by Luanne Rice
He wished he’d see something besides water. A log, some fish jumping, another boat: anything to interrupt the endless stretch of sea. He began to believe there was nothing else. He turned his cap around, peak to the back, so it wouldn’t interfere with the binoculars. Not that anything needed a closer look. At least when the planes were around you knew you were going to see something else. You knew that within a few minutes there’d be something other than water. It might not be the raft yet, but it gave you hope.
Sunlight glared, skittering off the water’s surface. Every so often it caught his eye—at ten o’clock, say, when his eyes had ticked over to one. He’d look back fast, afraid he’d missed something. But it would only be sparkles dancing on a wave in the east.
As the sun moved higher, closer to noon, the sparkles spread out. They were everywhere. T.J. couldn’t keep up his rhythm. Over there! He’d jerk his head, but it would just be sparkles. There! More sparkles. They began to seem alive and mischievous. The sparkles started to scare him; they gave him a headache and made him think he was seeing things. He worried that one would distract him in the single split second his father’s raft was visible. With John and Sid in the wheelhouse, T.J. began to feel like he was the only person onboard. He began to appreciate the parrots.
Their squawks sounded like words, kind of nasal, like Josie. That thought made him laugh a little, picturing a little tiny Josie-bird, all green and serious, sitting on his shoulder. Then he worried he was going crazy. Weren’t there a million sea legends about guys going crazy on voyages?
Old salts who lusted after walruses, thinking they were hot babe mermaids? Sailors who heard their mothers calling their name, only their mothers had been dead twenty years, and it was just the wind? Peg-leg dudes who chased whales around the world. You saw it in the movies all the time. But most of the guys were old, T.J. told himself. Not teenagers.
The sun burned his face. Sparkles covered every surface of the sea, three-hundred-sixty degrees of them. T.J. couldn’t shake this sick feeling that the sun sparkles were evil. They reminded him of devils dancing on white-hot coals. There: one of them burned up.
A devil on fire. Or dying in a pool of blood. T.J. stared at the little red patch. He lifted the glasses, tried to fit the lenses to his eyes as the boat pitched. The bloody sparkle danced in and out of his sight; the other sparkles wanted to hide it, bury it before T.J. could see.
T.J. adjusted the binoculars, fiddling with the wheel. John was steaming ahead too fast. T.J. had to curve his body around the mast to get a better look. He craned, held his body rigid, so he could focus. Hidden in the waves’ trough, then a flash, and finally a wave held it up, like an offering, just long enough for T.J. to get one clear look.
“The raft!” T.J. shouted. “John, my father’s raft! Eight o’clock!”
John brought the boat around. He opened the throttle as far as it would go, but it took forever to cross the water. T.J. stayed in the rigging, the binoculars pressed to his eyes. Now that he’d seen the raft, had it in his sight, it wasn’t enough. He wanted to see his father. He wanted to see his father jumping up and down, waving like crazy, yelling for help. He didn’t see anyone.
Just the raft, a big red rubber circle, high and rounded; at first T.J. couldn’t tell if it was right-side up or upside down. But as they got closer he saw small dark shadows defining the center hollow, and now T.J. felt glad for the sun, because the shadows meant the raft hadn’t flipped over.
They were close enough so that T.J. didn’t need the binoculars. He stayed on the mast, watching for someone to move. Surely his dad would hear the engine by now. Even if he’d been asleep, he’d hear the noisy pulse and wake up. Or one of the other guys. His father had a crew of four; T.J. didn’t see how they could all fit on that little raft, much less stay so still. T.J. didn’t know what he was thinking, but suddenly his heart felt like it would pound out of his chest.
“Get down here, T.J.,” John called. “I need your help.”
T.J. used a couple of hooks as toeholds, then jumped to the deck. His arms and legs felt rubbery, and he fell down, scrambling a few steps like a crab. He ran to John, who stood at the port rail. Sid had the wheel.
“We’re going to come around, and I’ll grab a line with the boat hook,” John said, a grim frown on his face.
