Blue Moon

by Luanne Rice

  “Me and Bob,” Josie said quietly, snuggling her bottom deeper into Cass’s lap. Cass felt amazed by Josie’s behavior. Josie understood that everyone was worried about Billy, that he was in danger, but somehow she had decided to comfort Cass, to stay close and very calm. Cass gave her a long hug.

  “Mom,” Belinda said, bursting back into the room. “I need to get on a boat. I can’t stand being here for one more second.”

  “All the boats have left,” Cass said. “You can help Daddy a lot more by staying with me.”

  Belinda just stared angrily. “I hate this. Why did he get a new boat, anyway? Is Daddy going to die?”

  Cass had been asking herself the same questions, with the same level of fury and panic. But one thing about having children, it forced you to keep your head.

  “Daddy is not going to die,” Cass said.

  “Why’d he get a new boat? I’d like to kill that old fart Mr. Magnano. Something was probably wrong with it, and he sold it to Daddy anyway.”

  “Mr. Magnano would never, never do that,” Cass said sternly, hiding the fact that she had been entertaining homicidal thoughts of George herself.

  “Can I call Emma?”

  “Belinda, you know we have to keep the phone open. But I’ll tell you what. Would you like to sleep over there?”

  “At Emma’s?”

  “Yes. I’m sure Bonnie would pick you up.”

  Belinda’s expression turned doubtful, guilty. “I shouldn’t leave you with Josie.”

  “Josie and I will be fine,” Cass said. But already she was dreading the moment when Josie would fall asleep. She didn’t want to be alone, unable to call her sisters, listening for the phone. She shivered, knowing she couldn’t go to bed that night.

  “If you’re sure,” Belinda said, watching Cass’s face with skepticism.

  Cass nodded. She grabbed the receiver, speed-dialed Bonnie’s number.

  “Bon, can you pick up Belinda so she can sleep over? Thanks, bye.”

  “That was the fastest I’ve ever heard you talk,” Belinda said admiringly. “There’s no way you missed a call.”

  Cass just smiled, feeling exhausted. Belinda went upstairs to pack. When she came down, she kissed Josie sweetly. She signed a quick message, and Josie signed back. Cass listened for the phone and for Bonnie’s car.

  Moments later she heard Bonnie drive up. Going to the door, she saw that snow had started to fall. Fine flakes, slanting from the north, glowed like a golden mist in the porch light.

  “Any news?” Bonnie asked, coming to the door.

  Cass shook her head.

  “Would you like Belinda to stay? Emma could sleep here instead. We all could.”

  “I don’t think so. But thanks.”

  “Nora has her hands full with Mom,” Bonnie said. “Mom wants to pack up Dad and Granny and move right in here. She tried to recruit Nora and Willis, me and the kids.”

  “Gavin’s not home?”

  “He’s out looking,” Bonnie said. “On board Derek’s boat. Did you think he wouldn’t be?”

  “Of course he would be,” Cass said, hugging herself. Snow gusted through the open door.

  “Hi, Aunt Bonnie,” Belinda said. “Night, Mom. Call me? If there’s anything?”

  “I promise. You’ll be the first person I call,” Cass said. She kissed her daughter goodnight, and Belinda ran ahead to the car.

  “How are you holding up?” Bonnie asked.

  “Okay.”

  “Call if you want me here.”

  Bonnie backed out the driveway. Inside the kitchen, Cass listened to her drive away, down Coleridge Avenue. Then she turned her attention to the phone. The plane had to be over Billy; the phone would ring any second. Now. It will ring now.

  It didn’t. The phone didn’t ring then, and it didn’t ring all night.

  Sheila held on to her glass locket and thought of her boys. She considered her granddaughters’ husbands to be her boys as much as Jimmy and Ward, her own sons. She thought of the girls—the women—in her family. Everyone imagined girls needed protecting, extra care, shielding from danger, while boys just skated along, thin ice or not, ready for anything.

  But Sheila knew that Ward, hardly twenty years old, hadn’t been ready to go down in flames. And Billy wasn’t ready to die at sea. The old grandfather clock across the room ticked along, every second bringing Billy closer to death. Sheila stared at it, the brass pendulum swinging blurrily.

