The Surprise of His Life (27 page)

"No
more for me, Mom. I've had enough."

"What
about a sandwich? I could fix you a sand—"

"I'm
not hungry. Really. Why don't you come sit down?"

"I
don't want to sit down. I can't sit down." With this, Bunny stood and took
the dirty coffeepot to the sink, where she immediately began to clean it. The
cups and saucers followed. Prior to washing the coffeepot, she'd scrubbed the
cabinet, watered the hanging basket of ivy and put a load of clothes in the
washing machine. "The psychologist I'm seeing says that I control life
through activity. As long as I'm busy, doing the things I'm comfortable with,
doing the things that comprise a normal life, then nothing bad will happen to
me. I mean, I know it can, but I've chosen to believe that it can't."

Despite
the worry nibbling at her stomach, Lindsey smiled. "We all play games,
Mom. They help to get us through life."

Games.
Was she playing games by holding on to the hope that she and Walker could yet
be a couple, games like close your eyes to reality, games like pretend and
it'll happen? Did she love him so much that she just couldn't envision life
without him as her husband, as the father of her children?

"Walker
won't marry me," she heard herself saying. At the look her mother sent
her, she said, "He thinks it wouldn't be fair to me."

"Is
he right?"

In
some far corner of her mind, Lindsey realized how odd the question was and not
at all what she'd expected as her mother's response. The simple query demanded
that she search deeper into her heart. Had Walker simply presented a reality
that she chose to ignore? Was she playing another game with herself? Was she so
young that she couldn't conceive that time would alter her feelings for him?
Would the age difference, which even now was not inconsequential, become even a
greater barrier as time wore on? She thought of her life five years, ten years,
twenty-five years down the road. Could she imagine her life without Walker?

"No!"
she said, in defiance to the barren life stretching before her, to the question
her mother had asked. "He isn't right."

Bunny
crossed the room and reseated herself. She took her daughter's hand. "Love
isn't always perfect," she said. "You don't always get it the way you
want it. Sometimes you take it the way you can get it."

"Is
that what you're willing to do? Take Dad any way you can get him?"

"Right
now, Lindsey, all I want is to see him again. Right now all I want to know is
that he's alive." Except for a slight quaver, Bunny's voice was strong,
the voice of a woman who'd reduced life to its lowest common denominator. That
simplification had strengthened Bunny, as, indeed, had the events of the past
weeks.

Seeing
her father again was all Lindsey wanted, too. Glancing outside, she realized
that night was only hours away. The thought of her father lost at sea, at
night, in the midst of a storm, caused an arrow of panic to shoot through her.
Was he afraid? Was he, too, sorry that he and his daughter had had words? Would
he give anything he owned to apologize? She refused to entertain the notion
that he might not be alive.

Where
was her father?

Where
was Walker?

When
would this nightmare end?

"God,"
Lindsey cried abruptly, pulling her hand from her mother's and standing. She
paced back and forth across the kitchen floor. "I wish Walker would call! I
wish
anyone
would call!"

"I
know," her mother said softly, one hand folded in the other, so that she
wouldn't straighten the sugar bowl and creamer. "I know."

But
no one did call. Hour blended into hour. Dead time, Lindsey thought. Time in
which you didn't really exist. Time in which you simply survived. As though it
were a shrine, Lindsey watched the clock above the stove.

"Ticktock...
ticktock... ticktock," it said, but it whispered, "Dead time... dead
time... dead time...."

Dean
was dead.

The
realization crept into Walker's heart even though he did everything to keep it
out. It was the only logical explanation. He and the pilot had searched the
sea, as best they could in the inclement weather, and had seen nothing. Except
for the one chunk of helicopter debris, there had been not even a remote hint
of anything floating on the water. Not that one could see anything with night
coming on. Not that one could see anything with the sea heaving and tossing and
heaving again. Not even the wreckage of the hull was left in sight. Long ago,
it had been sucked under, towed down to the nether world of the hydrous gods.

As
had Dean?

The
thought sickened Walker, breaking him out in a cold sweat that was incongruous
with the hot, humid heat of the evening. Death was one thing. Losing a loved
one to a watery grave was yet another. He swallowed hard, wondering if he
himself would have met death as valiantly as Dean. And there was no doubt in
his mind that, whatever the end, Dean had met it courageously. He was just that
kind of guy.

God!
Walker thought, he was never going to get to tell him how much he'd always
admired him. He was never going to get to explain about Lindsey. He was never
going to get to say how sorry he was that the two of them—he and Dean—had had
words.

"Mr.
Carr?"

Fighting
the moisture in his eyes, Walker glanced over at the pilot.

"I
can't hold the craft steady much longer. The wind is growing—"

"I
know," Walker said. He was no longer angry with the suggestion to call a
halt to the search. It was the only prudent thing left to do. It was the only
safe thing left to do. He'd promised Lindsey that he'd bring her father back
but, obviously, miracles were running in short supply. "Make one more
sweep. And then we'll head back."

The
pilot, sympathetic to the situation, started the helicopter on its final
patrol. The harsh wind, like the palm of a huge hand, shoved the copter, while
rain, needlelike, struck the cockpit with such force that it sounded like
bullets exploding.

Straining
to see through the impending night, Walker stared out the window as the
helicopter flew as low to the water as it could, far lower than it should have.
The sea sped by, dark, menacing, mocking. The wind whispered a dirge, a deadly
melody that played over and over in Walker's mind in a mournful symphony.

It's
over... over... you're going to go back without him... the sea has been
victorious....

