Turbulent Wake

by Paul E. Hardisty

  ‘Can we go tomorrow, Mum?’ said the boy.

  ‘It’s up to the colonel, darling. Let’s get settled in and we’ll see.’

  ‘And you might like to know that there is another family staying with us at the moment,’ said the colonel. ‘They have a boy and a girl, about the same ages as you two.’ The colonel looked over his shoulder again. ‘What do you think, lads?’

  The boy frowned. His father had told them that they would have the island to themselves. He decided that he would not be friends with the other children. He and his brother would play their own games, do their own exploring. His father had told them that they would have their own house by the beach. He hoped they wouldn’t have to share a house with the other family.

  ‘They don’t say much, do they?’ said the colonel.

  The boy’s mother laughed.

  They were on a narrow crushed coral track now, winding through a grove of leaning palms. Their trunks were smooth and the fronds rustled in the warm breeze. The sea was close. Through the trees he could see the shallow, pale yellow-blue water he had seen from the plane, and beyond, a line of churning white and further out, the deep blue of the deep ocean. And it seemed to the boy that this was the most beautiful place he had ever seen. He couldn’t wait to explore the island. He would go to the blowholes. He would explore the caves the colonel had spoken of, and he would swim in the yellow-blue sea and look for fish and shells and the other creatures he’d read about and seen pictures of – conches and barracuda fish and corals and turtles. He was eleven and three-quarters. He would do it alone.

  They did get their own house. It was right on the beach, with palm trees all around. There was a big veranda out front with some chairs and two hammocks and big windows that were really doors and opened up all along the front, so that during the daytime the breeze flowed through the house and it was cool. The floors were of polished wood, perfect for racing the Hot Wheels he’d brought with him, and when he lay on his back on the floor, he could see the wooden beams of the roof and the crinkled sloped metal that kept the rain and sun out. He and his brother had their own room, with a bed each and a big wooden armoire for their stuff. And right out the front door was the sea.

  His mother stood on the polished floor and twirled like a dancer. ‘Aren’t we lucky, boys?’ she said. ‘It’s paradise.’

  The colonel returned later in the evening when it was almost dark and the boy and his brother were in their pyjamas and ready for bed. He walked in and put a bottle of something on the table. Then he showed the boy’s mother how to light the hurricane lamps and helped her open out the mosquito nets and secure the louvered shutters all around the house, so that the breeze would flow through at night. The boys went to bed and their mother came with one of the lanterns to kiss them goodnight.

  ‘When is Dad coming, Mum?’ the boy said.

  ‘Tomorrow, around lunchtime.’

  ‘Is tomorrow Christmas?’ said the boy’s brother.

  ‘No, sweetheart. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.’ She kissed them both again and then stood and dimmed the lantern. ‘Now go to sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.’

  The boy was very tired, but he was too excited to sleep. He lay and listened to the swish of the waves on the beach and the sound of the breeze though the palms.

  When he woke much later it was very quiet. He could hear his brother breathing nearby. He pulled away the light sheet, got out of bed and walked to the window. He peered through the louvers. The beach was very white and dark palm shadows striped the sand. Silver lights sparkled across the water. And there, on the veranda, barely visible in the half-darkness, the colonel and the boy’s mother. From where he stood he could only see the back of the colonel’s head, but he knew it was him. She was facing him. Her hair was down and she was holding a glass. The boy stood very still and watched and listened. After a time, the colonel reached for a bottle and refilled her glass. The boy could hear the clink of the bottle against the edge of the glass, then the deep rumbling of the colonel’s voice and his mother laughing for a moment, then her familiar shush and more giggling. The boy didn’t know how long he watched them, but they were still there, together on the veranda, when he finally crept back into bed. Much later, he heard the colonel’s car drive away.

