by Kathi Appelt
Meggie Marie just let Signe be. Instead of questions, she turned up the radio and blasted down the road, letting the wind blow her long black hair behind her. With only a few words like “Wanna stop for a minute?” and “How about a Coca-Cola?” and “Let’s pull over and look at the stars,” the girl at the wheel and the girl with the wooden bowl became friends.
For seven years Signe and Keeper had been waiting for Meggie Marie to come back. And Keeper? Signe had let her believe that her mother was a mermaid.
Suddenly, the heat in the kitchen had seemed unbearable. Signe took a deep breath, sucked in the hot air of the room. She rubbed her fingers on each of the two halves of the wooden bowl. It was cleanly split.
And as much as the bowl reminded Signe of her own mother, it also reminded her of Meggie Marie and that night she left. Signe felt her face redden. She was still angry with Meggie Marie, angry with her for putting Keeper in so much danger, angry with her for leaving, angry with her for missing out on the wonder that was Keeper.
She set the pieces of the bowl next to the sink. Then, with her hands on the tiled rim of the counter, she bent over and rested her forehead on her arm.
She had not asked for this house, and she had not asked for Keeper, either, but they had been left to her by someone who had saved her life.
Signe knew that if she had stayed in Iowa, she might have died like her mother, without ever seeing the world beyond the cornfields and grain silos of the Midwest. Signe’s mother had always told her, “I want to see the ocean before I die,” and she never got the chance.
Yes, Meggie Marie had saved Signe, and then she entrusted her with the house and the girl. And Signe had kept them.
That had been the charge. The last thing Meggie Marie had said to her. The very last thing.
71
While the moon rose in the sky, more stingrays gathered behind the sandbar. There they came, a long stream of them moving in from Jamaica and another stream from the Virgin Islands. They were congregating, their wide wings stretched out to catch the ocean currents.
Later tonight, they would ride the tide through the narrow ditch that ran between the gulf and the pond. Who knew why they chose this sandbar or this pond or this night? Maybe it was some ancient calling? Maybe it was just an accident of the ocean’s currents?
It’s hard to say, but as the night wore on, more and more and more would gather through the hours. A conflagration, a congregation, a jubilation of stingrays! Come to lay their eggs in the light of July’s blue moon.
Mermaids’ purses.
72
Keeper blinked. It was bright out here in the surf compared to the pond. The phosphorescence of the waves gave off a glow that lit up the whole beach. Everything felt huge—the sky, the air, even the moon seemed twice as big as it had seemed when they were on the pond.
“We did it!” she said again.
Her perfect plan was working! Step H, check! She sat up straight, her shoulders back, her arms in the air. She felt wildly triumphant. “We’re almost there!” she cried to BD, and gave him a happy hug.
He licked her right on the mouth.
“Stealth kisser.” She laughed.
In the dimness the waves looked soft. The moon’s beams glittered on them as they curled. And there, a hundred yards in front of her, its bony ridge gleaming in the light of the full, round moon, she saw De Vaca’s Rock.
With the sandbar in her sights, Keeper grabbed the oars. She had to make sure that the boat’s nose was pointed directly into the oncoming curls. If not, they’d likely turn her sidewise, and over she’d go, dog and all. She slipped the oars into the oarlocks, wincing at her raw palms.
Sploosh! The nose of the boat reared up in front of her. And just like that, one of the oars popped out of its lock and flew away.
“Oh no! Come back!” Keeper cried, her hand waiting there in midair, as if it expected the oar to fly back into it. She watched in disbelief as it tumbled into the surf.
She would have to work twice as hard now to keep the boat aimed at the sandbar. Could she get there with only one oar? She was pretty sure she could… that was how kayakers paddled, didn’t they? One oar? And what about canoers? Again, one oar?
De Vaca’s Rock jutted up in the water. Not that far.
She could make it if she just kept the boat pointed toward it. And the water here was still shallow, maybe three feet at most. Why, she could practically wade there!
