The Edge of Winter

by Luanne Rice

  “Will you take this down there?” Joe said, looking into his son’s eyes. “Leave my medal somewhere on the wreck?”

  “Of course,” Tim said, his hand closing over the silver medal. “For Johnny and Howard.”

  Joe shook his head, his eyes filled with tears. He had paid respect to his men every April for sixty-one years, and he knew he would never stop. But today was different; there was something else to be done. “For Kurt Lang,” he said. “And his crew. The men of U-823.”

  “I will, Dad,” Tim said.

  And he kissed his father, and held the miraculous medal in his closed hand, and then he tapped Shane on the shoulder, and they put on their air tanks, and they went into the water.

  The water was clear, and visibility was decent. Tim heard his own breath in his ears, and he looked over at Shane, and his heart pounded as he swam down, clasping his father’s medal. He had seen the pain in his father’s eyes, and as he swam downward, he was determined to do all he could to put that to rest.

  The currents were strong down here, but Tim and Shane used the anchor line to guide them. The wreck appeared almost instantly. Seeing it filled Tim with emotion, but he fought the feelings, knowing that he had to stay calm in order to stay safe.

  Just yesterday, wanting to dive here alone, everything had been different. He and Neve hadn’t been speaking; his dreams had been of missing Frank with such anguished intensity, he’d seen no way he could continue living and be able to stand it. Deciding to dive on the wreck, take photos in order to document its importance as a Rhode Island battle site, had been reckless at best. When Shane had caught him on the beach, Tim had been thinking it just might be easier if he didn’t come up.

  Now, glancing up the anchor line, he saw the sun slipping across the water’s surface. He knew his father was waiting in the boat, and he knew that Neve and Mickey were standing on the beach. Frank had come to him in his dream last night—instead of being reduced to just a name in the sand, he’d actually appeared to Tim.

  It had just been a dream, but dreams could mean everything. Tim clutched his father’s medal, knowing that was true, leading Shane toward the dark hulk. He was the father of a drowned boy, and Shane the son of a drowned father. Water was their medium; he wondered whether Shane felt as much peace, as close to the man he loved, as Tim did now.

  The hiss of the regulator and the thud of every exhalation rang in Tim’s ears. The sight of U-823, his first in many years, was as shocking as ever. The long black hull was cracked and broken, encased in a tomb of snagged, ruined fishing nets. Skeletal remains of tautog, flounder, bluefish, and something larger—maybe a young whale—caught in the nets long ago, now drifted in the current.

  Behind the nets lay the U-boat itself. It had come all the way from Germany, a feared predator; now its menace was gone. He stared down at the pipes and wires spilling from cracks, at the holes torn by bombs and the disastrous descent, at the propeller half-submerged in sand, at the rudder crumpled under the hull.

  Shane swam carefully, right beside him. They took pictures from every angle. The young man was a good diver; he’d paid attention to his instructor, staying away from the nets, from the wreck itself. The only exception was when they swam over the conning tower and Shane reached out to touch the periscope.

  What was Shane thinking? Was he thanking the U-boat, for all the magnificent waves it had provided, all the great, mystical rides Shane—and his father before him—had taken over the years? Or was he imagining Oberleutnant Kurt Lang staring through the periscope, watching Commander Joseph O’Casey as he fought back and fought hard for his ship and his country? Was he thinking of all the loss, all the death, how the path of destruction never seemed to end? Was he thinking of Frank?

  Because Tim was. Diving on U-823, he could almost feel his son at his side. Every flip of his fins stirred the silt a little more, made visibility just a little worse. He thought of the sandstorms Frank had written about, the sand in his tent, the beach tunes. Hearing his own breath in his ears, Tim imagined it was Frank’s.

  Motioning to Shane, Tim knew he had to go down a little deeper. Shane hesitated, not wanting Tim to go. But Tim indicated he’d be right back, so Shane hovered by the anchor line, waiting.

  Tim held the medal. The sound of breathing was so loud and constant, and he couldn’t stop thinking it was Frank’s. He knew that wearing a regulator created this percussion of breath, but he imagined it might have been very similar for Frank, in his tank, underwater.

