Dead In The Water (Rebecca Schwartz Mystery #4) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (11 page)

“No blubber,” said Keil.

Julio nodded. “Awkward stage of evolution. They have to keep their fur full of air—which takes up about ten percent of their time, if you can imagine that—and they have to keep their paws out of the water; and then, of course, they have to consume all those calories that people get so bent out of shape about.”

“Look!” Libby shouted. “They’re eating.”

Otters are terribly trusting little animals, which is one reason they became nearly extinct in the nineteenth century and the early part of this one. I read somewhere that in 1900 a single otter pelt went for over one thousand dollars, which must have been nearly enough to retire on in those days. Protective legislation was finally enacted, but the otter, though apparently a very bright little animal, never got smart enough to be afraid of people. By now, these rafts had let us come close enough to see how zany they looked with their fur half-wet. When soaked, a sea otter is sleek as a seal, but let him start to dry out, and his fine fur—the thickest of any mammal in the world—goes every which way.

The ones Libby had spotted—probably having their eighty-ninth snack of the day—were lying on their backs, reclining Romans at a banquet. They were using rocks to bang away at shellfish, setting up a fairly clamorous racket. For thumbless beasts, they use their paws a lot like we do.

Julio said, “We don’t give them shells in their tank at the aquarium. It’s cute to watch them show their tool-using skills, but you have to pay. They take the shells and bang them against the windows like a bunch of teenage vandals. The acrylic gets so scarred-up you can’t even see through it. Know how much it costs to feed one of those critters? About six thousand dollars a year.”

It was hard to imagine these cute little devils as vandals. Their perennially worried expressions made them look responsible.

“They like to raft with the same sex,” said Julio. “Those are females.”

Only I was brave enough to ask the question: “How can you tell?”

The kids looked alarmed.

He pointed: “They have pups. Also, some of them have crummy-looking noses. When they mate, the mate bites the female’s nose.”

“Oh, no. Spousal violence.”

“Well, I guess he needs something to hang on to.”

I considered, and found myself more or less thinking aloud. “Come to think of it, it’s not the easiest thing to do … in a swimming pool, say.”

As if by signal, Libby and Esperanza clapped their hands over their ears. “EEEEEEWWWWWW! Gross!”

Even Keil looked a little undone.

I probably blushed; I certainly shrank against the side of the boat, horrified that I’d shocked these innocent children.

But Julio only laughed; in fact, couldn’t seem to stop laughing. “They do that to me all the time. Remember the good old days? When it was the kids who had to watch their language?”

Libby said, “I don’t see any pups,” which neatly changed the subject.

The pups were discovered and admired, and Julio treated us to lore about what good moms sea otters are (though they’re pretty indifferent dads), and also told us more about the criminal tendencies of the little
gonifs
. Not only are they window-scratching vandals, they aren’t above stealing food from each other, even knowing it costs their pals several dives and hard work with a rock to snare a tender morsel. The worst part is that one of the prime times for robbery is the third or fourth day of a courtship, when the romance begins to pall.

Hearing that kind of made me proud to be a human being.

I’d rather have to listen to “I’ll call you tomorrow” than watch my so-called sweetie swim away with my hard-earned clams.

Libby and Keil asked a million questions about everything except mating habits, and I contributed quite a few myself, but Esperanza, if anything, seemed to sink deeper into herself. Julio tried to stay upbeat, but I could see him glancing at her now and then, brow furrowed. Finally he looked at the sky and said it was time to go home. Predictably, Libby and Keil howled.

Esperanza, unless I was mistaken, looked relieved. I though she must have agreed to come for Julio’s sake, playing parent to her own father. Her mood had her like a starfish, sucking at its prey with relentless tube feet.

On the way back, Libby was permitted to change places with Keil, be Julio’s co-captain. There was a good breeze. The sails puffed prettily and we glided peacefully, in one of those rare blissful intervals when everything goes right and I understand why people love sailing so much. Esperanza’s toes still trailed, kicking up little bits of white foam. And then she was gone.

Libby screamed. Julio moved so quickly I could barely follow his actions, but in retrospect, I think he must have done this: released the mainsail, crossed to the bow, popped off the jib, hollered, “Lifejackets!” and dived overboard. I think Keil was gone even before Julio. I was too stunned to stop him, even to notice he was about to jump.

