Diann Ducharme (15 page)

Winnie kept holding the ugly gray thing up for me to see, hoping to cheer me. It looked like a dress with bloomers. I couldn’t imagine it taking on water very well. And now that Ben had disappeared from my days, I found I didn’t really want to splash in the surf anymore. I felt idle and useless.

To make myself feel better, I had insisted that Winnie cook the cooter stew.

I dragged her out to the porch to show her the shell. “I ain’t even trying to feature how to clean that thing,” she had said, her hands planted on her hips.

“Well, at least it’s missing its head,” I said. “One less appendage to worry about.”

She clicked her tongue. “Lord have mercy.”

Together, we read the recipe that Ben had written. Then she
sighed, picked the turtle up from its resting spot on the porch, and carried it away to the kitchen house. A few minutes later I could hear her hollering for Hannah to come help her pry the bottom shell off.

With dollops of cream and a shot of brandy in each of the bowls, the warm stew was savory, and the turtle meat was so delicate that it seemed to melt on my tongue. I could taste the clear blue sound water, the mysterious plants and animals that had sifted through the turtle’s blood. It made me think of Ben, and the things he knew about the Banks, the things he cherished.

I felt closer to him with each bite. I ate until I was more than full, and I was a bit happier than when I’d started.

Ben finally returned to the cottage when Daddy arrived for the weekend. Saturday morning I heard his voice outside, on the western side of the cottage, talking with Daddy about the day’s fishing plan. Just hearing his good-natured drawl for those brief minutes made me want to cry out his name through an open window like a lunatic.

But I just sat on my bed, staring at
Moby-Dick
. As the day wore on, I got the worst headache I’ve ever had. Winnie said it was from squinting at a book in the sun, but I knew very well that I hadn’t read an entire page in days.

Dreams of water coursed through my turbulent sleep that night. Rain and ocean waves pooled and puddled all over the hazy images. In one dream, Ben and I sat on the porch, but his face was wet and his clothes dripped. He looked skeptically toward the clouded sky and said, “We’re in for some weather, I reckon. Best batten your shutters.”

But when I looked at the sky, I saw only sun shining, absolutely no
hint of bad weather at all. Nothing was for certain here in Nags Head, and I found this oddly comforting. I said confidently, “You never know, Ben. Some things are too unpredictable to know for sure.”

Distant thunder shook the air, and the waves crashed with determination. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Oh, some things there’s no mistaking. Sometimes a man just knows things.”

I wanted to strangle him for his stubbornness. “From where I sit, it’s sunny. Just look at that sky and you’ll see!” I pointed and pointed at the endless blue.

He turned around to look, and when he did, the light around us was almost yellow. Dark clouds were marching in earnest down the shoreline. The waves were rocky crags, blown by the northeast wind.

I felt horribly embarrassed. “You were right, Ben. It looks like a storm is coming.”

He nodded and smiled at me, with affection in his eyes. I wanted to tell him that I missed him, really missed him something awful, but my mouth wasn’t working right. The dream dissolved before I could find the right words.

I felt I had just fallen asleep when I heard Winnie’s nimble footsteps cross the floorboards of my bedroom. Before I could even wonder what she was up to, she banged the shutters closed and shut the bedroom windows.

She muttered to my closed eyelids, “Be a miracle if I can cook up a hot breakfast today, with that storm a-ragin’.”

“Storm? What storm?” I mumbled.

She scoffed. “‘What storm,’ she say.” Then I heard the rain scouring
the roof upstairs. And the ocean roared too closely, the wind whistled too high. I hastily dressed and walked into the parlor, where Charlie and Martha and even Mama perched on the edges of their chairs.

With the shutters closed and the storm water plopping monotonously into a little tub in the sitting room, the house mourned the change in weather. Winnie and Hannah darted to and fro, taking up the rugs and filling crevices around the windows with small rags.

The wind raged against the screen door, which lacked a proper latch. It squeaked open, and then banged erratically every few seconds or so, making us all lurch.

Mama’s face was green, but there was life in her eyes. She likely still wished to be in bed, instead of sitting with us in this sad state of affairs. But during the night the water had leaked through the shingles on the roof and soaked her bed linens, so she hadn’t had much of a choice. The linens wouldn’t be dry for a long while.

In silence, we fiddled with our cold oatmeal and stale bread. Winnie’s efforts to keep the cook fire going were soundly unsuccessful.

Mama slammed her hand down on the table, causing bowls and glasses to jump. “Curse your daddy for building this house on the beach! Where is he, now that we need him? Left us just in time, and didn’t even stay for church!”

She got up from the table, white-faced and shaking, and began pacing the length of the rattling house.

Then Charlie wailed, “I want my daddy! Daddy, Daddy, help us!”

And Justus, who was hovering nearby, hollered, “Mark my words, this pine-wood house gonna be our coffin! Oh Lordy!”

Hannah taunted, “Justus, hush up, you scaring the children.”

Then Martha started crying, “I don’t like this! I want to go home!” And Winnie went to rock her in her arms.

Nobody ate much after that, not that we had much appetite to begin with. I got up and cracked open the door to the eastern porch and, feeling confrontational, stepped out into the powerful wind.

I’d never seen the ocean so angry. As far as I could see, the water snarled, its teeth sharp-peaked white caps.

