by Celia Jerome
“But the ship ain’t gone down yet?” a sleepy voice from nearby asked.
“Nope. No idea why, neither. No one can figure it, but it’s giving the divers and the captain of the ship time to search what they can. Unmanned subs and experts’ll be here in the morning to give us a hundred reasons. I say it’s the power of prayer.”
I prayed it was M’ma.
Later someone whispered that the president had been on TV, praising Montauk and its neighbors for the fine job they were doing. We should all stand tall, he said, tall and proud. I curled up in a ball on my cot, mortified I might have had a hand in the catastrophe.
At least there were still no fatalities.
But no black dogs, either.
CHAPTER 16
“WE’RE GETTING YOUR DOGS.”
The com-tech asked the caller to hold, then repeat when he was on speakerphone.
“Right. This is Cap’n Gino on the Dorothy Mac. They’re bringing me three black dogs on a Zodiac, about ten minutes off, but the call said they lost the parrot.”
“What parrot?” I recognized Russ’s voice, sounding dismayed. “We have no parrot in our manifest data.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your manifest destiny. You want the dogs or not?”
Tempers got short, after a night without rest.
“Yes!” Matt and I shouted.
“Then you should thank the fucking parrot. They said the damn thing was yelling about pastry at the top of its lungs down in the cargo area, what was half full of water. The scuba guys would never have spotted the black pups on top of some crates in the corner, but for the screeching. Not much light except some weird emergency flares or something down there to help them see survivors. No sound from the dogs.”
“Pastries?”
“They couldn’t make it out so good. Sounded like pethtry to them. Figured the bird didn’t have a big vocabulary, maybe didn’t speak English, maybe he was hungry. Who knows? Then more lights came on so they could follow the sound. They figure the parrot could open the cages. You ever seen the beak on those things? Take your finger right off. But how the pups got on top of the crates, out of the water, is anyone’s guess. Anyway, they got the dogs out—took three of the guys to carry ’em—but the bird took off. Then they saw it fall into the ocean. Still yammering about pastries. Or pests.”
Pets, Tree. Tree’s pets. You did good, Oey. Real good. I don’t know if he heard me. But I sent hugs and kisses across the mental void, with a picture of the birdfish nestled in willow branches. I added fireflies to the mind picture in thanks to the lantern beetles that must have lit the dark ship so the missing passengers could be found and brought to safety. Maybe they kept the dogs warm, too. Uh-oh.
“There were no fires, were there?”
“Hell, no, or we’d all have to back off and the divers’d have to evacuate.”
“Do you know the dogs’ conditions, Captain? This is Dr. Matt, from Paumanok Harbor.”
“Sorry, Doc, word is not good. Not moving, cold to touch. They must have been in the water five or six hours. The guys in the raft think they’re breathing, but barely. I’ve got some survival blankets still left to wrap them in. A couple of hand heaters. Not much else.”
“Any hot water? Even a warm thermos to tuck under them? Can you lay them over the engine hatch or something?”
“I can try, Doc, but I’ve got half my quota of survivors on board in the cabin. More coming. They’ll need all the hot coffee my galley can churn out.”
“Do the best you can. What’s your ETA?”
We could hear the captain shout to someone onboard. Then he came back. “Sorry. Dumbass female thought she’d climb up to the wheelhouse. In high heels. Not on my boat. ’Specially not tonight. Bad luck altogether. Not that we ain’t had enough.”
“Your ETA, Gino, please. The dogs need help fast if they’ve stopped shivering, stopped moving.”
“Sorry, Doc. I’ve got two different rafts headed my way, and no one else near except a useless hotshot in a cigarette boat. Most of the others are still trolling for survivors or towing rafts. I can’t leave until my latest batch are all loaded and secured. It goes slow with the inflatables, you gotta understand. Can’t chance dropping one of the drifters back in the drink.” He cursed. “Or convince some dipshit female to take her high heels off before she puts one through the rubber.”
“What about the cigarette boat? Could he bring in the dogs?”