I was trying to take in what had happened, that Esperanza had simply shoved herself in with a little push of her arms, as if dropping from the side of a pool. She had done it so fast I wasn’t aware of movement until she was already in the water. Keil and Julio had moved nearly as fast. And now Libby was moving, leaning under the bow, coming up with orange life jackets, throwing them overboard. Somebody grabbed one—Keil, I thought—and I grabbed the tiller so as to be doing something, anything at all. But the boat didn’t seem to be moving much, drifting slightly with the wind, that was all.

I held my breath as Keil struggled into his life jacket and caught the other two. Both Julio and Esperanza had disappeared.

I watched, heart pounding in my throat and making it close, as Keil got farther away. Though we weren’t moving much, he seemed to be floating downwind with the swells.

Julio was never going to find her
,
not in that murk
.

He surfaced. I let my breath out. He looked like a mother otter, pup tight to her chest. It had to be Esperanza he held, though I’d never have recognized her. Tangled in kelp, she resembled the spawn of a sea monster. She was struggling, trying to get away. But then I saw it wasn’t that—she was coughing.

I was paralyzed. I couldn’t stand to watch, but couldn’t pull my eyes away. Keil swam to the other two and helped Julio get Esperanza into her jacket. She wriggled like an eel, trying to breathe and stay afloat at the same time. Julio kept hollering, “Relax! Relax,
Nena
!” which might have made me smile if I hadn’t been so scared. Relax. Oh, sure, Dad, no problem, two seconds out of a watery grave.

My breath caught. They weren’t out yet. How was I supposed to sail the damn boat over to them?

The thought seemed to hit Julio at the same time.

“Grab the tiller.”

Great. I was holding it so tight my knuckles were white.

“Pull in a little bit.”

Huh? How did you pull a boat in? A car, no problem, but where was the ignition on this baby?

He hollered something else. Pull my shit in? Was this some Chicano expression meaning “Don’t panic”?

Libby’s voice was strong, almost authoritative: “Pull your sheet in, Rebecca.”

Oh, my sheet. He must mean sail. But how did you pull a sail, and what was in? On land, you pulled
into
a parking place; was there a nautical equivalent?

Libby said, “Grab the line—that’s your sheet. Pull it. Catch it in the cam-cleat.”

What line
?
And what was a cam
-
cleat
? But I didn’t ask aloud. Things were bad enough.

Line must mean rope. The same rope Julio had popped off before he’d jumped. It had to be that. It was the only thing I could reach. Ah, and he must have popped it out of a little lock, which might be a cam-cleat; if I could just reverse the procedure …

I fumbled till Libby said, “Good.”

“Libby, can you sail?” It hadn’t occurred to me.

“You’re going to have to jibe!” Julio yelled.

Dear God, I was going to have to
what
! Libby said, “Rebecca? Could you take the jib?”

Jib? Jibe? Were they the same thing? I’d thought jib was the little sail on the bow.

“I took sailing lessons last summer.”

Julio yelled, “Fill up your sails! Fill up your sails!” His voice was none too gentle.

Just how the hell do you do that
,
Mr
.
Julio Goddamn Captain Bligh
?
I’d be delighted to fill up my sails if you could be bothered to let me know what the fuck you're talking about
.

Libby, apparently sick and tired of not being heard, started yelling, too, right in my face, “I can do it, Rebecca! Give me the tiller! Go to the bow! Take the jib.”

Yes. The jib
was
that little sail. Everyone knows what a jib is; I wasn’t that dumb. “Take the jib” had to mean grab the little rope—I meant sheet—and pull it in or let it out or something.

“Wrap the sheet around the winch.”

Winch?

I winced.

“Okay, we’re going to jibe now. Watch out. Watch out! Rebecca, watch your head!”

The boom went boom on the back of my skull. How were you supposed to watch your own head anyway?

For a few minutes Libby struggled to get into the right reach, or whatever you call it, while Julio was occupied with getting himself and Keil wrapped around Esperanza, putting her in the middle of a huddle, as is recommended for hypothermia.

Seeing what he was doing reminded me how cold the water was, and how fast a child can succumb to it. With the communications problem, I doubted I’d have been able to handle the boat alone—I only hoped Libby could do it.

