While Tom sat and thought and was hypersensitive to the weather, the conversation below went on. Both the atmosphere and the group were unstable. Something was about to happen, Tom felt sure of that.
Rick was trying to defend his wife and simultaneously wishing she’d shut up. It became clear that she was demanding complete vindication while shouldering no responsibility. And Jerry and Lil were not about to concede anything resembling that.
It also became clear that Lil had lost everything she had once felt for Rick.
The way this was working out was that Jerry and Lil were in love. They needed no more affirmation than their own feelings. More and more Rick was beginning to feel “stuck” with Dora. And Dora searched in vain for validation.
“The bullet had your name on it” is a popular expression for destiny or fate. Later, a storm would be said to have had this group’s name on it.
A gale from hell was coming together hidden in the upper altitudes. The history of the Great Lakes was cluttered with skippers who had ignored storm warnings. Sometimes they’d gotten away with it. But when they took the risk and lost—it was on their own heads. The fresh water of the Great Lakes flows over the wrecks of vessels whose captains chanced it and failed.
Tom knew that. This was the first time he did not follow his gut reaction to get out of the way of whatever was coming.
In the main salon the conversation-turned-argument continued.
“We’re not getting anywhere,” Rick pleaded. “We’re not going in the right direction. It can’t be that difficult to find common ground.”
“Maybe,” Jerry said, “we’re beating a dead horse. It’s just possible that what we once felt for each other can no longer be retrieved. Maybe we ought to agree that we should just go our separate ways. This is a nice boat ride, and that’s that.”
“If that’s the way you want things,” Dora said, “it’s okay with me. This animosity hurts Rick more than it does me.”
“It’s not just me,” Rick added. “I don’t believe it is helping any of us. It seems to me, with our backgrounds in religion, we ought to be capable of salvaging something that was … well … beautiful.”
At that point, Tom stuck his head in the cabin. “Rick,” he said, “could you come up for a minute?”
“Sure.” Rick took the stairs two at a time.
His abrupt departure startled the other three. They had been oblivious of any warnings. But Tom’s voice throbbed with urgency.
Dora’s eyes darted from one person to another. From one object to another. She fought against losing the defense mechanisms she had carefully constructed. She grabbed another beer and chugalugged it.
Jerry and Lil merely showed interest in what might come next. The many times Lil had been on this craft, the violent storms she and Rick had weathered, gave her confidence in the vessel.
On deck, Tom let his concern show. “Rick, I feel like there’s something big coming. I can’t raise anybody on the radio. Same with the phone. Too much interference. It could be Selfridge Air Force Base. It’s right around the bend and they’ve got all that radar. Probably all of it’s in operation now.”
Rick frowned. “This boat can take a beating and hang in. I know it from experience.”
“Nevertheless …” Tom left his doubt uncompleted.
After a moment, Rick said, “You’re right, of course. Better safe than sorry.” Looking around, he added, “We’re out quite a ways. Let’s head in. I’ll get some precautionary procedures started.”
Rick returned to the cabin. He looked at the other three occupants. It was a captive audience, eager to hear him out.
“Don’t anyone get worried,” Rick began. “We’re heading in. There’s a storm coming. It may very well miss us completely. But it’s a good idea to be ready. So”—he reached into a cabinet—”we’ll all put on life jackets.” He passed them out. “Lil, you help Jerry with his. I’ll help Dora.”
Jerry welcomed the assistance. Dora balked at fastening the jacket. She complained that it was uncomfortable. That drew a guffaw from Lil. Granted, Dora was busty. But Lil thought it silly, at a time like this, to call attention to her endowment.
Rick quickly decided not to insist. If leaving her jacket unfastened bolstered Dora’s confidence, he would not press the issue. Time enough later if the storm did hit.
Through the radio’s on-and-off broadcast an announcer’s preternaturally calm voice said something about approaching clouds at fifty thousand feet. Tom was able to make that out. And one word came menacingly to mind: microburst. If this was what was coming, they might well not survive it. In any case, it was useless to speculate. These storms were so unstable that it was next to impossible to predict their path accurately.
There was little warning. The water’s surface was the first to break the secret. Some called it the bathtub effect with the water sloshing around. Steering became impossible. The ship was at the mercy of the lake. And there was no mercy to be found.
The erratic tossing of the ship reached Dora first. She made a dash to the head, slamming the door behind her and locking it. There was little room—but it had a toilet bowl and that was what Dora needed most.
No one could spend time trying to comfort the sick woman. Each was trying to survive, while helping the others do the same.
The boat featured extra-large transom lockers. Tom opened two of them. He handed out pieces of three-quarter-inch rope to each of the others and set aside one for Dora. He didn’t bother trying to yell; they couldn’t have heard him. He pantomimed what he wanted them to do.
As he began his demonstration, ultracool air in microbursts of energy slammed over the craft and into the lake at a speed of seventy-five miles an hour, creating waves of four to six feet.
