Kiss River (14 page)

She studied Clay’s profile, outlined by the light of the moon. His features were straight and sharp, the nearly transparent blue eyes she had thought of as icy cool were now an amazing un
derwater blue in the moonlight. She rarely noticed men’s looks these days, and until this moment, she had not seen the beauty in Clay’s face. He had spoken with such warmth about his sister and father and mother, and that touched something deep inside her. She didn’t think she had ever met a man so caring about his family. She hadn’t thought that sort of man existed.
You don’t know him,
she told herself.
They all seem good in the beginning.

Could she ask him about Terri? About his marriage? She was about to open her mouth to do so when a star suddenly shot across the sky, a short distance above the horizon. They both saw it, both sucked in their breath in wonder.

“It’s great up here, isn’t it?” he asked. “I love coming here after work.”

It suddenly occurred to her that she had stolen his personal refuge. She’d moved in and had made this top step her own, never thinking that perhaps he or Lacey had found the same private haven up here as she had.

“Clay…have I taken your place up here? I mean, is this where you like to come in the evenings for some time alone?”

“It’s not a problem,” he said, and she knew her suspicion was right. He stood up. “And you can have it to yourself for the rest of the night, if you like,” he said. “I’ve got to go over to the dive shop to get my equipment ready for tomorrow.”

“Dive shop?” she asked.

“Scuba.” He took a couple of steps down the spiral staircase, then turned to hand her his flashlight.

“Be careful,” she said. “Do you want me to shine this down the inside of the stairs for you?”

“I’ll be fine, thanks,” he said. “Don’t get eaten alive up here. Good night.”

That was fast, she thought. Suddenly, he couldn’t get away from her quickly enough, as if he knew the questions she’d been about to ask. She ached a little for him as she listened to him descending the stairs. He’d lost both his mother and his wife. Rani’s picture burned hard in her pocket, and she had to remind herself that she was not the only person hurting in the world.

T
here was something about being underwater that made Clay feel as if he was flying. He had flown in planes, of course, and in gliders and hang gliders, but he would take this sense of graceful, slow-motion flight over those experiences any day.

He and Kenny were exploring the wreck of the
Byron D. Benson,
a four-hundred-and-sixty-five-foot tanker sunk by a German U-boat sixty years earlier. The
Benson
was not one of the more popular wreck dives in the Outer Banks, and today they had it to themselves. The broken vessel lay on its side one hundred and ten feet below the water’s surface. It had long ago been stripped of its artifacts, of course, but the marine life both in and on the ship was enough to make it interesting. The ocean bottom here was like an underwater desert, an empty expanse of sand. The wreck gave the sea urchins, anemones, crabs and all variety of fish shelter, something to attach to, to feed from, and the vessel literally pulsed with life in the current.

This was Clay’s fifty-fourth dive, but compared to Kenny, he was a novice. Kenny’s work in marine construction took him un
derwater more often than not, and he’d almost certainly lost track of how many dives he’d made over the years. For Clay, diving was pure recreation. He enjoyed swimming in and out of the wreck, watching the fish dart back into the crevices as he floated by, but more than anything, he loved simply flying above the wreckage, from one twisted, decaying end to the other, his hands relaxed at his sides, his legs doing the work of propelling him. There was no better way to slip away from the real world than to sink into this unreal one.

Yet, after they’d been down twenty minutes or so, and they’d seen two tiger sharks and a manta ray and watched a huge, bulky sea turtle swim out from one of the ragged tears in the ship’s hull, Clay’s mind began to drift back to the night before, when he’d sat on the lighthouse steps with Gina.

God, she was beautiful. She’d been little more than a silhouette in the moonlight when he spotted her there last night, her long hair tossed around her shoulders by the breeze. Yes, she’d been right that she’d stolen his refuge from him; he’d loved the privacy of the lighthouse in the evenings. But he’d felt no resentment when he saw her there. Instead, he’d felt an unexpected longing to be next to her. To be close enough to touch her. He’d been surprised to discover that he wanted to talk to her.
Really
talk. She’d asked him questions, making it easy. He’d been afraid of how much he was saying and had to remind himself that he was a private person, not one to divulge his thoughts and feelings easily.