But here’s the thing: A riptide does not have to be deep to be strong. Keeper did not take that into consideration. A riptide that ran like a freight train just in front of that famous sandbar, a riptide that grabbed The Scamper with its girl and its dog and carried them
past the sand bar,
past the congregating stingrays,
past the line of breakers,
and into open water.
That riptide.
Before Keeper knew what was happening, The Scamper was well past the sandbar, leaving the gentle beach breakers in its wake and darting out to sea. Deep sea.
And the dog? All he could do was howl in the silvery spray of the water and wish that someone, anyone, on Oyster Ridge Road would wake up.
Now!
73
Unaware that she was alone, Signe dreamed in the haint blue house. A familiar dream, a memory dream. There she was, tugging at Meggie Marie’s arm, begging her to get out of the water, to come back to shore, tugging at her as hard as she could. But too late. Meggie Marie began to scream, “It’s coming, it’s coming, the baby is coming!”
And then, like that, the baby came, slipped out of Meggie Marie and bobbed up onto the surface of the sea, right into Signe’s arms, and in the very next second there was Dogie, like Neptune himself, his wet dreadlocks shining in the morning sun, throwing off the water.
She thought she probably fell in love with him that very moment, just like she knew she fell in love with Meggie Marie’s baby.
But she didn’t realize that she had fallen in love with Dogie then—no, she didn’t. She didn’t realize it for a long, long time. Instead, what she realized was that she was holding a brand-new baby in her arms, right there in the Gulf of Mexico, off the Texas coast near a tiny town called Tater, somewhere between Galveston and Corpus Christi, the waves bumping against them. There are babies who are born at sea, of course. Everyone’s heard about them, born on boats. But how many are born in the sea itself ?
Signe stood there in those same salty waters and looked down at the baby in her arms. A girl. She was holding a baby girl. “Hello, Sweet Pea,” Signe whispered into the baby’s ears. Signe’s voice was the first voice that Keeper ever heard. And ever since, it was the first voice she heard in the morning and the last voice she heard at night.
Signe had watched as Dogie had cut Keeper’s umbilical cord with his pocket knife, then lifted Meggie Marie in his arms and carried her back to the beach, past the Bus, and then all the way to their house on Oyster Ridge Road.
He left his surfboards and beach umbrellas unattended. Left the beach and the waves. And Signe followed him, the baby girl in her arms, all the way to that house. She probably fell in love with Dogie that day. But first she fell in love with the baby girl.
What she didn’t dream about was how that baby girl, now ten and tall, was heading back to sea.
Oh, Signe, wake up!
74
“Come back!!!” Keeper cried. From over her shoulder, the sandbar grew smaller and smaller. In less time than it took for a frog to zap a fly, she had scooted right past it. The tide that had been so slow pulling her across the Cut now yanked her out into the deep water too fast.
“Stttooopppp!!!” she shouted. She was way beyond the row of breakers that lined the beach, exactly not where she was supposed to go.
Exactly.
She grabbed the single oar with both hands now, ignoring the pain. Dip, pull, dip, pull, dip, pull. She tried to turn the boat around, but just as the nose began to come around, the waves knocked her back.<
br />
She tried harder. Dip, pull, dip, pull, dip. Her arms were throbbing, she was pulling so hard. But still the boat rushed away from the sandbar and the shore behind it. Within moments, they were so far out, Keeper could only barely see the silhouettes of the rooftops on Oyster Ridge Road.
Not, not, not part of the plan, she thought.
She pulled the oar into the boat. Drops of water pearled in the moon’s light and dripped back into their home, the deep, enormous Gulf of Mexico.
She stowed the oar, then crossed her arms, tucking her sore hands up under her armpits. She bit her bottom lip and tried hard not to cry.
Then, in her smallest voice, she spoke her mother’s name: “Meggie Marie.”
She did not hear her name in return.
BD stood up and turned in a circle, then another, making the boat rock even more. Finally, he sat back down, the too-big life vest up around his ears.
That’s when Keeper noticed that Captain was missing.
