We’re halfway down the dock when we hear his voice calling behind us.
“Hey! Hey! I know you. Your parents . . . they were the Billingses, yeah?”
We nod.
“They were on this pier. Good people.” He rubs the stubble on his chin. “Well, I’m sure a little afternoon outing wouldn’t hurt anyone, eh? Climb aboard. We’ll see what we can see.”
8
THE BOAT IS slicing through the whitecaps at fantastic speed. The wind whips my hair back from my shoulders, and the salt air makes the skin on my face feel washed clean.
“Like it?” our captain asks. “I named her the Esmerelda Jane! After my ex-girlfriend who I broke up with. Well, actually, she broke up with me.”
We’re racing along the Pacific coast, due southwest, and the rusty-haired captain in the beige polo has been talking essentially the entire time.
His name is Wayne. He’s from New Zealand.
“Mostly, I just came to the States on a lark, really! Just wanted to see the world, find my way, eh!”
Henry and I are standing next to him, holding tight to the rails, the wind whipping our faces and the boat bucking up and down through the waves.
“If you start to feel a bit nauseous I’ve got some wristbands for that, then! Pressure points! Get you tip-top in no time!”
There’s no question there’s something engaging about this slightly goofy yet extremely friendly captain we find ourselves crashing through the ocean waves with.
“Here. Latitude: North 36° 15'51.1445 Longitude: West 121° 51'59.5129. This was the last transmission.”
Fun fact: I don’t want to think about that. Those words. Last transmission.
Wayne looks back at Henry. “Let’s slow down then, eh?”
The motor putters down and the endless bouncing calms down to more of a bobble. Wayne turns on the sonar equipment and now there’s a ping. Ping. Pause. Ping. Pause. As the sonar tries to detect what’s underneath, drawing a picture from the seafloor, the three of us strain to decipher the blips and beeps.
“So, they lost the boat, then? The Coast Guard?” Wayne asks over the breeze off the bow.
“Yeah. They said they couldn’t find anything,” I answer.
“I don’t see how that is.” He frowns. “Accident at sea—there’d still be something. There are pirate wrecks down in Davy Jones’s locker, for Pete’s sake. And those vessels’re made of wood! Your parents’ boat—fiberglass. It seems to me they should have looked a bit harder.”
Henry nods. “That’s why we’re here.”
Our captain sets his lips in a grim line. He seems determined to help. Or he may be certain that if the Coast Guard didn’t find anything, we sure as heck won’t. Hard to tell.
He mans his gunmetal-gray boxes, turning this knob, flicking that switch.
It’s about one and a half hours later when we hear it. PING. Somewhere below, the sonar equipment is detecting something on the oceanbed.
Henry and Wayne rush to the equipment to begin to suss it out.
“Oh, looky, there,” Wayne says, interpreting the readouts. “That’s about three foot by two foot.”
Henry nods. “How deep?”
“We’re not in the canyon. Not here. Probably only about fifty feet.”
I shudder. Only fifty feet? Fifty feet of water above one’s head sounds frightening. It sounds heavy. It sounds impossible.
The two of them stand there, making it out, imagining the exact shape and dimensions.
“You said it’s about three by two feet, yes?” Henry asks.
“Yeah, that’s right, I suppose,” Wayne replies. “But you know, there’s really only one sure way to find out.”
“How?” I ask.
Wayne reaches into a storage bin on the boat’s deck and pulls out a wet suit. He winks. “We go and get it.”
Thankfully, by “we,” Wayne means “he.” Henry and I are watching from the relative safety of the boat as he floats in the water, adjusting his mask and his regulator, which is attached to the giant tank of oxygen on his back. “Now don’t you worry,” he calls up to us. “I’m an expert diver. Dove the Great Barrier Reef more times than I can count. This is nothing but a nice little swim. Be back in a jif!”
Henry waves, and Wayne slips below the surface.
A few bubbles fizz in Wayne’s wake—and then silence.
Henry and I stare at the spot in the water, waiting.
The lines clank against the metal mast.
A gull cries in the distance.
“He’s not coming back, is he?” I ask.