  The next morning, Christmas Eve, the colonel came in the car and drove them down to the harbour for breakfast. The boy didn’t say anything about what he’d seen that night, and neither the colonel nor the boy’s mother mentioned it. The harbour was a new project, the colonel said. He called it a keyhole harbour, and it had been cut into the grey rock of the island to make a small marina. They’d only finished the work a few months ago. There was a little restaurant on the quay with a bar for the adults and a place that looked like a living room with a piano and couches and a TV. They were just sitting down at one of the tables in the restaurant when the other family came in. The father was wearing shorts and a straw hat. He was much shorter that the boy’s father, and fatter. The mother was also short and fat. The little boy looked like his mother. But the girl was tall. She was wearing a yellow-and-white dress that tied at the back and black Keds running shoes, and her hair was tied up in a ribbon the same colour as her dress. There was a big scab on her knee. As the family approached, the boy’s mother told them to stand up and she introduced them in that classroom way grown-ups did. The girl was called Georgina. She was thirteen and had freckles. They were from Ohio, the father said. When the boy’s mother told the other family they were from Canada, Georgina laughed.

  After they’d finished breakfast, the adults ordered more coffee and the kids were allowed to leave the table. The boy’s mother told them not to go far. Their father was arriving soon, and they would go to the airstrip to meet him.

  The two younger boys ran outside with a soccer ball.

  Georgina hung back, walked beside him. ‘You’re short,’ she said.

  ‘My mum says boys grow late.’

  ‘You say mum funny. It’s mom.’

  The boy, who knew nothing of girls, did not reply.

  ‘I’m going to explore,’ said Georgina. ‘Want to come?’

  ‘Where?’ said the boy.

  ‘The beach,’ she said. ‘It’s close.

  The boy, who wanted to go but was unsure, glanced back at his mother, who was talking to the girl’s parents. ‘Are we allowed?’

  The girl crumpled her nose. ‘Of course, silly. We’ve been here for two weeks. I know the whole island by heart.’ And before he could answer she was out the door. ‘Come on,’ she called to him.

  The boy ran after her. She led him along a narrow rocky trail through thick green bushes. They came to a gap in the rock. The sides were steep, and far below they could hear the water rushing through. It was a long way down.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. And before he could answer, she’d stepped back and jumped across the gap to the other side. As she jumped, the hem of her dress flew up and the boy could see her tanned thighs and a flash of white underpants. She turned and put her hands on her hips and smiled at him. ‘Well? Are you scared?’

  The boy stepped back as she had and jumped. It wasn’t far, and he cleared it easily. They walked on through the bushes and came to a small cove with two rocky points and a white sand beach between. They were completely alone. The girl took off her Keds and tied the laces together. ‘Come on,’ she said, swinging her shoes like a handbag. ‘Let’s wade.’

  The boy took off his shoes too and they waded through the shallow water. Fish of every colour and shape darted around their feet.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ she said. ‘We’re leaving the day after Christmas.’

  This did not seem to need an answer, so the boy said nothing. They waded to the far point and then the girl took his hand and led him up the beach to a flat rock. ‘You want to try something?’ she said.

  ‘Sure,’ the boy said.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out a cigarette and a book of matches with the blue Pan Am logo on the front.
‘Have you ever tried one?’

  The boy shook his head. His father smoked cigars, but his mother always said smoking was bad.

  ‘It’s one of my mom’s. Want to?’

  ‘Did you steal it?’

  ‘What if I did?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She put the cigarette between her lips. ‘So, you want to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She opened the match book and pulled out a match. ‘Promise not to tell?’ she mumbled around the cigarette.

  The boy nodded. She struck the match, held the flame to the end of the cigarette and drew in a deep breath. After a while, she let the smoke pour back out through her nose. She seemed very experienced.

  ‘You try,’ she said, holding the burning cigarette out for him.

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘You’re scared.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Scaredy cat.’

  ‘I’m not scared. I don’t care what you think.’ The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a bullet and showed her. ‘You know what that is?’

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘It’s a thirty-eight-calibre bullet.’