75
Back on shore Mr. Beauchamp barely moved in his chair on the porch. The late-night air seemed to lean against his chest.
He wished again, just as he did every night, that he could go back in time, go back to that night long ago, the night of two boys holding hands, two boys, himself and Jack, barely fifteen, their whole lives in front of them. It was a simple holding of hands, theirs was. But in that holding of hands, all that needed saying was said.
Now, as he sat on his porch, working to catch his breath, he rubbed his hands together. They felt emptier than ever.
For several days after their encounter with the old fishwife, Henri had returned to the fountain, hoping that Jack would return. He didn’t understand why Jack had run away like that. Night after night, Henri returned to the fountain, and night after night, there was no sign of Jack.
The fountain. How many hand-holders had stood in the moonlight and leaned against its marble sides? Made wishes? Spoken in quiet voices?
Then at last the night that Henri dreaded arrived, the eve of his departure. On the morrow he would sail away to Texas with his Camargue ponies. He had no way of knowing how long he’d be gone. A year? Two years? His boat was bound for Galveston, but after that, it might go anywhere. He was only a stable boy, not privy to the captain’s plans. When would he return? He only knew that his ship would sail at dawn. And he had no idea how to find Jack.
When Henri arrived at the fountain that last night, his heart was heavy. He waited and waited. But then, just as he was about to turn away, he felt someone’s hand on his shoulder. He knew that touch.
In that moment Henri felt his whole being lift above the ground, felt the cobblestones beneath his feet fall away. In the presence of love, gravity lost its claim on Henri Beauchamp.
But their happiness was soon dashed by Henri’s imminent departure. When the morning came, he would have to leave Jack behind.
Neither of them knew what to say or even how to say it. No matter how much Henri begged the sun to slow her course, the hours flew by, the night grew lighter. Finally, Henri knew he had to leave. He hung his head.
But then, while the moon stood guard, Jack reached for Henri’s hand one last time and he slipped a token into it. A porte-bonheur. Henri felt the disk in his palm. It was the size of a large coin and hung from a thin gold chain. The gold of it gleamed in the center of his palm. Henri held it up by its chain and pressed it against his chest.
“If you ever need me,” Jack said, “all you have to do is hold this in your palm and make a wish.” Henri looked at the glowing disk. He curled his fingers over it. It was as warm as a sunbeam.
Henri felt a catch in his throat. He needed to say something, but he was afraid that words might ruin everything.
Instead, he slipped the token into his pocket. He could feel its warmth through the fabric of his jacket, against the skin around his waist. He swallowed hard. Then, at last, he opened his mouth and said, “Yes, I will take it with me and make a wish that you’ll swim all the way to Texas and find me there.” And then the two of them burst into laughter.
Fifteen. They were only two fifteen-year-old boys. When boys are fifteen, anything is possible, isn’t it? Even swimming from France to Texas.
As if to seal the deal, the enormous one-eyed cat wandered up and wove himself between their legs. He purred. But when Henri bent down to rub the big tom, he heard the heavy steps of someone approaching. He glanced at Jack. Jack’s face went pale in the moon’s light.
“Ma’aama!” cried Jack.
There was the old sea wife from before. The strong aroma of fish rose from the basket on her arm. It stung Henri’s nostrils and burnt his eyes. This time she ignored Jack and walked right up to Henri. “Here you be talkin’ about wishes, but you have no gift for me?” she asked, staring right at him.
Henri spoke softly. “Begone, dear mother,” he told her. But she grabbed his sleeve and glared at him with eyes the color of the ocean.
“Can’t you see?” she said. “He belong to me, not you.”
“But—,” Henri sputtered.
She cut him off and said, just as she had the first night, “He’d not be your kind, mon.”
Henri pulled his sleeve away from her wrinkled hand; the smell of dead fish pooled around his feet. He felt like he was sinking. He reached into his pocket. The porte-bonheur was still warm from Jack’s hand.
He wasn’t afraid of a wrinkled old fisherwoman, but he was confused. Who was she? He wondered again if she was Jack’s mother. But in the next moment she walked directly toward Jack. Jack stepped aside to avoid her. Too late. She shoved him as hard as she could.
