Frog (16 page)

In the galley eating with some seamen. Soup, bread, potted meat, cheese, coffee. A dinner, lunch, breakfast. It'd be dinner. Distress signal was picked up late at night, or early morning. But ship hours are all hours. While some sleep, others watch. Possibly divided into thirds, engine down there always going. The galley. Food's almost beginning to taste good after three days and lots of work. When big crash. Men and chairs fall, breakage. Sirens, bells, shouts, alarms. Told to get life vests on, over heavy sweaters, heavy socks if they got them in their pockets, but no one return to his cabin. Everyone including the engineers on top deck. Whatever the deck's called. Flight deck because they're in flight. He's especially confused because he's so new at this and doesn't recognize all the signals. Follow someone. He's climbing the hatchway stairs when a ton of water comes down it. Someone's near the top, someone behind, all climbing when the water knocks them to the floor. Ship seems to be shivering, then turning over. They don't know what to do, can't do much. Decks below filling up fast. Water's pouring down the hatchway, preventing them from swimming to it, getting up it. Men struggle around him. One can't swim and is held up by a man who can. The current carries Alex back to the galley. He treads water, looking for something high up to hang on to or something floating to hold him up. Two chairs, which he tries pulling together to make a float, but one flips out of his hand and goes out the galley. A table, which keeps rolling over when he tries climbing on top of it. Can't feel his feet anymore. Lights go. Several of them yelling help from different rooms. No strength left to climb on top of the table anymore so just holds on. Maybe the ship will turn rightside up. Surely the radioman's sent signals. Maybe some men above will do something to help get them up. A line's all he needs with a loop at the end of it. Ships are always near, aren't they? Even fifty miles away, a hundred, they'd be here—at least one would—in hours. Stick it out till then. More than try. Water's so cold. He's going to die, what's there to do about it? Someone shouts something about the aft exit. At the other end, may as well be a mile from him. Table rolls over and he loses it. Reaches out, can't feel anything but blank wall and water. Fingers the wall for a hook. Tries treading while doing this but forgets how to. Dear God, save me. Takes a deep breath, loses most of it, huge rumble from someplace, then a sound like spouting. No use, hasn't got thirty seconds. Puts his arms straight up, opens his mouth wide, says to himself as he sinks “Dear Mother,” tries not to squirm and kick but for a few seconds has to.

Sleeping. Top bunk of a double- or triple-decker. Weren't that many men aboard, so maybe they all had single bunks, two or three to a cabin. Dreaming he's back home, having coffee in the kitchen with his mother, when three men run in with tommyguns and start shooting at the ceiling. His younger brother and sister are in the bedroom right above. Blood pours through the holes the bullets made. He lunges at the men when they aim the guns at his mother. Alarm clock goes off in the upstairs bedroom. To wake the kids for school. Ship alarm. He wakes up, says “Huh, what's wrong?” “Emergency, man,” his bunkmate says in English or Spanish. “Big one. Only goes off like that when it's the most serious. All-hands-on-deck kind of thing, ship going down, could be. Hurry.” Can't be as bad as the guy's saying. Where are his shoes? Gets his sweater and pants from the end of his bunk. Socks are in his shoes. Lights go on and off, alarm continues, men running past their cabin, someone throws open the door and shouts “Out, up.” Suddenly the ship's being shoved back and forth. Way it's been for days, but side to side while now if s fore to aft, motion he's never heard of on so large a ship. “My damn shoes, where are they?” “Forget them, man. We could be sinking this minute,” and runs out, clothes and vest on. Alex gets two pairs of socks out of his locker and pockets them, vest off the wall, last look under and around his bunk, runs to the stairs putting the vest on. On deck everyone's dressed for very cold weather and rain. “Ship's being abandoned,” the first officer says. “We caught something, no time to find out what it is. Nobody fret. We're still radioing and we've time to lower boats and get extra provisions and equipment in.” Alex says “TO freeze without shoes. I'm freezing now.” His feet are in an inch of water. “Anyone have extra shoes for this man?” the officer says. Shaking of heads, some say no, wish they did, sorry. “I'll be right back,” Alex says. I'm sure I'll find them this time, or someone's.” Runs to the stairs. “Come on back,” someone shouts. “You'll hold us all up.” Has to hold on tight to get below, brace his hands against the corridor walls as he runs to his cabin. Two to three inches of water already. Shoes are on the unused bunk above his. Doesn't remember putting them there. Someone must have while he slept. Or he did just before he fell asleep exhausted, though he doesn't know why he'd do it. Grabs them. Also another sweater and a watch cap out of his locker. Starts for the stairs. His manuscripts. Hell with them. If any are worth it he'll remember them and rewrite them. Water pours down the stairs. Crunching sound from the deck below his. Ship tips straight up and he falls on his back. Tries crawling upstairs. Ship's righted somewhat, then tips up again. He's thrown downstairs, thinks he hurt badly or broke a leg. Can't stand on it. Ship's also shaking too much. Then vibrating, and a few places in the walls crack. Shoes are gone. Sweater and cap he held on to without knowing it and lets them float away. Lights have gone but he can see the hatchway hole as they may be shooting off flares up there. Enough water below now to swim in. He tries to get to the stairs. Lots of pain but screw it, he's able to swim if he digs in hard and doesn't kick. Orders from above, shouting, constant stack blasts, crunching noises from the sides now too. Ship seems to be rolling over, then tips up but from the other end, dropping him by the stairs. Water's up to the middle steps. He grabs the stair rail, tries pulling himself upstairs, is thrown against the wall, head banging it so hard he's knocked out. He awakes underwater, at the other end of the corridor, water in his lungs, spits out a mouthful, tries to swim, can't, cough up water, can't. Can hardly breathe it seems. Tries, takes in a little water stuck in his nose. Corridor wall rips open and he's sucked out.

