by Nancy Holder
Let herself in and flicked on the light.
There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?
Scratching her head, she dropped the shoulder bag on the bureau and yawned. She pushed off her sneakers and began unbuttoning her blouse. A wave of weariness washed over her, and she left it on, just too damn tired to mess with it. She blinked and yawned, then picked up her Walkman and put on her earphones, pressed Play.
“Strange fruit.” Donna mouthed the words softly. She knew all Billie Holiday’s songs by heart. Sang them in the bars. Hardly anyone knew who Billie was, but they liked the blues. Only Billie hadn’t meant to sing the blues. Jazz. Jazz was where it was at, baby.
Quietly singing, she sat on the mattress and flopped backward like a diver into a pool. Christ, it was a gross song. About lynching black people in the Old South. Stuff about burning flesh. Shit, burning flesh. Donna didn’t even use it; why did she even practice it?
Why did she practice at all? There was no call for girl jazz singers these days, despite all that bullshit elevator jazz they played on the radio. Yuppie jazz, she called it. Muzak for the thirty-something crowd. No guts, no glory, no modulation. Just processing.
She sighed and lay still. What did she know about guts anyway? She sang like a piece of cardboard.
Ship sounds filtered through as the number ended and the taped hissed and popped; white noise. She pulled the phones away from her ears for a few seconds and listened to the foghorn, the creaks of the ship, the groans of the containers, the sobs next door. Her mind drifted away; the bed bobbed beneath her like a pool float. The room tipped gently up and down. Donna tried to open her eyes. Had to get up, take off her makeup and her clothes.
Had to get up.
Billie sang in her ears. Donna’s lids were stuck to her face. Heavy weights anchored her legs and arms in their places. Her chest rose two inches, fell one. Shallow, shallow.
She was spinning, spinning, spiraling downward into sleep. In her mind she could see herself going under. Okay. No problem.
Her chest rose. Fell. Images of the day washed through her mind as the other side of the tape clicked on.… An ache … heavy as stone. Sing it, Billie, yeah, I know about that. Do it, girl.
My heart has …
Not Donna’s heart, though. No, ma’am.
an ache
Heavy weights.
Rhyme of the Dutchman, alone, alone. Dead birds in the hallway. Frank, you sexy vampire. Bite me, big boy. Dutchman, haunt me, dude.
Had to get up.
And save the boy, poor boy; and her mom, so humiliated after Dad left (always smacking her arm, saying, “Don’t be a big baby. Don’t be a baby.”).
Glenn …
Ghosts were people who haunted you, right? Then maybe she did believe in them. Yes.
Yes.
Spin the bottle. Spin the bed. Spin it. Spin it good, just like Devo. Spin it, spin it, the champagne girl is up for grabs.
With a slow, languid sigh, Donna sank,
down,
down,
down. Donna in Wonderland.
Alone, alone, all, all alone.
Hold your breath. Hold it good. Oh, yes, because if you inhale, if you suck it in, if you do that …
… what?
Deeper, sleepier, don’t forget to breathe.
’Night, moon. ’Night, Frank.
’Night, Glenn, my Glenn, wherever you are, good night, good night—
Dutchman, haunt me.
As heavy as stone.
Something was happening to her …
Down,
down,
down. Hold it—
Freeze—
Blackness.
VI
April 13, 1797
She sent the bird to me! She sent it as a sign! I am free from the shroud, and the albatross has succored me!
And now she comes! She comes herself, for me!
From the bottle, for me!
9
Undertow
“Donna, c’mon, wake up!”
Donna jerked awake at once, automatically reaching for the drawer in her nightstand at home where she kept her .38.
She was on her bed in her cabin on the Morris. John’s face hovered inches above her. Light from the companionway threw shadows onto his face like a jigsaw of bruises. His mouth moved, but a shrill, piercing whistle shot the sounds from the air, blasted the low cow moan of the foghorn. Shouts and footfalls rumbled past the open door. She whipped her head around; he grabbed her shoulder and said, “Donna, wake up. The ship is sinking.”
“What?” She jumped up, forcing him to step backward. The Walkman thwacked against the nightstand. John stumbled and elbowed the bureau, knocking over an empty bottle of Coors. Caught in the sound vacuum, it plummeted to the deck and rolled toward the door.
