With each pull, the awful baseboard began to loosen; and, each time it did the cry of the small nails were to him like a gang of cackling demons.
When suddenly the baseboard popped loose, there, behind the wall, sat his Bass Pro Shops lunchbox, and on top of it sat an obscene stack of progress reports and forged test scores.
He had stupidly failed to throw them away.
And beneath those, the lunchbox sat open to reveal a stash of stacked money so thick, it spewed out like a pirate’s chest. Mrs. Dewitt turned and looked fearfully at her son, then jerked a thumb to the evidence.
“I thought you said you’d outgrown your lunchbox,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“Mom,” he said, his trembling voice hoarse with fear, his whole world collapsing now, “I can explain.”
She reached for a stray progress report and studied it with disgust, turning the paper to him for him to see, but he looked away. Before she stood, she reached behind the wall and snatched the progress reports and the money-dripping lunchbox and tossed it all onto the bed.
“Go ahead!” she shouted, pointing to the lunchbox. “Explain it! Explain why you have exactly one thousand dollars in a Bass Pro Shops lunchbox that you’ve hidden behind the wall!”
He opened his mouth to speak, but there was just nothing to say. He was simply plain old busted, and he knew it, and she knew it, too. As he stared at her he knew that there was no way out for him, so why make things worse?
Do what they do when they take you to jail. Say nothing.
Nothing could repair this. There was no lie he could ever use to cover this up, and so, completely boxed in, he simply stood and waited, his mouth pursed shut, his shoulders hanging. He would hunker down and weather her storm.
“So . . . nothing?” she probed. “You’re done? That’s it?”
He sat down on the bed beside the money—which made several bills poof outward and waft to the ground like green confetti. She stared down at him with moist, shimmering eyes.
“I’m asking you one last time, son. Where did all this money come from?”
To that, he said nothing.
“Where were you all night, Edgar? Out . . . making this money?”
He stared at the ground and gritted his teeth. His entire island, his fishing business, the only special things he had in his whole godforsaken life—being stuck as he was in the godforsaken town—everything was at stake now. Saying anything more to his mother might only jeopardize it further.
Besides, he didn’t have to speak. There was no law against it.
He didn’t have to give the island up to her.
“OK, then,” she said, straightening, dotting her eyes again with the obliterated Kleenex. “We’ll just get you a drug test then, when your father comes home from the fire.”
“What?” said Edgar, as she darted from the room, well before his tears could fall.
“Drugs?” he yelled at the door. “DRUGS? Yeah, well, I WISH I HAD SOME DRUGS FOR ALL THIS—” unable to find the right word, he looked around his room and bit his lip and yelled, “—SHIT! YOU’VE BROUGHT ME TO A TOWN AND TOSSED ME INTO A WORLD OF SHIT! YOU MADE ME FIGHT FOR MY LIFE EVERY DAY LIKE SOME KIND OF PRISONER! MOUNT LANIER IS LITERAL SHIT! MY LIFE SUCKS! SO YEAH, I WISH I HAD SOME DRUGS!”
He collapsed onto the bed and curled up into a ball as more money spilt over onto the floor. Disgusted, he kicked the money away in a sweeping motion, like making a green snow angel.
__________
At ten o’clock in the morning he woke up from a restless sleep—a feverish state full of nightmares and turmoil. Wiping drool from his face and coming to, at first he thought it had all been a nightmare but then, he realized his nightmare was real.
Oh man, was his life ever terrible now.
For a while he just lay in bed, trying to work up the courage to join his mother in the kitchen, to maybe figure out a way to make peace with her. She was out in the kitchen right now, making coffee. He could hear her.
When he did amass the courage to stand and turn the doorknob, he made his way out into the kitchen and faced her.
She sat at the table and did not look up, stirring her cup of coffee while reading the newspaper. Only when he sat down beside her did she look up from the paper and speak.
“Where did the money come from?” she said. “I want to know, Edgar.”
He wiped a puffy eye and shrugged. To that, she nodded grimly and returned to her newspaper.
“OK, then,” she said coldly. “Fine.”
Reaching out, he dragged the front page slowly to him.
“WILDFIRE BREAKS OUT IN YAKIMA,” the headline read. “Teams of engineers and city workers from neighboring counties have assembled to fight the blaze.”
His dad was there fighting a fire and must be worried sick about his son.
“I called your father this morning to let him know you are fine,” she said, as if reading his mind. “And boy . . .” she said, looking up with an angry smile, “is he pissed.”
Yes, Edgar imagined that this might be the case.
“Also,” she added, “we talked it over. We are taking your little pile of fun money away from you.” She eyed him for a response, but there was none. “We are giving it to charity, Edgar—every cent. What do you think about that?”
“That’s fine,” he said, because it was. Besides, there was another thousand dollars stashed away inside the back of his TV that she didn’t know was there, so it wasn’t like he was out of money.
“Oh, and one more thing. You are grounded, for like, ever.”
Yeah, he thought. No shocker there.
“So, now. If maybe you want to tell me where the money came from, we could possibly work out a reduction in your sentence. How about that? Would you like to cooperate?”