Eating dinner with Len, the captain. A good wine. Better food by far than they get from the galley. Len cooked it on a hot plate. He offers Alex a black cigar. “No thanks.” “Havanas. You soon won't see these in America anymore.” “Ah, why not? You mind if I don't smoke it but give it to my dad when I get home?” “You bet. Anything for your old man. He took care of my teeth when I was a kid, you know. Maybe why I have so few, but that's all right.” Holds up his glass. Alex holds up his. “To my precious wife and kids in Cuba and six teeth, at last count, I didn't have to pay for,” and they drink. “To my parents and sister and—oh, I don't know how to toast,” Alex says, when the intercom buzzes. “Yes? Holy shit,” and some nautical terms, sounding like instructions. Tells Alex to quickly get his warmest clothes on, several pairs of socks, cap that fits over his ears, gloves if he has. “Ship might be sinking. Don't worry. We've plenty of time to get into the boats if we have to, and I got to get you back alive and well or I'll never hear the end of it from my old man.” Alex runs to his cabin. Bells sounding. Gets his coat, sweater, hat, socks, scarf, fountain pen, ballpoint pens, memobook, sticks what he thinks are his best new manuscripts inside his shirt, picks up his typewriter in its case and wonders if he should try to take it. For the trip he borrowed Howard's portable in exchange for his standard. “Hustle,” someone says. “Worse than they thought. Forget all that crap. Just the sweater and cap. Len sent me down to get you in one minute.” Entire crew's upstairs. Len says to them “Unbelievable as this is to believe, believe it: the ship's splitting apart. For real. Right down the middle. We didn't hit anything nor I think do anything that wicked or impious on this crossing to whip up the cussedness of the gods. It happens to about one transoceanic ship a year and we seem to be this year's catch. But our boats are in good order, sturdily built and well stocked right down to the prescriptive quart per man of hundred-proof rum. We'll get ten in one, eight in another, five plus oversize me in the smallest. Well stay close together but not that close to risk ramming one another. Each boat's equipped with an emergency distress signal,” or whatever it's called. “Because of the signals we're still putting out and the heavy traffic of this sea lane, I'm reasonably cheerful a ship, even if we haven't pinpointed our location”—or whatever's the expression—“in two days, will pick us up in ten to twelve hours. So hold out, don't start cannibalizing or throwing one another overboard just yet. If we survive the killer wind, rain and cold that's in store for us out there, well have come through something almost unheard of, whatever good that'll do us. Good luck. I love you all and loved sailing with you. Alex, you come with me,” and they get in the boats and lower them or lower them and get in, Alex's last. His is overturned a few minutes after it's in the water. He tries reaching the boat but the waves keep moving it farther away, or him away from it. Water so cold he can hardly use his limbs a minute into it. “Over here,” he yells. “Save me, please get me, it's Alex,” just as others are yelling to be saved; most in Spanish. “Where are you, we can't see you, keep yelling so we can find you,” other men yell to them, most in Spanish. Then so numb he can't do anything to keep himself up or yell he's there, and sinks. Held his breath and tries getting his head out of the water, but nothing he does pushes it through. His breath breaks, water rushes into his nose and mouth, spits our some, more than what he spit comes in, tries kicking and flapping to get above water, chokes, gags, retches.

