by Peter Rock
Steven dropped the phone to his side, his face turned toward the dock.
“He’s smiling,” Kayla said. “Just like that. Look at her.”
A tall woman was walking out the dock, hesitantly, toward Steven. She wore sunglasses, a white sleeveless dress; dark curls fell over her shoulders.
“That’s not Natalie,” Chris said. “Is it?”
“She’s blind,” Kayla said.
She handed the binoculars to Chris, and then he could see the long white cane the woman held, the way she switched it back and forth, over the water. Steven stepped up onto the dock to greet her. He held out his arms and kissed her cheek.
“What’s he doing with someone else?” Chris said.
“Does it matter?” Kayla said.
“I guess not,” Chris said. Through the binoculars, he watched Steven lead the blind woman onto the boat. The two of them disappeared into the cabin.
13.
CHRIS SAT IN THE BACK of the truck with Leon, looking forward into the cab. Natalie stared through the windshield, her arms straight, driving. Tonight her hair was honey blond, the sides feathered back. Kayla had her head stuck out the passenger window, so her long hair stretched out, solid, parallel to the highway slipping below. They were heading north, past the airport, into the darkness—headlights came and went as the city fell away behind them.
Leon’s trombone case rested open, the hinges straining. He pulled out the orange headset, tossed Kayla’s Japanese novel to one side. He tore a length from a roll of duct tape and began attaching a flashlight to the top of a baseball cap.
“You read it?” Chris said, pointing to the book.
“Kind of.”
“It’s pretty much exactly what we’ve been saying, about adults and everything.”
“I just don’t feel like reading, much,” Leon said. “Lately, I can hardly even listen to music—it all sounds kind of too fancy to me.”
“So you’re not practicing?”
“Summer’s here,” Leon said. “School’s out.”
They turned off the highway near a sign that promised waterfalls; a couple miles farther, they pulled over. Natalie opened the back and Leon and Chris climbed out, stretching.
It was silent for a moment, everyone taking in the surroundings. Far away down below, the Columbia’s dark waters—wider and wilder than the Willamette’s—were torn by wind and climbing over themselves, eager to reach the ocean. The highway was distant now, below on the near bank, headlights snaking along. Thick electrical wires filled the air, stretching all the way across the gorge, the river, all the way to Washington and back again; the wires ran up from dams, from tower to tower.
Closer to where the four of them stood, an electrical substation lay surrounded by chainlink fence, partially hidden. It hummed, its white porcelain insulators in the air, its thick transformers shadowy on the ground.
“Seems like no one’s around,” Natalie said, “but there’s more risk, here, than it looks. I’ll be back in less than an hour. You can handle it, Leon.”
With that, she climbed into the idling truck, shifted into gear, and was gone.
“What’s with her all of a sudden using your name?” Kayla said to Leon. “Usually she only knows my name.”
Chris looked from Kayla to Leon, and back again. He knew that Natalie had had to go searching—early in the morning, down to the skatepark under the bridge—in order to find Kayla, who was supposed to call every day. There hadn’t been any work for a while, now, so she hadn’t called for over a week. Having Natalie unhappy with her made Kayla edgy, too.
“Look at your head,” she said, still talking to Leon. “Did you get another haircut?”
“No,” Leon said.
“We should start,” Chris said.
“Look at Chris,” Kayla said, “his hair is already all growing back, and you’re still bald.”
“Grows slow,” Leon said. “So what?” He put on his cap, flicked the flashlight. He looked over at Chris and the beam of light was blinding. It was impossible to look back at him, to see his face.
“It doesn’t matter,” Chris said. “She probably knows all our names—it’s like the tenth time we’ve done this, after all.”
“What are you doing?” Leon said.
Kayla was putting on the climbing spikes; she’d grabbed them while Leon fooled with his flashlight.
“You’re getting too reckless,” she said. “Besides, we should split up the climbing.”
“What about Chris?”
“I already have one spike on,” she said.
Chris looked away, up into the sky. The stars were brighter, sharper, away from the lights of the city.
“You think there’ll be any lightning?” he said.
