by Landon Beach
✽✽✽
He moved into his former position with his knees on the cabin floor facing the skeleton. Instead of pulling on the handle this time, he slid his hand below the bag, and, through a combination of lifting and pulling, freed the bag. Gently, he set it on the back bench. Probably this guy’s overnight bag. He found the zipper again and followed the treads until he reached the zipper handle. Just a peek.
He started to pull.
21
A small cloud of silt rose up. He stopped. Maybe he should follow his rule and leave this unfortunate grave site undisturbed. He looked at the skeleton. But what if there was something inside the bag that could help identify who this poor bastard was? It was a good bet that the family never found out where he disappeared to. He pulled on the handle again and ran it down the entire length of the zipper. Then, he pulled the bag open and shined his light inside.
His eyes opened as if his eyeballs were being pulled out. Resting on the bottom of the bag was a handful of jewels. The mixture of scarlet, diamond, green, and light blue colors sparkled in his light. Sweet Jesus, how much was this lot worth? And what in the hell was it doing here? He zipped the bag shut and his instincts took over as he bent down and looked under the seat for any more bags. He moved his light from left to right and found what looked like another bag, but this one was wedged even further behind the crumpled section of fuselage. With his body on the floor, he moved his arm under the seat and reached. Nothing. He slid closer, positioning his shoulder directly under the seat edge. He reached again.
This time, his fingers felt the bag’s fabric. He stretched to the point where he could hold a section of the bag in his fingers and pulled. The bag started to move. This one was heavier. He pulled harder.
Suddenly, he lost his grip and the momentum of his pull threw his body back against the co-pilot’s seat. The plane shuddered and a sick creaking sound began to grow in intensity. He could hear banging up near the nose. Trist was signaling him. Trouble. Robin grabbed the bag on the bench and started to head out as the plane started heeling over toward the chasm. He pulled on the cockpit controls and shot out though the open windshield. Trist thrust his fist out repeatedly, and Robin could see the fear in his son’s eyes.
The plane tipped over even more and Trist’s knees came up off the plane. Robin’s fins began to float away. He grabbed one, but before he could go for the other Trist seized his arm and kicked to get them away from the plane. As the plane began to go over the edge, the left-hand side of the wing headed straight for them.
Trist kicked harder, and the wing sliced through the water, missing them by inches. Clear of the danger, they rested on the edge of the drop off and watched as the plane tumbled into darkness.
Robin put his one fin on and showed Trist the bag he had in his hand. He got closer. Trist’s eyes were on fire. “Sorry, T. Your old man just about royally screwed up. Let’s head up and I’ll make it up to you when I show you what’s inside this bag.”
Trist handed him the nylon rope and then wrote on his dive slate:
I AM SO. He crossed it out and wrote instead: WHATEVER! WHAT ABOUT THE TANK?
Robin looked over at the rocks where the tank was. Then, he looked at his watch. “You’re almost out of air. We can get the tank tomorrow before we leave. I’ll untie the nylon line and we’ll follow the anchor chain up. Then, let’s re-anchor with the forward and aft anchors to position us straight over this site.”
Trist reluctantly gave him the okay sign, and, after Robin had untied the nylon line from the anchor, started to kick for the surface. Robin watched as his son’s light moved further and further above. He gave a thought to bringing the tank up now, but with one fin as his propeller, he decided against it. He lifted off the bottom and took a few awkward kicks, barely moving. Forget it. He pulled the quick release lever on his weight belt and it sank to the bottom. He held on to the bag with one hand and the anchor chain with the other as he pulled and kicked his way up.
✽✽✽
“How are you feeling?” Trist said.
“A little tired,” he admitted. “After this meal, I see a good night of sleep ahead of us.” He felt a cool breeze come down the companionway. “The temperature drops fast up here.”
When they had surfaced after the dive, they found themselves enveloped in darkness, as if the waterline was the bottom of the sea and the moon was an eternal dive light casting a beam down on them. He’d briefly shown Trist what was in the bag and said they would discuss it over dinner. After anchoring over the site, they’d stowed the dive gear, turned on the anchor lights, and headed below to clean up. Trist had taken a hot shower while Robin went topside and set up the grill on the aft railing. When Trist was done, they had switched.
“How much do you think all those jewels are worth?” Trist asked.
They were now seated at the salon table working on the largest steaks Trist had ever seen his father make—twenty ounces each, at least. The bread, salads and huge basket of fries were already long gone.
“No idea,” Robin said. “If they’re genuine, and we have no reason to think they’re not, a lot.” He sat back, and a thought came to him. “I might be able to make an estimate though.”
“How? You just said you had no idea,” said Trist.
“Sometimes I should...” No use holding back now “...think before I speak,” Robin said. “It’s an old Norris family curse.”
Trist sat speechless.
“You know our local jeweler, Justin Ford, right?”
Trist continued to stare.
“Trist?”
“Uh, yeah. Justin the Jeweler. His ads blanket the local paper.”
“Since when do you read the paper?”
“Only the sports, but Justin is everywhere.”
