Float (22 page)

“If that blanket was an animal skin, you’d pass as a caveman. Pre-industrial, pre-cultural, Neolithic, even pre-human. Back to before we ruined it all. It’s exactly what’s called for.”

Beaky switched on the exterior floodlights, making circles of light in the storm. Adoniram moved closer to the window and looked out on nature’s chaos, then raised both his arms, like a conductor. Or a sorcerer. The fabric of his black suit was so fine that Duncan could see the light through it.

“Ready?” asked Beaky.

Adoniram nodded. Duncan bent to turn on the exhaust vent. The sound of the storm almost drowned out its noise, but Duncan soon heard the familiar motor, and then he began to see the release of the powder into the swirling mess of water and wind outside.

Duncan could not explain why it moved him to see puffs of dust blow into the storm. But it was all rather beautiful and powerful, and in his heart he wished that Adoniram had recorded it. He would like to share this with Cora. Then he remembered the security camera, tucked way up under the exposed steel beams of the ceiling, aimed outside. The little red light was blinking, and he smiled, and as he did he caught the eye of Beaky, who winked at him. Still an art agent at heart.

Duncan continued to watch the slow display of dust mixing with the rain and felt a deep cosmic response. He felt as if he was gaining perfect clarity. How had he so muddled it all these past few months? How could he not have seen what lay all around him and in him? He felt lifted up and made whole. He was wiping tears from his face when a rush of wind tore through the room, and he steeled himself for the building to tumble beneath his feet, but the howl ended as a door slammed shut.

It was Annuncia and a police officer, peering out from their black slickers, hooded like the angels of death. “Duncan!” Annuncia shouted, “something’s happened out on the Cove. You better come.”

The sun on the water’s horizon cast long shadows on the land. As the harbor moved with powerful post-storm swells, the surf smashed against the shore, heaving up pieces of wreckage. The house was gone, washed away with most of the backyard sometime during the night. Duncan stared but could not comprehend the empty space. The shell grotto had crumbled away, leaving behind a spurting copper tube. The last surviving mulberry tree no longer survived. One of the tall cedars that once marked the entrance to the Drop had been hauled by the sea to the top of the garage; its mate was gone altogether. The land that held the pet graveyard had fallen away. Corrugated pipes, ripped from the earth, lay scattered like Roman pillars, and the ancient septic tank, torn from its resting place, had cracked open against a rock like an egg, so that the scent of sewage mixed with the rotting odors of the sea. The dovecote was so much stone rubble. The wrack line, the farthest spot where seaweed had been deposited by the storm tide, was over a quarter-mile inland. The old octagonal house never had a chance, and when it disappeared, so did his mother.

A Coast Guard helicopter flew so close to the shoreline that Duncan had to back up and hold his glasses to his face. This was the only house lost on Cean Avenue, the others being somewhat protected by this spit of land. Were protected. The spit was gone. Behind him, Chief Lovasco, wearing street clothes of jeans and a windbreaker, sounded orders through a bullhorn, directing the rescue effort on the ground. Lovasco wore a “leave everything to me” expression, but Duncan worried that his enthusiasm outran his abilities. Duncan knew him from elementary school, and even though he was not a chowderhead by any means, it was a lot to keep under control. There were so many volunteers milling around it looked like a going-out-of-business sale, but they all kept their distance from Duncan. Everyone had run out of positive things to say hours ago. Even the police dogs ignored him as they crawled over the remains of his childhood. Shingles floated in puddles, and shards of glass poked through slimy mountains of seaweed. Duncan thought he recognized an arm of the Venetian chandelier. His nemesis, the front door, had been salvaged by the Red Cross to make a table from which coffee and donuts were being served. He thought of his mother’s ancestor, Ethel Tarbell, who still clutched the door’s key in her grave, hoping to use it on her return. “It’s no use to you now, is it, Ethel?” he said out loud, not caring who heard him talking to ghosts.

He struggled to navigate around a messy slaw of yellow nautical rope, car tires, pot haulers, pumps, boat electronics, coolers, filters, gloves, boots, and lobster gear. It was as if the ocean had taken it upon itself to trade in all this junk for his family. He came across the lounge chair from the porch, where his mother would lie for hours looking out on the water, her jelly glass of mulberry wine by her side. The wicker still held the indentation of her form. He righted it and faced it to the harbor before heading to the edge of the abyss that had once been the cellar, now an octagonal body of water. A shank of chimney remained, rising up from the dark pool. The furnace was gone; the wine casks were gone. The stairs led up to nothing. A blue, felt-bottomed boat model was floating on its side.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Dunc.”