“There’s no lightning,” Leon said. “Come on—it doesn’t even smell like rain.” He pointed down the slope, toward the substation. “Let’s do the tower, there, on the other side. That’ll be easier to climb.”
“It’ll also be about a hundred times more dangerous,” Kayla said. “The voltage is stepped down on this side. Help me here, Chris.”
“Dangerous?” Leon said. “We’ve done this so many times, just like Chris was saying.”
Chris helped Kayla with the belt. Walking in the long spikes, she leaned on him. He boosted her onto the pole, and she climbed slowly at first, getting her balance straight, remembering.
When she had gotten halfway to the top, Chris stepped back. It was dark all around him, no movements on the road or down near the substation. Past the substation, though, he saw a spot of light, slowly rising. It was Leon, on the tower, climbing, the hunched shape of his body clearing the treetops, barely darker than the night sky.
“Where’s Leon?” Kayla called down.
“I can’t see him,” Chris said. “He’s probably off somewhere, taking a leak. Don’t look down.”
Chris watched them both; he could think of nothing to do or say that would persuade anyone or change anything. Now Kayla had reached the top of the pole and had her clippers on the wire, straining to cut it. A hundred feet away, Leon stood even higher, just a silhouette; both hands free, he wrapped his legs around a metal support, no harness at all.
Below, between them, a blue glow spilled out from the base of the transformers in the substation. There was a crack, a rising whoosh coming off the ground, the light sparking and collapsing into itself, forming a fireball that shot upward. White, it cast the sudden black shadows of the trees, of the towers and poles. The fireball ricocheted inside the fence, across every wire, gaining speed and brightness, spinning toward the top, escaping. Chris held his breath. The ball of light leapt the tower where Leon held on; it kept on down the line, toward the lights of the distant city. It sped away, the wires crackling in its wake, getting smaller as the distance increased, a sound like a rip in the sky.
In moments, Kayla and Leon were down on the ground—safe, untouched. They ran with Chris along the shoulder of the road, in the direction that Natalie had gone. Their six feet pounded a rhythm. Distant sirens wailed. Chris hoped that Natalie had heard, that she had not gone too far. He glanced sideways at Kayla’s face, scared and serious, and then Leon’s—Leon was smiling as he half-skipped along, almost laughing, as if something wonderful had just happened. Oblivious, he didn’t seem to notice that Chris was watching him; eyes wide, he seemed to be looking at nothing at all.
Someone in the bar where Natalie sat thought they heard a gunshot, but she knew better; she felt the electricity pass overhead, the heat in the fillings of her teeth. She’d put songs on the jukebox—“Barracuda,” “Fly Like an Eagle,” “Takin’ It to the Streets”—as a way to keep track of time, mostly, so she wasn’t sorry to miss listening to them. Setting her glass of wine on the bar, she stood and walked out to the parking lot, to her truck, just as the lights inside shut down. She’d reach the kids in less than ten minutes, and they’d see how far the blackout ran, this time.
Behind Steven, Heather came out of the boat’s cabin
, onto the deck. She could not see a thing, and he tried to explain it to her, the way a wave of darkness fell across the city, the power grid going a piece at a time, the sky suddenly darker and the stars more piercing.
The power lines under the street were spitting, crackling. Victor Machado pulled himself away from them, up through a manhole. He did not replace the cover, but ran along the dark street, long arms dangling, toward Chinatown. He hoped that the man in the shop would be able to reassure him, would know what all this meant.
Chesterton sorted copper bracelets, sitting in Shanghai Shanghai, his shop in Chinatown. When the lights went out, he laughed his deep, baritone laugh. Barefoot, he stood and stepped around a display of jade, another of lacquer boxes. He pushed open the door and the brass bell rang. Heading out into the darkening street, he looked all around with satisfaction. This was the kind of event that could reap many injuries, that might produce copious amounts of high quality wire.
TWO
14.