Assisting the cook with the ship's supper when the ship jolts, then an explosion. Alarms, bells, the cook says “They say ‘Emergency, straight to deck, no stopping in your cabin.'” He's assigned to one of the boats. It's lowered and breaks apart when it hits the water. Or they can't lower it. They cut lines, clip chains, boat still won't lower. Or the boat's in the water and he tries climbing down to it but falls into the water. Or dives in to reach another boat, since none's left on ship, and water's so cold his heart stops, or he has a cardiac arrest or shock, or whatever happens in a heart failure or attack, when he hits the water. Or water so cold he can't come up from the dive. Paralyzes him and he just sinks. Or he's underwater, swimming up. Holds his breath long as he can, but he dove too deep and his mouth bursts.

Huge iceberg hits the ship while he's climbing an outside stairway and knocks him into the water. Or while he's leaning on a stern railing, smoking a cigarette and looking at the water. Or hits the ship while he's sleeping. Cuts right through it to his cabin. There might have been emergency sirens and bells warning of the approaching iceberg, but he slept right through them. He doesn't wake up or feel anything. Slams through so hard and fast he's killed instantly or knocked unconscious while he's reading in bed or further unconscious in his sleep, and drowns without waking. Or wakes for a second or two underwater, goes into shock or coma from the freezing water and drowns without coming out of it. Or wakes while he's thrown from the stairs or his bunk or over or through the railing into the water, blacks out a few seconds after he hits the water and drowns almost instantly or is dead from the impact of the iceberg or being thrown through the railing, before he hits the water.

Ship splits apart just where he's sleeping. Happens so fast he never even senses it. Sleeping, suddenly ship's in two. Ship might have hit something. Or it was some unseen or neglected flaw in its structure that took ten to twenty years to materialize this way. He drops several decks, never wakes up. Is dreaming while he's in bed and while the bunk drops with him in it to the ocean. Of the city, night, stars, flying, gliding, then drowning. In the dream he tries swimming to the surface, then is one of the other crew members on watch seeing his head emerge from the water.

He was sitting on a kitchen chair in Jerry's small living room. Jerry's wife Iris nursed their first child on a couch across from him. Suckling and smacking sounds irritated him. Been irritated by certain repeated or oral or eating sounds like that long as he can remember. Finger drumming. Watermelon and carrot crunching. Couples doing some heated kissing in theaters. Soup-slurping, fingernail clipping, gum-snapping, nervous foot-tapping, snoring, dripping faucets, heavy breathing in sleep (even his kids'). Jerry sat in the rocker Iris usually nursed in, said the ship was long overdue and it didn't look good. “It stinks, to be honest. I hate thinking the worst but I'm thinking it. Some emergency distress signals—I forget the exact technical term the Coast Guard spokesman used; in fact that could have been it—were heard in that general area, but briefly—You OK?” Howard nodded. “That doesn't mean their ship sent them. Another freighter in the same general area could have been testing out its signal-making machine. Any kind of ship. A Coast Guard cutter, for instance, though of course this spokesman would have mentioned if one had been in the area at the time. God, that would have been a miracle, wouldn't it?” Howard looked up. “For one to have been there, on a routine cruise, let's say—east, going west, out there to spy on Soviet submarines, who the hell cares, so long as it saved them. Not a cutter but a regular-sized Coast Guard or Navy ship just miles away—fifty to a hundred miles, even, for those babies move fast. Anyway, the signals were so weak, the spokesman said, that they more than likely came from a much smaller windup crank-type version of this machine on a lifeboat.” Howard looked confused. “I'm saying it could have come, these weak distress signals, from a lifeboat launched from Alex's ship. From his lifeboat, even—why not? The machine was battery operated, probably. Though maybe not. Maybe the manual cranking does the operating. I wish I knew more about boats. It could have been a practice drill, everyone to his station and so on, with designated men testing all the ship's emergency distress signals. The spokesman doubts that. He said there would have been an all-clear signal immediately after the distress run. But it was a terrific storm they were in, one of the worst there in years, so maybe Len wanted to be extra cautious and tried out all the distress-signal machines, or just the ones on the lifeboats, and the all-clear signal was never heard by anyone. It's something he might do, from what Dad's said about him. He's an iconoclast, goes his own way always. He once ran guns for Nationalist or Red China; supposedly fought against and then bought off his execution by Thai pirates. But a great captain, I was told—something in our favor. One of the youngest ever to get his master's license for that size ship. He could have been a doctor, a physicist, Dad days. Chose water. But you can see why I think the situation's getting almost hopeless. Since we're talking here about several weak emergency distress signals most likely sent from a lifeboat, one out of who knows how many on that ship, during an unbelievably terrible storm seven, maybe eight days ago.”