  His father had told him to place the medal on the wreck, and Tim did. Wriggling down, close to the conning tower, he reached through the nets and stuck his hand out. He remembered just hours ago, showing Frank’s card to Neve. His son’s drawings and writing, the last letter he ever wrote. Somehow, hovering over U-823, the murky water full of silt and rust flakes, Tim knew that Frank would want him to do this.

  Tim thought of Neve, felt her love. He thought of all the women who had loved the men trapped inside U-823. The mothers and daughters, wives and sweethearts waiting at home, an ocean away. He thought of Beth, who had loved Frank so much, and imagined all the mothers who’d lost sons in this wreck. He thought of his own mother, who had stayed with his father through all the torment, and he thought of his uncle Damien’s wife and daughters, of how in their own ways, they were war casualties, too.

  Gazing down, through the fishing nets and past the fast-moving current, Tim saw the hull captained by his father’s old enemy, the German Oberleutnant Kurt Lang. He remembered his days as a medic, those he had saved and those he had lost. His own war service had given him some frame of reference to imagine what Kurt Lang must have felt—such a young man, with so much responsibility, about to lose his own life—and those under his command.

  “For you, Kurt,” Tim thought.

  And he opened his fingers, watched the silver medal drift down, settle on the moss- and barnacle-encrusted wreck of the U-boat. How could anyone think of moving this ship, this grave? Tim closed his eyes, said a prayer for them all. Everyone: the Oberleutnant and his men, the families they had left behind, his father and the crew of the USS James. And that brave boy who’d died in the distant waters of another war, Frank.

  Feeling a bump against his shoulder, Tim startled. It was Shane, eyes behind his mask full of worry. Tim realized he must have thought Tim had gotten tangled in the nets. Slowly Tim withdrew his arm, gestured to Shane that he was fine.

  They gave one last look at U-823. Already, Tim’s father’s medal was being covered over with silt. Soon it would be disturbed forever, when the crane came to lift the wreck and carry it away. Perhaps the silver medal would be left behind, all that would remain of what had happened here.

  Tim tapped Shane’s arm, and they began to ascend. He knew they had to remember to stop along the way, take time for the nitrogen to leave their bloodstream, for the pressure to stabilize. But Tim couldn’t wait to get to the surface. He could hardly wait for the blue sky, for the birds flying north, for the beach, for Neve.

  For life.

  29

  “Mom, who are those people?” Mickey asked, glancing down the beach.

  Neve looked over, saw two cars parked up along the road. Three elderly couples were climbing out, and she recognized them from last night’s opening at the gallery.

  “Those three men were in Damien O’Casey’s old crew,” Neve said, watching as they stood by the car in the bright sun, raising binoculars to their eyes, pointing out Joe in the dive boat. Because she knew he’d want to know, she raised the walkie-talkie to her mouth and called him.

  “Joe, they’re here,” she said. “George, Simon, Gerry, and their wives.”

  “Thanks, Neve,” he said. “Let them know I’ll be in shortly, okay?”

  “Any sign from below?” she asked.

  “Yes, they’re on their way up. It’ll take a while, because they’re decompressing. Don’t worry…”

  “I won’t,” she said.

  Mickey had heard, and offered t
o run up the beach to tell the three couples what was going on. Neve leaned against the jetty, watching her daughter. She flew across the sand, across the dunes, and started talking animatedly. Watching, Neve felt so relieved. Mickey had such deep feelings, such sensitivity for her father—but she also had powerful optimism and resilience, and for that, Neve felt grateful.

  A call to the police station that morning had revealed that Alyssa had bailed Richard out during the night. So Neve had called Richard at her house, and he’d actually come to the phone. Usually, he’d sound so contrite the day after, when the heat was on. He would always promise to go to rehab, to become more regular in his visits to Mickey, to pay all his back child support, to go to AA. But today, something had been different. He had just sounded tired.

  “Are you all right?” Neve had asked.

  “Not really,” he’d said, and that was different. Where were the bravado, the promises, the grand gestures?