“Sure,” he said, sitting up. What the hell, he thought. “Fine, Mom. I will tell you exactly how I got the money. The way I got it was, I fell through a hole in the Earth that goes to an island in the Indian Ocean, not down to China like they always say when you’re a kid. And on that island, I went fishing. I brought back the fish to Flounder’s fish stand where we sold it for about twenty dollars a pound. I had to tell the Arteses that it came from your imaginary brother that I made up, my fake Uncle Louis. Sometimes my new girlfriend goes with me to the island to help me catch lobsters, which I also sell at Flounder’s fish stand.”
She stiffened and huffed at his explanation. “You,” she said angrily, “are so disrespectful! This is not a joke. Have it your way, Edgar. Don’t tell me how you really got the money. God knows and I will too, someday. The truth always comes out.”
He shook his head and pushed the newspaper away. It was the worst day of his life, hands down.
Seventeen
His mom stayed on his case all week and when she wasn’t on his case, she barely spoke to him, while his father—still deeply ingrained in the Yakuma firefight—had not been home for days.
Life at home sucked immensely.
As the fire spread in Yakima, and with his father calling for fresh clothes, a phone charger, and other essentials, Mrs. Dewitt had been forced to leave and bring him the supplies.
“Swear to me,” she said, cornering Edgar, “that you will honor your restriction while I’m gone. That you will go to school and come home and do all your homework and just go to bed.”
“I swear,” he said.
“No . . . catfishing. Or whatever it is you do.”
“Mom, I swear.”
Later that evening, Edgar broke his promise and fell through the Earth deep in thought, wondering why his life was so out of control.
It had to be the hole.
At all times he could feel it calling to him, burning in his blood like desire—to feel the wonderful whir of hot air whizzing through his hair as he plummeted through the Earth, of feeling his
weight diminishing to absolute zero. This was his calling. To fall. No matter how bad things ever got—no matter how stressed out he felt—falling would always bring him back. It was the one thing that could bring him peace.
__________
Two minutes out from the other side of the world, he knew something was different this time around. Water droplets began to sting his skin and as each moment passed, the drops became thicker than before, peppering his whole body and making him wet.
Finally, as the opening on the island came into view, he saw only a dim light through the hole—no bright moon or stars, just a swirl of rain and angry, twirling clouds.
When he surfaced on the island and climbed out, immediately staggering backward from a violent gale, he leaned forward and braced himself, digging into the island crust.
Immediately he realized: it was a hurricane!
He spun a circle with arms outstretched and took in the raw power of the swirling monster. Waves crashed the shore and winds screamed from the heavens, and it was all wonderful against his skin. The roar of the world mirrored the roar that raged inside his conscience, of the tempest of guilt that made him an outcast in his own home.
Facing the storm now, it was the best he’d felt in days.
He laughed at its fierceness.
“I caawi!” a strange voice called through the night. It was a human voice, and Edgar’s knees almost buckled from shock.
“I caawi!” the voice called again, this time a bit louder. It was hoarse, weak, and barely audible over the roaring winds, but Edgar could clearly hear it. Though petrified, Edgar reached for his flashlight and shined toward the voice—which was coming from the sea.
At the appearance of the light, the voice began to scream wildly.
“I caawi! I caawi!” it shouted.
That’s when Edgar spotted him. There, drifting quickly by, was a man clinging desperately to a life ring, obviously lost at sea. He must have heard Edgar laughing at the hurricane and now, he was screaming uncontrollably at Edgar to save him. He was shaking his fist at the flashlight and weeping, calling for Edgar in a strange tongue.
“Fadlan!” the man cried.
As the current swept him by, Edgar realized that he was too far from shore to be grabbed. Edgar knew that if he, himself, tried to step into the churning waters he too would be swept away along with the man.
“Hold on!” he screamed, then dashed for his fishing pole. As the man paddled uselessly but frantically toward the island, he drifted even further away. The current was much too strong. Still, the man clamored for shore, screaming and gurgling and flailing his arms.
Edgar pocketed the flashlight and took the pole in his hands, then marched to shore and spread his legs, bracing himself against the hurricane. Then, digging his feet into the wet, rocky sand, he skillfully cast the spoon spinner out into the blackness.
Reeling violently, he yanked the spinner across the seas until its treble hooks snagged true.
“ARRGHH!” howled the man. The hooks were digging into his skin, but he was surely caught.
“I know!” yelled Edgar.
Mumbling a prayer that the eighty-pound test would hold, he slowly and carefully reeled the man in, giving only the occasional slack as the current demanded.
“AHAGA!!” the man gurgled. “ARGGGGHH!”
“Calm down!” shouted Edgar, knowing that if the man kept flailing the line would certainly not hold. If that happened, the drowning man would surely be lost.
The string was tightened to its limits, and it was just about to snap.
“JUST GO LIMP, MAN!” yelled Edgar. It was pointless to yell. He continued to reel gingerly.