She tore the earphones from around her neck and cupped her ears. She couldn’t have heard him right.
“John?”
Sinking. She saw his lips form the words; his mouth was the color of paste, his face gray. Pushing up his glasses, he glanced to the door, where Ruth stood with her arm around Matt. The boy was sucking his thumb and holding her hand. Both of them had on fluorescent orange life jackets.
The bottle smacked the lip on the threshold and broke, the shatter insinuating itself between the whistles and the blaring and the stampede out on deck. The ship was canted, Donna realized. Listing badly, and that meant … that meant …
“It’s going down,” John yelled in her ear. She could barely hear him. “Captain Esposito’s given the order to abandon ship.”
In the corridor, Ramón sailed by, halted, and stuck his head in the door. He, too, had on a life jacket.
Someone lowered the volume outside and Donna was able to hear him. “Donna! Dr. Fielder! Put on your jackets.” He eased Ruth and Matt out of his way. They moved as one person, clinging together. “Rápido, rápido! The lifeboats are being lowered. You must all hurry.”
Donna rose, buttoning her blouse. She’d slept in her clothes and she felt clammy and grungy. “What the hell is going on?” To Ramón: “How?”
He held his hands from his sides and shook his head. “We hit something in the fog.”
Ruth covered her mouth with both her hands. News to her, too, apparently. Above his fist, Matt’s gaze darted toward his father, who went to him and hugged him against his chest.
“It wasn’t another ship,” Ramón went on. Under his breath, he added, “At least, we don’t think so, chingada.”
“But I didn’t feel anything,” Donna said, watching numbly while Ramón trotted over to her closet and rattled through it. “Something like that, I would’ve woken up.” And that piercing klaxon, that would’ve woken her up, too. It was inconceivable she’d slept through that.
Ramón turned from the closet and hurried around the end of her bed toward the bureau. “You got a sweater? Coat? A hat would be very good.”
Mr. Saar appeared in the companionway. “Moncho, everything square?”
Ramón opened the top drawer, turned away to address Saar. Donna crossed and put her hands in the drawer, on top of the sock with the bullets in it.
“We need two more jackets, Brian.”
“Check.” Mr. Saar dashed off toward the dining room.
“Where are the van Burens?” Donna asked, drawing a sweater from the drawer and slipping it on. She lost her balance and Ramón caught her arm.
“They’re by the lifeboats. Someone’s gone to get Kevin. Hurry.” His eyes ticked. His hand was trembling.
He was scared shitless.
“Oh, my God, my God,” Ruth croaked.
Donna picked up her purse and hoisted it over her shoulder. “Are you sure it’s necessary to abandon ship? Can’t whatever’s wrong be repaired?”
Ramón bent down and scooped up her sneakers. “We’ll take these with. Let’s go.”
“Ramón, answer my question,” she demanded as she picked up the sockful of ammo and dropped it into her purse as unobtrusiv
ely as possible.
“The captain would never do a thing like this unless he had to.” He lowered his gaze to her hands, looked up again.
“Let’s go, then,” she said, and everyone activated.
Outside the companionway, they trooped behind Ramón. Men squeezed past them, shouting at each other. Donna understood there was a lot of concern about the pumps, and then someone yelled, “Barney’s dead!”
She tugged at Ramón’s sleeve. He smiled grimly.
“One of our pumps. We named it Barney Clark.” It took her a few seconds to connect the name with the man who’d gotten the artificial heart, how it had wheezed and clicked. She smiled grimly back.
“Brace yourself,” Ramón said as they reached the end of the companionway and he stopped at a thick hatch like the one next to the dining room.
“What?” Donna asked, and then he opened the hatch and stepped over the lip.
The deck was a mass of confusion and hysteria. The crew was panicking. Men drenched with salt water flew up from the machine room. Pumps wheezed in counterpoint to the alarm bells and the foghorn. The patchwork castle of containers rumbled and clanged, and the thick metal lines that held them in place strained, ready to snap.