Robin snorted, “Yeah, he can be annoying, but he’s local so I support him.” Robin took a sip. “Anyway, when I was in there late in March picking up your mom’s wedding ring from a cleaning, he was quieter than usual. So I asked him what was up, and he said that he just received the Jewelers’ Security Alliance Annual Crime Report. If I remember right, he said that something like 55 million dollars’ worth of jewelry had been stolen the year before. Now, I’m not sure when that plane went down, but it’s been there a while.” He looked over at the dry bag resting on the salon bench.
Right before dinner, he had carefully wiped each gem with a soft cloth and placed them in a Ziploc bag and then in a dry bag with a float attached. Levity could disappear beneath the waves, but the stones wouldn’t be joining her.
“I’m guessing the jewels in that bag are worth at least a couple million dollars.”
Trist’s eyes sparkled under the salon table light.
“And even more in the second bag that went down with the plane.” He motioned to the bench again. “Make sure you put the dry bag and float in the V-berth after dinner.”
Trist nodded in agreement. “I don’t know if I can finish this beast,” Trist said as he sliced a piece of steak, stabbed it along with a mushroom and two onions, and then dipped the combination in Heinz 57 sauce.
“Three more bites and you’re there,” Robin said and then let out a laugh.
“What?” Trist said putting the forkful in his mouth.
“I used to use that trick when you were a toddler.”
Trist shook his head and swallowed. He took a cleansing breath and sliced another piece off.
“Atta boy,” Robin said and took another bite of his own steak.
“One thing seems certain though,” Robin said. “Those jewels weren’t being transported legally. Who knows how many bags were even on that plane?”
Trist gave a wry grin. “Whatever happened to respecting the wreck and leaving everything in its place?”
Nothing like having your words tossed back at you. “I always make an exception for jewels in duffel bags.”
Trist put down his fork. “I can’t win.”
Robin chuckled. “Well, there is something to be said fo
r the phrase that old age and treachery will defeat youth and energy.”
He picked his fork back up. “I wonder how deep the plane went.”
“You said that around eighty feet the bottom was nowhere in sight, right?”
Trist nodded.
Robin swirled the wine in his glass as he thought. “I could go down tomorrow morning and retrieve the extra tank,” he said. “After that, we could pull up the anchor and I could run the boat over the drop off to check the depth. I’m comfortable with us diving to 150 feet, but no deeper.” He and Tyee rarely went below 100 feet. “All pitch black down there,” Tyee had said.
“You want that other bag, don’t you?”
Robin’s eyes sparkled. “We’ll see. Even if we can reach the plane, there may be no way to get inside it now.”
“I wonder why no one had found the plane yet. We’re not that far offshore.”
“Yeah, it’s interesting. But I am reminded that we landed on the moon about a decade and a half before finding the Titanic. It’s humbling to know we’ll never discover all the stuff buried beneath the waves or even know exactly what is underneath them.”
“Where do you think the jewels were headed when they went down?”
“Maybe Canada.” Robin rubbed his chin. “Maybe Detroit or even New York.”
“Do you think there was anyone else in the plane with that guy?”
“Possibly, but it could have just been him.” He paused. “Although, that doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Why not?”
“Because of the way he was trapped behind the pilot’s seat. I think the crash caused him to get pinned back there, so he must have been in the back when the plane hit the water. Therefore, it couldn’t have been the pilot.”
“Where do you think the pilot went then?”
“He could have been ejected out the front windshield, or thrown all the way to the back and went down with the missing tail section.”
“Or he escaped through the windshield,” Trist said.
The realist in him had ruled out this option, but he couldn’t deny that there was a small chance. Good to know that Trist has some optimism left in him. “You never know.”
“If he died and wasn’t trapped inside, wouldn’t the body have floated to the surface or eventually washed ashore?”
“Not necessarily,” said Robin. “The freezing water can keep bacteria from forming gases, and so the body stays submerged. Remember my Gordon Lightfoot record?”
“I know where you’re headed, dad. The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Yes, still got it memorized.”
“Memorized? You forgot what Gitche Gumee even stood for before we left. Remember?”
Trist playfully lowered his head and held his hands up in defeat.
“Anyways, it’s one of the best ballads ever written. Period.”
“I surrender. But what you’re trying to tell me is that there are people who go into Superior that never come out.”
“We saw one tonight.”
Trist chewed his last piece of steak. “What do we do with the jewels?”
“When we get back, we’ll talk to Justin first. Have him out for dinner and show him the goodies. See what he thinks.”
“Are we rich?”
“Considerin’ retiring before you’ve even graduated high school?”
Trist’s face reddened. “No, just wonderin’...”
“Yeah, right. I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is, yes, if we get any of this money then some of it will go to you one day, but that changes nothing about you going to school and getting an education first.”
“I know, all right?”
“Look on the bright side: We might not get to keep any of it,” Robin said and finished off the wine in his glass. “Mom will be shocked though.”
Trist broke a smile. “She will be.”
“Now that we’ve got that settled, let’s go topside for a surprise.”
“What? Cards?”
“Change of plans. Head up and I’ll join you in a minute.”
Trist swung his legs out from underneath the table and grabbed a hooded sweatshirt off the salon bench before heading topside.