  The girl’s eyes widened. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘I have a gun, back home. It’s a Smith and Wesson revolver.’

  ‘You do not.’

  ‘I sure do. If you come to my house, I’ll show you.’

  ‘Kids don’t have guns.’

  ‘It’s my dad’s, but he gave it to me. I’m going to be in the army.’

  The girl thought about this as she smoked.

  ‘You stole it, didn’t you?’

  ‘What if I did?’

  The girl took a last puff, stubbed the cigarette out on the rock. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We should get back, gun boy. Your daddy will be here soon.’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone.’

  ‘I won’t if you don’t,’ she said.

  They met the plane at the airstrip. His father was not on it. His mother cried as they drove back to the harbour. In the restaurant, the colonel helped her telephone the office in Canada. She spoke for a while on the phone and when she finished she was crying again. The colonel offered her his arm and she took it. He walked her to the bar and poured her a drink.

  Christmas came the next morning and the boy’s father was not there as he had promised he would be. There were stockings at the foot of their beds when they woke. Inside, the boy found a new Polaroid camera, the kind that gave you a developed picture right after taking it. You only had to wait a minute and then peel the cover off and let it dry. There was also a small album to keep photos in, and a book called The Old Man and the Sea, with a picture of a small boat drifting on a big lonely sea on its front cover. His brother got three new Hot Wheels cars and a cool loop-the-loop track. The boy was pleased that his present was so much more grown up than his brother’s. He would be a photographer when he grew up and travel to beautiful places and take pictures.

  They took their presents to their mother’s room and climbed up on to her big bed to show her what they’d got. She sat up in bed and smiled and listened to them but the boy knew from her face and the streaks of make-up that she’d been crying again. He kneeled beside her, put his arms around her and kissed her. Suddenly she threw her arms around him and squeezed him very tight. She held him like that for a long time.

  It was still too early for breakfast, so the boy took his camera and album and went to the beach. The breeze was gentle and warm and smelled of the sea, and the light seemed very fragile and new. The sand, which was made of pieces of coral that had been smashed up by the waves, was very white and the pieces stuck to the skin of his feet and legs. When he was far enough from the house, he took his first photograph. It was of the beach and the palm trees and the blue water and there was nothing man-made in it. After it had dried, he slipped it into the album and kept walking. As he walked, he thought about his father and why he hadn’t come. He thought about his mother’s tears and the way she’d held him for so long, rocking him back and forth until he’d asked her to please let him go.

  After a while he stopped and let the waves wash up over his feet. The water here was shallow and very clear and the white sandy bottom shone back out in the morning sun so that the water glowed. Suddenly, a dark shape emerged from the deeper water and drifted towards the shore. At first, he thought it might be a shark, but as he watched it come closer, he saw that it was flat and very broad with a long, thin tail. It was very close now and the boy could see the black eyes and the big pumping gills and the delicate curling wings. It was a stingray. He’d seen pictures of one in the Jacques Cousteau marine biology book he’d got for his birthday. The boy stood at the edge of the shallow water and watched the creature hovering there. It was so close. What did it want, he wondered? Could it sense him there, see out from the water? Was it waiting for him to feed it? He stood for a long time, watching its gills pumping slowly, the wings curling and sending little puffs of sand up from the bottom. And then he remembered his camera. He swung the Polaroid from its strap, aimed through the little glass window and clicked. The machine whirred and a photo appeared from the slot.

  He was peeling the cover from the picture when suddenly the ray thrashed its tail. A spout of water broke the surface and the boy jumped back, dropping the photo into the water. His heart was racing. He reached for the picture, but the ray thrashed again and the boy stumbled backwards and fell to the sand. He sat for a moment watching the ray, then he got up and ran back to the house.

  ‘Mum,’ he shouted. He leaped up on to the veranda and ran inside. ‘Come quick. I’ve found something.’ His mother was in the kitchen in her dressing gown, sipping from a mug of coffee. He told her what he’d seen, and she grabbed her hat and sunglasses and followed him out to the beach. The ray was still there, in the same place, quiet now. There were patches of sand on its wings. It seemed to be waiting for something.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ his mother said.