THE BOAT DRIFTED SO SLOWLY from the harbor, so early in the morning, that it hardly seemed to be moving. Yet suddenly it was loose, not connected to the land at all, the gap of water growing wider. Slowly the boat found the current, the river’s lazy pull; frayed lines, roughly cut, trailed loosely behind, through the dark water.
The air was still, the wind nonexistent. A plastic bag jerked silently along, keeping pace; the sparest shiver ran along the water’s skin, it gently slapped the bow as the boat slipped beneath the Sellwood Bridge, between the concrete stanchions. It did not strike them—but, as it passed, a back eddy spun the boat, bow to stern, so a person standing on the bank could have read the name painted there: WATERLELIE.
A person high above the river would see how slow the current ran, the boat hardly moving, aimless and drunken and with sad purpose as it slid past the darkened amusement park, the shadowy Tilt-A-Whirl and unsteady rollercoaster, the black ribbon of the go-cart track and the distended tracks of the miniature train that looped through and lost themselves in the trees where, sitting on a picnic table, the night watchman watched the night. He smoked a cigarette (its tip bright, giving him away as he inhaled), but he was not facing the river, he did not see the boat as it—so small, all the dark water around it, alone and lonely on the river—slipped by.
Down the right channel, next to Ross Island, past the gravel pits, through cattails, its bottom brushed the sandy, muddy bottom; the boat slowed, but did not stop. Forgotten re-bar hooked up through the black water, clipped the propeller’s pin, loosened it on its spindle. Now the forgotten lights of the city loomed to the left, the Ross Island Bridge behind and the shadow of the Hawthorne Bridge ahead, above. It was too early for commuters—only a few cars on the bridges, and no one inside them alarmed, half-awake—and the sun not even up. A waning sickle moon slanted its cold light down. The sky was charcoal; it was the hour of silhouettes.
And on the boat itself, on its deck and in its cabin, there was no movement. The cold moon shone through portholes, casting pale circles on the wooden floor. All was still, unaware of being adrift. Only the cat stirred. She walked the rail (counterclockwise, as the boat slowly spun clockwise) and she mewed in complaint, aware that something was not right and that it was beyond her to change it. She circled, talking to herself, pausing only to lick anxiously at her thin shoulders, resuming her pacing.
North, always moving north, the boat came upon the Burnside Bridge. Burnside, bisecting the city north from south. The bridge sat old and heavy across the river, the water in its shadow black, its underside so far overhead and yet seemingly barnacled, familiar with water. To follow this underside east, to the bank, would take a person directly above the skatepark. It was almost empty at this hour.
Only Kayla was skating, practicing, headphones tightly over her ears. A kick-flip into a drop-in, a fakie ollie with a shaky landing—the concrete flashed by, a blur; teeth gritted, she refused to bail. She rode it out, up the far wall, gathering herself, rising again atop the near wall, against the chain-link fence. She caught her breath, her hair long and black and straight, hanging down, her hands on her knees, her fingernails painted dark red. She brushed back her hair, recognized the distant boat sliding beneath the bridge.
“Kanojo wa hen-na hito desu ne,” said the voice in her ears. Kayla smiled, then spat, just missing a car parked below. Again, the kick-flip, the fakie ollie, her thoughts spinning quicker, her landing solid this time, straight to a tail slide across the lip.
She did not see the boat reach the Steel Bridge; it was around a bend, out of her sight, gradually picking up speed, angled toward the Columbia, and then perhaps the ocean. It had been lucky at the other bridges, but here the openings funneled the currents differently, in a tangled braid; the boat caught somehow, sideswiped a concrete piling. The sound was small; no one heard it. There was a jolt, a clutching, and then the boat listing to one side, still slipping north.
Almost another hour passed before it came to rest, alongside other boats, in a small harbor along the Sauvie Island channel. It nestled, rubbing alongside these other boats, whose residents were asleep. The cat paused, uncertain whether to attempt a leap to the dock. She resumed her circling of the cabin. The windows were open, and the curtains lifted and twisted upon themselves, stretching toward the brass bedstead that swayed slightly with the water’s motion. It was bolted down, as were the bedside tables. The quilt had been kicked onto the floor, and under the sheets Steven began to stir. He rolled over and sat up; he’d dreamed there was a storm, or perhaps there had been a storm, the boat shifting in the harbor. Before he even put his feet down on the slanted floor he knew something was wrong.
