Rain of the Ghosts (10 page)

Joe’s tongue took a quick circuit around his lips. “And there were fatalities, you know?” This time, he didn’t look at the two kids to make sure they understood. He knew they couldn’t. Not really. Not the way he did. Not at their age. Not in the world they lived in now.
But that’s a good thing,
he reminded himself.
That’s why we fought.

He searched his mind for his train of thought. Caught it and boarded. “But here we were—ten of us—still together after twenty-five sorties. I got a little chopped up on that last flight, but we were all alive and eager to head back to the States. ‘Bastian just wanted a little fanfare for the journey.

“So he talked to the brass and convinced them we could still be of use to the war effort. They sent the
Belle
on a tour of the States to help sell War Bonds. There were ten stops. One for every member of the crew. We’d each get a chance to be the big man in our own hometown, or at least at the closest airfield.”

Rain looked down at the
Belle
’s crew in her hand. In her mind, the flashbulb went off and the ten sepia-toned men came to life, shaking hands, patting each other on the back. Everyone’s extra solicitous of the injured tail gunner, until the young man growls, “Leave me alone. I’m fine, see?” Then their captain steps forward, tilts his hat back with casual arrogance and says, “Boys, have I got a surprise for you.…”

“Lance and Tommy and Pete, they didn’t like the idea. They just wanted to go home and stay home. But it sounded good to the rest of us heroes, and even the naysayers weren’t gonna say nay to ’Bastian. Heck, I was so excited I talked the docs into letting me go along, head injury or no head injury. ’Course I had pneumonia by the time we got to New York—that’s where I’m from, you know; my dad piloted the Staten Island Ferry for forty-three years.”

“So you missed the rest of the mission,” Rain said.

Old Joe lapsed into silence, allowing his eyes to gaze inward again. Trying to fill the void, Charlie volunteered, “Sorry.”

Joe chuckled ruefully and removed his Sycorax pilot’s cap. He rubbed a pudgy hand over his sweating weathered face and through his thin gray hair. He replaced the cap. Rain watched his tongue sweep his lips over and over. The small humid room smelled of oil, the sea and ’Bastian’s aftershave. The smells pushed in on Joe and Rain and Charlie, tightened around them, close. Joe spoke again, but he still wasn’t ready to proceed. “We’re docking at Sycorax, and I need to concentrate. Go get some air and we can finish talkin’ on the trip back.”

Rain tried to make room for his memories: “Something happened after New York. Something you missed.”

Joe nodded curtly. “I’ll tell you on the way back.” It was clearly the final word. Rain wasn’t good with final words. Her mouth opened in protest.

Joe growled to cut her off, “On the way back!” He looked sick. Dizzy.

Reluctantly, Rain allowed Charlie to pull her out of the cabin. They retreated to the deck, where Charlie seized the moment and handed her back her school supplies. Rain slipped the framed photo of the
Island Belle
’s crew into the shopping bag. Neither spoke; they just leaned on the rail as Joe gently glided the hulking ferry into its Sycorax Island berth.

Suddenly, Charlie perked up. “Hey, Miranda!”

Rain looked around but didn’t—

“Charlie?!” Rain followed the voice and spotted their new friend. She was walking along the wide pier with that Ariel following a few feet behind her. The two kept pace with the ferry as it slowly docked. “What are you guys doing here?” Miranda shouted.

Chasing ghosts,
thought Rain.

Charlie answered quickly: “Just taking a boat ride. How ’bout you? You working here?”

“I live here.”

Rain and Charlie exchanged another odd look. Rain said quietly, “Nobody lives on Sycorax.” It was largely true. Sycorax was the Ghosts’ only privately held island, the one-hundred-percent property of Sycorax Inc. Lots of people worked on Sycorax—at the processing plants or the factories. Old Joe ferried them over every morning and ferried them home to San Próspero every night.
But who would live here?
Rain wondered.

The ferryboat stopped with a lurch. Miranda called up to them: “Are you coming ashore?”

“We can’t,” Rain said. Even at this distance, she could sense Miranda’s disappointment. “But we’ll see you tonight at the party, right?”

Miranda smiled and nodded. She hesitated before speaking again and her smile saddened. “Rain, I’m so sorry about your grandfather. I didn’t know if I should come to the funeral. I mean we haven’t known each other very long. I didn’t know if it was appropriate.…”

“It’s okay,” Rain said. “There were too many people anyway. I booked early.”