“Good idea. Rich asshole’s not doing much of anything else but shining his light around. I’ll get him on the horn.”
Two minutes later Gino came back on the phone. “It’s a go, Doc. We’re rendezvousing with the rafts in three minutes. Tourist named Francis Costain says he’ll get those dogs back quicker’n I ever could, passengers or not. Fifteen minutes, tops, once he clears this area in case we missed anyone in the water. He says to get clearance for him to dock at the Coast Guard station on Star Island. He’s got to head that way anyway, toward the yacht club, ’cause he’ll be out of gas by then.”
“I’m on it,” Russ said.
“Hey, do you think I can give him the woman, too?”
“Is she injured? Will she need an ambulance waiting?”
“Hell, no, not unless she makes another heel mark on my deck. The broad never got a fingernail chipped. She’s just a pain in the ass. Tina, the lounge singer. Grabbed a life jacket and hopped right into the first raft. Now she’s pissed she had to wait so long to be picked up while they went after people in the water first or the injured. She’s ready to sue everyone in sight. I figure the hotdog who owns a half-million-dollar cigarette boat can afford her better’n I can.”
Russ laughed. “I’ve got a Martina D’Angelo on my crew list as an entertainer. Get me confirmation and some details so I can track her on the computer, and I’ll get her off your hands.”
“You’re doing good for a lubber, kid.”
“And you’re doing great for a bub, Gino,” Russ said, using the local term for a native or near native, old-time seaman. “Thanks.”
* * *
Susan had sent clean clothes for me with her father’s last trip to drop off donated supplies and more soup. Bless her heart, she’d included a toothbrush, too. Uncle Roger reported the dogs at home were fine, except Little Red peed on my bed for being left alone so long. And we’d given away all our extra blankets.
I’d deal with it later. I changed and washed up as best I could while Matt was on the phone with the Coast Guard. They weren’t accepting survivors, not with almost all hands out on the water. They only had a skeleton crew and two senior citizens from the Coast Guard auxiliary on base, but they’d take the dogs, gladly. And the lounge singer. Especially the lounge singer.
They promised to get pots of water heating, the thermostat turned up, and a bed turned down for Miss D’Angelo. And they were cooking bacon and eggs, okay?
That sounded like heaven to me, the vegetarian. The brownies were a long-ago memory.
“Good luck, Doc,” all the dog lovers in the firehouse called after us.
“Don’t let them be our first fatalities,” someone else shouted.
One of Russ’ crew handed us a slip of paper with the breeder’s name and info before we left. Peg Winters, forty-two, divorced, professional dog breeder and trainer from the Bronx, traveling with three pedigreed Newfoundland dogs, age six months, had gone into shock. That time she couldn’t refuse to be airlifted to Southampton Hospital. The telecom operator said he’d get word to her as soon as possible, with the doc’s cell number. “Okay?”
“Fine. And tell her she can call and one of the returning ambulances can fetch her back to Paumanok Harbor if she’s released tonight. This morning,” he corrected, seeing the first hint of color in the sky. “Or I’ll have my receptionist go pick her up later. She can stay at my place as long as she and the dogs need.”
“Damn nice of you, Doc.”
Yeah, I thought so, too. There he was, dead tired, in yesterday’
s clothes with yesterday’s beard, ready to face another long, hard fight to save three drowned puppies, and he still cared about their owner. Damn nice.
He said, “Anyone who cares that much about her animals deserves to be near them. They’ll all recover better that way.”
“Got it. Oh, yeah, the dogs’ names are Maggie, Molly, and Moses. They’ve got paragraph-long pedigree names, but that’s what Mrs. Winters calls them. Moses was her grandfather’s name, from what she told the crew on the cutter between crying jags.”
“Good to know. They’ll respond better to their names, too.”
We left. The fire captain got us an escort, with sirens, even, now that the number of rescues had slowed down to a trickle. So we got through the checkpoints with no trouble, sped across the causeway to Star Island and pulled up at the big white building with time enough to spare for breakfast.