The fog had gotten thicker. She could see no more than a couple inches in front of her. When Ramón stepped away from her, she had a sickening sense that he’d fallen overboard. A thick, sheeny layer of moisture coated her like a facial mask. Her bare feet curled at the sensation of the cold, wet metal beneath them. She flashed on Ruth’s Squishy Creature and wondered what it would feel like to step on it without any shoes. If there had ever been such a thing, which, of course, there had not.
“Everyone together?” Ramón’s voice carried through the murk. Donna said, “I’m here.” No one else answered. Her heart caught and she said, “Count off, everybody. One. Who’s behind me?”
“It’s me,” Ruth said in a shrill voice. Fingers brushed the back of Donna’s head. “I’ve got little Matty.”
“John? John?” Donna demanded.
“Yes. Yes, I’m here.”
A light flicked on in front of Donna. Vaguely she saw the outline of a man, a globe of yellow floating at the end of his arm.
“Follow the flashlight,” Ramón said. “Hurry.”
He aimed the beam to his right. Donna walked gingerly toward it, aware that now she was the leader. Walking into space, walking on the friggin’ moon. She held her hands out like a tightrope walker to balance herself as a swell of vertigo tipped her right, left. Then his hand grabbed her outstretched wrist. A series of jumbled images—rowing, fishing, enduring—shot through her head, onetwothree, cannibals—
—real deep and back down her spinal cord, real jumbled, desert island and sex—
With a racketlike series of cricks, a shape dropped from somewhere in the air and dangled parallel with the deck. Boat, wooden, about ten feet. Getaway car. Its silhouette jiggled out of focus in the under-deepsea fog.
“It’s okay,” Ramón said gently. “We have a radio, and rations and water. We got a man overboard pole. It’ll be very safe.”
“I’m not afraid,” she said aloud, and as she spoke the words, she knew they were probably the biggest lie she’d ever told.
Except for the one she’d told Glenn: that there was nothing she’d do, ever, to hurt Barbara. If she got out of this, damn it, goddamn it to fucking hell, she was going to take him away from her. Life was too short for regrets.
“It’s okay, mi amor.” Ramón pressed her hand. Saying nothing, she stepped into the lifeboat.
It swayed beneath her weight. The bottom was wet and slippery. Boxes and plastic containers were stored everywhere, and she stumbled over them.
“Here, cara.” Ramón handed her her shoes. “They’re bringing you a life jacket.”
She sat down with her shoes in her lap. The bottom of her jeans soaked through immediately. Her heart lumbered much more slowly than she’d have expected in a major crisis.
Below the boat, the fog pumped and bellowed. The ocean made wet, slurping noises, as if it were thirsty.
Blackness.
Thirst.
Donna whirled around. “Who the hell keeps saying that?”
“Cómo?” Ramón asked. “Sí, mi hermosa. Sí, como es.” Donna understood enough Spanish to know he wasn’t speaking to her. The boat swayed, and white, bony fingers lunged for her.
“Help, help!” Ruth cried. “I’m falling.”
Donna squatted forward and took Ruth’s wrists. The woman’s face was an oval, nothing more. “You’re okay. Just sit down.”
“There are all kinds of things everywhere!” Her hands jerked in Donna’s grasp. “I have to get back out!”
“Now, Ruth, just sit down,” Donna said firmly. “Sit.” She reached for Ruth’s forearm and steadied her down beside her on the bench.
Ruth hopped back up. “It’s wet!”
“It’s from the fog. It’s all right.”
“Matt is coming now.” There was a whimpering. Ramón said, “Your papa is coming, too. There, you see? He won’t let go of you.”
More swaying. Matt got in, followed by John, and they huddled together soundlessly. Donna could hardly make out their shapes in the fog. God in heaven, how was anybody going to find them?
“Hey, dude,” she said to Matt. “Gimme five.”
Matt whimpered.
“Hey, it’s going to be okay. Think about what you can tell your friends back home!”
“I don’t have any friends,” Matt replied, without a trace of self-pity.
“God, I did this. I did this,” John blurted. A thick, deep sob rolled out of him.
“Maintain, father,” Donna ordered him at the same time Ruth murmured, “There, there. There, there.”
“I never should have …” John trailed off.