As the group tried to comply with Tom’s instructions, they fought to remain standing. It was near miraculous they could do just that. Tom and the others each wrapped the rope around their waists and made a loop at the belt. Once that was accomplished, Tom fed a separate rope through each loop. They had become a human chain. All immediately saw the wisdom of the move. The boat could be demolished in minutes at most. Their only chance was to abandon ship before that happened; otherwise their craft would then become a weapon against them. It might do anything from knocking them senseless to burying them in the shallow waters. They must get on deck.
But first they had to get Dora out of the head. The door stayed locked. After pounding on the door fruitlessly, Jerry kicked it off its hinges.
She was an odorous mess, covered in vomit.
In unspoken agreement, they resolved to reach the deck, then tie Dora to the chain.
With great effort, they stumbled up the stairs. Waves periodically knocked them back down again. Only adrenaline kept them moving. Without it they would have given up, and surrendered to the lake’s demand.
Dora’s life jacket was hanging loose. It didn’t matter, it was imperative to get her in the human chain. Her face was a mask of panic and stark terror. Tom got the rope around her waist and tied the loop.
None of them saw Jerry look up, nor did they hear his screamed warning. But everyone’s eyes followed his finger as he pointed toward the sky, his shrieks sucked into silence by the howling wind. There, seemingly poised over them, was a wave almost twice the size of the boat. Dora reached out to Rick just as the wave smashed over them. The five were washed overboard, one of them torn loose from the rest.
In those waves their life jackets gave little help. The rope holding them together was of more benefit. It linked them in their battle with this suddenly monstrous lake. They could at least try to help each other. And if help reached them in time they would all be in the same areas.
All but Dora.
The other four thrashed about, calling her name, trying to locate her. A huge piece of white fiberglass almost took their heads off. It was the boat’s foredeck, the largest intact piece of the now disintegrated vessel. It may have been a stroke of good luck that they had been thro
wn overboard. They might well have been killed by the force that had demolished the boat.
A stroke of good luck for everyone but Dora. She was the one who so desperately feared the water. She would know of no way to handle herself in the angry sea. Her life jacket had long since left her.
The four others were trying to breathe as the waves gave them opportunity. Out when submerged, in when their heads emerged.
The ultimate fear they shared was that no one might know they were out there. They could not know that as the thunderhead passed from shore to the lake, the marina manager had contacted the St. Clair Shores Police, who, in turn, had contacted the harbormaster and the aviation section of the Detroit Police. A helicopter and two rescue vessels were on their way to the scene.
The storm itself did not hold, but the roiling water continued to churn and affect anything or anybody in its unpredictable path.
Time, of course, was vital. The longer these people were in the water the more chance there was of their tiring and succumbing. The direction taken by the chopper pilot in locating the survivors was crucial.
Guessing that the craft had been trying to return to its dock, the pilot started there and thence flew in concentric circles. Within minutes the crew spotted the four victims. The chopper descended as far as was prudent to examine the scene.
Four in the water, linked by rope. Excellent. But the marina manager had said five. One was missing.
The chopper pilot directed the first of the two rescue boats to the swimmers. That done, he began the search for the fifth. Forty-five minutes later, Dora’s cold body was pulled from the water. Both rescue vessels returned to the dock, where ambulances took the living to St. John’s Hospital Emergency.
Dora was pronounced dead at the scene. Her body was taken to the morgue for autopsy.
Anne Marie Tully happened to be listening to the all-news WWJ radio station. A reporter was announcing the bare bones essence of this tragedy with a promise of greater details as they happened. Of importance to Anne Marie were the names—all people who had been at that meeting some months back.
She phoned her husband and asked him to get involved. It hadn’t happened in his jurisdiction, but that didn’t bother her.
Zoo promised to try. He called a Grosse Pointe detective he knew, told him that he was familiar with the rescuees, and asked if he could look in on the case. Zoo was heartily welcomed aboard—no pun intended.
On his way out of the city, Zoo called his brother and Father Koesler. Neither had known of the accident; both were deeply shocked. Zoo asked if they wanted to ride out with him. They did indeed. Picking them up lengthened the drive time, but with one dead and the others hospitalized none of the victims was going very far.
Zoo’s badge gained him admittance to the emergency department. The collars did the trick for the two priests.
Zoo quickly located his Grosse Pointe colleague, who briefed the three Detroit visitors on what was known.
“What we got here,” said the suburban cop, “is a party of five. Out for a cruise on the lake. The storm—at least the intensity—fooled just about everybody. Pretty well made matchsticks and slivers out of the boat.
“One dead”—he consulted his notes—“a Dora Casserly. Not a swimmer, refused to fasten her jacket. Got carried off before the others could tie her to the human chain. The four survivors got pretty well bounced around. Some contusions, lacerations. Possible closed head injury for a guy named Becker. He’s gonna be admitted for observation.
“The others are pretty shaken up. But they can leave soon as they get patched up and put together. They were lucky about lots of things, but most of all for getting thrown out of the boat. If they’d been on board when the boat fragmented, they could’ve been run through like pincushions.”
“Any sign of foul play?” Tully asked.