Matt ate standing up. We all did, because the three young guardsmen, Sean, Luther, and Ramon, had laid a blue tarp across the large dining room tables shoved together, then made mounds of blankets on them.
“They’re warm from the clothes dryer,” Ramon, who looked like he’d just graduated from high school said. “With more waiting.”
“Great thinking,” Matt said, taking off his sweatshirt. I did, too, already sweating in the heat they’d turned up.
Another of the young men in uniform, Luther, had his foot in a cast, and the third, Sean, said he was on sick leave due to Lyme disease, but he’d come in anyway to help man the station. The senior citizen couple introduced themselves as the Dwyers. They had a yellow lab themselves, so they were eager to help.
In minutes, it seemed, the sleek black-hulled speedboat tore through the harbor, its air horn blaring. The captain had no concern about making a wake; he had the harbor patrol boat right beside him, bullhorn blaring orders to other boats to get out of the way, rescue in progress.
The guardsmen had the boat tied to the dock in seconds. The healthy one, Ramon, jumped down and started helping the captain, who told us to call him Frankie, unbuckle the dogs from the leather bench seats.
“Heated, don’t you know,” Frankie said, handing the first dog up to Sean, who looked too weak from the Lyme disease to carry anything heavier than a cell phone, but he managed. “And didn’t want them bouncing around on the deck.”
A redhead next to him snapped out: “But it was okay that I had nothing to hang on to.”
“You hung on to me real good, sugar,” said Frankie, grinning at her. He handed the second dog to Matt, since Luther had to lean on one crutch.
Ramon handed me the last dog. I almost staggered under the weight—I refused to call it dead weight—of the limp, sodden bundle in my arms. The dog must weigh fifty or sixty pounds, and these were puppies! I couldn’t feel any sign of life before the first seaman, Ramon, jumped out of the low boat and took the animal from me.
“What about me?” the redhead in her black spandex dress complained.
“I’ve got you, sugar,” the middle-aged boat owner purred as he handed her up to the dock, then her high-heeled slingbacks, then an enormous leather purse. Frankie had a gold chain around his neck that could have doubled as an anchor cable, a pinky ring that glittered like the last star in the morning sky, and coal-black hair from Grecian Formula.
The elderly volunteer and Luther both stepped forward to take Tina’s hand, but Mrs. Dwyer got there first. She told her husband to take the purse while Tina put on her shoes.
Mrs. Dwyer had Tina’s ID bracelet all printed out. “You need to wear this, miss. So they know where you are and your condition. I’m to call your arrival in to the firehouse.”
I could see she felt important, as if fixing a paper bracelet on a prima donna was worth giving up a night’s sleep.
Tina looked at Matt, who ignored her entirely, hurrying after the two Coasties with their dogs. She noted the age of the young men and the weathered Mr. Dwyer. Then she looked back at the cigarette boat and its owner. She flashed him a million-dollar smile, or maybe a half million, if that’s what the boat cost. “Do you think I can stay with you tonight, Frankie?” She gave a helpless hand wave at her high heels and the boards under them. “I’ll only get in the way here.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, doll.”
The auxiliary oldster got to help Tina back down to the low boat. I was afraid he’d have a heart attack. Luther hobbled around getting the lines untied and Frankie waved good-bye, a wide smile on his bronzed face.
Another match made in heaven.
The young men and Matt had the dogs on the tables, wrapped in warm blankets while Matt listened to their heartbeats, checked their pulses, looked in their mouths, felt their stomachs, and pulled their eyelids open. He didn’t say anything. I was afraid to ask.
He took thermometers out of his tote bag, and a small jar. “We need to take their temperatures before we go any further.”
He handed me a thermometer.
“Um …”
“No, you don’t put it under its tongue, Willy. Shove it up its ass, but gently.”
Oh, my. Luckily, Mrs. Dwyer took over. “I had four children, dear. I know what to do. You hold the tail up.”
We got it done and Matt looked relieved. “They’re not beyond help. No telling if they warmed up in the boats, or if there will be permanent damage from lack of circulation to their brains. But we have something to work with.”