Then, suddenly, the line went limp—but not in a good way. Horrified, Edgar dropped the pole and whipped out the flashlight. Shining it on the shore, there, just out of the water, Edgar saw the man, safe and sound. He was weeping bitterly and clinging to the thin beach, collapsing on his stomach, coughing with his face in the sand.
Edgar had done it. He had brought the man to shore.
Braving the gales, Edgar staggered down to the seaside and bent over, giving the muscular man a timid pat on the shoulder.
“Man?” he said. “Are you OK?”
Edgar shined the light on the man’s shoulder and discovered the fish hooks. They were dug in deep by now, and looked gnarly.
“Man,” Edgar explained over the storm. “We’ve got to get those out.” He pointed to the barbs and nodded. Then, from his pocket he withdrew a small a pair of fishing pliers and waved them before the man’s eyes. “See? I’ve got to pull those out, man. Don’t hit me when I do! It’s gonna hurt!”
The man glanced at the pliers and the realization of what Edgar was asking seemed to dawn on him. Wearily, he nodded and turned his muscular back to Edgar, presenting his shoulder.
“ARRGH!” he shouted as Edgar began to twist the hooks around.
“Just be still!” shouted Edgar as the man jerked slightly away. Stabilizing himself, the man nodded and invited Edgar to continue, so he pulled at the shiny hooks some more as the man moaned in pain. Digging into the man’s flesh, he could almost feel the pain himself. He had never had to de-hook a human being before.
The man had velvety-dark skin and a huge, wooly beard. His hair was disheveled and poked out from beneath a sea-washed, camo-green military cap. His eyes were bloodshot and lips deeply cracked from the onslaught of the ocean, like chasms in his flesh. The man’s muscles pulsated with absolute tension as Edgar worked, his soldier’s uniform holding on loosely to his famished frame by mere threads, seeming to suggest he’d probably been suffering from many days lost at sea.
Finally, thankfully, the last of the treble hooks came free from his skin. He slumped on the shore and heaved in the storm, grunting aloud, then nodded his appreciation at Edgar.
“Mahadsanid,” the man said breathlessly.
“Yeah, gotcha,” said Edgar. “But look. We’ve gotta get out of here, man. If we hang out any longer, we’re gonna get blown out to sea! The water’s never been this high!” He pulled on the man’s shoulder and urged him up toward the center of the island. “C’mon man!” he yelled. “We’ve gotta go!”
The man nodded and rose to his wobbly legs, then limped with Edgar to the edge of the hole.
“Look,” said Edgar, explaining their situation. “I know you don’t understand this, but we’ve got to jump down this hole. Right now. It’s the only way out.”
The man’s eyes followed Edgar’s finger and he looked down into the hole, where Edgar was shining the light.
“Yes!” yelled Edgar. “That’s right! Down there! We must go!” He took a demonstrative step toward the edge and pulled gently on the man’s arm to urge him to jump.
“Hey!” he said, feeling something unnatural. “What’s that?”
Edgar’s hand had touched something metallic dangling beneath the man’s shirt.
“Is that a . . . a machine gun?”
Edgar shined the light on the object and, just above the bottom of the green camo shirt, there hung a black, menacing-looking UZI, connected to a strap around the man’s shoulder.
“No,” shouted Edgar, “absolutely not! You can’t bring a gun to Mount Lanier.”
He pointed to the gun and mimicked shooting a machine gun in his hands.
“Qoriga!” the man shouted.
“No!” argued Edgar. “No qoriga!”
The muscles in the man’s face tightened as he glared at Edgar, but Edgar stared back just as fiercely, pursing his lips at the man. For a long moment they glared at one another before the man was pushed slightly backward from a tremendous gale.
The storm was getting worse. Suddenly it seemed to change the man’s mind.
With a slight nod, he reluctantly unslung the machine gun from around his shoulder and dropped it to the wet, crusty ground.
>
It plopped unceremoniously to the island like a brick.
“Thank you!” shouted Edgar, relief cascading through him. “Now. Let’s go to Washington!”
Edgar pushed the gun slightly away with his foot for good measure, then shined the hole again before giving the man a slight push toward it. The man gazed into it and suddenly, when it occurred to him what Edgar was truly asking, a look of horror came upon his face. He looked up at Edgar and shook his head violently.
“Maya!” he screamed, shaking his head.
“Yes!” shouted Edgar. “You’ve got to! If you don’t jump, the storm is gonna kill you! You don’t have a choice!”
Adamantly the man continued to shake his head.
“It’s the only way out, man!” shouted Edgar, pointing into the hole. He made an “A” with his arms that demonstrated a fake dive into the blackness, but suddenly, the man was stepping backward—away from the hole. He continued to shake his head, arguing with Edgar in the foreign language. “Maya! Maya!” he shouted.
Knowing the situation was quickly deteriorating, Edgar darted toward the man and snatched him by the hand, yanking him backward with everything he had in him. Lucky for Edgar, the man was slow to react, weary as he was. But as Edgar dragged him backward toward the hole, he dug his feet into the ground and bucked wildly.
The Secret Island of Edgar Dewitt Page 14