He could tell that she didn’t want to talk about herself. She’d asked questions to keep from revealing her own answers. Who was she, really? A woman who suddenly appeared in their backyard, who lived three thousand miles away and yet seemed consumed with one little part of the Atlantic Ocean, who claimed to be a teacher and a lighthouse historian, who had been married but who described that marriage as “not very good.” There were questions he wanted to ask her. Nothing deep. Questions any man would ask any woman he met at a bar, for example, questions tossed out casually, thoughtlessly. But he couldn’t bring himself to ask them of her, because he feared her answers would tell him something he didn’t want to hear, or worse, pull him even closer to her.

When they had finished their dive, they stored their gear in the
back of Kenny’s red pickup truck, then drove to Shorty’s for lunch. They found a booth near the front door and as they took their seats, Clay searched the restaurant for Gina. Even though Kenny didn’t even know of Gina’s existence, he spotted her before Clay did. Clay watched his friend’s gaze shift from him to the air behind his head, and when he turned to see what he was looking at, he wasn’t surprised to see Gina waiting on the next table.

“Hey, Gina,” he said across the top of the booth.

She looked surprised, then broke into a smile. “Hi, Clay,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” She glanced at Kenny. “I’ll be with you two in a minute.”

Clay turned around to face his incredulous friend.

“You know her?” Kenny leaned across the table to whisper.

“Know her?” Clay whispered back. “I’m living with her.”

Kenny’s eyes widened. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked.

“She’s a lighthouse historian,” he explained. “She showed up one day at the Kiss River light and needed a place to stay for a while. So Lacey and I offered her a room.”

“Man, how are you standing it?” Kenny leaned back, talking a bit louder now that Gina had walked away from the next table. “I wouldn’t be able to eat. I’d never sleep. I’d walk into walls. I’d—”

“I’m in a different place from you,” Clay reminded him.

“Right,” Kenny acknowledged. “But maybe this is like God telling you to move on. I mean, could the message be any clearer?”

“It’s only been eight months, Kenny.”

“Right,” Kenny said again, backing off.

“What about you, though?” Clay asked. The thought of hooking Gina up with Kenny gave him a vicarious thrill, and if they hit it off, maybe Clay could stop thinking about her. “She’s unattached,” he said. “You’re an ugly son of a bitch, but maybe she can overlook that.”

“I’m in,” Kenny said.

Clay gave him the thumbs-up sign as Gina approached their table.

“How was diving?” she asked, her hands holding the pad and pencil on the table. Her hair was up, the long tresses tucked into
one another at the back of her head. He wished Kenny could see her hair down, but it hardly mattered. She would be gorgeous bald.

“It was great,” Clay said. “Gina, this is Kenny, my diving buddy.”

“Hi, Kenny.” She smiled at him, and for the first time in his life, Kenny seemed to have nothing to say. Usually wildly flirtatious, Kenny could only nod his greeting.

“We’ve known each other since kindergarten,” Clay said to Gina.

“Really? That’s so nice.” She sounded sincere. “Nice to live in one place long enough to have friends who’ve known you forever.” She lifted the pad and pencil. “What can I get for you two?” she asked.

Once they’d ordered their burgers and fries, Gina walked away and Kenny let out a long breath.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I want her.”

“You’ll have to be able to say at least a few words to her, then,” Clay teased.

“Why?” Kenny grinned. “That’s not what I want her for.”

Clay laughed, but he felt suddenly protective. “You can’t have her, then,” he said. “She’s not that sort of woman.” Although the truth was, he didn’t know what sort of woman was living with him at Kiss River.

It was ridiculous to think she’d be interested in someone like Kenny, Clay realized. Gina was quiet and cerebral, Kenny a garrulous hedonist. She was far more like him than she was like Kenny, secretive and closed in on herself. Sometimes, he felt like a ghost, unfeeling and invisible, moving through the world without really touching it or being touched by it. And now there were two of them in the keeper’s house. It took one ghost to recognize another.

Sunday, April 5, 1942

L
ast night, Mama, Daddy and I were in the living room, the two of them huddled by the radio and me on the settee, reading. I closed my book, ready to go up to bed, where I would wait until my parents went to sleep before sneaking out to the beach, when there was a sudden terrible BOOM from outside. The windows shook, and three books jumped right out of the bookshelf onto the floor. Mama and I looked at each other, and Daddy got to his feet and walked outside, looking toward the sea. We followed him quickly, climbing up the lighthouse stairs after him, and I guess we’d all been expecting the sight that met our eyes once we stepped out onto the gallery.