Charlie piped in, “It’s true. She ditched.”

Movement behind her caught Rain’s eye. She turned and saw new passengers boarding. She was immediately restless. She wanted—needed—to get back to Joe. She turned to Miranda. “We have to talk to the pilot. I’ll see you later.” And like a ghost, Rain vanished from the railing.

Not for the first time, Charlie felt the need to apologize for his single-minded friend. “Sorry. She’s like that.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“You’ll get used to her. It’s mostly worth it. Mostly.”

Miranda laughed.

Charlie looked back over his shoulder. Rain was probably already knocking on Joe’s door. “Look, I have to catch up. See you tonight!”

“Okay. Bye.” Miranda watched as Charlie backpedaled, waved and turned from the railing. Then he was gone too. She stood there for a moment, replaying the entire exchange in her mind. She was pretty sure they liked her. She just wasn’t yet a part of their world.

As an afterthought, she turned to Ariel. The blond woman stood there like a work of art, a figure bursting with life that had been captured and held forever in a moment of time made fixed and permanent. But Miranda didn’t take particular notice of that particular tension. She was used to her companion. “Can you take me back and forth to San Próspero tonight?”

Ariel, maintaining her resemblance to a marble statue, said nothing.

“My father won’t mind,” Miranda said.

Almost imperceptibly, Ariel nodded.

“Thanks.” A pleased Miranda turned and watched the ferry pull away.

Charlie rapped twice on the door to the pilot’s cabin. Joe reached back and opened it. Charlie slipped inside. Joe was talking. Rain stood there rapt.

“The
Belle
’s second-to-last stop was Oxford, Mississippi, which Pete said was ‘a mule ride’ from his Pa’s farm. Lots of folks came out to see the local hero, his compadres and the
Island Belle
. Everyone was treated like royalty, see? The mayor hosted a barbecue. A big party. Pete’s parents and his little brother were there, beaming at their boy. Pete really didn’t want to leave them again. And by this time, a bunch of the men wanted to go home. Each stop on the tour had made them miss their old lives more and more.

“But ’Bastian wanted us to see the Keys before we all went our separate ways. He was proud of these islands and wanted to show his boys a good time, Ghost-style. ‘One last mission,’ he said, ‘one last flight and you can all go home.’”

“But you weren’t there,” Rain interrupted, confused.

“No. I was still in New York. I was hoping to meet them down here.”

“Then how do you—”

“’Bastian told me. When it was over. All over. He said, ‘I’ll tell you exactly once, Joe. But don’t ever ask me again.’ And so he told me. The whole thing. What I’m telling you now. But we never talked about it again. Not the war. Not this. None of it. I moved down here. And we were friends. But as far as he was concerned, life began in 1946.”

Rain nodded. Solemn. Joe’s tongue took another sojourn around his lips.

“The
Belle
left Mississippi and headed southwest. She was supposed to land at the naval base over on Tío Samuel. Your grandfather was piloting. Tommy was riding shotgun. Bear Mitchell had set their course down below, but there wasn’t much for him to do now except compose dirty limericks. Lance was at his station with the radio on, but no one was talking. Pete would stick his head into the cockpit every once in a while. It was a habit he’d picked up from being top turret gunner. The rest had nothing to do but sleep a little, if they could. A B-17 bomber is built for combat not comfort. It’s loud, uninsulated, cramped. I don’t miss that. Just the guys.

“It was raining. They were flying into a storm. A day later that storm would be reclassified a hurricane and dubbed
Santa Julia
, but the
Belle
’s crew had no idea then it would get that bad.”

There was no music in Rain’s head. No sound except Joe’s voice. But she could see it. ’Bastian at the controls. Tommy in the next seat. Pete leaning in. Rain beating down. Lightning lighting up the cockpit like a hundred flashbulbs. But no thunder. Not yet.

“It was a bumpy ride. But still no indication from the Navy that they should turn back. They got close. Real close. But Julia … Well, the way ’Bastian put it, Julia made her presence known. Lightning hit the wing. An engine caught fire. The
Belle
started to augur in. ’Bastian and Tommy fought to keep her aloft, but the gale flipped her right over. They went down between San Próspero and Tío Sam’s.

“Sweetie, your granddad was the only survivor.”

Rain looked at her Papa, hanging on the bulkhead amid his smiling crew.