  “Why?” she asked. For anyone else it would be obvious, but for Richard, always looking for the angle, the rationalization, the way to blame anyone but himself, even a night in jail didn’t always drive the point home.

  “I’m just sorry,” he said. “That’s all I can say right now. Sorry to you, sorry to Alyssa. Especially sorry to Mickey.” He’d paused, and she’d felt him wanting to say something more.

  “What is it, Richard?” she’d asked.

  “Did you send someone to see me last night?” he’d asked. “An old guy in a Navy uniform?”

  Joe. Neve smiled in spite of herself. “No,” she said.

  “Damn if I didn’t have a visitation,” he said. “I didn’t feel shitty enough, you had to send the U.S. Navy after me. My goddamn childhood hero, coming to see me in the drunk tank.”

  “I told you, I didn’t. He went for Mickey.”

  “Fuck it, Neve.”

  What did he mean by that? She couldn’t even begin to know, so she just did what she always did on the phone with Richard, focused on staying calm. She’d spent years begging him to be a decent father, to pay his debts, to take care of their daughter. That hadn’t happened so far, and she didn’t hold out much hope that even a visit from Joe O’Casey would do the trick.

  “I’ll pay you,” he said. “And not just because the courts are on my case. Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. And she took the promise with an extra grain of salt; she’d heard it all before. Besides, Dominic had given her a bonus for the great job she’d done on the Berkeley exhibit, so now she didn’t have to worry about Mickey having a little extra spending money for her trip to Washington.

  “And I did my best with Sam Sheridan,” Richard said. “He’ll see Mickey when she heads to D.C. Maybe I didn’t have the money yet, to help you out with the trip, but I’ll work on it. And meanwhile, the senator is expecting her visit.”

  “Really?” Neve asked, skeptical.

  “Yeah. I used my phone call for that,” he said. “You know, from jail.”

  “Instead of calling your own lawyer.”

  “You took care of that for me,” he said. “Thank you, Neve. You’re too good to me….”

  “Yep. I am. You’ve got that right.”

  They laughed. Not hard, but just a little chuckle—two people who knew each other well, who had a daughter they loved. So what if one of them was an idiot most of the time? They still loved Mickey.

  “It’s Saturday morning,” he said. “I’m going to a meeting. Joe said it’s a good one.”

  “Well, Joe’s busy today,” she said. “He’s not going to be there this morning.”

  “Yeah, just as well. I’ve got to do this on my own,” he said.

  “Good luck, Richard,” Neve said. She’d hung up feeling not quite overflowing with hope—maybe just simmering with it. Even after all his years of missteps, she knew Richard’s heart was mostly in the right place. Mostly.

  Now, standing on the beach, she felt the wind start to pick up. As the sun grew warmer the offshore breeze began to blow. She was glad the dive was almost over, that Joe would soon be ferrying Tim and Shane back to shore. She wondered what they had seen, whether they had gotten any pictures that would prove persuasive.

  Just then, she heard another vehicle up on the road: strangers here to walk on the beach, maybe take a last look at the water before the wreck was gone. Rhode Islanders all had a relationship with U-823, and the news stories had brought people from all over the state and beyond. As Neve watched, some of the onlookers drifted over to Damien’s old crew and started talking.

  A few moments later, Mickey came trudging down the path from the dunes. She looked thoughtful, sad. Walking over to Neve, she leaned beside her on the jetty. Her reddish hair glinted in the sun, freckles sprinkled lightly across her cheeks. Neve looked at her freckles and fought the urge to kiss them, as she had when Mickey was little.

  “When are Shane and Mr. O’Casey coming back in?” she asked.

  “Soon,” Neve said, putting her arm around her.

  “This feels like the end,” Mickey said, glancing up at the road. “All these people coming to say goodbye.”

  “I know,” Neve said. She had long ago determined not to lie to Mickey, even to make her feel better. Honesty had been the way they handled everything, every disappointment and sorrow; she couldn’t start to change that now. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

  Just then, a young woman began making her way down from the top of the sand dune. Blonde and pretty, wearing jeans and a red sweater, she gazed straight at Mickey. She was wearing sneakers, but as if she was an old beach hand, she quickly kicked them off and carried them in her hand, coming barefoot toward Mickey and Neve.