  The boy reached down and picked up the photograph he’d taken. The water had ruined it. He raised the camera and centred the ray in the window. Something was different. He lowered the camera. The ray had grown a second tail.

  ‘Look,’ he whispered.

  ‘The tail,’ his mother whispered.

  ‘It’s getting bigger.’

  ‘Does that happen?’ said his mother. ‘It seems very strange.’

  The second tail was big now, growing fast.

  ‘Look,’ the boy said. ‘It’s wriggling.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said his mother. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘What is it, Mum?’

  ‘Quickly. Take a picture.’

  The boy took a picture. The tail was broadening now. The big ray hovered there at their feet, changing. He took another.

  His mother reached down and squeezed his hand. ‘It’s a baby, sweetheart. The mother ray is having a baby. I didn’t know they did it this way.’

  And then, very quickly, there it was. A perfect little miniature ray, hovering beside its mother in the shallow water. The boy took a photo of the mother and the baby. And then, very slowly, the two rays turned and glided away towards the darker water. When the boy looked up, he saw that his mother was crying.

  Later that day, they went to the restaurant and had a Christmas lunch with the colonel and the other family. There was Christmas music and decorations, and the colonel dressed as Santa and gave out presents to everyone. Even the grown-ups got presents. After lunch, they played games and then everyone went for a swim. The grown-ups got very excited and loud and laughed a lot, and someone put on a Beatles record and the boy’s mother danced with the colonel and then the other parents joined in.

  When it got dark, the colonel drove them back to the house. The boy’s mother got them ready for bed, tucked them in and kissed them goodnight. Before she had even closed the door, the boy was asleep.

  In his dream, his mother was crying. She was standing with a phon
e to her ear and the tears were streaming from her eyes and down her cheeks. He could hear a voice, a man’s voice, coming from the phone but the words were scattered, swirling like leaves in the wind, and he wondered how she could understand what the man was saying to her. Oh, she said into the phone. And again, oh, almost breathless. He reached out to her. Mum, he said, who is it, Mum? But it wasn’t a dream. He was awake. He could hear her. Oh, she said again. He lay in the darkness and listened. Sounds filled the room, loud to bursting. His brother breathing in the bunk below. The slow creak of the ceiling fan. Palm fronds sawing outside the louvers, brushing against the side of the house. The hush and sigh of waves caressing the beach. And again, that breathless question. Her.

  He got up, grabbed his camera and crept to his bedroom door. He put his ear to the gap between the door and the wall and he could hear all of it, the water and the wind and the things moving inside the house, living and not. He opened the door and walked across the living room towards his mother’s room. The moon was up and very bright and silver light shone through the shutters, so that the inside of the house was banded with strips of light and dark. When he reached his mother’s bedroom, he stopped and put his ear to the door. It was very quiet. He waited a long time, standing there in the striped silver half-dark, but all he could hear was the rise and fall of the sea and the wind moving like breath through the house.

  He was about to go back to bed when he heard it again, that earliest voice, that same soft vowel, and then, to his surprise, another deeper sound, like a dog growling. And then, his mother’s voice again, louder this time, different. A cry of pain? Of fear? His heart started beating faster. Was she in danger? He reached for the door knob and slowly turned it. He eased the door open, just enough so that he could see inside.

  His mother was sitting up in the bed, facing away from the door. The boy had never seen her naked before. Her back was pale in the moonlight, her head was thrown back and her breasts swung as she moved herself slowly back and forth. Underneath her, looking up at her, was the colonel. The boy watched as his mother leaned forwards and kissed the colonel on the mouth. Without thinking, the boy raised his camera and pressed the button. Before the machine started whirring, he pulled the door closed and very carefully walked to his own room and went back to bed.