“Josefa.” She carried a five-gallon container of water and put it on the ground. He shrugged, she shook her head, and they both turned to look at the harbor so they would not have to look at each other. A Coast Guard vessel rose with the swells. On its deck, divers were suiting up. “Looks like they’re going to start searching … ” His voice caught on the words.

Josefa did not reassure him that they would find no bodies, and that was worst of all. “Found your stuffed marlin down the street,” she said. “Lost his fin, part of his tail, and some stuffing … but he’s still recognizable. Dragged him into the van.”

“I should bring him down to Seacrest’s to be processed.”

Josefa’s eyes moved across the yard like the hard sweep of a lighthouse beam. “Where’s Chandu?”

Duncan shrugged. “Where’s Nod? Where’s my mother? You tell me.”

Josefa took a breath. “Have faith. Some folks have a way of turning up like bad pennies.”

They flinched at a sudden noise. Behind them, a group of men directed by Slocum had tried to raise a fallen wall and failed, so it had splintered loudly back to the ground, where the horsehair-and-seashell plaster shattered on impact. Duncan recognized the soaked wallpaper from his bedroom, silk-screened boats of an earlier time, turning in a gentle breeze. A trailer pulling a front-loader drove up into the washed-out gully of a driveway. Duncan closed his eyes to push away the image of what it might uncover.

“Odd Slocum’s here,” said Josefa, “and not out looking for his sister.”

“Rheya still missing?”

Josepha nodded. “Syrie had the dirt right. Rheya skipped town ahead of the storm … or tried.” There was a crash nearby as someone tipped over a French door. “I should go.” She bent down and scooped up a wiggling shiner from a puddle with her hand and dropped the little fish into her bucket. “Got to meet the aquarium people … harp seal is tangled in line out on Colrain. I have to lead them to the poor thing.”

“Nice to know that something might get saved today.” Duncan was still staring at the Coast Guard cutter.

Josefa patted him on the arm and walked off to her van, pausing here and there to inspect puddles for stranded sea life, and then she stopped mid-step, staring up into a pine tree whose top third had been snapped off by the wind.

When Duncan realized she had spotted something, he felt his heart beat in his throat, and he rushed toward her. It was not impossible for someone to be washed up in a tree. In fact, considering the recent tide, it would be a logical place. He was out of breath when he got to her. “Josefa, what?”

“Look!” She pointed to the jagged mess of upper branches, and a crowd of would-be rescuers came running. She whistled a short convoluted song, then whistled again. She held an arm straight out from her body, and a sheer white parrot sailed down upon them with wings extended and landed on her sleeve, feet first.

There was a collective sigh of disappointment from the rescue workers as they returned to their tasks.

“It’s okay, buddy, you’re safe now.” Josefa put her forehead to its beak, and it shimmied to a perch on her shoulder. “I’ll take him with me. Bet he’s been reported on the missing pets list. Call me if … ” She did not finish the thought.

Duncan wandered off, away from the crowd, and found a foundation stone that had separated from the others. He wiped it clean of seaweed and broken glass and sat down, feeling himself sink into loneliness. When he left Seacrest’s, he had thrown on all his damp clothes, and now the stickiness of salt water drying on his skin made him itch. The constant boom of the Atlantic on the opposite shore pounded on his temples. He rested his chin in his hands and smelled the sea on his palms. Through his fingers, he watched the Coast Guard cutter plunge and rise as spray broke over its aft deck, again and again, as the crew readied to descend into the churning water. It was too painful to consider what they were looking for and what they might find, but the more he tried to think of something else, the more his mind turned to morbid images: Nod gargling sea foam out in the harbor somewhere, his mother tumbling from her war room, Chandu desperate to save her, visions of blind destruction that swamped him with agony. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to the sound of the surf, moving in and moving out, in sync with his waves of grief. He nodded off for a moment, the rhythm of the ocean having turned from an aggravation to a comfort, and jerked up with a start when he sensed someone sitting next to him.

“Cora.”

She handed him a cup of coffee, and he took it from her. “I came when I heard.” She put her hand on his leg. “Any news?”

He could not believe she was here. It was as if she had returned from the dead. She had on her old blue hat with ear flaps and a pom-pom on top, and her nose was red from the wind, the way it gets. Her yellow fleece jacket was new and baggy, but her jeans were warmly familiar, and her knee-high wellies were a comforting match to his.

She touched his cheek, then took a tissue out of her windbreaker pocket and wiped his face. “Your eyes and nostrils are caked with salt.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. He rested his coffee on the ground, then put his head on her shoulder. He was so violently tired that when he closed his eyes, the past twenty-four hours swept over him like a hallucination, and he had to jerk himself back up to keep from falling away. “I’m such a screw-up,” he said. “I couldn’t even make it home to you last night. I failed.”

