The Great Wide Sea (22 page)

“You idiots!” I screamed at them. “You could have—”

“Noise,” Dylan panted. “Scares them.”

We were gasping and slowly treading water when we both suddenly looked at Gerry.

He was pumping his arms and legs desperately. He blew out his breath in puffs as he barely kept his head above the water. My arm flashed out and grabbed him.

“Let go,” he said quickly. His eyes darted to the boat and I let go.

“Can you make it all the way to the dinghy?” I asked.

He looked at the side of the rock he had just jumped from. It was too steep and high to climb. His arms and legs worked frantically. Then he nodded quickly and began to dig his way slowly through the ocean, spitting water and blinking hard.

“Hold your fingers together like a cup,” Dylan said. “That helps.”

Gerry instantly tightened his fingers together.

“Try to keep your butt a little higher,” I said. “It makes your legs work better for you.”

We could see him trying. Dylan and I slowly cruised beside him. It was so easy for us. It was so hard for him. His eyes never turned from the dinghy. He did not look to us for help. He kicked and spat and splashed and blinked. And he made it to the dinghy all alone. Dylan climbed in first and grabbed him under his arms. I shoved him under his butt, and we threw him in.

“When did you learn to swim?” I asked Gerry.

He shrugged and looked away. He was shaking.

I unfurled our makeshift sail and pointed us toward our beach. There wasn't really enough room in the dinghy for all of us, now that I had rigged the sail through the forward seat, but the wind was with us and we were only ten minutes from shore. Gerry sat slumped and gasping for air until we landed and hauled the dinghy up the beach. Once again I had no fish.

“Thanks,” I said to them both.

“Sure,” Dylan said, already heading back to camp.

I stooped and looked Gerry in the face. “That was brave,” I said.

He dipped his head in a silent nod.

“Why did you do it?”

“Because you're my brother,” he said, and waited quietly to help me furl the sail.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

THAT NIGHT THERE were so many stars that even Dylan couldn't talk about them. With no moon, they were like glitter spilled across the sky, all merging into one another in their brilliance. We just lay on our backs on the beach and looked up and were silent.

“Aren't you going to tell a star story?” Gerry finally asked Dylan.

“No,” Dylan said. “Not tonight.”

“I need a story,” Gerry said.

Dylan was quiet for a few seconds then answered, “I'll tell a Baby Gerry story.”

“Okay.” Gerry wiggled a little to settle himself better in the sand.

“Once upon a time there was a mom named Christine and she had two sons.”

“What about me?” Gerry asked.

“This is about when you got born.”

“Oh.”

“She told her two sons, ‘Boys, you are going to have a baby brother or sister.' Then one day, she made a funny sound and Dad rushed her to the hospital and when you were a boy, she said, ‘Perfect.' ”

“You're making that part up,” I said. “You don't know what she said.”

“That's okay,” Gerry said. “I don't mind.”

“Anyway,” Dylan continued, “that night Dad took us to see you and I gave you one of my army men. I wanted to name you Timmy.”

“But they named me Gerry.”

“Actually,” I said, “they named you Gerard, but every time we tried to say it we choked. So you got to be Gerry.”

“I like Gerry.”

“It fits you,” Dylan said. “Anyway, when I came home from nursery school the next day, Mom and you were back from the hospital and she let me hold you. You were all wrapped up in Blankie, and you were wiggly, like a puppy. When she took you back, you threw up on your clothes, so she told me to go upstairs and get you something clean to wear. I didn't know where your things were, so I brought my Batman pajama shirt. It's a good thing it was my short-sleeved one. The end.”

“That story is more about you than me.”

“Well, it's what I remember.”

“I want a story about me.”

Then a memory shot into my head. “I have a story about you, Gerry. Just you. Dylan, remember that time when Gerry was really little and Dad came home from work just as Mom was finishing giving him his bottle? And Dad was sitting there, reading the paper, but she wanted him to hold Gerry while she cooked dinner? So she was kind of pretending that Gerry was jumping up over the paper? And Dad put the paper down and looked up at Gerry with this big, goofy, openmouthed look, like goo-goo, gaa-gaa or something, and Gerry just kind of looks down at him and—
blugh
—throws up right into Dad's mouth!”

