The Secret Island of Edgar Dewitt

by Ferrill Gibbs

  Overcome with fear and dread, Edgar let the receiver droop from his ear, and hot tears flowed down his cheeks as he peered up again at that big, stupid, yellow raincoat that hadn’t seen the first drop of rain here in the idiotic, stupid, useless state of Washington.

  For a moment, he tried to picture his father’s face staring back from underneath the hood, but to his sadness, he couldn’t quite conjure the image.

  The night his father had left, he had been away at the island. Selfishly, without regard to their feelings, he had done what he wanted to do. That’s all he could think of now: how the last thing his father might ever know of him was how he was a liar, and a sneak, and a selfish, childish ass.

  “They’ve got a perimeter of firemen and policemen down at the fire line,” she was saying, “and I’ve been yelling at them all night to get in there and . . . well, to go do something! But they just won’t, and though I understand, I will still push, you know? Apparently it’s too dangerous at the moment, but they arrived with fresh firetrucks about an hour ago and currently are trying to bust through the fire line to get your dad. The flames are awful and everything is out of control—they’re four stories high in some places! It’s like staring into the city of hell.” Her voice softened. “I’m giving them a lot of grief. I know that. I’m just so scared. They’re actually very nice men who are trying to do their jobs. I’ve driven up the road to get a hotel room in Meridian, just so I could have a basecamp and drop off our stuff, and also to get phone reception to call you since all the towers have burned in Yakima. So in a minute I’ll be heading back to the fire line. I just wanted to call and say, I’m safe, and that I’m not coming home without your father.”

  The two of them shared a moment of grim silence.

  “Edgar,” she said, “your dad is the most resourceful man I’ve ever known. I love that about him. He’ll be using the wildfire to roast a wild pig before it’s over with, you know he will.”

  Edgar nodded, and then, freely and without restriction, he broke down into silent waves of weeping: hard, unrestrained, draining, maintaining just enough control to keep it quiet, so as to not let her know his deep sadness. Yet, she must have known, because immediately, she called him to order.

  “Now, Edgar,” she said, drying up with a resilient sniffle, “it’s time we must be strong. Both of us I mean. I want you to get to school tomorrow and come back home, then do your homework, and if I’m not home early enough, I want you to eat something and get to bed. I called Mrs. Snead to see if she will come check in on you, but I had to leave a message. So you can expect a visit from her.”

  “Yes, Mom,” said Edgar, drying up himself.

  “I have to go now,” she informed him. “I’m trying to get back to the fire, so I’m counting on you to be strong. Do you think you can manage that?”

  “For sure,” he confirmed, and for a moment, the line went silent again. He wondered if maybe the wildfire had disconnected them.

  “I’ll be back when I’m back,” she said, finally eliminating the silence.

  “I’ll be here, Mom,” he said.

  “I love you, Eddie.”

  “I love you, too.”

  __________

  Restless, unable to fall sleep, he tried his dad again. By now it was three in the morning. And just like all the other calls, this one went to voicemail, too.

  “You’ve reached Henry Dewitt,” the cheery voice said. “Please leave a message!”

  “Dad,” said Edgar, trying to muster his most conversational voice. “I just wanted to call and say, I’m real worried. I really hope you are OK out there.” He paused for a moment, composing himself, since it was all he could do not to cry. “The reason I’ve been calling you is, I was thinking tonight how there is something I’ve really been wanting to show you for a long time now—a secret place I found in the woods that has a . . . remember that hole down to China you always used to tell me about when I was a kid? Well, I guess you could say, I found that hole, except it actually leads to a small island that has the best fishing ever. The fish are huge, Dad, not a single one under twenty pounds or so. It’s like deep sea fishing on dry land—you wouldn’t believe it! They hit the line hard like mahi-mahi. You reel ’em in as fast as you can cast. It’s the best fishing I’ve ever seen.”

  Thinking about his lost dad, somewhere out in the blaze, his voice was beginning to crack, his chin was beginning to tremble. But somehow he mustered the strength to add one more thing. “I was there in the middle of the night when you came to my room. I was fishing on the island. I’d been there for many nights before out fishing all night. Now that you are missing, I really wish I had done things differently. I would have taken you there and shown you the hole, no matter if y’all told me I could never go back . . . I wish I had . . .” He paused suddenly, then added, “I just want you to know, I love you very much. I know I must have scared you pretty bad. I’ve been lying a lot lately—I know—but when you get back home, if you ask me, I will tell you the truth every time from here on out. Just, please, whatever happens, get back home. Please, Dad.”

  And again, he added softly, “Please come home.”

  __________

  Edgar didn’t sleep a bit after that. Instead, he sat on the couch flipping through the news channels, hanging on every word, scanning each bit of greenery behind every newscaster in hopes that any minute now, bold as day, his father might come leaping from the dry foliage like Tarzan, king of the apes.

  The story of the “Missing Seven” was now the leading story—a national story with constant coverage on CNN, MSNBC, FOX, and every other channel there was.

