Under A Dark Summer Sky Part 16

Chapter 20.

In the mess hall at the veteran's camp, the men had been waiting a long time for instructions with nothing to do but drink beer. So they had waited and drank. And waited and drank some more.

"My friend Marvin," said Lemuel, "he been in a hurr-a-cane before lots of times, and he seen a shark swimmin' down the street in Havana."

Sonny nodded solemnly, like this was a bulletin straight from National Geographic.

"I got a friend too," said Tec Brown, "and he says snakes travel on the ground in the same direction as the hurricane for days before."

"My friend," said Carl Bukowski, a motor mechanic from Wisconsin, "says you got to leave open a window or else your house'll explode inward from the change in pressure." Carl was a slight, nervous young man who suffered so badly from sh.e.l.l shock that any loud noise could unman him, even Tec's farts.

"And my friend," said Stan Mulligan, "said the best thing to do is put your head between your legs and kiss your a.s.s good-bye!" He cackled and clinked his beer bottle against Tec's.

"Mr. Watts said we'd be going to get the train," said Carl. "He said that, you all heard him. What's taking so long?" He shredded the label from his beer bottle.

"And you believe him?" Two-Step asked. "Because he's taken such good care of us so far?" He spat and crossed his arms. "My money says there's no train. No one gives a s.h.i.+t about us; we know that for sure. They left us here to take our chances."

The little color remaining in Carl's face drained away.

"Don't listen to him, Carl," said Jeb. "The train is comin'. And even if it wasn't, Two-Step, there ain't nothin' in nature could be as bad as what we seen in France."

"You got that right, brother," said Franklin. "I'd face a hurricane any old day. Nothin' scares me no more."

Suddenly the roof screamed like an animal in pain. The men gulped their beer. Carl made a sound like a leaky balloon.

Two-Step stood up with a loud belch. "All you p.u.s.s.ies better prepare for the day of judgment," he said with dark glee. "'Specially you, Bukowski. Yessir, you'd better wipe your snotty nose and get ready, 'cause it's here, Bukowski!"

A lantern blew off a table and went out. Carl shouted in alarm and flung himself to the ground, hands over his head. Two-Step laughed long and loud. The wooden sides of the mess hall rippled like they were made of canvas.

Trent Watts entered the mess on a gust of wind that almost knocked him off his feet. He was wet through, bald head s.h.i.+ning. He had briefly considered cutting off the beer but decided the last thing he needed was a mutiny. The room hummed with tension, the air heavy with the smell of fear and hops. The relief train should be almost there by now, although by rights, it should have been sent days before. The speed of the storm's arrival was unlike anything in his experience, from squally rain to destructive winds in a matter of hours. Even Jenson Mitch.e.l.l seemed taken aback in his last phone call before the line went down, urging Trent to evacuate the men. That time, Jenson was preaching to the choir. At last, help was on the way. They would shelter at the station until it arrived. The flimsy mess hall already looked about ready to collapse.

"Ladies," Trent hollered, "we're going to the station to wait for the train. It won't be long, and we'll have more protection than here at the beach." Water surged in under the walls and scooped out lagoons in the sand. "Watch yourselves out there; got lots of debris."

They filed into the storm. Palm trees knelt in deference to the mighty wind, their trunks bowed to the ground. The air was alive with pieces of wood and metal and swirling sand that made it almost impossible to see. As soon as he stepped out of the door, Carl took a blow to the head from a flying plank torn from a cabin. He went down without a sound. A large flap of skin hung over his eye. Blood soaked the front of his s.h.i.+rt.

"Get him to the station!" Trent yelled.

Stan and Franklin half dragged Carl away, but they had not gone far before Stan suddenly spun sideways with a scream that carried even over the wind, hands clutched to his belly. A wooden fence post protruded from his abdomen. Lemuel scooped up the big man as if he were a child and ran in the direction of the station. The others hung back in the lee of the mess hall, which provided a little shelter from the wind. Water rose around their ankles. A corner of the roof peeled back, as if pulled away by a giant hand.

"Get moving, ladies, NOW!"

They stepped quickly into the ferocious wind, heads down. And then the entire ocean-facing side of the building came off and flew into the sky, light as a leaf.

Still many miles to the north, the relief train sped onward through the rainy darkness, its headlight illuminating wet tracks strewn with debris. The ma.s.sive cow catcher on the front of the locomotive could blast through most obstacles, but they had already stopped twice to remove a big branch and a section of fence.