  She would never forget the day she heard about Ward. Such a sunny day, quiet in the garden, with just a few sea gulls crying overhead. She had been on edge ever since Ward had gone overseas, constantly uneasy, praying for his safety. But there was something about that day—the peace, the bright sky—that had reassured her.

  She’d been planting the window boxes. She could see the flowers now: red geraniums, white petunias. She could smell the damp loam, feel the warmth of it as she buried the roots. Then the doorbell rang. In her haste to answer it, she knocked over a geranium, breaking its thick stem.

  The mail woman, her buttons gleaming. Sheila couldn’t see her face now, she wasn’t their usual mail woman, but she could picture those brass buttons. The raised eagles, polished to catch the sunlight. Sheila had stared at those buttons, accepting the telegram. Still, she hadn’t believed it. The sunlight, the sea gulls. The dirt under her fingernails.

  Sheila had read the message.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman had said. “So sorry.”

  Sheila had sat down in the dark living room, the curtains drawn to keep the bright sun from fading the slipcovers. She had held the telegram in her hand, and then smoothed it over her knee. She had gotten dirt on it. She had tried to brush it off, but it stayed dirty. She had stared at it, trying to figure how long it had taken to reach her. She had held it on her lap, wondering what she had been doing at the exact minute her son had been shot down. She had wondered how she could have lived her life, enjoying the sunshine, not knowing her son was dead.

  That was the difference between Ward and Billy. All the family, everyone who loved him, was watching the clock tick by, imagining his terror, helpless to save him. Sheila knew how his own parents would feel, if they had still been alive. She thought of Cass, her favorite granddaughter; Sheila would give her own life if it would save Billy.

  Now her eyes traveled to Ward’s painting, behind which she kept all the important family documents. She took a deep breath and forced herself out of her chair. She held on to the chair arms for a minute, getting her balance. Her chest felt tight.

  She eased the picture off the wall and opened the envelope taped to its back. With her fingers shaking, she took out the telegram. It was still smudged with dirt from the window boxes after all these years.

  She blinked. For a second, she thought she saw Eddie. Lately he had been haunting this corner of her room where Ward’s painting hung. She squinted, trying to make Eddie come into focus.

  “I’d do it, Eddie. If it would bring Billy home. He can’t die, Eddie. He can’t leave Cass alone.”

  “The way I left you?”

  Had she really heard it? She was wide awake, and she was sure she had heard Eddie’s voice. She felt so shocked, she sat back down in her chair.

  “Yes, the way you left me,” she said. “Cass isn’t ready.”

  She sat very still, listening. But Eddie didn’t reply. Sheila shook her locket, watching the pearl rattle. In her other hand she held the telegram. She prayed for Billy, and she prayed to fall asleep. Sleep was the only sure way she’d see Eddie again.

  Every wave was a mountain. You’d ride up one side, then fall off the other. Ride up, fall off. Ride up, fall off. You couldn’t see anything, the night was so black and the snow so thick.

  “This is crazy,” some smelly fat guy said to John. “You can’t see nothin’.”

  “Watch for flares,” John said, staring straight ahead. He gripped the wheel.

  “Crazy,” the fat guy said again.

  T.J. had his
corner of the wheelhouse. John had assigned him one area of sea to watch, from nine to twelve o’clock. T.J.’s eyes roved the quadrant, ticking back and forth. He concentrated on not throwing up.

  “We’re not there yet,” John said. “You won’t see him for a while. But look anyway.”

  T.J. kept watching.

  “You hear me?” John asked.

  “Huh? Me?” T.J. said, so surprised, he turned toward John for one second.

  “Yeah, you.”

  “I hear you.”

  “We’ll find your father. Boats go down all the time. We haven’t lost a Mount Hope guy in years.”

  “Mac Pearson,” the fat guy said.

  “Explosions at the dock are different. They’re always killers,” John said.

  “Boats go down all the time?” T.J. asked. “And the guys are okay?”