  At two in the morning, they finally showed his father’s picture. It was one from the oil rig days back in Bon Secour. He had a slight, scruffy beard on his neck and a dark brown tan, brightened by a wide, happy smile.

  As the local news shifted to reports on wind direction and trajectory of the blaze, there was suddenly a tiny knock at the door.

  Frightened, he looked down at his watch. It was three thirty in the morning.

  “Who is it?” he said softly, but no one answered.

  Who could be knocking at this time of night? He crept to the door to look out the peephole, and there, staring back, was Shay Sinclair.

  “Hey!” he said, fumbling against the latch. When he finally got it open, he stared at her and she back at him with a deep look of sympathy. Then, like a weary traveler, she fell into his arms.

  “I’ve been watching all night,” she whispered into his ear. “I just couldn’t sleep. I feel so terrible for you and your mom!”

  Quivering, feeling so in need of this moment, he surrendered his head to her shoulder and it felt wonderful. He squeezed her tight, breathing in the wonderful scent of her hair, and in that moment, he realized how utterly terrible this had been to endure, all alone, watching his family being taken from him by the wildfire over the course of a single night. He parted from her and escorted her in, locking the door behind them. Together, they made for the TV and watched silently as the news continued, scanning the screen for any signs of his parents.

  “You know,” mumbled Edgar, confessing to her, “they caught me sneaking out the other night, and while I was gone, she found all my money in the wall. I haven’t even seen my dad since. It was awful. He came to tell me goodbye, to go fight the fire, and I wasn’t here.”

  With a grave look of sympathy, she moved closer to him on the couch and he could feel the immediate heat of her body. She put a hand on his hand. She looked up and looked him in the eyes.

  “He will forgive you,” she said, a deep earnestness in her eyes. “Edgar, he knows you love him.”

  Edgar shook his head. “I just wanted the chance to tell him the truth, that’s all. I just want one more chance, just to level with him.”

  “Well, you’ll get it,” she reassured him.

  Then, suddenly, with her
so close, he leaned in to her and kissed her glossy, red lips. As she reciprocated, she ran her soft hands through his hair.

  “I’m just saying!” came a blaring voice from the TV, as jarring as any voice that has ever been uttered. “Are you saying you ‘can’t’ or you ‘won’t’ get in there and rescue him?!”

  That’s when Edgar shot up from the couch. He gazed at the TV and suddenly his own freshly-sparkled, glossy mouth fell open.

  “Oh my God,” he muttered. “It’s Mom.”

  And sure enough, it was. She was giving the firemen and cops all sorts of hell on the fire line, just like she said she would.

  “Please!” she urged them, their big, rugged arms folded at their chests. They were not budging a bit, Edgar could tell, but it was also obvious they had sympathy for her.

  They were just doing their job.

  “We’re sorry, ma’am,” one assured her. “The fire has to die down first and then we can get in there and get him.”

  “No it doesn’t!” she argued, “you can go get him now! This is not a matter of ‘can!’ It’s a matter of ‘will!’”

  The man folded his arms again and looked away.

  Edgar knew just how he felt.

  “They’ll find him,” said Shay, sitting up, corralling her freshly tussled hair behind an ear. She leaned in closer and said it again, patting his thigh. “They will.”

  “Yeah,” he said dryly, hoping that she was right.

  “I have to go now,” she whispered. “My father will be up soon.” She rose from the couch and he stood to meet her. Facing one another, she leaned in and kissed him tenderly on the cheek.

  “See you at school,” she said, walking out the back door.

  Immediately Edgar returned to the TV, continuing to scan all of the greenery behind the newscasters, knowing that at any second, his father would come bursting right out of there.

  He was certain of it.

  __________

  The next morning, on his way to school, Edgar bypassed Flounder’s fish stand and strayed away from Shay’s street corner, hoping to walk alone. Big tears dangled from the bottoms of his eyelids, as fearful as he was. Things were worse today than the night before. With each passing minute, with no word from his mother or father, the terrible dread kept building. Each moment that slipped away meant things must be worse and worse on that fiery hill.

  Finally, when the tears did drop, he lifted his eyes to the sky and scanned the hazy heavens for any sign of a cloud—but there was none. He was suddenly, profoundly aware just how much he much he had become a True Citizen of this crappy town of Mount Lanier: someone who walked around hopelessly all day, looking up in the sky for rain.

  Like the shopkeeper they met on their first day in Mount Lanier said: everyone here was miserable from the drought.

  “Rain better come soon, or they’ll extend wildfire season . . .” he’d said.

  For some strange reason, disasters seemed to follow him around.

  Either it rains soon or the fire will most likely have to burn itself out. That’s what the newscasters had said the night before.

  “Burn itself out.” And this with his father still trapped on the hill. What an absolutely unimaginable proposition.

  They needed rain. Badly.

  Still, like always, there was no rain projected in the forecast.

  When he finally approached the school, he soon discovered that everyone knew about his dad. Some kids whispered to each other as he walked up, and everyone stared. Edgar tried to ignore them as he walked by, but as they parted for him, it was difficult.