Dylan howled. “I remember! I remember! And remember Mom just stands there and says, ‘Oh. I forgot to burp him.' ”

“You guys!” Gerry said. He was trying to act upset but he was laughing too. A little, anyway. “Stop it,” he said. But we couldn't stop laughing.

I sat up. “Oh, I forgot to burp him,” I said, and let go the biggest burp I could. It was a good one. Dylan's was better, though. “My Noogie,” I said, and grabbed Gerry and rubbed his head with my knuckles.

“Stop!” Gerry said. “Just stop.” He pushed my hand away and then shoved at my chest. “It's not fair.”

“Not fair?” asked Dylan.

“I'm stupid in all those stories.”

“No. You're a baby,” Dylan said. “Babies do stuff like that. They're
babies
.”

“Wait,” I said. “Don't feel bad, Gerry. I'll tell one on Dylan. This is when he was about two, so I was about seven. He was just starting to talk, and he played this game called ‘What's in there?' He would go around and point at cabinets and boxes and pots and say ‘What's in there?' and Mom, of course, would always show him. So one night Mom and Dad are having this party for only grown-ups, but Dylan and I are hanging around with them until bedtime. And all of them are standing in the kitchen drinking beer and Dylan cruises in and looks up at Dad leaning back against the counter. And then Dylan points right at Dad's fly and says, ‘What's in there?'”

“Did not!” Dylan shouted.

“Did too,” I said. “I remember because this one guy standing right beside Dad had a mouthful of beer and he spewed it out all over me. And they all started laughing and slapping the countertop and Mom was wiping me off with a kitchen towel and Dylan was standing there staring and Dad scooped him up and said, ‘That's my boy,' and—”

And then I remembered that Dad had had on jeans. I remembered hugging up next to his leg. I remembered his hand in my hair. I remembered he had reached down and rubbed me between my shoulder blades and then his hand came up and curved over my shoulder and squeezed and he looked down at me and smiled and said, “Bedtime.”

“And what else?” Gerry asked.

“And it's the truth. The whole story is the complete, absolute truth. I didn't make up one word.”

We lay back down again and laughed a little more and watched the stars.

Then out of the night came Gerry's voice. “Was Mom as pretty as I remember?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Did she smell good?”

“Always.”

“Did she really give me Blankie, Dylan?”

“God's truth,” said Dylan.

“I miss her,” Gerry said, but Dylan and I said nothing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

SO WE SETTLED into living on the island. We carefully rationed our water from
Chrysalis
, but we also knew how to find water in secret places in the rocks and the palm-frond crotches. Dylan's three water stills each made about a cup a day and sometimes more. Gerry got good at fishing with a line and hook as well as with his spear. Dylan could catch an iguana and even brought home several birds. He was always harvesting something from the hill. First it was the cactus and then some kind of plum from a bush with fierce thorns. I, of course, fished the reef. One night we watched from under the spinnaker as a turtle made her way up the beach, dug a hole with her flippers, and laid her eggs. We agreed to let the turtle go, but we did eat the eggs.

We weren't hungry anymore. We weren't thirsty. We knew how to live on the island. It had taken a long time, but we had figured it out.

Then the day came when it all started to unravel. When that day dawned, we did what we always did. Dylan set off up the hill to explore and forage. Gerry took Blankie to the secret beach to build pebble forts, watch crabs, and maybe catch something. I went to the reef to fish, now always mindful of the sharks.

I came back a little later than usual with three good-size grouper. Gerry was already back at camp, but he was empty-handed today. He sampled a sea grape while I cleaned the fish, cutting two of them into paper-thin strips to hang on a branch to dry. Gerry spit out the grape. “Yetch. Sour.”

“Dylan said it would be a while.”

“He's right.”

“Gerry, do you remember how Mom used to do that fish thing where she wrapped it in paper to cook it?”

He shook his head.