“Of course he’s coming back,” Henry answers crabbily.
A wave slaps against the ship’s aft deck. We rock ever so gently.
“But hypothetically if he doesn’t return then we—”
“Eva!”
I don’t understand why Henry won’t consider the possibility and help me come up with a plan. I mean, considering the reason why we’re here, it seems like the responsible thing to do.
Instead, he’s just fixed on that spot in the sea, willing Captain Wayne to the surface by the force of his gaze.
My stomach growls. Would we starve out here? Henry is inventive. He’d find a way to catch and cook something. I consider all the variety of food swimming just below our hull. I wonder if Henry would be able to coax a Dungeness crab aboard. We could make him our pet. Name him Pinchy . . .
I let out a yawn. Perhaps I should lie down. I wonder if it’s possible to lounge anywhere on this ship while I—
SPLASH!
“Ahoy!” a voice yells. Captain Wayne has returned. And he’s holding something that looks like a medium-size black bag over his head. Now he takes something out, hands it to me.
I gaze down at the hunk of metal in my hands. “What is it?” I ask.
“Eva, don’t you see?” Henry asks.
I turn it over, and then I know.
“Mom kept forgetting where she docked the boat. And Dad kept teasing her about getting mixed up and walking around and around the piers forever like a crazy person,” Henry says, spelling it out for me.
This is true. Our mother was a space cadet. She had an extremely difficult time remembering where she put things. Anything. Keys, glasses, remotes, phones, cars, boats, herself. I must have spent at least an entire month of my life, altogether, searching around for her car in various parking structures. She became so frustrated she actually had a mini Poseidon sculpture specially made and welded to the boat. That was her genius and slightly offbeat solution. Which was remarkably successful, by the way.
“It’s him,” I say. Mini Poseidon now sits in my hands, as if just emerging from the sea, trident in hand, covered in intricate sculptured seaweed. None of us liked the sculpture, quite honestly. Dad said it was pretentious. Henry said it was creepy. I just thought it looked kind of hideous, like a wrongly placed hood ornament. But Mom would always defend it.
Except now . . . the trident he is holding is somehow bent backward. As if Zeus himself blew a godlike wind, bending the tines of the trident like a wax fork.
“That trident took a bit of a beating, yeah?” Wayne asks.
I nod to Wayne. “Yes. It’s bent. But how would that even . . .”
Henry stays looking at the bent cast trident, analyzing.
“The statue is made entirely of metal. Nothing could do that. Except . . .” Henry stops, breathing in.
Suddenly everything is quiet. Even the sea shushes its waves.
Wayne and Henry share a look.
“And if this is here,” I ask, “where is the rest of the boat?”
Wayne goes silent.
Henry turns to me. “Eva, I think you should sit down.”
Wayne pretends to be nonchalant, engaged in something having to do with returning his dive equipment to its proper place.
“Why should I sit down? Henry? What is it? Just say it.”
“Just brace yourself, okay. You are not going to like what I’m about to say.” This is a
quiet kind of Henry. Flushed and brooding.
Now Wayne has completely disappeared to the aft side of the deck.
Henry exhales, puts his arms on my shoulders, and looks deep into my eyes.
“Eva, there’s only one way the trident on that miniature Poseidon statue could be bent back like that while everything else, besides the metal sonar equipment, is completely missing from the ocean floor.”
“What is that, Henry?” I’m bracing myself now, too.
He pauses for a second, taking in the azure chop of the waves.
“An explosion.”
9
PRETTY MUCH THE entire way back to the marina there is utter silence. Even Wayne, the gregarious New Zealander, has decided there’s really nothing to say. Nothing worth saying. I don’t blame him. What would you say to two kids who just found out their parents were killed by an explosion?
And the questions, the myriad of questions. Was it an accident? If not, who would do this, and why? What possible kind of lost, ruthless soul would do something like this to a marine mammal rescuer and an environmental scientist? Not just a husband and wife but the parents of two children? The parents of . . . us.
I’ll admit it. There was part of me, a little but not unsubstantial part, that was hoping all these ghost shenanigans and that Vine Thebo hullabaloo would end up signifying nothing more than a pile of lima beans. It hadn’t occurred to me that all of this might actually add up to something significant. Like a bomb.