The chief engineer, Ken Cramer, had taken some persuading to allow Henry and Jimmy on board. They had waited in the yard while Moses made the case for them. They could hear nothing of the conversation, just watched it through the office window. There was a lot of shouting. Cramer folded his arms at one point and spat. But Moses had kept on.

Clarence had studied the scene through the window. "Ken ain't a bad man. He just hate any ideas but his own. So the trick is to make your idea his idea, ya see? Moses, he good at that."

The engine was ready. All 160 tons of it snorted and hissed like a racehorse at the gate. Its s.h.i.+ny black flanks seemed to puff in and out with great gusts of steam. It had seemed to Henry like the most powerful thing he had ever seen. And it needed to be. His body fairly vibrated with impatience. If the weather was this bad up in Miami, it would be much worse in the Keys. "Come on, come on," he had said under his breath.

"This looks good, ya see?" Clarence had asked. "Ken's arms is unfolded. He leanin' forward." He clapped Henry on the back. "Congratulations. The deal be done."

Indeed, the chief engineer had looked more relaxed although still dubious. Moses was smiling.

"Well," said Henry, "let's hope that Moses lives up to his name. Jimmy, you don't need to make this trip-it ain't your fight. You can stay here or go up to Pensacola to meet your folks." He did not want to be responsible for putting the boy in harm's way again.

Jimmy did not move. "I'm going with you. Uncle Dwayne been good to me. He's gonna need help. I'll come back up here to get the truck when the storm is over."

Henry regarded him for a long moment. Time to stop thinking of him as a boy.

"The thing that swung it," Clarence said later, "was you being a war hero and all. Cramer fought in France. Almost didn't make it out. Man's only got half a stomach, ya see?"

They sat in the first carriage behind the engine. Moses was a.s.sisting Ken in the engineer's compartment. With the rain-swept darkness pressing in on the carriage windows, it seemed to Henry they could have been anywhere: another state, even another country. It could be the blasted, cratered French countryside out there instead of a Florida swamp. Only the hot, muggy air gave it away.

The swaying motion of the carriage made him realize how tired he was. How long was it since he had slept a whole night? He could not remember. "I'm no war hero," he said with a yawn.

"You is now," chuckled Clarence. "What was it like? Over there?"

"Didn't you ask Ken?" Henry did not want to have this conversation, not now. He wanted to blink his eyes and find the train pulling in to the Heron Key station. His whole concentration was fixed on what to do when they arrived, how to find Missy and Selma, how to get his men to safety.

Clarence shrugged in the direction of the conductor's cab. "He won't talk about it, ya see? We only knew about his stomach when we saw him with his s.h.i.+rt off one time. Man, you musta seen some wild s.h.i.+t out there."

Henry bit back his caustic reply. Clarence's face was so openly curious, no malice there, and he had the man to thank for getting him on the train at all. "You could say that." Night had been the worst time in the trenches. The mind supplied what the eyes couldn't see, only far, far worse. Sometimes a flare would go up and illuminate the ravaged, unnatural landscape of sh.e.l.l craters, which stank of rotting flesh. But mostly the men just sat and smoked and waited for the cold comfort of daylight.

As the train clattered on, Henry felt some of the same mixture of fear and excitement as before a battle. The weather had worsened considerably as they moved south. The wind punched the carriage again and again, made it shudder on the rails. The rain smashed against the windows. They would have to be quick to get all the boys on board and away. Likely they had been drinking all afternoon, which would not make them any easier to handle. Maybe Trent will have the sense to stop the beer. He hoped to persuade Missy and the others to evacuate too but knew it wouldn't sit right with them. The shelters had always served them in the past. They had never run from a storm before and would see no cause to do so this time.

"But what about the women?" Clarence leaned forward. Henry noted that Jimmy was actively listening while pretending to be asleep. "You must have got your share of those fine French ladies?"

"It's different there," said Henry. "Black, white-don't matter." Henry thought of Therese for the first time in...how long? It used to be her face that he conjured to get him through the bad times. Now it was hard even to remember her clearly. She had taken on the blurred outlines of a dream. Red hair, he recalled that much, fine as copper silk. Skin the color of fresh milk, with a sprinkle of freckles on her arms. The smell of fresh bread that always clung to her, mixed with her rose cologne. But the rest was clouded. Instead, it was Missy who came to him when he closed his eyes; it was her soft skin that his fingers longed to touch. He pictured her, safe and dry in Jenson's shelter with the others.

"C'mon, man," pleaded Clarence, his arm dangling over the back of the seat. "Give us the lowdown. We want-"

Henry never found out what Clarence wanted, because just then there was a loud shout from the engineer's compartment.