  “Sure,” John said. “Especially someone as smart as your father. He and I sank one time.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. Off Block Island. We got rescued ten minutes after shooting off the first flare.”

  “Block Island’s not like this,” T.J. said as the boat pitched off another wave. This was way out, and T.J. knew that the farther offshore a boat sank, the worse the chances. He’d heard his father say that.

  “I’ve been in bigger storms than this off Block Island,” John said.

  “What did you mean before, when you said we’re not there yet?” T.J. asked, his eyes covering his area. “You sound like you know where we’re going. Even the Coast Guard doesn’t know, and my dad called them.”

  T.J. had been listening when John radioed the Coast Guard. The Coast Guard lady had sounded royally pissed to hear that John was joining the search. “Next we’ll be searching for you,” she’d said in a really snide tone.

  “You never know with the Coast Guard,” John said, his eyes focused dead ahead. “With all their classes and training you’d expect them to be smarter than they usually are. It proves one of my favorite points.”

  “What?”

  “Put brass and a uniform on a guy and watch him go brain-dead.”

  “So what makes you think you know where my dad is?”

  “Because your dad and I have fished together, and I know his spots. I know exactly where he was when he bailed out, and I know his raft is setting for Bermuda. Here—take the wheel.” He walked to the chart table; T.J. just stood there.

  “You want us to roll over?” John asked sharply. “Take the wheel.”

  T.J. left his post. He’d steered his father’s boat plenty of times, but not in waves like this. Clamping his hands on the wheel, he felt it try to twist his arms off.

  “Steer for a compass heading of ninety-six,” John ordered. He flipped on a greenish light that cast reflections on all the wheelhouse windows, and he began reading the chart.

  “John, man,” the fat guy said, “I’m losing it. I need an hour to sleep.”

  “Okay, Sid,” John said without looking up. “We’ll call you when we get close.”

  No one spoke for a while. T.J. fought the wheel. First he turned it way to the left, and just as the bow seemed to be heading straight for ninety-six, the compass swung past, and he had to pull right. Finally he got the boat on course. Waves continued to pound the hull.

  T.J.’s eyes felt tired. He tried to fight back his fear. The timbers moaned and creaked with every wave; it seemed like the ocean had teeth and claws and was trying to tear their boat apart. T.J. pictured great white sharks following them, down below where everything was pitch-black and calm, their dead eyes and sonar tracking a boat full of shark bait.

  “Do you get scared, John?” he asked before he could help himself.

  “You get used to it, T.J.,” John said. “But this is a bad storm.”

  T.J. couldn’t imagine getting used to this. He had to fight just to stay on his feet. The ocean was everywhere: waves battered the windows, and if T.J. hadn’t had the compass to refer to, he wouldn’t have known which way was up. He glanced at the compass, a black globe illuminated in a brass binnacle. His eyes fell upon markings in the wood. Carved in the mahogany on which the binnacle was mounted was the name “Cass.” The letters were scored deep, blackened by salt.

  His father had skippered this boat before John. T.J. imagined his dad on a boring night, when the sea was calm and he didn’t have to fight every wave, whipping out his pocketknife, carving his mom’s name. So that on nights like this, when he felt afraid, she would be right there with him. On the opposite side, someone had carved “Rachel.” The letters were just as deep, but white, as if they’d been carved recently.

  “Rachel’s your wife,” T.J. said to John.

  “Yeah,” John replied.

  Staring at the names felt much better than thinking of his father in a raft trying to ride waves like this, with snow turning him into a white island. T.J. narrowed his eyes, watching through the eerie green glass for flares. But all he could see were waves.

  “Nantucket waters are tricky,” John said. “Shallow where you’d expect no bottom at all.”

  “Do you think he went aground?” T.J. asked.

  “Nah. Your father can navigate anything. Something must’ve happened to his boat.”

  “Like what?” T.J. asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can the planes fly in this?”

  “What planes?”

  “The ones looking for my dad.”

  “There aren’t any planes out here,” John said, not looking up. “Maybe there were before, but not now. They’re safe in a hangar somewhere.” He continued studying the chart.