Even though Henry isn’t speaking I can hear the gears in his head grinding, backing up, starting again, twirling, whirring, humming. He’s going through it, too. Every angle. Every question. Every outcome.
As we near the marina, a battalion of empty masts sticks up toward the heavens, hundreds of white toothpicks bobbing and swaying under the now-darkening sky.
“Henry, if we are so sure it was an explosion, should we call the police?”
Henry thinks. “Maybe we need more evidence. We don’t know what actually happened. We have to assume the authorities will just think we are dumb kids, grasping at straws.”
“But what if we—”
“Eva, I think we have to make it . . . credible. Oftentimes police can be persuaded by their own bias. And against kid investigators who are mourning their parents’ passing? There is definitely a bias.”
“Henry, this isn’t Law and Order. It’s Mom and Dad!”
“I know. But we just don’t know enough yet. That’s my instinct.”
We lock eyes and I know he’s right. The police would probably just shrug us off at this point. After all, this is Big Sur. Not Scotland Yard.
When we finally reach the dock, Wayne helps us out of the boat with what appears to be extra tenderness. A tenderness I assume is reserved for orphans created by foul play.
“Now you kids take care of yourselves, you hear? Anything you need, just don’t hesitate to call old Uncle Wayne here! Not that I’m your uncle. I don’t know why I said that. Mostly I just meant a person who had a warm relationship to you in a way that wasn’t your own parent or a complete stranger because that would be weird, wouldn’t it?”
Despite everything, Henry and I can’t help but smile at this affable SCUBA man, from the land Down Under where all those hobbits hail from.
“We will. We’ll take care,” Henry replies.
“And thank you,” I add, nodding.
Looking back at him, there on the dock, I can’t help but think there can be kindness in the world, a secret kindness like the current of a butterfly’s wings, and if you blink you could miss it.
10
IT’S SUNSET BY the time we get home and that is why the person, sitting in the kitchen with his back to us, is nothing more than a black silhouette. There, standing in front of him, leaning on the counter, sizing him up, is Marisol. She is not impressed.
Whoever is there, he has long, medium-brown hair and a backpack, and definitely, most definitely, needs a shower.
Henry and I stand in the doorway looking at this mysterious figure in silhouette. I’m not sure if I can take any more ghosts today, so I am hoping this is an actual carbon-based life-form.
The heavy footsteps of Uncle Claude creak the floors upstairs as he comes down the endless hallway to the landing. Now it’s his turn to see the mysterious silhouetted figure.
“Finn?!” Claude steps down from the landing. “What are you doing here?”
The silhouette turns, stands, and does a kind of mock bow back to Claude.
“That’s me. In the flesh, maestro.”
Henry and I stand still in the doorway, not knowing how to take this. Finn? As in our uncle Finn? Globe-trotting, world-saving, authentic-experience-having Uncle Finn?
Let’s see. Straggly hair, Birkenstocks, weird toes, bad smells, happy faces, the vague smell of patchouli. I mean . . . maybe?
Straggly Hair sees us in the doorway.
“Hey, little dudes! Don’t you remember me? Your uncle Finn? I sent you a postcard from Machu Picchu or was it Rajasthan or maybe it was Kathmandu. I mean, it’s not like any of those places is exactly known for their mail delivery, although I’d put my money on Machu Picchu, if I were betting or something, but why would I be betting on that, that would be a strange thing to bet on. Like, who would bet on that? Only a psychopath!”
Henry, Claude, Marisol, and I stand flummoxed by this monologue.
Marisol rolls her eyes from beside the fridge.
“But, like, if I had known there was such a beautiful mamacita chula here, I would have visited, like, years ago,” he says, winking at Marisol.
“Don’t talk to me.” Wow. Marisol is not having it.
She seems extremely suspicious, which is odd. She’s usually much warmer. Maybe Marisol is allergic to hippies.