He took out lengths of rubber tubing.
Lord, were we going to have to do hot water enemas like he and Jenny discussed? I wasn’t any hothouse flower like the Tinas of the world, but I didn’t know if my stomach could take that.
Thank goodness I didn’t have to find out. Matt slipped nooses of the tubing over each muzzle.
“But they’re not moving!”
“I know, but they’ll be in pain when the blood flows back into their limbs, like when you get pins and needles. We’re strangers and they won’t understand we’re trying to help. Even the gentlest dog can react badly.” He gave each a shot of antibiotic. “As a precaution. You never know what was in the water with them.”
He held out three plastic pouches for Sean to run under hot water at the kitchen sink while he started IV lines. “It’s only saline, but it’ll help. Anyone got a shaver so I can get down to bare skin to find a vein?”
Ramon ran to get his. He brought back a blow dryer, too. Mr. Dwyer took that and started working on whichever dog Matt wasn’t handling.
Matt had me hold the paw while he taped the needle in place on the first dog’s front leg. I read the tag on the leather collar while he worked and Luther, on one crutch, held the dog steady, just in case it woke up. Mr. Dwyer kept the blow dryer going and Mrs. Dwyer kept rubbing the other two with heated towels.
“This one is Mollie,” I told them. “She looks the smallest.”
“And weakest and coldest. That’s why I started on her first.”
Next came Maggie. I thought I heard a whimper when the needle went in. “Good girl. We’re making you better. You’ll see. Dr. Matt won’t let you get pneumonia like that fou-fou Yorkie.”
“That’s it, Willy. Keep talking. Channel your mother for me.”
I gave him a sour look, while the Dwyers and the guardsmen appeared curious. “My mother has a way with dogs, that’s all. She’s written books about it.”
And she was in Florida. Not in my head.
Everyone went back to work. Rubbing, talking, starting the IVs, holding the saline pouches elevated until Ramon dragged in two floor lamps and a clothes tree. We put baggies of hot—not boiling water—on bare skin where we could find it on the shaggy animals. They looked like bearskin rugs for all the life in them. But we had hope.
The biggest pup was Moses, and he opened one eye when I talked to him. “He’s going to make it!”
“They all are.”
Except Mollie didn’t seem to be warming up like the others. Matt had packed for the emergency and had a longer length of thicker tubing. “
I’m going to have to fill her stomach with warm water. She’s going to bring it back up.”
The seamen in their uniforms stepped back. I had to step forward, with my clean clothes and buckets and towels, to hold her up. I felt bad. Poor Mollie almost drowned, and might have swallowed half an ocean for all we knew. Now she had a tube down her throat filling her up with more water.
She brought it up, all right, and peed, too. That I was used to, from Little Red, but not the gallons.
“It’s a good sign. The kidneys are working.”
“Here, miss, I’ll take over.”
I was astounded to see Frankie back, coming to help. We all looked around for Tina, who’d be as out of place here as an angora cat.
Frankie laughed. “I’ve got her all right and tight at my rooms at the Yacht Club. She’ll be in the Jacuzzi for another hour, I’d guess. That’ll warm her up enough to call down to the boutique. They’re ready to bring her some clothes to choose from, on my tab.”
“That’s really generous of you, Mr., er, Frankie.”
“Oh, I put a limit on the credit card, but the girl could have died in that wild storm. She deserves some pretty things, doesn’t she? ’Sides, I’m betting she’ll be real grateful.”
He winked. I couldn’t help laughing, despite myself. Here was this middle-aged Lothario, not making the least effort to conceal his true persona, unlike me, the Visualizer. I was even afraid to mention Paumanok Harbor.
I didn’t have to. Frankie only wanted to know about the dogs. “These guys valuable, Doc?”
“Very, I’d guess. They’re good-looking pups from what I can see, excellent conformation. If someone is paying to have them delivered from New York to Nova Scotia by luxury liner, rather than ship them in the cargo hold of an airplane, you can bet they’re paying plenty.”
“Like how much?” Frankie persisted.