  The raft bucked the white waves. Up became down, and Billy was drowning in snow, clawing downward toward the sea. Every swell took them to the edge, promised to flip them over. A thousand times, every time a wave hit, they’d thought they would turn over. Tony couldn’t take it anymore. He cried through the night, until the screaming wind and his sobs became the same. Billy and Paul actually watched him lose his mind. They tried to talk to him, but it seemed he didn’t know they were there. All of a sudden, he grasped the lifeline, crossed himself, and climbed over the side.

  Billy lunged toward him, but Tony had disappeared into the sea. “Oh, my God,” Billy said.

  “He’s gone,” Paul said, his teeth chattering.

  The night suddenly seemed horribly quiet.

  An hour went by. At first Billy thought about Tony’s wife and two sons, wondering what he was going to say to them. But after a while, the cold blocked out everything.

  Billy didn’t think of the storm, the sea, the falling snow, the ice in his eyes. He’d stopped listening for engines, stopped thinking about the raft pitching over, stopped beating his arms against his chest to stay warm. He just lay in the bottom of the raft, curled on his side, looking at the back of Paul’s head. He had a hood on. Monk. Kid in a snowsuit. Billy blinked, staring at the stiff orange fabric.

  The raft danced over the mountains. Some sharply peaked, craggy like the Rockies. Crevasses, ravines, ledges, jagged river valleys piercing the evil rocks. Some smoothed into hills, like the ancient mountains in Ireland, worn down by the storms of a million years, rounded as a woman’s breasts.

  Cass’s breasts. Where did that come from? The thought stirred Billy so, he almost rose on his elbow. A hard object dug into his side. He did not recognize it as his family’s picture in its frame. Billy stopped thinking of the mountains he rode over, stopped feeling every descent in his throat. He stared at the back of Paul’s head. He tried to push himself up, but he couldn’t. He was a block of ice.

  25

  Cass hadn’t slept or talked to anyone all night. As the sun rose her heart lurched, because the snow had stopped. She sat at the window, watching pink light spread across the pillowy drifts. The Coast Guard planes would be flying by now, crisscrossing the North Atlantic, searching the sea.

  She searched her mind for Billy and found him alive. Yes, she knew with certainty he was. She’d discovere
d during the night a thrilling ability to zoom in on him. She picked up messages from him. But she couldn’t rush them; she had to let her mind drift: the falling snow, Josie sucking her thumb, the recipe for cranberry bread. Then, pow!

  She’d get a flash of Billy.

  As long as they kept coming, she knew he was alive.

  The day began. Josie awakened, asking for Daddy. Cass told her he was on his boat, still waiting for help. Josie seemed cranky. She sat at the kitchen table, dressed in her yellow flannel nightgown, whimpering because her hearing aids itched. Cass made pancakes to keep busy and tried to cajole Josie with blueberry jam instead of the usual maple syrup. But Josie wouldn’t eat.

  Cass dressed herself and Josie in jeans and turtlenecks. Josie wanted to play in the snow. But Cass couldn’t leave the phone. She scooped snow off the top step, made a big pile on the back porch. She buckled on Josie’s snow boots, zipped up Josie’s ski jacket. Then she hooked the porch door and let Josie pretend she was outside.

  She heard a car drive up, and Josie squealed with pleasure.

  Cass’s heart pounded; she ran through the house. Would he really surprise her like this, just show up without calling? For one second she felt angry, that he would have let her worry all these hours, when he could have called her ship-to-shore, from the Coast Guard station, from a hundred points along the way. But then Josie called, “Gampy!”

  Cass caught her breath. She met her father, with Josie riding his boot like a pony, in the back hall. He gave Cass a hug, and Josie scampered back to her snow pile.

  “Want some coffee?” she asked. “It’ll just take me a minute.”

  “No thanks,” her father said, and Cass realized he was pushing her into a chair.

  “What?”

  “The Coast Guard has called off the search,” her father said.

  “No,” Cass said stupidly.

  “Yes.”

  “They can’t. Look at the day! The planes can fly today.”

  “They don’t believe he could have survived the storm.”

  Her father watched her gravely, letting his words hang in the air. But Cass wouldn’t accept them.