“It’s good, we found it,” T.J. said. It was so fucking unbelievable, if you thought about it. He hadn’t let himself see it that way, all during the search: What were the odds of anyone finding this little red blob? He should be congratulating John: Wow, man, how did you know? You’re a genius, an amazing sailor. T.J. should have been excited out of his mind, but he wasn’t. T.J. had a terrible, sick feeling deep inside.
No one on the raft was moving.
It was close enough to see. Some bogus red rubber cover had blown half off, and you could see legs. Two pairs of legs. T.J. recognized his father’s legs right away: they were covered by safety-patrol orange leggings, but T.J. knew them. He stared at them, wishing that they would twitch.
“Almost there,” John said. Sid pulled way back on the throttle, circling around, the boat’s wake making the red raft bob.
T.J. stared, and he had the weirdest memory. His mom was pregnant with Josie at the same time as Rory, their old Scottie. One day Rory disappeared, and when she came home, you could tell she’d had the litter. Her big belly was gone. Everyone was psyched about locating the puppies. They followed Rory everywhere that first morning, all excited about finding a bunch of squirmy, hairless Scotties.
T.J. and his dad found them, under the Camarras’ back-porch stairs, and just before T.J. could reach in, his dad grabbed his hand. “They’re dead, Teej.” All five puppies, stillborn. T.J. had nightmares about it.
John reached for the raft with the boat hook, caught an eye of nylon line. He pulled the raft alongside, and then paused. You could tell he didn’t want to go aboard.
“I’ll go,” T.J. said.
John reached out, to grab T.J.’s hand, exactly the way his dad had done with the puppies.
“No,” John said. He lowered himself carefully over the side, his toe flapping in the air, trying to make gentle contact with the raft. T.J. couldn’t watch. He held his stomach with both arms. He walked across the deck to the starboard rail. Something burned in his throat. He spit to get rid of it, then spit again.
“Get over here,” John called, and T.J. came running. He leaned over the port rail. John had thrown back the cover, and he stood over two men. T.J. stared at his father, curved around the other man’s back. They weren’t moving, and you couldn’t see their faces for the orange hoods. T.J. clutched the coaming.
“They’re alive!” John said.
T.J.’s knees buckled; he snapped his head down, blinking to hold back the tears.
“They’re in shock, but they’re alive! Call for help!” John shouted, even though T.J. and Sid were standing right there.
T.J. leapt aboard the raft while Sid radioed the Coast Guard. John knelt there, beaming. He slapped T.J. on the back. “We did it!” John said. T.J. smiled, clasping John’s arm with one hand, wiping away hot tears with the other. “I’ll get some blankets,” John said, hoisting himself onto the boat.
Gently, T.J. rolled his father over. He felt like dead weight. For a second T.J.’s heart thumped, wondering if John had made a mistake. The other man—T.J. didn’t even know who it was—just lay there beside them.
T.J.’s fingers fumbled for the cord that puckered the hood around his father’s face, and managed to untie it. Salt water had gotten inside; his father’s lips were cracked and bloody, his eyes swollen shut. T.J. groped behind his father’s ear, down the side of his neck.
A pulse.
“Dad,” T.J. said. “Dad.”
He felt himself grinning like an idiot, holding his father’s head. His father looked terrible, like a mountain man. Black whiskers all over his face, sour yellow bruises, dried blood. A muscle in his cheek started to twitch, vibrating nonstop. It
bothered T.J. when embarrassing things happened to sleeping people. So he put his index finger on the tic, and his father opened one eye.
“T.J.,” his father said. He gazed at T.J. through the narrowest possible slit. “T.J.,” he said again, more like a croak.
“We found you, Dad,” T.J. said. It was beginning to hit him: he and John had actually done it. Sid, too. They’d found the raft; they’d saved his father’s life.
His father kind of smiled, then his eye fluttered back down. John stood over them, leaning over the rail. “He was awake?” John asked.
“Yeah,” T.J. said, nodding. “He looked straight at me.”
“There’s someone on the radio who wants to talk to you,” John said. “Want to come up?”
T.J. sat still, cradling his father’s head. “You come down first. I don’t want to leave him alone.”
