the group inside the mouth of the cave and waited for the guide to start her spiel. Terry was surprised to find himself excited about the tour, and whispered in Ellen’s ear, “Ready for an adventure?” Ellen didn’t answer, she just shrugged her shoulders.
Kenny hung back from the group gathering for the tour. He didn’t want his sister to see him or she might call security. With his ticket in hand he went over what he would say to her. He had tried to convince her before, but he had been clumsy and unsure of himself. Now he had proof. He had Dr. Piltcher’s pages from the Apocrypha of Zorastrus, and Kenny could tell her about the computer simulation, and how it was all leading to something big, and something soon. That should convince her, he assured himself; he didn’t want to use his other plan.
Kenny unzipped the top of his pack and pushed the towel aside, exposing the gun. He fingered the weapon and wondered if he could actually use it. He decided he could. He couldn’t save himself and leave his sister to go through it alone. She might hate him now, but soon she would understand.
Kenny put on his pack and joined the group. His sister didn’t notice him until she took his ticket.
“Get away from me, Kenny.”
“I’ve got proof, let me show you,” Kenny began.
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“There was this prophet Zorastrus, and everyone thought he was crazy but it turns out he was right—”
“I’ve got a tour to lead, Kenny. Go tell it to a priest.”
“Please, Jill—”
“No, Kenny,” she said, and then turned to go.
“I’ve got a ticket, Jill.”
“You don’t want a tour, you just want to harass me.”
“I won’t say a word. I just want to be with you.”
“I can’t stop you, but if you start preaching that end-of-the-world nonsense, I’ll have you arrested.”
Kenny nodded agreement and then joined the tourists.
Terry stood behind Ellen with his hands on her shoulders. Their group was mostly couples. One couple had to be newlyweds; young, and pretty, they never let go of each other’s hands. Another young couple had two boys, about eight and ten, who whispered and giggled to each other. There was a prosperous-looking older couple that seemed to be retired and enjoying it. Terry suspected that a Silver Stream trailer was waiting for them in the parking lot.
Another man came through the cave opening carrying in a backpack a baby wearing a hat with Mickey and Minnie Mouse designs. Her mother followed, trying to wipe the baby’s face while the baby kept turning her head, gurgling. The wife was wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and the husband’s shirt advertised KNOTT’s BERRY FARM. Terry imagined their car’s bumper stickers said TREES OF MYSTERY and VISIT DRIVE THRU TREE.
Finally a middle-aged interracial couple entered. The woman was white and carefully groomed and coordinated from the scarf that tied up her blond hair to her color-matched L.A. Gear shoes. In ten years she would be “fat,” but today she still qualified for “voluptuous.” The man—the only black man in the group—was also the tallest, at least six feet tall. He would be doing some ducking on this tour. While Terry hated stereotypes the man’s short, neatly trimmed hair and good posture made Terry suspect the man was in the military.
The last member of the group, a college-age kid with a yellow backpack, stood out because only he was unaccompanied. Terry wondered vaguely about the bulging pack, deciding he had taken the DON’T LEAVE VALUABLES IN YOUR CAR signs seriously.
“My name is Jill and I will be your guide for a sixty-minute tour of the Oregon Caves. The temperature inside the caves is a constant fifty-six degrees, and although that sounds cool, the high humidity will keep you quite comfortable. Electric lights were installed in the cave in 1956, in order to protect both visitors to the caves and the caves themselves, so flashlights and lanterns are not necessary.”
Terry noticed that nearly everyone carried a portable light.
“Smoking is not allowed in the caves, and we ask that you do not leave litter or gum in the caves.”
Ellen dutifully pulled a piece of tissue out of her pocket, wrapped up the piece of gum she had been chewing, and dropped the wad back in her pocket.
After some instructions to “not straggle” and “stay on the trails” she led them into the caves. The air was cool but comfortable, and as they hiked along, those with jackets took them off and tied them around their waists. The electric lights along the trail made flashlights unnecessary, and they slowly disappeared into pockets. Periodically, when the group stopped, the guide explained some feature of the cave.
“If you look through this opening, which was made in 1967, you can see the natural color of the cave walls. The original explorers of these caves used torches to light their way, and, as you can see, the soot from the torches discolored the walls and ceiling. Originally the caves were snowy white as you can see through this opening …”
It had been Ellen’s idea to stop at the caves on the way back from a convention—really a vacation—in Los Angeles where Terry had presented a paper on dysfunctional families but skipped most of the other sessions. Cruising up I-5, Ellen had studied the literature she picked up at a visitors’ information rack at a rest stop. Ellen was in a tourist mood, and it had been years since they’d visited the Oregon Caves, so they cut off the interstate at Medford and headed west to the caves. After a morning tour they’d still make it back to Portland that night. Vaguely remembering his last tour through the caves, Terry was anticipating one particular part: When the guide turns out the lights, it’s the first and only time most people experience total darkness. Terry recalled feeling the darkness around his face as his eyes vainly struggled to detect something. In retrospect, it seemed unpleasant, but, strangely, Terry was looking forward to it again.
As the tour progressed members developed an informal understanding. The couple with the baby hung back, since the bab
y’s noises distracted the guide. Front positions were reserved for the older couple since they listened more attentively than the rest. The little boys went wherever they wanted, and the parents didn’t care. The young man with the yellow backpack was always in the rear, staring at their guide, a sad determined look on his face.
The group came to a large cave with several branching passages, its well-packed trail testimony to the previous thousands of tourists. The guide, directing them into a side passage that dead-ended into a small cave, stood by the entrance and let the group pass.
“You will now experience something that few of you have had the chance to experience. Total darkness.”
Immediately the lights went out. Several people gasped as their eyes became useless. Then the lights were back. There were murmurs of relief and cheerful kidding among the members of the group, until a masculine voice ordered: “Stay where you are and don’t move.”
“Kenny, what are you doing? Are you crazy?”
Terry turned with the group toward the voices. The kid with the backpack was standing by the entrance with a gun in his hand, the guide at his side, her mouth and eyes open in disbelief. More murmurs from the group but no longer cheerful. The little boy whispered he was scared. The baby gurgled cheerfully while she yanked on her dad’s hair. Terry noticed the black man start to move from the back of the group toward the kid.
“I said don’t move.” As he spoke the kid turned the gun toward the man, who froze in midstep, his face determined— while Terry felt near panic.
“I want everyone to sit down right where they are. Sit down. You too, Jill. Now!”
Everyone but the guide sat down. Terry noticed the military man sat down last, his eyes never leaving the gun in the kid’s hand.
“Kenny,” the guide pleaded softly. “Please put the gun down. You’re scaring everyone. There are kids here. You’re scaring the kids.”
Footprints of Thunder Page 2