  “Mrs. West!” Mickey said suddenly.

  “Shane’s mother?”

  “Yes,” the woman said. “I’m Talia West. You must be Mickey…”

  “Hi,” Mickey said. “And this is my mother.”

  “Neve,” Neve said, shaking Talia’s hand.

  “Where is he?” she asked, looking borderline panicked. “I thought he’d be back up by now.”

  “They’re on the way,” Mickey assured her. “That man in the boat said so.”

  “Oh God,” Talia said. “Please let that be true. I can’t stand to come to the beach and watch him surf. The waves are so violent—it kills me to think of him going out every day, doing what his dad did. Somehow I thought diving, especially with an experienced older man, would make me feel better.”

  “Tim O’Casey is the best,” Neve said.

  “I know, but so was Shane’s father. God, I really did think diving wouldn’t bother me in the same way, but turns out it felt worse; I was sitting home, just thinking about how Mac drowned, and how Shane was underwater, and I just thought I’d crawl out of my skin. Where is he?”

  Neve picked up the walkie-talkie. She could see Joe from here, watched him respond to the call. Asking where Tim and Shane were, for Talia West, hearing Joe’s reply: “Right here.”

  And they were. As if Shane heard his mother’s request himself, his head popped up on the surface, right beside Tim’s. Neve felt flooded with relief herself—there was nothing like another mother’s anxiety to get her own going in overdrive. The men climbed into the boat, they hauled in the anchor line, and Joe started the engine. Mickey ran down to the waterline, to help them beach the boat.

  “Oh, thank heavens,” Talia said. “When I think of going away for two straight weeks, I must be out of my mind.”

  Neve smiled. “That must feel like a long time.”

  “He’s seventeen,” Talia said.

  “I know,” Neve said, hearing the defensiveness in her voice.

  “Old enough to take care of himself—especially because he thinks I’m just in the way anyway. I’m just a big inconvenience to Shane. I swear, he grew up all at once, the year his father died; three years old, and acting like the man of the family. You’d have thought seeing him drown would’ve scared Shane off surfboards for life—nope. He
bought his first surfboard as soon as he could shovel driveways and mow lawns, earn his own money.”

  “He loves the water,” Neve said. “So does Mickey.”

  “I just hope…” She paused. “I just want him to be okay while I’m gone. Thank you for letting him stay with you after he got into the fight with that Landry kid. That’s what I’m afraid of—that he’ll get in trouble again while I’m gone.”

  “He seems like a really good kid,” Neve said.

  “He is. But he’s still a boy.” She looked into Neve’s face, and Neve thought that Talia looked almost like a kid herself; she must have had Shane very young. Neve thought of all the mistakes she’d made, of how much learning it took to be a parent. People weren’t born being good mothers and fathers.

  “He is,” Neve said.

  “Am I being selfish?”

  Neve smiled, waiting for her to continue, not quite knowing what she meant.

  Talia hesitated. “I met someone down in North Carolina. He lives on the base, near my sister. I’ve been alone for so long….”

  Neve nodded; she could relate to that.

  “I’ve been going back and forth, leaving Shane alone a lot. Jack wants to come up and see me here, but I don’t want to introduce him to Shane too soon.” She shook her head, exhaling. “I don’t know. Is it wrong for me to want to be happy?”

  Neve paused, thinking about her own life. “I don’t know the right answer,” she said. “Whether you should go for the whole two weeks, whether it’s a good or bad idea. You’re Shane’s mother, and you have to take care of him.” She paused, watching Tim jump off the boat as it pulled onto the beach, seeing the sun glint on his wetsuit, muscles straining as he pulled the boat higher on the sand, flashing her a smile when he saw her watching. “But I do know that happiness is a gift,” she said. “I guess, for me, it’s a balance. I’m only really happy when I know Mickey is, too.”

  “I was thinking,” Talia said. “A way to make Shane happy, and also shorten the time I’d be away from him.”

  “What’s that?” Neve asked.