"Hold on!" yelled Ken.

But it was too late. Everyone was thrown to the floor when the train hit something big and hard enough to stop several tons of hurtling iron. Henry felt the carriage buck wildly beneath him and grabbed hold of Jimmy as he was flung into the air. Somehow the train stayed on the rails. Henry covered his ears against the awful shriek of metal on metal. And then there was only the sound of the wind and the rain.

They surged into the engineer's cabin to find Ken on the floor, a b.l.o.o.d.y gash on his forehead. Moses stood over him, a rag pressed to the wound. "Give me a hand, Clarence!"

They got Ken back into his seat. "It's a crane," he gasped. "A f.u.c.king crane. I saw it, but there was no way to stop in time."

"Musta blown over," said Moses. He pulled on a yellow raincoat and hat. "Clarence, come with me."

They returned a few moments later, dripping and panting.

Moses shook water from his hat. More puddled at his feet. "It ain't the crane that's caught us. That's lyin' clear. It's the cables. They knotted around the wheels like Christmas ribbon."

"How long will it take to get it off?" asked Ken. Blood trickled into his collar. Moses gave him a fresh rag.

"Hard to say," said Clarence with a shrug that sent a shower of droplets from his coat. "It's stuck there good, ya see? Two hours, at least. Maybe three."

Henry was all too familiar with the kind of cables used on construction cranes. They would be thick ropes of steel, designed to lift ma.s.sive loads. It was not an option to cut through them, not without special equipment, which could only be found far away in Miami. No, their only option was to go out and untangle it by hand. A gust of wind rocked the carriage. They could not afford to lose two hours, much less three. "I'm coming too," he said. "Will be faster with more hands."

"Yeah, me too," said Jimmy and pulled his cap down tight. "Let's go."

"We ain't got enough raincoats for y'all," said Moses.

"Don't matter," said Henry. "We gonna get wet tonight anyway."

Down in Heron Key, Jenson's store was a blur of activity as he and Trudy scurried to clear more s.p.a.ce. There were nearly a hundred people crammed into the building, and still more people arrived. Parents carried wide-eyed, pajama-clad children, thrilled to be up past their bedtime. Old people shuffled in wearily, all too aware of the tedious hours ahead. People brought food, which mostly remained untouched, but the case of beer was quickly dispatched.

A bedraggled bundle of wet fur stumbled in the door and flopped with an exhausted smack on the floor.

"Ain't that Nelson's dog?" asked Cyril Anderson. He picked up the animal in his arms. Sam licked his face all over. "You're okay now, pal. You're okay." He stroked his ears but the dog would not be comforted and kept up a pitiful whining.

Jenson heaved another sack of flour on his back and dumped it outside the rear door. The storeroom was needed for people. Much as it pained him, he had no choice but to sacrifice perfectly good food to the elements.

Breathing heavily, he checked the barometer again and for a moment thought it must have broken. It had been falling steadily for hours, like a stone dropped from a height, but never in his life had he seen a reading so low. It was much lower than the one he received from Fred in Key West, which led him to a dreadful conclusion: the hurricane was many times more powerful than anyone, including Fred, had realized. And it was much, much closer, literally on their doorstep. The phone lines were down, power gone. They were on their own.

He looked around at the faces, s.h.i.+ny with sweat in the yellow glow of the lanterns, and decided there was no benefit in telling them what he knew. It would not help and could make the situation much worse, if there was a panic. There was nowhere safer to be.

The Conchs' basic good humor prevailed, despite the increasingly crowded conditions. People played Go Fish with the older children.

The hot, moist air gradually sent the younger ones to sleep, drooped over their parents' shoulders. The Conchs had seen off many a storm in this fas.h.i.+on. It almost felt like a party, a chance to socialize and swap stories of hurricanes past. As he moved around the store, Jenson caught s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation, all relating to the hunt for Hilda's attacker. He shook his head wryly. Nothing helped pa.s.s the time like juicy gossip.

"I've been saying all along, it must have been a crime of pa.s.sion," said Warren Hickson. "Stands to reason. Got to feel something real strong to mash someone's face in like that."

Mabel Hickson said, "That kind of shameless carrying on never ends well. As ye sow, so shall ye reap. Potato salad, anyone?"

Just then, the building was rocked by an enormous gust of wind that sent water spraying right through the tiny gaps in the walls.

Still more people came. It was dark as midnight outside, although it was barely 6:00 p.m. The good humor deteriorated. The party atmosphere dissolved into apprehension as the crowding got worse and the wind grew stronger.