The Grosse Pointe officer shook his head. “Who could’ve known about the storm? Besides, they were all in this together. Nobody stayed on shore. I wondered about the dead woman … the only one not linked up. But I’m convinced they did what they could for her before she was swept away. Accidental death, I’d say.
“I guess that’s why they call it an Act of God: nobody else to blame.”
Tully remained with the detective. Zoo had more questions that needed answers. The two priests were eager to comfort the survivors. So they did not linger for the police discussion.
The victims lay on gurneys in adjacent cubicles. The partition curtains had now been drawn back.
The four, obviously exhausted, and to varying degrees perilously close to shock, were incoherent. Koesler listened attentively to their babble. He did not mind at all that he couldn’t, in any case, have gotten a word in edgewise.
As he listened to what, more often than not, seemed more rambling than substance, Koesler’s thoughts went back to Casserly’s overindulgence at the recent Ursula bash. Guiltily, he reproached himself, remembering how he and Father Tully had excused themselves from driving Rick home. This, selfishly, so that neither he nor Zack would have to play chauffeur. So that they could retire for the night.
All of this had led to an unwanted—at least on Rick’s part—pregnancy. Then, all hell had broken loose, culminating in Dora’s death.
The more he chased these events through his mind, the more questions remained, multiplied and crescendoed.
As he listened to the four rehash, rework, restate, rework, rework, restate, elaborate, and repeat, new answers popped into Koesler’s mind. Along with new questions.
At long last, he thought he saw light at the end of this maze.
The question that continued to nag at him was: What, if anything, was he going to do with this new insight?
Twenty-four
This was what early October in Michigan should be. Brisk, with the smack of footballs in the air. The leaves had begun to turn. Soon they would fall.
Ideal weather for a funeral. The mourners would not be inconvenienced by rain or snow or any sort of punishing weather.
It was Thursday, five days after the storm. A drawn-out interval made advisable by Rick Casserly’s recovery time. The other three survivors, in bandages and immobilized to whatever degree necessary, were in attendance.
The autopsy revealed that Dora had drowned. Her unborn infant was male.
None of the four survivors would talk about the accident. Immediately after their rescue they had given statements to the police. After which they had not been able to restrain themselves from running on to Fathers Koesler and Tully. After that, though, there was no expressed consensus, they refused to say more.
Pat Lennon had tried in vain to coax Jerry Anderson into doing a first-person piece for the magazine. Lil Niedermier said she needed virtually complete bed rest. Casserly and Becker refused to answer either bell, door, or phone.
The incident was a major news story for twenty-four hours. Then, as with almost all news, once the sun guns and mikes were turned off and the notepads tucked away, the affair suffered a lingering death.
The funeral site was chosen mostly by elimination. St. William’s, Casserly’s former parish, was rejected because it held too many conflicting memories for him. In the end, they settled on St. Joseph’s downtown.
As pastor of the parish, Father Tully would be the principal celebrant of the Mass of Resurrection. Fathers Koesler and Morgan were invited to concelebrate. Koesler accepted readily. Morgan declined. Dora and Rick were “living in sin.” So, in Father Morgan’s version of Christianity, Dora did not deserve the rite of Christian burial.
A sizable crowd filled roughly three quarters of St. Joe’s capacity.
Dora had lain in state since yesterday afternoon. Now, just at 10 A.M., the lid to her coffin was closed for the final time. The pallbearers accompanied the casket down the middle aisle while everyone was encouraged to sing the hymn “Grant Them Eternal Rest.” The pall, a large, rectangular white cloth, was spread over the coffin and Mass began with the traditional Penitential Rite. Father Tully
led the congregation, as all read from the missal: “I confess to Almighty God, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do; and I ask blessed Mary, ever virgin, all the angels and saints, and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God.”
A muffled sob came from Rick Casserly. The sound was particularly poignant; he had held up so strongly through this entire ordeal—to this point.
The Mass proceeded. To Catholics the familiar words were consoling.
Since Father Tully had barely known Dora, Father Koesler gave the eulogy. He spoke of the dedicated years she had given to teaching children, in a parochial setting, not only the three R’s but of Jesus who was their Lord and brother. He spoke of the special sorrow in her death: She had been about to give birth to a child whose future opened wide before him—only to be crushed before it was begun. He ended by commending the souls of Dora and her son to the welcoming arms of their God.
The Mass proceeded in the familiar traditional universal form. At Communion time, the four principals, along with most of the congregation, presented themselves. All four happened to be in the line leading to Koesler, who gave a consecrated host to each. While some might have questioned his decision, he felt it was thoroughly justified. He would not and could not be each one’s conscience.
Harry Morgan would not have been pleased.
At the conclusion of the service, the organist led the congregation in the hymn “On Eagle’s Wings,” and then the Latin In Paradisum: “May angels guide you and bring you to paradise; and may all the martyrs come forth to welcome you home; and may they lead you into the holy city, Jerusalem. May the angel chorus sing to welcome you, and, like Lazarus, forgotten and poor, you shall have everlasting rest.”
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