Blotchy-faced Charlie and Martha soon peeked out the door after me, their eyes wide, and I gathered them closely to me. After days of existing peacefully with the land, sweetly lapping the shore like a cow licking salt, the ocean was fighting the earth in a fierce battle for territory.

Sea spray filmed my face and wet my hair, and my sleeves soon clung uncomfortably to my arms.

Charlie suddenly pointed out to the sea, scaring me nearly to death with his yelling. “Look, Abby! I think that ship is in trouble! Over there, see?”

I looked through the driving rain and dark clouds to see a ship turned brokenly on its side, caught on an outer bar far out in the ocean. Its mast leaned almost completely sideways, like a bird mired in the dirt with a broken wing. Water washed relentlessly over the hull.

My stomach clenched in panic as I tried to figure out what I should do. Perhaps we had a whistle or something, maybe some pots and pans to bang!

But before I had time to run back to the kitchen I saw six men in puffy dark jackets come bolting down the beach, pulling a boat outfitted with oars. Without hesitation they dragged the boat quickly into the water, their legs pushing insistently through the raging surf. Once they got it out a ways, they jumped into it, facing seaward. Their strokes cut through the waves, but they made slow headway in the dips and crests marching their way.

I watched them in a trance as the boat bobbed wildly on the waves, until the gray sheet of rain and swirling mist swallowed them up.

Several people—hotel guests and locals alike—were also making their way to the beach to take in the scene. They stood on the wet sand, their Sunday clothes covered in blankets. Eventually Mama, Winnie, and Hannah came out to the porch as well, attracted by the unfolding story of the sailors and the brave men who were trying to save them.

It seemed we stood on the porch for hours before we could see anything that indicated life. And then a terrifying sight—two oars from the rowboat came washing violently ashore. Everyone pointed to them, exclaiming loudly over the bad omen, but no one went to fetch them. They just stuck in the wet sand as the waves washed over them.

Finally I saw the lifeboat, rocking helplessly. Five men were inside, one of whom appeared to be a slumping sailor from the wreck. A few of the men on the beach ran out into the thrashing water to try to grab the boat as it slowly drew toward shore.

I scampered down the steps with one of our wool blankets, out into the pelting rain and wind. Charlie and Martha cried after me to come back, but I had seen something far out in the white-capped sea—something moving and splashing. I hollered out to the crowd of people up the beach and pointed with an outstretched arm to the speck of movement.

But no one could hear me above the commotion; they were busy tending to the weary men who had come ashore on the boat.

I watched helplessly as the awkward splashing slowly grew closer. I could see that it was one of the local men, wearing the telltale life vest, and he was dragging a man along with him as he swam one-armed through the water. As they neared the shore, the waves pushed them both out to the beach, tired of the game.

I ran over to them as fast as I could in a wet dress, my damp hair tangled down my back. The man with the vest was lying facedown in
the sand, totally exhausted. His back labored up and down as he sucked the air into his lungs, coughing and spitting.

But the other man, who was lying faceup, stared at the rain clouds, his eyes like marbles. There was no sign of life in his pallid face. I screamed to the crowd of people for help and tried to drag him to a safer spot up the beach, but he was too heavy for me.

At last some of the men came running down the beach to us. One of them—a black man with a vest over his flapping rags—pulled the sailor by the arms away from the surf and started pumping on his chest. I watched him in awe, never having seen a black man try to save a white man’s life before.

The man who had tried to rescue the sailor from the wreck was moaning a bit, and struggling to push himself into a sitting position. Pebbles of sand stuck to his forehead, and his blond hair was plastered to his skull. Yet his blue eyes shone through the gray light.

I hardly recognized him, without the usual grime all over him. He was as slickly clean as a shell in the sand, and so handsome, in his bravery, that I had to remind myself to breathe.

Ben smiled faintly to see me standing over him, but he was still breathing hard through his mouth and couldn’t speak. I walked around the back of him and hooked my arms under his and helped him to his feet. I unfolded the blanket I had brought and wrapped it around his shivering body. We stood close while I clasped the blanket at his neck. We looked at each other, but his eyes were hard to read, in the chaos.

“I shouldn’t even be here,” I said. “I’m useless.”

He shook his head slowly. Then he rasped, “You carried a blanket.” He swayed on his feet like a drunk, his hair streaming ocean water down the rough wool.

Then Ben looked to the man working over the petrified body of the sailor. Ben’s white face was so filled with sadness that I started to
cry. Hot tears mixed with the rain on my face, but I didn’t make a sound.

The man must have tried to work the water out of the sailor’s lungs for a quarter of an hour, until Ben stepped over and stopped the tired arms from pushing.

“Jacob, it’s all day with him. Best cease and desist.”

The crowd had gathered around us now, watching the persistent efforts. The Banker women clicked their tongues and whispered prayers into the wind and finally walked away, slowly, back to their homes on the sound side.

Eliza Dickens came running toward the beach, screaming Ben’s name in the whipping wind. She stopped to question a few of the retreating women, then came tearing down the sand to us, strands of wet hair lashing her panicked face.

I said quickly, “Come tomorrow, Ben. We can finish the book.”

Ben’s eyes closed, as if he had half a mind to sleep on his feet. The book was likely the last thing on his mind now.

Eliza didn’t even look at me as she ran past. With a little owl screech, she ran right up to Ben and hugged him desperately, kissed his blue, trembling lips and heavy eyelids with rapid little pecks.