Red Hook Road (50 page)

Jane bore down, pushing the truck as fast as it could safely go on the rutted track, and then a little faster. She glanced at Iris, who was gripping the handle above her door. Jane took her foot off the gas, but Iris shook her head.

“It’s okay,” she said urgently. “Go as fast as you can.”

Jane hit the gas again and the truck hurtled forward, tree branches slapping against its sides. She drove over a rock and the truck bounced high, and the women were flung forward in their seats. Iris leaned across Jane’s body, grabbed her seat belt, hauled it over and buckled Jane in. Then she did the same for herself. They were moving so fast down the rutted trail that when they took a turn the truck leaned precariously to the side.

After a couple of miles Iris pointed Jane down an even narrower path, and Jane had no choice but to slow down. Finally, the trail opened into a small clearing surrounded by thickets of scrub pine. In the middle of the clearing stood a metal storage shed. At the far end of the clearing there was a trail, far too narrow for any vehicle.

“We have to walk,” Iris said. Only when they leaped down from the truck did they realize that they were both shoeless, Iris’s rubber boots lost in the sea and Jane’s shoes on the beach. The rain had eased up a little, and they began hobbling up the path, Jane in her filthy socks, avoiding the worst of the downed branches. A log lay across their path. Jane tried to
step over it, and caught her leg on a branch. She came down hard on the other foot.

“Shit!” She sat down and took her foot in her hand. A shard of sharp wood had torn through her sock and was embedded in the arch of her foot.

“Let me see,” Iris said, kneeling down in front of her. She took Jane’s foot in her hand, peeled away the sock with care so it would not catch on the sliver, and studied the wound, her fingers hovering over the piece of wood.

“Just do it,” Jane said, closing her eyes and turning away. She felt a stab of pain and cried out, and when she looked again at her foot the piece of wood was gone, and blood poured from the wound. Iris propped Jane’s foot on her bent knee, and pulled her soaking T-shirt over her head. With her teeth she ripped a strip of fabric from the bottom of the shirt and then tied it tight around Jane’s foot. She pulled the remnants of the shirt back over her head, and placed Jane’s foot gently on the ground.

“Can you walk?” she said.

“Yes,” Jane said, grabbing Iris’s extended arm and pulling herself to her feet.

They continued on, Jane leaning on Iris’s arm, a shambling three-legged creature. The path opened up again on the edge of a low cliff overlooking a small beach strewn with granite boulders that gleamed black and slick in the rain.

“Look!” Iris said, pointing down the beach.

Jane could make out a sailboat tucked in along the high cliff walls. Its white sails dipped and spun as the boat was lifted in the waves. With each wave the boat was driven closer to the looming granite cliff. One of the sails tore loose and went flapping around the head of a small figure that stood on deck. Jane was sure it was Matt. He scrambled across the wave-washed deck, trying to tie the sail down.

“Where’s Ruthie?” Jane said.

Iris spun around and started to run back up the path.

“Where are you going?”

“Come on!” Iris shouted, without turning back. With another glance at Matt, Jane took off after Iris, back the way they came, leaping over the log that had tripped her up before. This time neither bothered to watch for
debris, and by the time they burst into the meadow Iris’s feet were bloody, too. She ran toward the shed and threw the full weight of her body against the door. She bounced off and tumbled backward.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jane yelled.

“Help me!” Iris shouted.

Without pausing even to consider why, Jane leaped after Iris and together they hurled themselves against the door until it buckled and its hinges snapped loose. Jane grabbed the door and peeled it back. Inside the shed, among the fishing tackle, the folded beach chairs, the weather-beaten lobster buoys, was a rubber dinghy, no more than eight feet long, with an outboard motor. Between them they dragged the boat out of the shed.

“We have to carry it,” Iris said. “If we drag it we could puncture it.”

They maneuvered themselves into position on either side of the boat, bent down, and twisted their bodies to grasp the handles.

“One, two, three!” Iris shouted. They hauled the boat up, staggered for a moment, and then steadied themselves. The boat was surprisingly light, but Jane’s wounded foot added substantially to her burden.

“We’ve got to move,” Jane said. “I can’t hold this for long.”

They took off, the boat too heavy to allow them to run. They staggered back up the path toward the beach. Jane’s elbow and wrist ached from the weight of the boat. They had to climb over another downed log in the middle of the road, and afterward stopped for a moment and lowered the boat, shaking the stiffness from their arms.

“Switch sides,” Iris said. They each ran to the other side of the boat and grabbed the handles with their less-exhausted hands.

By the time they reached the low cliff over the beach their arms were trembling. For a moment they stared at the beach. It was no more than twenty feet below them, but the path down was steep. Iris grabbed the small rubber loop protruding from the bow of the boat and motioned Jane to the stern. They heaved it up again and began carefully to descend the hill. Iris held the rubber loop in both hands, behind her back, and as she slid and stumbled, the rubber boat bumped her calves. By the last few feet she was running, Jane trying both to keep up and to prevent the boat from knocking Iris over.

Without speaking they ran into the water, battling the waves to take the little boat deep enough, then scrambled in over the sides. Iris attached the outboard motor, which, blessedly, roared to life. They took off, jumping the waves in the rubber tender as they raced across the water toward the sailboat.

As they neared the
Rebecca
they saw her begin to tilt precariously starboard. Matt flung his body port side as if his negligible weight could right her. The waves kept coming, each one pushing the trim craft closer to the jagged granite cliff. Matt leaped about the boat, one moment struggling to reel in the torn sail, the next ducking as the boom swung toward him, his exertions no more effective than a fly buzzing on the back of a bull. Just as they were nearing the boat, Iris saw a gigantic wave heading her way. She spun the tender around, desperately trying to keep from ending up like the
Rebecca
on the rocks. When she turned back she saw the wave lift the
Rebecca
as though it were nothing more than a twig floating in the water. With a splintering crash, it drove her onto the granite cliff. The wave pulled back, carrying the boat with it, but almost immediately a gust of wind flung Matt across the deck. Jane screamed, clutching her hand to her mouth. He grabbed hold of the mast.