After clearing the table, Robin unlatched a cabinet above the stove. Inside was a deep well on one side and a crisscrossed wooden wine rack on the other. From one of the bottom slots, he took out a 21-year-old bottle of The Macallan. From the deep well he pulled out two cigars, a cutter, and a lighter.
He set it all on the counter and latched the cabinet back up. Bending down, he slid open a drawer and pulled out a box. Celebrating and yet apprehensive about what was inside, he set it on the counter and opened it.
Under the box top were two old fashioned glasses with the Detroit & Mackinac Railroad logo on them. They had been passed down from his grandfather to his father and eventually to him. In addition to his father and grandfather, his two uncles and one great-uncle had worked at the D & M for over seventy-five years. Robin had been saving these glasses for Trist’s and—he exhaled and said the name of his deceased son inside his head—Jonathan’s wedding nights. Knowing that he would never see them, he had decided to bring the glasses on the trip and give them to Trist when he felt the moment was right.
He arrived topside with two fingers of scotch poured into each glass and the cigars in the front pocket of his sailing sweater. The night breeze had cooled the temperature even more, and the moonlight on the water’s surface made that part of the lake look like a slice of obsidian.
He handed a glass to Trist.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Trist said.
They sat down across from each other in the cockpit.
“You know I’m no fan of underage drinking, but this is different. We’re only having this one, but I wanted to do it while I still could, and, well, I won’t be around when I wanted to have this take place.” Robin explained the history, and the original plan.
Trist looked at the glass in his hand.
“These glasses belong to you now. Take good care of them and pass on the tradition. Deal?”
“Deal,” Trist said.
Robin raised his glass. He was already fighting back the emotion. “To my son,” he said.
Trist raised his glass.
They clinked glasses, and then took a sip.
Robin pulled the cigars out, cut the ends off, and handed one to Trist. He lit his own and then passed the lighter to Trist.
Both ends glowed red as they inhaled, blew the smoke out, and then took another sip of scotch.
A breeze came up off the water and then died down. Robin watched as his son looked out over the water. He wasn’t sure if he could see tears going down Trist’s face, but he left him alone. It wasn’t the wedding night, and never would be, but he couldn’t imagine a more perfect night with his only remaining son.
✽✽✽
Trist snored on the cockpit bench as Robin finished up his latest journal entry—his shortest yet.
—From the Journal of Robin Thomas Norris—
Leaving the World in Better Shape than You Found It In
So easy to say—harder to do. It’s all about balance, T. You’ll have your job, perhaps a family and the demands that involves, your hobbies—the things that keep you alive inside (we all need them; hopefully, your interests don’t hurt anyone else), and then your responsibility as a citizen. Try to carve out some time every day to make the world better. It could be volunteering, it could be in how you raise your kids, it could also be as simple as being a good neighbor. Whatever you do, keep in mind that you’re trying to leave the world in better shape than you found it in. If you can accomplish this, then I think you’ll steer a true course. Remember, human beings are inherently selfish, but if they all tried to do at least one thing every day that benefited another person, then I think we’d be better off. I won’t waste your time waxing your brain with utopian visions. There is no nirvana. Most activists go home to pretty comfortable lives, and watch out when unearned bit
terness takes control of the steering wheel. You can only control yourself, Trist. Try your best to make a positive impact, but don’t let the effort paralyze you. And, at a minimum for your sake, steer clear of the drug scene. Alcohol is dangerous enough, believe me, but if you want the quick and easy path to derail your effort to make a difference, then start smoking tree. One day, that roach won’t be enough, and then you’re fucked. Unfortunately, not a lot will be done until upper-class kids start getting hooked on bad shit and are dying in large numbers—and you don’t have time to wait for that—so just don’t start.
He closed the book. Trist turned on his other side and the blanket fell off him onto the deck. Robin walked over and covered him back up, then turned off the cabin light and climbed into his aft berth. He thought about closing the companionway hatch, but the air felt too good and the sound of the water lapping against the hull was like a lullaby.
He drifted off to sleep.
✽✽✽
At 1 a.m., he felt the boat rock. Then, he heard wet footsteps going across the cockpit deck.
22
Robin sat up and eased Tyee’s shotgun out from the compartment underneath his berth. He loaded two shells and slipped down the short passageway to where he could see the companionway steps. A few drops of water hit the top step before a foot touched down on it. One more step. The other foot landed on the next step down, and he could see slender yet muscular bare legs.
“Don’t move,” he said.
The legs froze.
Trist awoke and rolled over, disoriented. He sat up in time to see the barrel of his father’s shotgun silhouetted against the broken moonlight streaming down through the companionway hatch, which was blocked by the figure of...his dad moved in front of the steps and he could only see Robin’s backside.
“Dad, who is it?”
Robin looked up the companionway ladder at a tall young woman. Her t-shirt and shorts were soaked, and her hands were shaking as they gripped both sides of the open hatch. Trist was at his side immediately, now staring up at her in disbelief. Seeing that she was unarmed, Robin aimed the shotgun away from her but still maintained a firm grip.