  Numbly, he moved to a corner of the commons and slumped in a corner waiting for the bell to ring. When he finally looked up, Shay and Flounder both stood over him, bending with hands on their knees, sympathy painted on their faces. Shay bent lower and hugged him. Flounder just leaned and awkwardly grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it gently. None of them said a word for a while.

  “It will be alright,” muttered Flounder, finally, looking around. “You said he’s an Eagle scout, right, your dad? Well, he’s probably roasting a pig by now. Like Lord of the Flies.”

  “Huh,” chuckled Edgar, trying to make a smile. “My mom said the same thing.”

  Over Shay’s shoulder, he could see Weedy across the courtyard. Weedy stared back, a bored look upon his face.

  Suddenly, fighting a rage, Edgar had a good mind to go slap it off his face.

  “Hello, Ed,” said Dr. Van Rossum, who materialized over Shay and Flounder’s shoulders. Looming over them, he smiled as Shay and Flounder stepped aside to let him through. “How you holding up?” he asked.

  “I’m good, Doc,” said Edgar, nodding.

  Van Rossum bent and squeezed Edgar’s wrist. “Listen, son. I live on Cherry Blossom Lane. My house is last on the left. If your mom doesn’t get back tonight, you come stay with me and my wife Loretta until things get back to normal. We would love to have you. My castle is your castle.”

  At that, with an encouraging smile, he rose and towered over them, the sun silhouetting his bald head like a halo.

  “Thanks,” said Edgar, and before Van Rossum could turn to walk away, he seemed pressed to reach down and pat Edgar’s wrist again.

  __________

  At lunchtime, school got canceled. Indefinitely. The fire had grown, and it was gaining speed. Worst of all, now it was headed their way—straight for Mount Lanier.

  By two o’clock that afternoon, a full-scale, mandatory evacuation was issued for the town and its surrounding areas. With its unfavorable winds, the fire line was projected to arrive as early as forty-eight hours.

  It was terrible news.

  As he walked home from school—dazed by how quickly the world could fall apart—he meandered through town watching people flutter all about: the put-upon adults packing their most precious belongings; the high schoolers scrambling to say goodbye to one another before the imminent evacuation; and the younger kids scurrying excitedly to their homes, as if everything was one big party. He wasn’t mad; he totally knew how they felt. This was just how he used to feel when hurricanes spun over the gulf and headed for town. It always felt like a vacation, like one big party. School was out, and unexpectedly! It was a break in the routine. Edgar remembered the days he would even pray that a hurricane might hit Bon Secour, so he could get out of school for a day or two, maybe surf on the beaches in the oncoming waves. But that changed after the big one. Katrina. After that, he didn’t pray for hurricanes again.

  The people of Mount Lanier emerged from their homes in masses, readied their cars and trucks, packed their lawn furniture, and caged their pets. All the while a newly arrived and ominous dark cloud pulsated in the sky, just south of the city, and everyone looked skyward.

  So utterly bleak and lost inside—so totally unable to care—he watched it all unfold as he walked through the town square, unable to muster any more emotion, because he’d spent it all. He’d known so much disaster in his short life, watching cities and towns stripped to their very cores, ravaged by nature, ravaged by man—and as the people there stood to lose all they had—as the people here stood to lose all they had—at least they had each other—which was more than he could say for himself as he and his parents faced tragedy.

  For him, it seemed, disaster was never-ending.

  Hurricanes, oil spills, puberty, bullies. Was there even a safe place to be on the whole Earth? That was, besides the warm and wonderful hole that cocooned him as he fell?

  If so, he had never been there.

  When he found himself on the far side of town, absently turning down a road toward the woods, off in the distance, looming like salvation, were the reddish pointy hills he knew so well—home of the only place he knew that could make all this misery disappear, at least for an hour or two.

  As if compelled, he walked toward the Indian Hills, almost
absently, almost automatically, like a sleepwalking kid. Somewhere deep in him, he longed for the hole in the ground that was always there for him—that always offered some sort of hope and excitement. It had always, in a town of never ending dead ends, offered him an easy way out.

  This was his safe haven. His happy place.

  “To the sea,” he said, marching forward, falling down.

  Nineteen

  As he fell he thought about the town, scrolling through the dreary scenarios that flashed through his mind: the Arteses’ fish stand, how it was all packed up and headed out of town in the morning, along with his good friend. They were towing it to California the next day and staying with relatives there until the wildfire subsided.

  As for Shay, she was headed for Alaska with her family. They had a vacation home there by the sea.

  As for him, his thoughts ranged from his father to his mother, to the cabin, the empire he built: the cutting table, the generator, the freezer full of Ambercod—this hidden hole had bestowed everything on him. But before the week would be up, it would burn, and with it, the planks of the cabin would turn to ash, revealing the hole for the entire world to see.

  He closed his eyes and unclenched his hands, darting down, knowing this was surely his last trip through the Earth. He spread his fingers and felt the hot rush of air on his face, pointing his body downward like an arrow.