There was a lull between the waves and Iris cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Jump!”

Matt ducked his head and, scrambling hand over hand, made his way to the cabin door. For a moment he disappeared from view, but then he reappeared, one arm wrapped around Ruthie’s waist.

Iris sobbed, and Jane realized that she must have thought her daughter had been washed overboard.

Ruthie was wearing a bright-orange life vest. Matt pulled her along beside him to the starboard side of the
Rebecca
, where Jane and Iris bobbed in their small boat, fighting the waves and wind. Suddenly, he slipped and began toppling overboard. Ruthie hauled him upright, took his hand, and together they leaped into the water, as close to the rubber tender as they dared. Jane leaned out of the dinghy and grabbed the loop of Ruthie’s life vest with both hands. With a grunt she heaved the girl up and over the side of the boat. At the same time, Iris helped Matt scramble aboard.

“Go!” Jane said, and Iris turned them away from the reeling sailboat. The tender rode low in the water, straining to carry their weight.

“Oh my God,” Ruthie shouted. They turned back, following her gaze. The waves were tumbling the
Rebecca
into the side of the cliff. They watched her mast splinter and collapse. They saw a huge rock tear open the hull. And then they looked away. None of them could bear it anymore.

When they reached the shallows they jumped out and dragged the rubber boat ashore. Only once it was hauled up on the beach did Ruthie fall into her mother’s arms. Matt stood hunched, sobbing out loud, until his mother grabbed him, too, and hugged him hard against her. Despite his size and the scratch of his beard against her cheek, Jane felt as though she were holding the small boy Matt had been, the vulnerable child who had once fit so comfortably in her lap. She pressed her lips against his bristly chin.

With four of them to do the portage, the little rubber boat was no burden at all, and within a few moments they had her back in the shed. Matt did his best to jam the door closed.

Only then did Jane ask Iris, “How did you know there was a rubber ducky in here?”

“I didn’t,” Iris said. “I just figured, what else would you store in a shed by the beach?”

Jane stared at her, open-mouthed, and then gave a short bark of laughter. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

A few minutes after Iris had left the hospital room and driven off to East Red Hook and the storm, Mr. Kimmelbrod opened his eyes.

“Hello,” Samantha said.

He blinked and licked his lips with a grayish, cracked tongue.

“Are you thirsty?”

He nodded.

There was a pink plastic cup and straw on the table next to the bed. Samantha held it to his mouth and he took a sip. A drop of water dribbled from the corner of his mouth and Samantha wiped it away with the tip of her finger. She swallowed hard, trying to keep herself from crying. The first time she had visited Mr. Kimmelbrod she had burst into tears, earning from him a reproving frown. Since then she had not allowed herself to cry. When the seriousness of his fall became apparent, she had felt a tide of panic, fear at being bereft of him. She was unable to imagine herself as a musician except in the context of his teaching her to be one. His faith in her kept her on course, propelled her forward. How would she go on without his wise hand on her tiller? She had come day after day, hoping that her presence would inspire him to rally, as he inspired her.

“Thank you,” Mr. Kimmelbrod said. His voice, although little more than a whisper, was unmistakably his own: his faint accent, the precision with which he pronounced each word, the click of his
k
distinct from the pursed-lipped
y
.

“Iris will be back soon,” Samantha said. “She just went home for an hour or so.”

Mr. Kimmelbrod closed his eyes again. While he slept Samantha continued studying the score of the Chaconne. The next time she looked up Mr. Kimmelbrod was awake. One of his eyelids drifted close, the iris
beneath it drifting slightly inward, toward his nose. His other eye, however, peered at her, sharp and focused. He lifted his chin slightly in the direction of the bound score on her lap.

“This?” Samantha said.

His nod was so small, no more than a twitch of his chin.

“It’s the Chaconne,” Samantha said. “I brought it for you.”

Mr. Kimmelbrod whispered something, but she couldn’t hear him. She leaned closer, putting her ear to his mouth. He puffed a bit of air into her ear. She could see his whole body involved in the effort of speaking. His neck tensed, his chest rose.

“Play,” he croaked.

She took the Dembovski from its case and began softly to tune it, so as not to attract the attention of the nurses. When she was satisfied, she pulled the table that swung on an arm over Mr. Kimmelbrod’s bed closer to her, and propped the music up on it.

“I’ve only been working on this for a few days. I’m warning you, it is not going to sound very good.”

The ends of his mouth curled up in a small smile.

Samantha studied the music, rereading the first four measures. “Okay, so we start with this downward stepwise four-note line. You always say that the downward line is the answer in the conversation. So I’m starting with the answer here, right?”

He lifted his chin slightly.

She played the first four notes. Then she paused. “I’m going to take this very slowly,” she said. She played the first four measures of the piece and then paused again. This phrase—the subject of the piece—would be transformed every four measures, thirty times and then thirty more. She had to play it perfectly before she felt comfortable moving on. She looked at Mr. Kimmelbrod. His eyes were still open. She thought he was smiling, but it was difficult to tell. She returned to the score, studying it. She lifted the violin to her chin and played the first four measures again. Then a third time. Then she continued. As the subject reappeared she greeted it with increasing confidence. She played slowly, far too slowly, she knew, but she wanted to be sure she understood how each variation treated the subject, and she wanted to miss as few notes as possible.