Then her father pulled away gently and stepped around his wife and into the kitchen beyond. He went through into the living room, turned into the hall, and disappeared. When he came back out, he had changed his clothing, this time donning shorts that would free up his legs and a t-shirt. He also had another rope, a shorter one, and his hunting bow.
Andrea stepped aside, but her mother stood firm in the doorway and blocked his way back to the porch.
“It’s too far, Thomas,” she said again. “Someone will come. They will come and rescue us. You can’t get to her and we need you here.”
He stepped up to her, leaned his bow on the wall, dropped the shorter rope to the floor, and took her in his arms. There was no hesitation in the motion. He pulled her tight against him, so tight that Andrea was afraid her mother might crack in two. She watched them; saw how well they fit together, like two parts of a puzzle. Her father’s legs were very white against the dark blue of his shorts. Trails of blue veins ran under his skin, mapping the years of hard living and work he’d required of his body.
“I could never live with myself if something happened to Muriel while we stood here and watched,” he said at last. “I wouldn’t sleep another night of my life, and I’d hear that damned dog in my nightmares.
“I can get there. I’ll tie off to what’s left of that big Oak halfway across, and then I’ll tie off to her place and get her down. It’s going to take time, and I’m going to need help. When I get to the tree you’ll have to cast the line off here, and when I get back to the tree I’ll shoot the line back. I’m going to need you to be strong, and to tie me off again so I can pull us across. It’s going to be heavier with Muriel and the dog in the boat.”
Lilian shook her head from side to side as if she could erase his words, or make them retreat, but there was no talking him out of it. Andrea knew it as well as her mother did. Once Thomas Jamieson had decided to act, for good or for ill, it was best to get out of his way and let him get to it so he didn’t have to stop to move you before he did it anyway. Andrea stepped in close, and for a moment—just a single, slow moment in time—they stood wrapped in one another’s arms and shared the warmth of their bodies and the silence.
Then Jake barked again, and her father pulled away, moving quickly to the boat. The nylon rope was still tied to it, and he unfastened it, working quickly. He attached the shorter, thinner line he’d brought from his closet to one of his arrows. The other end of this he tied to the nylon rope then pulled on it as hard as he could to test the strength of his knot. Andrea had watched her father tie all sorts of knots, bows, and hitches, arcane names he had tried to explain to her as he worked with a length of rope sitting in the old wicker porch chair late at night, his glass of Scotch at his side.
She had watched him for hours as she sat reading, or drawing, looking over out of the corner of her eye to see what he was doing. He wound the rope in and over itself, whipped loops around and around, and pulled, and each time he did so a knot of a different shape would appear. Then, after studying his handiwork for a moment, he’d untie it and start over, tying something new.
Andrea had forgotten the names of the knots, but she knew that each had a special purpose. Some were for splicing two ropes together; some were for holding things tightly together. This one, she decided, was the one that tied her to her father, and she paid careful attention.
“Daddy,” she said.
He turned to her and glanced up. “What is it, princess?”
“What kind of knot is that?”
He glanced down at the two ropes. They were bound to one another with a knot that looked something like a pretzel.
“They call this one a sailor’s knot,” he said, tugging it again. “It’s a special knot that is very strong, and it doesn’t slip easily, even if it gets wet.” To emphasize what he was saying, or to reassure her, he strained his arms. The knot didn’t slip.
Andrea nodded slowly and committed the name to memory. She would learn to tie it, she decided. Tears had formed at the corners of her eyes, and she didn’t know why. She glanced out over the water toward Muriel’s house. The woman had quit waving her arms, but she still stood there, watching—staring at Andrea’s porch and waiting to be saved.
Thomas tugged the boat back to the edge of the stairs and carefully lowered it down. He tied it off with a third piece of rope, one that had been dangling from the boat’s prow, broken free of whatever berth had once held it, and went back into the kitchen. When he returned he held one of Lilian’s handled pots.