There, out in the pitch-black sea, was a vivid red glow. Another ship was burning, this one far too close for comfort. There was no moon, but the glow from the ship spread and spread until it was almost like daylight outside. It reminded me of being up on the gallery toward the end of a brilliant sunset, when the whole world turns scarlet. I started to cry and shake. Really, I couldn’t control my body. I felt like my whole world was chang
ing. My safety was gone. I was standing with the two people who had done their best to bring me up and keep me safe all my life, and there wasn’t a darn thing they could do to save me or anyone else from what those Germans were doing to us. Mama put her arm around me and I let her. I was too upset to protest. All three of us were real quiet as we watched that ship burn.

“Those men are being incinerated alive,” my father said. It occurred to me that the Coast Guard would be going out to help those seamen. My heart started thumping even faster in my chest. I knew Sandy would be on one of those boats and I could tell even from where I was standing how dangerous it would be out there. Not just the tanker, but the ocean all around it was on fire from spilt oil. I remembered something Sandy told me, about how Coast Guardsmen had to go out but there was nothing to say they had to come back.

I have become the best darn liar in North Carolina. Nearly every night in the week and a half since I met him, I have been with Sandy, and no one knows. Not a soul. None of his Coast Guard buddies. Certainly not my parents, although it’s their house I sneak out of every night and don’t come back to until three in the morning. No one’s even said I look tired. I think I’m one of those people who don’t need much sleep. I don’t feel tired at all. As a matter of fact, I feel wide-awake all day, but my concentration is pretty bad, I have to admit. In school, all I think about is Sandy.

I’m in love. I keep thinking to myself, “So
this
is what it feels like!” Those feelings I’d had for Jimmy Brown seem silly, the longings of a little girl. This is so different. And I knew last night that I really loved Sandy, because the thought of him being in any danger just about made me crazy with worry.

“I’m going to go out and see if I can help,” my father said.

Mama looked upset and she put a hand on his arm. “No, Caleb,” she said. “Please don’t.” It was the strangest thing. There were tears in her eyes, glittery red and gold tears from the reflection of the flames, and all of a sudden I understood my mother better. I could see how much she loves Daddy, and now I understand how that feels. You want the person you love to be safe, to not have to face anything hard or dangerous or frightening. I wanted to hug Mama just then, but of course I didn’t.

My father looked as though he was rethinking his plan. He is
getting pretty old. I thought he should just let the young men take care of this. So I added to Mama’s plea and asked him not to go.

“Let’s do this, then,” he said. “Let’s take some food and coffee and blankets over to the Coast Guard station. Those boys are going to need more than they have over there. And the survivors will need that kind of help, too.”

We all three of us looked out at that burning ship, and I’m sure they were thinking the same as me, that it was doubtful there would be any survivors at all.

So we put everything we could find into the car, and if Mama wondered why the wool blanket I secretly dragged out to the beach every night was sandy and damp, she said nothing about it. We drove south, following the tracks in the sand along the beach until we reached the Coast Guard station. The smell of fire was in the air. It was chaos there. Men were running back and forth from the station to the cutters, and it seemed like all of them were shouting. Everyone’s face was colored an orangy red from the fire, even though the tanker was really farther out to sea than I’d thought. We carried the things we’d brought with us into the station and were jostled left and right by men running past us. I looked for Sandy and for other people I knew, like Jimmy or Teddy Pearson, or Ralph Salmon or Mr. Hewitt, but everyone’s face seemed like a blur in that red glow.

Daddy said we should just leave the things we brought and get out of the way. Other neighbors were there as well, with the same idea we’d had of bringing supplies for the survivors, and it was clear we were all in the way. As I turned to leave, I saw Sandy. He ran right past me toward one of the cutters and I know he saw me, but his eyes quickly shifted away from mine. He was right to do that, to not let on that he knew me, yet it was so hard to be that close to him in that moment of tragedy and not give him a hug. He looked determined and brave, but I remembered how scared he had been by a silly old horse on the beach. I knew he must have been really scared and upset right then.

Today, I did not go to church. I told Mama and Daddy I just didn’t feel like it and they didn’t argue with me one bit. The tanker is still out there. It’s called the
Byron D. Benson,
and I’m afraid it’s going to float like this for days. Black smoke is still pouring
out of it, and the whole sky is a sickening, choking ashy color. I know from the radio that some men were saved last night, but not near as many as were on that ship. I am dying to talk to Sandy.