Our long-lost uncle steps in close, earnest. “But honestly, kids. I came as soon as I got the news. Not the best signal where I was, actually. But I hopped immediately on a puddle jumper to Ulan, then to Seoul, then on an actual plane to Narita—that’s Tokyo—up to SF, then hitched a ride down here with the dude sitting next to me on the plane. Interesting guy. Import-export business. Not bad for a suit. No offense, Claude.”
Uncle Claude looks unamused.
I step in. “Uncle Finn! Of course! Nice to see you.” This is all I can come up with. Pretty basic.
“You, too, you little scamp! You little guys are growing up so fast!”
Henry hides behind me, and I don’t blame him. We haven’t really interacted much with this particular uncle. He was always off somewhere in the jungles of Peru trying to find the Lost City of Zed or acclimating himself in a Nepalese base camp beneath Mount Everest with a Sherpa around, probably super annoyed with him. Quite frankly, my dad had pretty much given up on Uncle Finn ever coming back to the States. Sometimes he’d just say he ran off to join the circus. This would usually be followed by a barely perceptible eye roll.
Claude stands aloof, contemplating his little brother’s presence with only a hint of politeness.
“Huh.” He pauses. “It’s great to see you, little brother. Here.”
Uncle Claude gives scraggly Uncle Finn the most awkward hug the world has ever known. It looks like two elephant seals trying to get their fins around each other. A lot of back patting/stiff hand flapping.
“Right on, dude. Good to see you, too!” Uncle Finn holds on a little too long. This must be how they hug in Kalamazoo.
“So how, um, have . . . you . . . been?” Claude ekes out.
“Look, man . . . like I said, I heard the news . . .” Uncle Finn replies, shaking his head, turning to us with tenderness. “About your dad. And your mom. I’m so sorry, man. I just . . . I just wish I’d been here. Wish I’d come home sooner . . .”
And now he’s crying.
Honestly, our prodigal Uncle Finn just broke down crying. And not wistful tears that he’s trying to hold in. No, no. Giant, blubbering tears, spewing all over the place. And now he’s collapsing into Uncle Claude’s uncomfo
rtable arms.
“It’s okay, buddy. Try to keep it together.” Then Claude whispers, “Hey, not in front of the kids, okay?”
Uncle Finn looks up, puzzled, then understands. Oh, yeah, a normal adult does not completely break down in front of little children. Right.
“Okay, okay. I got it. Sorry, kids. I’m just . . . emotional, I guess. Tired from the journey.”
“Where did you come from exactly?” Henry’s natural state is curiosity.
“Ulaanbaatar.”
“Mongolia! Land of the Eternal Blue Sky! Two hundred and fifty-seven cloudless days a year. Did you see the Gobi Desert? What was it like? Were you able to distinguish between the desert and the Gobi terrain or did it all look similar to you as a Westerner?”
Because Henry.
“Wow, little dude. Most kids your age couldn’t pick Ulaanbaatar out on a map.”
“Ridiculous! It’s only the Mongol Empire, the largest contiguous land empire in world history,” Henry informs me. I nod. Of course.
“Well, this has been great, kids,” Uncle Claude interrupts. “But if you don’t mind I’d like to have a moment in private with my kid brother, your uncle here. Marisol, do you mind taking the kids upstairs for a moment, please?”
Marisol obliges and the three of us march out of the room, turning the corner, stomping up the staircase, and then, immediately, tiptoeing back down the staircase to take our rightful place in eavesdropping position.
“You have no right being here,” Claude whispers.
“Says you! Vulture,” Finn snaps back.
“Dropout.”
“Capitalist!”
“Failure.” Claude lands that last one like a knockout.
Marisol, Henry, and I look at each other, wide-eyed. Our parents never spoke to anyone like this, least of all family.
“What’s wrong, Finn? Got chased out of Helsinki? Bet on the wrong horse in Dubai? You make me sick. Stay away from these kids!” Claude barks.
“Ha!” Uncle Finn scoffs. “You’re one to talk. I bet you’ve been buttering them up good, huh?”
The three of us freeze in the stairwell.
Henry whispers what we’re all thinking. “Buttering us up? For what?”
Henry & Eva and the Castle on the Cliff Page 9