Again, Julio began shouting instructions. Libby, brow furrowed, would nod to show she understood, and would let me know if she needed help from me, remembering, unlike Julio, to translate the jargon. But I didn’t feel very helpful. Mostly I sat there, tense from toes to ears, feeling stupid and useless and hoping against hope.

We missed them on the first pass, by about six feet. But now we were close enough for Libby to hear better, for her and Julio to work more closely together, and on the second pass we nearly ran over them. Keil had to put a hand out to shove us out of the way. Libby said, “Pop the jib, Rebecca.”

Right. Remove the sheet from the cam-cleat. I could handle it.

She popped the mainsheet, and we stalled out, luffing in the wind.

Julio handed me a limp, glassy-eyed Esperanza. She was shivering like a malaria victim and her lips were blue. She felt a little stiff. Automatically I started to rub her bare arms.

But Julio, boosting Keil over the side, still had one eye on his child. “Don’t massage her, Rebecca. Take off her PFD. Hold her close to your body.”

“PFD?” Was the jargon ordeal ever going to be over?

Libby was helping Keil in. “Lifejacket.”

“But PFD?”

Keil said, “Personal flotation device.”

Oh. Of course. Did they think I was mentally deficient? By now I had it off and I’d draped an extra sweatshirt I’d brought around her shoulders. I couldn’t get her arms into it. They wouldn’t move easily.

Julio climbed in and took the tiller. Keil had taken off his own PFD and was sitting, back straight, trying like hell to be brave, holding his elbows and shivering nearly as badly as Esperanza. His lips were also blue.

“Libby, hug Keil,” said Julio.

“Ewwww. Gr—”

“Do it.”

Keil said, “No. Let her huddle with Esperanza and Rebecca.”

Julio hesitated. If the three of us formed a huddle, Esperanza’s body heat would return much more quickly. Almost visibly, I saw him shake off the impulse to agree. It would leave Keil with no help.

“Shut up and do what I say!”

Libby put her arms around him, but she wouldn’t press tight against him and he wouldn’t hold her close, soak up her warmth.

Julio said, “Dammit, sit in his lap. Keil, hold her like a baby—up close.”

Libby said, “Yuck. That’s incest.”

“You two are the worst sailors I ever saw.”

That did it. They snuggled up.

Expertly, Julio sailed the Victory back to her slip, shivering himself, his own lips turning blue.

We’d come in Marty’s car because there was more room in it. Libby knew about a blanket in the trunk, the one that had been there since the time she had appendicitis and they wrapped her in it at the doctor’s office and sent her directly to the hospital. Her mom was going to take it back to the doctor one day, but we could use it now for Esperanza.

Somehow the high-pitched chatter was comforting as I wrapped the soaked child, who seemed as bony and vulnerable as a wet kitten. She leaned heavily against me, cuddling up in a way that let me know she wanted comfort and she was glad to be alive and intended to stay that way. Her fur-soft eyes were pleading, but what they wanted I hadn’t the least idea.

Julio had to tie up the boat, though he said he’d come back later to take the sails down. He was going to meet us at Marty’s, where, despite Ava’s witchy presence, we’d decided to go—it was more cheerful than his house, and more important, it had two bathrooms, which were what we needed most right now.

I put the three kids in the back, in a hypothermia huddle, Esperanza in the middle. Though Libby and Keil were silent now, I felt them. I knew what was going on with them. Libby was all right, she was excited, she didn’t begin to comprehend what had happened, that Esperanza might have died. It was almost an adventure to her. Keil was deeply ashamed at having jumped in without thinking, having needed to be rescued himself.

I said, “You kids are heroes, you know that? It was pretty amazing what you both did.”

I didn’t know if it was the right thing to say or not. It certainly didn’t come from the heart. Libby, the so-called difficult one, had truly saved the day, and I wanted to give her the praise she was due. Clearly everyone, including me, had seriously underestimated her. It made me sad to think how stories get started about people—they take on a role first in the family and then in the world—and we just keep believing the stories instead of seeing the real person. It was pretty hard to believe any ten-year-old, much less one who everyone seemed to think was a big baby, could have performed so beautifully in an emergency. Libby was no baby. She was a kid who had a bad rap—and she was obviously one of those people who came into her own under pressure. Maybe she’d end up a brain surgeon.