“In case I need to bail,” he explained. “I don’t think there’s any leaks, but there was a lot of water in it when we found it. No sense getting halfway there and sinking the boat.”
He ruffled Andrea’s hair, but he was already staring off over the water. The sun had advanced across the sky, leaving its noontime seat, and falling slowly toward the darkness a few hours distant. He would have to be back before that happened. There was no way to do what he planned to try in the dark—no way at all. Maybe he couldn’t do it in the light either, but he was going to try.
Working quickly and methodically, he tied off one end of the rope to the thick, four by four support of the porch rail. He showed Andrea, and her mother, how to untie it, going over the process more than once to be sure they’d be able to pull it off once it had been pulled tight. The rope was long enough to get him to the tree—midway to Muriel’s porch, but no farther than that. Once he reached the tree, he’d have to tie off there, reel in the line, and try to get the end of it to Muriel to be tied off again.
Andrea looked out at the tree, watched branches and debris bobbing by on the waves, and noted that a light wind had risen. It sent little ripples across the surface of the water, and reminded her of the howling, uncontrollable wind that had ripped through their home not so many hours before. There were no clouds, but weather could change quickly.
Her father picked up one of the arrows and attached it to the shorter, thinner length of rope. Once again he tied the knot carefully, and tugged to be certain it would hold. Then he picked up the bow, nocked the arrow, and sighted on the tree. It wasn’t an easy shot. The bow was powerful, but to cross all of that water with the rope dangling behind it was a different story than just flying straight and hard. He aimed very high, and for a point well beyond the tree. Though it had broken off cleanly, there was a nest of branches left poking up out of the water, and Thomas knew if he got the line across there he’d able to draw it back and catch it on something.
He let the arrow fly. It shot up at a sharp angle, and for a moment it looked as if it might fall short of the tree, but it didn’t. It arched over the top branches and dropped into the water just beyond. Thomas laid his bow aside quickly and pulled the rope in with a quick, hand-over-hand motion. The arrow caught several times, then slid free, but at last he gave a hard tug, and it held. Keeping tension on the line, he walked it down to the post where the near end was tied off, and loosened the knot. He drew the slack through and then tightened it again. The rope hung just above the water, dangling between the house and the tree.
Andrea’s mother stood just outside the kitchen door, watching. Her eyes were dull, and she moved very slowly. She hadn’t said a word since he’d pushed her gently aside to get to the porch. Andrea stepped to her mother’s side and wrapped her arm around her mother’s legs, but she got no reaction. Lilian’s eyes were fixed on her husband, or on some point far beyond him. Although the three of them were all on the porch together, there was a line of tension you could sense stretched out between them, and Lilian was afraid to cross over it.
Thomas was not. He turned to his wife and daughter, wrapped them a final time in his arms, and whispered. There was no reason to whisper. No one was near enough to hear, and what he told them was no secret, but his tone, and the way he made them lean close to hear him, gave the moment power it would have had otherwise.
“I’ll be back.”
Then he turned, and he was gone. It took only a mo
ment for him to slip back into the boat and maneuver it around the side of the porch to the line stretching out into the flood. The craft was clumsy with just the one oar, but Thomas pulled it from the oarlock and used it like a paddle, and in moments he had the line between his hands. He turned to face the tree and placed his feet firmly to either side, braced against the boat for balance.
With the same quick, sure movements he’d used to pull the rope taut in the tree, he made his way slowly out into the current, and across to the far side. He had the bow and several more arrows at his feet.
Andrea moved to the rail and watched. Her heart pounded, and she pressed her lips together tightly. She prayed silently for the rope to hold, for his arms to be strong enough, for the current not to move too fast, for the storm not to return, and most of all—for her daddy back. She couldn’t see his face, but she held that last image of it close, his lips barely moving as he promised to come back.
Her mother did not move to the rail. She watched, but she still hadn’t spoken, and Andrea was worried about that too. She didn’t know whether she could count on her mother’s help when the time came to cut the line loose. She couldn’t even tell—through the dull expression and vacant stare—if her mother was really watching the progress of the boat across the way, or if she had retreated to some dark, private place inside where Andrea could never follow.