Jack stumbled backward, his arms spinning in circles, trying to catch his balance. Henri lunged for him, but to no avail. Jack fell straight back into the sparkling fountain. Splash!
“Noooo!” Jack yelled.
As he lunged, Henri lost his own balance and slipped, bumping his head against the hard curved edge of the fountain. For a moment he could see only blackness, could breathe in only the smell of dead fish. His head ached from the blow. The fisherwoman put her face right in his, then she reached down and pulled him up by his right arm and forced him to face the water.
Henri rubbed the back of his head. A flame of pain flared up just behind his eyes. He blinked. For a second he couldn’t focus, everything was blurry. He shook his head, then blinked again, trying to make everything clearer. Then he remembered. Jack! Where was he? He pushed the old woman aside.
There in the fountain was Jack, facedown in the water, floating, right there on the surface.
In a panic Henri grabbed for Jack’s hand, but as soon as he touched it, he recoiled in horror. The hand that he had known so well was now covered in scales. Where Jack’s legs had been, a long fishy tail appeared. Down his back, a fin ran from his neck to his waist.
“You see,” rasped the old woman, “he’d not be your kind, mon.”
Henri shook his head again. Maybe he wasn’t seeing things right? How could it be? He felt the knot on the back of his head. Maybe the blow had distorted his vision? Henri refused to believe his eyes, and yet— he watched Jack transform. Was this really Jack? It couldn’t be. But when he looked again, he saw…
“Monster!” he rasped.
He took a deep breath. He choked on his own words. “Monster!” he croaked again.
He’d heard all the sailors’ tales of the people of the sea, those creatures who wore the skins of humans, sirens who lured their victims to their deaths, dashed against the rocks and jetties of the jagged shorelines, enchanters, real but not real.
He’d never believed the tales to be true, just amusements to pass away the long, lonely stretches at sea. And yet, here was Jack, changing before his eyes.
Monster!
He couldn’t bear it. All this time, he had thought that the affection between him and Jack was real. But when he looked again at the floating creature in the fountain, he couldn’t see Jack at all; instead, all he saw was the long fin down the creatu
re’s back, the shiny scales that ran from his shoulders down his arms and around his chest. Betrayal blazed through his body, it wrenched his stomach inside out. He backed farther away.
The old woman stood by the fountain and laughed. “You see, he’d not be your kind, mon!”
“Henri!”
He heard Jack call his name.
“Wait!”
Henri paused. He heard it again, his name.
“Henri!”
The voice was so familiar. Jack’s voice.
Henri turned away. His face burnt, shame curled around his neck and throat. How could he have been so naive? He’d actually thought that what he and Jack shared was real. He began to run, his legs trembling, all the way to the docks, where he ran up the ramp of the steamer, its hold filled with wild ponies, ponies from the Camargue.
He did not look back. Not then. He only looked down. Down at his feet, down at the straw of the ship’s stable. Down.
The next morning the boat set sail. One boy, only fifteen, heartsore, walked to the edge of the rail. The water churned beneath him. His eyes burnt from the tears that he had shed all night. His throat ached. He’d stared out toward the harbor and then to the open sea, refusing to look at the place he was leaving.
But for some reason, somewhere inside of the turmoil and betrayal, something inside him spoke up. Turn around, it whispered to him. He rubbed his eyes and slowly glanced over his shoulder. There, on the very end of the dock, sat the one-eyed cat. Before he could stop himself, Henri waved. And he couldn’t say for sure, but he thought he saw the cat wink with his one good eye.
Exactly then Henri knew he had made a mistake. He should not have run away. He should have stayed there by the fountain. He should have at least said good-bye.
He put his hand in his pocket and found the porte-bonheur, still warm. He looked back at the pier. The one-eyed cat waited. All at once, Henri Beauchamp spun on his heels and stretched his arms wide to the morning sky. It didn’t matter, did it, what Jack was? It only mattered that he loved him.