“You didn’t fail me,” she said as she stuck the tissue in her pocket, and then she inched closer to him. They gazed out at the water together, resting their weight on each other as lobster boats slowly trolled the shore looking for their traps. Fishing boats—those that had not been crushed in the storm—were taking advantage of the diminished competition and chugging out to sea through the powerful swells. It took a long time for the fury of the ocean to dissipate. Above them, hundreds of seagulls hung in a thermal, spinning in circles like buzzards. “Where do you think they all went in the hurricane?” Cora asked.

“They didn’t go anywhere,” he said. “Josefa says they float on the surface of the water and ride it out. She said it’s what they’re made for. We should be so well designed.”

“From what I heard from Slocum, you did a pretty good job of riding it out, too. I’m very impressed.”

He smiled, but then they both froze at the sight of the Coast Guard divers in black rubber falling backward from the fantail, one by one, into the water and disappearing into the churning sea. Cora tightened her grip on his leg.

“I killed them,” Duncan said.

“Don’t.” She put her arm around him. “Whatever happens, don’t blame yourself. Slocum told me that your mom sent Nod out into the storm, and he went. And later, she wouldn’t leave with Slocum and then she wouldn’t leave with you. Their decisions are not your fault. Only Nod could have saved Nod, and he chose not to. The same with your mother.” She looked over at the gaping hole where the house once stood.

“I could have done a better job of talking some sense into them. I wasn’t very effective.”

“Who breaks the lifeline?” she asked. “The one who pulls or the one who lets go?”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter if they’re dead, does it?” He looked down at his feet and recognized a shape sticking out of the mud. He used a piece of house lathing to pry up an empty green bottle, then turned it over in his hands. “The mulberry wine is a mild hallucinogenic.”

She stared at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means my family is not congenitally nuts.” He held up the bottle to the light. “They make themselves nuts with this. Mom drank the wine. Nod ate the jelly. Not only that, he was conceived during a binge. Maybe he has fetal mulberry syndrome.”

They both began to laugh in a high-pitched, almost hysterical way that made some rescue workers take pause.

“It’s not funny,” whispered Cora as she wiped tears from her eyes.

“No, it’s not.” Duncan turned to look out at the water.

“It’s so much easier to name a problem than it is to fix it, isn’t it?” she asked. “Sometimes, at work, it’s all I can do. I feel like a failure every day.”

They both contemplated the desolate landscape around them and the seeming futility of trying to help anyone or anything.

“About this baby,” said Duncan.

“Well, it’s about time you brought up the baby!”

“I’ve been an idiot. When we were about to start a family, I saw my own family from the outside for the first time, and it stopped me cold. And far worse than seeing them, I saw me.”

“I’ve always seen your family. They display their oddities because it’s never occurred to them that there’s anything wrong with being odd. That’s what I love about them. It’s what I love about you.”

Duncan looked into her face and saw the truth of their marriage. Being a family therapist, she must have been drawn to him by his flock of odd ducks, and he was drawn to her by her fascination with them. On some level, he was probably hoping she could help him figure them out or at least deal with them so he wouldn’t have to. Then she could save him when he started skipping down the psycho path, too.

None of that mattered. He loved her for herself and not for how she could help him. He could help himself.

“Duncan, don’t you have any questions?”

“Questions?” He closed his eyes and leaned toward her. But just as they were about to kiss, Slocum shouted at them.

“Duncan! Get a load of this!” He was waving them over to the new ledge of land.

“Oh, no,” said Duncan.

“We better look,” she said and took his hand to get to her feet. They maneuvered over the minefield of broken objects to Slocum and looked down at the beach with him. The tide was out, but the water was agitated enough to cast spray in their faces, misting Duncan’s glasses so that he could not quite make out the massive object that had rolled on shore.

“That’s astounding,” said Cora.

“It’s downright creepy,” said Slocum.

Duncan wiped his lenses and put them back on and still had trouble absorbing the sight. It was a killer ball of plastic crap the size of a whale.

“Ghost nets,” announced Marney, who’d come to help with the cleanup. “The lost nets and lines—they gather marine debris as they roll into a ball along the bottom of the sea, getting bigger and nastier every day.”

Along with the lobster traps, polyethylene bottles, flip-flops, Mylar balloons, disposable diapers, and Tide detergent jugs, woven into the mess were fish of all nations, dead seagulls, other sea birds, and, worst of all, a harbor seal, drowned when it got ensnared by the netball. There were certainly many other casualties woven deep in its center, and Duncan hoped one wasn’t a member of his family.

“What have we done?” asked Lovasco.

A small tug boat turned the corner of the Cove, chugging close to the shoreline, and in a moment Duncan recognized Adoniram, dressed in a fresh, well-fitted suit and tie. Beaky was standing on the deck.