I’m spending today helping my parents hang some heavy curtains that are supposed to keep the U-boats from seeing the lights in our house and that make me feel like I’m living in a funeral parlor. I helped Daddy put black tape on the headlights of our car. We left just a little slit for the light to come through. As of today, no one’s allowed to drive on the beach anymore, except the Coast Guard jeeps. We finally have that dimout the Coast Guard’s been wanting all this time.

Mama’s back to her usual yelling at me.

“Don’t ever peek out from these curtains,” she said while we were hanging them. “One peek can cost the lives of hundreds of men.”

Teddy Pearson came over to our house this morning and told us not to go out on the beach today. He went to all the houses around here to tell people to stay away, and I know why. They wanted to pick up all the bodies first. I wonder if Sandy will be on his patrol tonight?

Monday, April 6, 1942

Last night, I met Sandy on the beach. Usually, I walk his patrol with him, since he is careful not to let my being there distract him from his job, but tonight he just wanted to sit.

He is wounded. Nobody shot him or cut him or anything, but he is wounded just the same. I think it’s even worse when the wound is inside you and you can’t bandage it or treat it with medicine. He was real quiet with me at first and when I asked him why, he said he didn’t want to tell me about last night. What happened wasn’t fit for my ears, he said.

Sandy and I have talked about a lot of things. Our families, how we were brought up and all. He told me how he grew up so poor that sometimes there’d be nothing to eat for two days. He never got presents for Christmas or his birthday. His father is dead and his mama takes in laundry, and that is all the money
they had to live on. He has a dream of making a good salary someday, although he’s not sure what he will do to earn it. His eyes light up when he talks about having money. I’ve never felt that way about money myself, but I can understand how, if you’ve been really poor, it could seem like the answer to all your prayers. Anyway, as I was saying, what Sandy and I do most is talk. We’ve kissed a couple of times, but nothing more than that, and even though I’d like more than that, that is not what is most important about the two of us being together. It’s the talking with him that I love. I like that I can say just about anything to him.

So I told him that, and then I told him I wanted to know what he’d been through last night. I said I cared about him and wanted to know what had happened. I came close to telling him I love him, but I was afraid how he’d react to that. He looked at me for a long time as if he was deciding whether to tell me or not, but then he did.

He said how they went all the way out to the ship in the cutter, how the air was hot and the flames so bright he had to squint to be able to see the ship. New explosions kept getting set off and it was like a fireworks show, he said. There was a slick of oil on the water that was on fire, too, so they couldn’t get too close. A couple other ships were there trying to rescue the men, and all around them were the screams of the sailors from the ship.

A lot of men jumped or fell into the burning water. He could see them falling, and he was close enough to see how scared they were. “The men in the water were screaming for us to help them,” he said. “And we couldn’t do nothing about it.” I think that’s what hurt him the most, that helplessness.

He told me they circled around the ship in the cutter, trying to get close enough to pick up the survivors, but the burning oil made it impossible. Then he told me the worst thing, the thing he didn’t want to say for fear of upsetting me.

“There was this one man who was badly burned and who was clinging to a board,” he told me. “He reached an arm up above the water, begging us to save him. There was too much oil on the water there, but we couldn’t just leave him. We moved close enough that I could reach over and grab his hand. But the skin
on his hand just came off in my hand and he fell under the water. I was left just holding that burned shell of his hand.”

Can you imagine? I felt as sick as he did, hearing about it. I put my arm around his shoulders and just hung on to him. He wasn’t crying, at least not on the outside, but I knew he was all beat up inside.

There were some survivors and they are at the hospital in Norfolk. Sandy said the FBI is interviewing them, trying to see if one of the crew might have tipped off the Germans. “It’s ridiculous,” Sandy said. “No one has to tip off the Germans. There’re so many boats out there and the lights on the beach just make them sitting ducks.”

“The dimout will help, then,” I said. I wanted so much to find a way to comfort him.

“It damn well better,” he said. “We can’t go on this way. Right now, the Germans own this ocean.”

We sat there for a long time, then, not saying a word. I rubbed his back the way I see Mama rub Daddy’s sometimes, but we didn’t talk. And I didn’t leave until the sky started getting lighter, when we could see the
Byron Benson
drifting near the horizon, two plumes of black smoke still rising up from amidships to haunt us.