John clambered over the rail, big woolly blankets under one arm. T.J. watched him tuck the bright blue one around his father—even under his feet, right up to his chin. Then T.J. climbed up on deck. As he did, the first Coast Guard plane arrived. It flew in a wide circle over the Aurora and the raft, and it continued to circle, marking their position for the cutter. All the parrots dove for cover, roosting amid nets and fishing gear.
Sid sat in the wheelhouse. He rose when T.J. walked in, gave him a monster hug and smile, and handed him the microphone. “Press this button when you want to talk, let go when you want to listen.”
“I know how,” T.J. said.
“Why aren’t I surprised?” Sid asked, ambling out of the wheelhouse.
“Hello,” T.J. said into the chrome mike.
“T.J., is that you?”
“Mom! We found him. He talked to me. He knew who I was, right away. He’s alive, Mom. Dad’s alive. We found him!” The words poured out, so fast T.J. almost forgot to let go of the button.
“I’m so proud of you, T.J.,” his mom said, and you could tell she was crying. “Thank you, honey. Thank you, T.J. Is he really okay? You’re positive? You were with him? You saw?”
“Yes, I was with him. He opened his eyes and everything. The Coast Guard’s on its way out now. I kept the planes looking, Mom. I shot off flares so they wouldn’t call off the search.”
“You did?” she asked, sounding amazed.
“Yeah,” T.J. said proudly.
“The other men? Are they with your father?”
“Only one, Mom.”
“The others?” she asked in a tiny voice.
“They’re not here.”
Suddenly a strange thudding noise filled the air. T.J. looked outside and saw a big white helicopter, coming fast. “A helicopter’s coming to get Dad,” he said, excited. “They wouldn’t have gotten here so fast if they’d called off the search, would they?”
“No, they wouldn’t,” his mom said, her voice still full of tears. “But you found him. You’re bringing him home.”
“I’d better go,” T.J. said, one hand over his ear. The helicopter was coming down, unbelievably loud.
“Tell him I love him,” his mom yelled over the racket. “Did you hear me? T.J.?”
“I heard you, Mom,” T.J. yelled back. He clicked off the radio, and he hurried to give his father a message from home.
Cass ran out to the car, then realized she had forgotten the keys. No, she had them in her hand. She’d left her purse in the house. Hating to waste the time, she started to run back, then realized she had fifteen dollars, enough for an emergency, in her pocket. Since talking to T.J., she’d waited an hour for more news. At first they told her they were taking Billy to Hyannis, then Boston. She called the Coast Guard three times, and each time she got a different story. Finally the official call came: they had taken Billy to Providence General Hospital. Belinda said she would stay with Josie.
She fumbled the key, trying to fit it into the ignition.
“Come on, come on,” she said, when the car wouldn’t start.
Brakes squealed; she looked over her shoulder. Nora parked her car in the street, and she and Bonnie jumped out.
“We heard,” Bonnie said, running to Cass. She and Nora pulled Cass out of the car, and the three sisters grabbed each other. Cass kissed the tears off Bonnie’s cheeks.
“He’s in Providence,” Cass said. “I have to go to him.”
Bonnie held her hands. “You can’t drive,” she said. “You’re shaking.”
“We’ll drive you,” Nora said, her arm tight around Cass’s shoulders.
“We can’t all fit,” Cass said dumbly, looking at Nora’s sports car. “Not that one, honey,” Bonnie said. “We’ll take your station wagon.”
Cass let Bonnie take the wheel. Belinda and Josie stood in the front window, grinning and waving like mad. Cass rolled down her window, and she waved back until Bonnie sped them out of sight.
“Tell us everything,” Nora said, leaning over from the back seat, her head between Cass’s and Bonnie’s.
“They found him,” Cass said. “He’s alive.”
She didn’t have many details; anyway, those were the only things that mattered. Her sisters talked on, filling the car with ecstatic reports of rumors they’d heard about the search, news Jimmy had picked up from the Coast Guard. Cass listened, her heart racing as they neared Providence.