“Oh, well.” I cleaned the third fish and decided that maybe I'd try wrapping it in sea grape leaves. I'd ask Dylan what he thought when he got back.

But he didn't come back. We waited and waited. After it was dark, I realized we'd waited too long. Dylan wouldn't come back in the dark. There were too many places he could fall. He was out on the hill somewhere now, sitting out the night. But why hadn't he come back while it was still light?

“When is Dylan coming?” Gerry asked.

“After a while,” I said.

“I'm hungry. Can we go ahead and eat?”

I forgot about the sea grape leaves and cooked the fish quickly in the frying pan with a little water. Of course, by now we didn't really care whether or not it was cooked. We could eat it raw and still enjoy it. That night we chewed our fish silently and then cleaned up. I banked the fire and sent Gerry to bed. “I'll wait up for Dylan,” I said.

I didn't sleep that night. As tired as I was with fishing and swimming, I thought I would surely doze. But every breeze, every clack of leaves, every slither of a lizard or patter of a crab was Dylan coming home. I kept planning what I would say. “How dare you stay out late. Gerry's been so worried. I finally sent him to bed. You can apologize in the morning.” Then the hours passed, and it was, “We've been worried sick. Don't ever do that again.” And later “Thank God you're back. Are you okay?” Then the sun started to come up and the world turned the flat, charcoal gray of a cloudy sunrise.

It's surprising how long it takes the sun to come up all the way when you're waiting. Complete sunrise took about two hours, I guess, from the time I noticed the sky starting to get light until the time I figured it was light enough for me to go wake Gerry and break the news. He understood at once.

“You stay here,” I told him, “in case he comes back into camp. I'll go look.”

Gerry nodded.

“Don't even go over to the secret beach. Just stay here.”

He nodded again.

“And if he comes back, make a lot of noise. Bang the hammer on something or whatever. You figure it out. I may hear you. I may not. But try.”

“Okay,” he said.

I tied the jar of water and a knife into my shirt and put on my shoes. “Good luck,” Gerry said. I lifted my hand in good-bye and headed up the hill.

I hadn't thought until that long, long night about how big our island was. I was standing there just beyond the band of trees and looking up the hill, thinking that searching by myself was going to be like trying to color in a whole piece of paper with a ballpoint pen. It would take me hours to cover the whole island. Did the hours matter? Was there a quicker way? I had no choice, and the only way to start was to start. So I did, plotting a low, zigzag trail that would carry me back and forth across the face of the hill, slowly climbing, slowly searching.

Of course, I called his name as I walked. I called his name and I looked all around me, 360 degrees. Up and down. At big bushes I stopped and looked underneath. All over the hill were signs that he had been there. I found his snares. I found two traps. I saw where he had cut the leaves from the prickly pears. I saw scrabblings in the dirt that must have been a chase. Maybe after the birds. The hillside had changed since we first hiked it. Now it was Dylan's. I saw signs of him everywhere, but I didn't see him.

Then I remembered the cliffs on the southeastern side. The cliffs that dropped straight into the water. “Oh, my God,” I said out loud. I stopped in my tracks and looked up to where the island's summit met the sky and I knew. I knew exactly where Dylan was, and my throat closed in while my feet started pounding straight up the hill.

My brain was in overdrive. Ledges. Were there ledges? I could swear I remembered ledges. How far down? How wide? How many? Why would any fool go close to the edge? Dylan was too smart to do that. I was panicking. I was crazy. He would never—Oh God, I'm sure he did. That's where he is. Please let him be okay. Please let him not be hurt. Please let him—And my mind froze at the image of him plummeting straight down into the water, the waves picking up his body and throwing him back against the rocks. Once. Twice. Stop! Stop! A rope. I should have brought a rope. But I never imagined. Never. Never.

And then I stood on the edge of the cliffs, and I was dizzy. I fell to my hands and knees and called, but the wind swept my voice away. A little closer to the edge and I looked down. Straight down. No ledges. Straight into the waves below. I felt my stomach clutch, and I rolled over on my back and closed my eyes.