Ronald burst in through the door with Cynthia in his arms. The bandage on his cheek was no longer white but grubby gray.

"Tree branch hit her," he said, panting. "Right when we left the country club. The kitchen blew up. The whole back side of the place is gone, just gone."

Cynthia moaned softly as he deposited her on the floor. Feet shuffled to make room. "Where's Dolores?" Ronald asked. "She was right behind us, but I lost her when Cindy got hit."

"Not here yet," said Warren.

Next through the door was Marilee Henderson with her young son, Tim. She was soaked through, dress mostly torn off her body. Mascara made thick black tracks down her face. Tim's face was pale as milk. He stared fixedly at his mother, as if afraid to take his eyes from her.

"Where is Ed?" she called as she searched the ma.s.s of faces. "Where is he?"

Trudy yanked down a curtain from the window to wrap around Marilee's shaking shoulders. Someone found a chair for her. "He's not here yet, sweetie." She knelt beside her and wiped rain and tears from her face. "What happened?"

It was several moments before she could speak. "I begged him to leave, but he wouldn't. He had-he had to check on her, one more time. He had to make sure she was okay. I told him, I said we could always get another boat. He looked at me like I was crazy."

Trudy exchanged a glance with Jenson. The Princess was not a big craft. Others of similar size had fled up the coast to safer moorings when the hurricane alerts came. We are all foolish about things we love, thought Jenson.

Marilee covered her face. Her body heaved with sobs. She said, so low that only Jenson heard, "You know, I always said-I always said she'd kill him one day."

Water pooled beneath the door. Jenson tasted it. "Salt," he said. He saw comprehension in the taut faces of the crowd. The store was nearly half a mile from the beach, raised up three feet off the ground.

The sea was coming for them.

For the first time, his confidence in the shelter was shaken. Heron Key had never seen a storm like this before. Sam's whining rose in pitch and volume.

Cynthia came to and sniffled. "Ronnie, make it stop. My nerves can't take much more."

"You either shut that dog up," Ronald said to Cyril, "or it's going out, I swear."

"You lay a hand on him," said Cyril quietly, "and I'll finish what Ike started." The lantern's light flashed on the metal claw of his prosthesis.

"Keep calm, everyone," said Jenson. "Anyone who wants a fight is welcome to go outside." He looked hard at Ronald and Cyril. "No takers? All right then. Now let's behave like civilized people. We're all friends here."

He watched his mother rock a crying child. It would serve no purpose to alarm her, but as always, she could read his face. "What is it, Son?"

"We've got no more room, but there are still people missing." He scanned the faces. There were other shelters, like the one out at the fruit-packing warehouse, but most of his regular customers would come to the store. There were plenty more still to arrive.

"We'll make room somehow," said Trudy. "We always do." She turned her attention back to the child, whose eyelids had started to flutter.

But Jenson knew the worst danger did not come from the wind, however fearsome. Earlier that day, he had seen big waves clawing at the beach, as if trying to return it to the depths. As the wind grew stronger, so the waves would get bigger still. Even a moderate storm surge could inundate low-lying Heron Key. This storm was anything but moderate. His barometer had bottomed out at the lowest reading on its scale: twenty-six inches. He had inherited it from his grandfather, who had lived through some terrible storms, one with a reading as low as twenty-eight inches; twenty-six was unheard of. The barometer, the instrument by which he had lived every day of his life, was now just a useless hunk of metal and gla.s.s.

Surrounded on all sides by a sweaty crush of people, he had never felt so alone.

"Leave it, Noreen," said Dwayne. "We got to go."

She was still filling a bag with Roy's favorite toys and clothes and food, as if they were off to spend a day at the beach. On the drive back from the country club, Dwayne had heard the roar of the incoming waves, seen the angry way they tore at the beach. At the marina, the mooring lines still held, but the boats jostled about like fat ladies at a buffet. Back home, their house creaked on its foundations. It felt like the whole world was shaking apart. Still she would not be hurried. Such was her concentration that she did not ask why he was so late, for which he was grateful. He did not want to tell her about the country club, or about Nelson's death. It was too much at that moment, and they needed to focus. He had seen the damage already wrought by the wind.

"You know what it will be like," she said and pushed Roy's stuffed tiger into the bag. "All those sweaty people, kids getting fractious with nothing to do."

"Noreen," he said, beyond exasperated, "it's a store. It'll be full of food and drink." He took the bag from her hand and hoisted Roy onto his shoulder. "Come on."