“It’s going to be all right,” Donna insisted. She reached for her shoes and forced the right one on, balancing herself with her toes against the bottom. It curved sharply. A solid boat, she told herself. A damn fine solid boat.
The ocean sucked the fog into its mouth, spewed out salt spray. Quickly Donna put on her shoes, all the while thinking that she’d probably stand a better chance if she didn’t wear them; excess weight would only pull her down if they capsized.
The klaxon screamed, a shard of sound that sliced between her eyes and the bony ridge above them. Her ears vibrated. Ruth cried, “Why can’t they shut that damn thing off? Everyone knows!”
“It’s a distress call. For other ships,” Donna said. She had to repeat it twice before Ruth heard her.
Another stampede of footfalls, and then Ramón said, “I have the life jackets for Donna and the doctor. Put them on immediately.” He spoke to someone, shouted a response, and said “Motherfucker” in Spanish. Prickles of alarm chittered up Donna’s arms and feet. What was he pissed off about? What was wrong?
“I am not getting in that thing.” Ah, the van Burens had arrived.
“Señora,” Ramón began.
“I can’t see, Daddy,” Matty said.
“Shh. It’s okay. It’s like Disneyland.” John’s voice faltered. Matt said nothing.
“Can you imagine what that little boat will do in the ocean? How long is it? Eight feet? We’ll capsize in ten minutes.”
“Darlin’, please.” Phil, with his gentle Southern drawl.
“No.”
“Elise, sweetheart, we must.”
“Shut up!” The sound of a smack. Jesus. She must have hit him. “Shut up, shut up!”
“Listen, mi hermosa,” Ramón said gently, “last time I was in my cabin, the water was up to my knees. There’s no way the pumps can work any faster. The cargo’s starting to shift. That’s more dangerous than the water we’re taking on.” As if to back him up, a scraping, screeching noise of metal on metal filled the air.
“We’re a cargo vessel. Those containers weigh tons, guerra. Tons. And when tons shift, the load is unbalanced. And when it’s unbalanced
…” He took a deep breath. “It could slide sideways into the ocean and sink without a trace. Real fast.”
Elise said, “My cabin was bone dry.”
“That’s because we’re listing,” Ramón said. “Come on, Mrs. van Buren. Just get into the boat.”
“We’re going to sue—”
Donna stepped forward. “Get into the fucking boat. Right fucking now!” she shouted, stepping over feet and boxes. She slung one leg over the side of the boat and anchored her foot on the deck. Reaching out, she found a slender wrist beside Ramón’s ball of light and yanked.
“C’mon, c’mon, let’s hustle!” Donna said, practically dragging Elise into the boat. “Phil, get your butt and your wife’s butt in here!”
“No! No!” Elise shouted, flailing at Donna. Donna made a fist and aimed, and connected hard with Elise’s cheek. The woman screamed, sagged, and collapsed into her husband’s arms. Shit. Donna hadn’t hit her that hard. And why wasn’t someone besides Ramón helping them, for Christ’s sake? Men were running everywhere, shouting orders, bellowing replies; the PA system crackled like a fire but the words it broadcast were indecipherable. If only someone would turn off all the damn extra noise, maybe the captain could make order of this chaos.
As if summoned by her thoughts, someone appeared next to Ramón. She saw the shadow in the flashlight. Phil and Elise sat numbly on the stern end of the boat. They were all facing each other, yet it was impossible to see anyone’s face clearly through the fog. Going to sea with a boatload of phantoms.
“Ramón, since you’re going first, Cap’n asked if you’d take Nemo.” The miserable rawl of a cat.
“Nemo,” Matt whispered.
“Sure thing,” Ramón said.
“I’ll hold her,” Donna offered, reaching for the shape in the fog.
“Okay.” Ramón carefully laid the cat in Donna’s arms. The pregnant creature was sopping wet, and she fought as Donna gripped her on her lap. Her belly was distended and knobby. She meowed unhappily as Donna scruffed her behind the ears.
“Just don’t have those kitties on the open sea,” Ramón cautioned. Catching himself, he said, “We’re in the shipping lanes. All the life rafts are equipped with distress beacons. Ours was activated when the boat slipped down the davits. I doubt we’ll spend more than a couple hours out there, if that.”