Victory!
Hell, yeah, we're going to beat the pants off the Wolverines! Their defense
ain't worth dirt compared to ours!... Phyllis? You and Phyllis are gonna get
married? Congratulations, though what she wants with a jerk
like you I
can't imagine... Yeah, we'll be in Nam at the same time. Those Vietcong won't
have a chance! ...Baby? Phyllis is going to have a baby? That's great, man.
Great! ...Of course, Bunny's pregnant. You didn't think we'd let you two get
ahead of us, did you? ...Godfather. We want you to be Lindsey's godfather...
Oh, God, man, what can I say? Phyllis shouldn't have died. You know we're there
for you. We'll always be there for you... Tell me that this isn't what it looks
like. You've betrayed me, betrayed our friendship. Betrayed... betrayed...
betrayed...

"I'm
sorry, Mr. Carr," the pilot said quietly.

"Yeah,"
Walker said, his throat so full he could hardly speak.

Silently,
the pilot began to turn the helicopter, bringing it in a wide circle and
starting back toward the mainland. Walker knew that he was leaving a part of
him behind. Maybe one of the best parts of him.

He
knew, too, that he was trembling. Fine tremors raced through his hands, making
them unsteady. Pain gouged his heart. He closed his eyes, fighting the tears
that begged to be shed. It wasn't supposed to end like this. It wasn't supposed
to end now. Not when there was so much left to be said.

"What's
that?" the pilot asked some ten minutes and several miles later. They were
well outside the proposed coordinates.

Walker
sat with his chin buried in his hand, staring out the window. "What's
what?" he asked, visually following where the pilot led.

"Over
there. At one o'clock. I thought I saw a flash of something."

Flare!
The word jumped to Walker's mind, bringing with it a resurgence of hope. Sweet,
sweet, nothing-sweeter hope!

"Could
it have been a flare?"

"That's
exactly what I was thinking. Let's have a closer look."

The
pilot brought the helicopter lower and lower, closer and closer until, even
though encroaching night had spun a black veil about the world, something was
visible within the ocean. A dark shape. A bulky shape. A shape that bore a
resemblance to a man.

"It's
him!" the pilot shouted, and gave a war whoop.

Walker
said nothing. He couldn't. Instead, he pondered how strange it was that in the
most traumatic times words were hopelessly useless. At least verbally.
Internally, he prayed a prayer of thanks to a god that was still in the
business of manufacturing miracles. Still without saying a word, Walker
unfastened his seat belt and started to the back of the craft.

"Throw
down the rope!" the pilot shouted. "But make it quick. We're running
low on fuel."

Walker
needed no prodding. He was already sliding open the copter door and readying
the rope—a kind of harness device—for tossing overboard. Which wasn't going to
be an overly easy feat. The wind tore violently at him, forcing him to grip the
door opening for balance. Beneath him, he could see the water churning in a
near whirlpool fashion as the wind from the helicopter blades battered the sea.
He could also seen Dean. A speck in a big, big ocean.

"Hang
on, buddy," Walker whispered, leaning forward and dropping the rope. Saberlike
rain cut him in the face, while the wind practically ripped his hair from the roots.
His breath came hard and fast and hurtfully, and he could feel his clothes
being plastered to him.

The
rope danced in the air, becoming nothing more than a puppet dashed about by the
wind. It also stopped short of reaching Dean. He saw Dean make the effort to
grasp it, but failed to do so. Even if the rope had been longer, Dean had been
weakened from hours in the sea. The rope was going to have to be handed to him on
a silver platter.

Walker
cursed, then shouted to the pilot, "Lower!"

"I
can't go much lower!"

"We've
got to!"

Contrary
to what he said he could do, the pilot did inch the craft lower. The rope
swung, arched, struck Dean. Dean grappled for it but, again, the lifeline,
manipulated by the wind, eluded him.

Walker
could feel his friend's frustration. It mirrored his own. "C'mon,
Dean," he coaxed. "One more time."

The
next time the rope came Dean's way, he didn't even try to grasp it. Exhaustion
had set in. He simply bobbed with the pitching sea, as though saving his energy
for one last attempt.

"All
right, buddy, this is it," Walker crooned, trying to direct the rope once
more toward his friend. "We're gonna do it this time, or I'm gonna kick
ass." Slowly, slowly—no, back some!—Walker fought to control a flaxen line
that clearly owed its allegiance to the wind. "Okay, okay, a little
more... just a little more... now grab it, Dean!"

Dean,
of course, hadn't heard a word, though perhaps he'd felt the heart-guided instructions.
In any event he did grab the rope, fumbled it, then grabbed it again. Walker
felt the pressure of his friend on the other end of the line and thought that
nothing had ever felt so wonderful. It tugged clean through to his heart.

"Can
he get the harness on?" the pilot shouted.

"He'll
get it on," Walker said assuringly.

In
due time, after a couple of aborted attempts, Dean did fit the harness about
him, after fighting to get it over his orange life preserver. He then gave a
thumbs-up—or an exhausted something that passed for it.

"I'm
bringing him up," Walker called as he started the hydraulic lift.

With
a crank and a whine, the rope began to tighten. In seconds, Dean was being
drawn from the sea. Dangling, his head angled to one side, he looked like a
hanged man. Even through the pummeling rain, Walker could tell that Dean's eyes
were closed. Was he, too, praying? Was he, too, regretting all that had been
said between them?

Less
than a minute later, when Dean came even with the open door, their gazes met
and held before Walker shouted, "Hang on! I'll pull you in!"

Walker
reached for Dean even as Dean reached for Walker. Both missed. Walker tried
again and this time threw his arm about his buddy's waist. Wet and tired, Dean
weighed a ton. On a grunt, Walker hauled him inside the aircraft. Both men
tumbled to the floor. Emotionally and physically exhausted, they simply lay
there.

"Got
him?" the pilot shouted.

"Yeah!"
Walker called back as he somehow managed to slide the door shut behind him.
"Let's go!"