So Andrea watched and gave a little cheer when her father reached the near side of the tree. He turned then, waved at her and shook his fist in the air—a sort of victory dance. Then he was moving again, working his way around to the far side of the tree where the arrow had caught tightly between two branches.
Andrea grabbed her mother by the leg and tugged her toward the rail.
“Come on, Mommy,” she said. “We have to untie the rope like Daddy said. He’s halfway there.”
Lilian shook her head and glanced around in confusion. She didn’t really seem aware of her surroundings, and it took several long, deep breaths for clarity to return to her tired eyes. When it did, she moved all in a rush. Thomas was seated in the boat on Muriel’s side of the tree. He held his hand aloft, waving. Lilian began frantically tearing at the knot.
“No, Mommy,” Andrea said, kneeling beside the post. “You have to pull on this one—it loosens the knot.”
At first her mother didn’t seem to hear. She tugged and shook the rope, her hands wrapped around the knot as if it were a puzzle she couldn’t fathom. Then her eyes cleared another notch, and she reached for the loop that Andrea had pointed to. Clutching this she worked it free and pulled. The knot unraveled quickly; the tension from the damp line stretched over such a long distance dragged it round and round the post, then free. It splashed into the water and immediately Thomas pulled it in again. He was tied off to the tree and rocking gently in the waves, but he seemed in no particular danger or stress.
Andrea watched the rope slide off into the water like a snake, and she wanted to reach for it. She wanted to grip that line, either to follow it out to the boat, or to use it to drag her daddy back. It was too late. All she could do was wait, and watch. It seemed to take a very long time, but at last the rope had disappeared completely and she saw her daddy turn toward Muriel’s house.
The first shot didn’t reach the porch. She saw him stand, saw him pull back and release the arrow, but a moment later he was pulling again, pulling it back to himself.
“What if he can’t reach her?” she asked her mother. She turned, just for a moment, saw that her mother was paying no attention, her own eyes locked on the small boat and the big man in middle of all that water.
“What if he can’t get back?” She whispered this last, and only the wash of the water against the bottom of the stairs answered.
The second shot was better. This time the arrow angled up to the right of where Muriel stood, cowering against her house in fear.
Andrea’s mother spoke softly, not really to Andrea, but out loud, at least. “She probably thinks he might hit her with the arrow,” she said. “She’s about to fall in the ocean and drown, but she’s afraid he’s going to shoot her.”
Muriel overcame her fear. Andrea saw that her father was shouting across the water to her, giving her instructions. Maybe he was telling her it would be all right, that he was going to get her out of there. Whatever it was that he said, it was enough to get her started, and a few minutes later, the boat was moving again, launching from the far side of the tree and into the deep, wet expanse once more.
The closer her father got to Muriel’s porch, the smaller he became, until all Andrea and her mother could make out was a tiny speck bobbing up and down on the waves, and Thomas’ head. He made good time across the water, and the sun was still high in the sky. Maybe there would be time. Maybe it would be okay.
The steps leading down from Muriel’s porch to the beach were still there. She had been backed as far away from them as possible, but it was to these steps that Thomas pulled the boat. He reached up, took Jake by the collar, and coaxed the big dog down the stairs and into the boat. He turned back, but Muriel had backed away from the top of the stairs and turned toward the remnant of her home.
Andrea wanted to scream at her to come back out, to get into the boat and get moving. Muriel would not have heard her. Andrea saw her daddy climb out of the boat and onto the stairs. He moved slowly, as if he was uncertain of every step. Then he walked to the door of Muriel’s house and he disappeared as well.
“What are they doing, Mommy?” Andrea asked. When she got no answer, she gripped her mother’s arm and yanked. “What are they doing?” she cried.
“I don’t know, honey,” her mother said. “I just don’t know.”