Bonnie kept left on the highway, flashing her brights at the rear mirrors of anything in the way. Forty minutes after leaving Mount Hope, she sped down the exit ramp, into Benefit Street, veering past a rosy blur of colonial brick. At Providence General, Bonnie screeched to the curb. Cass leapt out of the car, her sisters right behind her.
Inside the hospital, Cass stopped dead, looking around, disoriented.
“Patient information,” Nora said. “Over there,”
“William Medieros,” Cass said to the salmon-pink-smocked volunteer. The woman checked her computer. “He’s in 653N,” she said, giving Cass a casual smile.
Starting for the elevator, Cass turned to her sisters, who were holding back.
“Hurry,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Bonnie shook her head, smiling. “No,” she said.
“You go,” Nora said, squeezing Cass’s arm. “We’ll be here when you need us.”
Cass nodded, stepping backward. Then she turned and ran for the elevator.
Sixth floor, north wing. Signs directed her down a maze of gleaming white corridors. Cass raced past the solarium, the nurses’ station, the laundry cart, rows of patient rooms: 656, 655, 654 …
Room 653. Cass stopped, out of breath. The door was ajar. She reached for the handle, almost afraid to push it open. Her fingers closed around the polished stainless-steel knob, and the big door squeaked on its hinges.
Billy. He lay on his side, facing away from her, his black hair curling on the pillow. Cass heard a sharp intake of breath: her own. She moved to the bed. IV lines ran to Billy from bottles of clear fluid hanging overhead. Cass stared at him, taking everything in. She touched his shoulder, so lightly she didn’t know if he’d feel it. Billy turned around.
“Cass,” he said.
“Oh, my God,” she said at the sight of his bruised and swollen eyes.
They stared at each other, then Billy pulled her down hard. He kissed her roughly, holding her close; she lay across his chest, half in and half out of the bed. Cass ran her hands through his hair, across his face, down his arms, as if she wanted to reassure herself that he was really there.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Me, too,” Billy said, unwilling to let her go. He clutched her shoulders, gently kissing her collarbone.
“Tell me everything,” she said, after a long while.
“I didn’t think I’d come back. We lost Jesse and Frank,” he said. “And Tony.”
“I know,” Cass said, her fingers brushing his forehead. She wanted him to tell her what had happened, but his silence was brutal and absolute.
“The Coast Guard said that if you hadn’
t been in the Gulf Stream, you would have frozen to death,” Cass said. “You almost did, anyway.”
“I don’t remember much,” he said. “Getting into the life raft. I guess we lost consciousness. The next thing I remember is seeing T.J. I didn’t know where I was.”
“I can’t believe any of it,” Cass said, shaking her head. “That you sank, that they found you. None of it. I can’t believe John knew where to look.”
Billy half smiled. “When he heard I went down off Nantucket, he knew I’d been dragging a little trench we’d found together. I don’t fish it that often, but in those waters, John knew that’s where I’d be.”
“Still, Billy. Even if he knew the exact spot on the chart where you’d been fishing, three days went by.”
“He’s a smart sailor,” Billy said, really smiling now. “And T.J. Wow.”
“I’m so proud of him,” Cass said, choking up as she thought of her son, now on his way home from sea with John. She made slow circles on Billy’s palm with her finger. “Were you afraid?”
“I was afraid when the whale first got tangled. Once I knew what was happening. And when I saw Jesse and Frank go overboard.”
Billy frowned; Cass could see him reliving the scene. He closed his eyes.
“You couldn’t have done anything,” she said.
But he went on as if he hadn’t heard her. “I was mostly afraid that last time I called the operator, when I realized we were going down. The lights were flashing, and it meant we were about to lose power. I had to give her our position first, whatever information I could, so she could tell the rescue boat. But I was afraid that …”
Cass just stroked his hand, waiting.
“That we’d lose power before I had the chance to tell her to call you. To tell you I love you. I didn’t think I’d ever have the chance to do it myself.”
Cass held his hand, silent for a long minute. She pictured the whale ripping his boat apart, the men drowning, Billy afraid that he was going to die. She blinked, to get the images out of her mind.
“But, Cass?” he said.
“Yes?”
“Here’s my chance.”
She leaned closer to his mouth, to listen.