Joe took a deep breath and finished. “Sebastian Bohique was not a man to harbor regrets. He figured you took what life gave you, made your choices and lived with ’em. But this was different, see? He felt he kept those boys from going home. I didn’t blame him; the Navy didn’t blame him; the Army Air Corps didn’t blame him; even the families didn’t blame him. But he blamed himself. That’s the one regret he took to his grave.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE LAST SUMMER RAIN

Rain and Charlie walked slowly down the beach under the late afternoon’s waning sun. She spoke quietly, almost to herself: “It all makes sense now. ’Bastian appearing. His buddies looking out to sea. He needed to set things right; he needed my help, and I let him down.”

“Rain…”

“But why appear to me? Why not to my mom? Or to Old Joe, who would have understood? Or to anyone who would have handled it better?”

She stopped, turned and stepped in front of a worried Charlie. “The armband’s the key. I know it is. And that means if I can get it back, I may still be able to get
him
back.”

Charlie looked miserable. “Rain, let it go. Come to the party tonight and forget all this. It’s … it’s nuts!”

“I know how it sounds, but…” She stopped, looked around helplessly, then attempted to gather her thoughts. When she spoke again, her voice sounded fragile in a way Charlie had never heard before. “My world got smaller without him in it.”

He wanted to reach out, at least put a hand on her shoulder. But he was afraid and then surprised and vaguely electrified when she put
her
hands on
his
shoulders. “That last night before, before he … he said the armband would make me feel part of something larger. I don’t know if I believed him then. But I believe him now. And I need you to believe too. I said I didn’t, but I lied. I can’t do this without you.”

Charlie stared at her for a long moment with his mouth hanging open.
Does she get what she’s asking? How am I supposed to believe
any
of this?
And yet despite himself, his mouth began to curve into a smile. “How can I help?” he said finally.

Rain smiled back. She linked her arm in his and propelled them both down the beach. “I don’t have a clue,” she said.

“Your magic number is fifty-seven,” Maq said, employing just enough volume to grab the kids’ attention. We were about thirty yards further down the beach, entertaining tourists for quarters.

“Bernie, that’s your age!” Maude Cohen squealed.

“Then that’ll be a quarter,” Maq replied. He smiled at me, and I smiled back, as Bernie Cohen, wearing a new but equally loud Hawaiian shirt, hurried to pull a quarter out of the pocket of his Bermuda shorts.

Eagerly anticipating her turn, Maude pushed at her fumbling husband. “Give him the quarter, Bernie.” And when he had, she turned on Maq: “Now, do me!”

Maq tipped back his old straw hat. He grinned broadly at Maude. “Your magic number is 171.”

Bernie, impressed, said, “Maude, that’s your—”

“Just give him the quarter, Bernie.”

Rain and Charlie approached. Maq absently called out, “Hey, Rain.” And I watched him pocket the second quarter as a fuming Maude pulled her husband toward the parking lot.

“Hey, Maq,” Rain said.

I was lying on my stomach on the sand, and Rain crouched down beside me, while Maq and Charlie exchanged greetings. She rubbed my head then scratched between my ears, asking, “And how is Opie today?” in a cutesy baby-talk voice. Coming from anyone else, I’d have been annoyed.

“Your magic number is nine, Rain.”

“What?” She looked up, confused.

Maq started to back away up the beach. Reluctantly, I pushed myself up onto my feet and padded after him. He moved pretty fast for an old guy. I had to run to catch up.

“Your magic number’s nine,” he called back. “And I’m giving you that for free.”

Perplexed, she remained in mid-crouch for an easy ten seconds, watching us skip along the water’s edge among the baby waves in the fading light. Finally she stood and faced Charlie. “Is it me or has my life gone totally strange all of a sudden?”

“Option C,” he answered evenly. “All of the above.”

They made their way back to the Inn. The sun was setting and a fine mist had swept in from the ocean. Someone somewhere was eating popcorn; its carnival smell drifted in with the slight breeze. Charlie paused on the Inn’s front steps and held out his hand. Raindrops dotted his skin. He said morosely, “Rain’s gonna spoil the party.”

Rain looked at him. He said, “And, yes, I do mean you.” She stuck out her tongue.

Smiling, they entered the lobby, and Rain’s smile froze. Callahan was checking out, settling his tab with Rain’s mother. Rain’s entire body stiffened. She glowered at him as hard as she could. He glanced her way, grunted dismissively and turned back to Iris. “Hi,” Rain said to her mom, while trying to put just the right amount of challenge into the word for Callahan. “Hi” was a tough word to make challenging.