He stepped onto the deck and saw how the lines had come undone, that the boat was loose. He looked at the other boats around him, then turned to look at the river. It took a moment to realize that this was not where he had gone to bed last night, that these were different boats in a completely different harbor.
The lines sank straight down in the water. He pulled one up, then another. They were shredded, roughly cut, all undone and worthless. He dropped them back in and they went under with pathetic splashes. Next, he walked around the cabin and looked at the dent on the port side, the bend in the bow’s shape. He started the engine and shifted into reverse; the motor was fine, fired right up, but there was nothing—no movement, just the worthless whine of the spindle spinning like a naked stick underwater. The propeller was gone.
“Excuse me!” he shouted to a man down the dock. “Where am I? Can I get a hand, here?”
Once the boat was secured, he tried his cell phone, but the battery was dead. He collected change from the top of his dresser, from the galley counter, and set off down the dock, up a swaying ramp, toward a parking lot. The pay phone was next to a soda machine. First he called The Seeing Eye, and listened to Heather’s voice on the machine, calmly offering information about dogs, possible questions and answers, hours of operation—the sun wasn’t even up yet; it would be a while before they opened, and he could call Heather at home but he couldn’t exactly ask her for help. What could she do for him? In any case, it helped to hear her voice.
Steven bought an orange soda, took a long, cold drink, and coughed. He spotted the bus stop—the bus that would take him downtown—and then looked down at the boat again, the river. There were explanations to be made, damage to be considered, a temporary slip to be found. He went back down the ramp, to the dock, double-checked the knots on the lines he’d borrowed. On board, he found a duffel bag, then began taking some clothes from the dresser, collecting the few valuables he possessed. He wasn’t certain where he would stay, only that it wouldn’t be here. He couldn’t quite get his head around it—someone had cut him loose in the night, set him adrift. He didn’t even know that many people in Portland; it was possible that whoever had done it had believed the boat’s owner was inside, or at least had something to settle with that old Dutchman. It had to be some kind of mistake.
Steven was halfway down the dock w
hen he heard a low cry behind him. The cat watching him from the rail, perched there with only her eyes moving, tail twitching. He switched the duffel bag to his left hand, then picked up the cat with his right. She pressed her warm body against him, purring, as he walked to the bus stop.
They waited half an hour or so, and the driver didn’t even listen to Steven’s explanation, didn’t question him about the cat. Steven walked down the aisle of the empty bus and sat down in the back.
He tried to think ahead, to plan. The bus lurched along, parallel to the river, moving south. To the right, Forest Park rose thick and green; the St. John’s Bridge stretched over the shadowy river on the left. The sun began to rise, sharp in his eyes.
They slid through the sleepy industrial area, the docks, and up through Chinatown. Steven rested, leaning his forehead against the window. It was at a traffic light that he saw her—the streets were almost empty, and her battered pickup idled next to the bus, waiting for the light to turn green. Natalie.
He had neither expected nor desired to see her again, and now she was only ten feet away, oblivious, slightly below him. Her window was open, her hair long and strawberry blond, full, her sheer blue blouse embroidered with daisies that hardly covered her breasts. Steven leaned forward to see her expression, and realized that she was not alone. In the passenger seat, the side of a man’s face was barely visible; it was only a boy, actually—sitting there, his hands in his lap, looking bored—with a hint of baby fat in his smooth white face, his dark hair shaved to the barest stubble. And then the light changed, and Natalie’s truck pulled away. He couldn’t imagine what she was up to, this early in the morning, and he didn’t really care to.
Reaching up, he pulled the cord, then thanked the driver and climbed down to the sidewalk. The cat awakened, but did not fight him. The streets were mostly empty, people just rousing themselves; a garbage truck rattled around a corner, hardly slowing. Steven could see the building that housed the office, half a block away, the sign with one big eye staring out, superimposed on the shape of a dog.