Then her father reappeared in the doorway. He stood facing away from Andrea and the water, staring back into Muriel’s house. He waved his arm to Muriel, who showed up in the door moments later. She had something in her hands, and in a moment, it glinted in the sunlight, and Andrea knew what it was.
Her birdcage.
Andrea had been to Muriel’s house a few times, and in the living room there was a cage where the woman kept a large, grumpy green parrot. The bird was so old its feathers were ragged. Andrea’s mother had said once that it looked as if it were always molting. It was that cage that Muriel held in her hand as she returned to the doorway.
It was that glint of light that Andrea would always remember. Something groaned. The sound was loud, like a passing locomotive, or a huge plank of wood bending and starting to give way, snapping like the mast of a ship, or one of the trees in the storm. The sound started low and ominous, and rose quickly in volume to a tearing shriek of tortured metal and wood.
As Andrea and her mother watched in horrified silence, the floor on the far side of Muriel’s house collapsed. It fell away from the porch, crumbling down and back. The extra weight of Thomas’ body had proved too much for the weakened structure, and somewhere in the frame of the building, the last of its strength evaporated in the late afternoon sunlight and was sucked out and down.
Muriel screamed, and Andrea heard her father’s surprised, outraged bellow. She saw the two of them, suspended in the air about a foot above the level of the porch, caught on the trailing edge of the house’s floor as it tipped up and back. Their arms pinwheeled crazily. Muriel clutched at the cage and toppled forward. Thomas tried to grip her around the waist and leap, but their combined weight was too much. His foot caught on the lip of the doorframe and they fell between the porch and the house.
Andrea screamed. She brought her hands up to the sides of her face, grabbed her hair and pulled so hard that it nearly ripped out of her head, but she didn’t feel it. Her gaze was riveted on the scene across the water. Her ears rang with the echoes of the screams, punctuated by Jake’s suddenly loud and violent barking. The dog leapt from the boat and back to the stairs, climbing to the porch, but there was nothing he could do but stare over the edge into the frothy water below and bark crazily.
Andrea clutched the rail. She ros
e up on the tips of her toes and stared, trying to see if her father would surface in the water below, if he would swim to the boat, holding the bird cage high. She pictured him that way, with Muriel’s thin arms wrapped around his neck from behind. She saw them, in her mind, dragging themselves up over the side of the boat and dragging Jake back in after them, shooting the arrow and starting the long trip back.
She closed her eyes and prayed and willed it to be true.
“When I open my eyes,” she said fiercely, biting her lip painfully, “I’ll see them. They will be coming home.”
When she opened her eyes, all she saw was the small boat, bouncing up and down on its tether. The house beyond was gone, all but a small bit of the frame that poked up at an angle. There were no swimmers, no birdcage or Muriel. Her father’s arm did not appear over the side of the boat, or at the foot of the stairs, and on the ruined porch, staring down into the water and wreckage below, Jake had begun to howl.
~ * ~
When the Coast Guard boats came through, early the next morning, they picked up Andrea, her mother, and after a long, exhaustive search for Thomas Jamieson and Muriel, they took the dog Jake on board, as well. The animal came immediately to Andrea and lay down, shivering, at her feet. She wrapped him in a tight hug, buried her tear-streaked face in his fur, and did not look back as the boat turned out to sea and started down the coast. Lilian Jamieson, still in shock, lay on a cot in one of the cabins, covered in several thick, green wool blankets.
Slowly, leaving nothing untouched, the floodwaters receded.
PART TWO
Weeksville Naval Air Station, NC—1963
Chapter Six
The airfield buzzed with activity as aircraft were towed from the hangars by bright yellow service vehicles. Pilots and their crews circled each plane, inspecting wings, fuselage, landing gear, and other equipment carefully. They matched the readings from fuel and hydraulic gauges with the proper readings on their clipboards and noted any discrepancies. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and the sun shone bright and hot on the tarmac, sucking streams of hot air from the runway.
Mote in Andrea's Eye Page 5
