The Passage

by David Poyer

  “Can you hear me?” he said as gently as he could and still be audible over the storm.

  The faint gleam of opened eyes … He put his hands on her shoulders and his cheek against her face. She was panting, gasping for breath. The muscles of her arms were like cables.

  “Do you speak any English?”

  “No. Mi marido …”

  “Okay. You understand, okay? We’re going to help you out here. I’m just going to get you a little more comfortable … .”

  He chattered on, not paying much attention to what he said but trying to sound reassuring. He had to get her to relax. Those rigid muscles were burning up energy she’d need later. He started by massaging her shoulders. His hands brushed the bottle and started to shift it. She moaned and pushed his hand away, so he left it.

  He massaged down her neck and shoulders to her back, worked on that for a while, then ran his hands gently over her belly. Then he worked her thighs, digging his fingers in, gradually moving down. Susan had said that helped, forcing the tension out. This woman didn’t feel like Susan, though. There wasn’t much on her but skin and muscle. At the same time, his face close to hers, he mimicked deep, slow breaths.

  Gradually, it worked. The locked flesh softened under his hands. Her breathing slowed and her eyes sank closed. He glanced back, to see the boy still bailing.

  Finally, he ran his fingertips over her face. Then he straightened and pulled his light out again.

  Carefully—because if he lost any parts, that was it—he disassembled it. He shook the water off each piece, the batteries, the reflector and bulb combination, the barrel. He held them up to the wind, thinking maybe they’d dry a little, though the spray was still flying. The red filter seemed useless, so he threw it away, then immediately regretted it. He had so little, he shouldn’t be throwing anything away.

  When he put them all back together and thumbed the switch, he was rewarded by an orange spark. He shook it and it brightened a bit.

  Muttering, “Excuse me, got to see what’s going on here,” he seized the sodden hem of her dress and folded it up over her knees, squeezing the sea out of it.

  The red-orange waver showed him a patch of hair above a streaky darkness on the thwart. Something about a mucus plug, bloody show … Susan had spent seventeen and a half hours in labor. The nurse had told him that was longer than average. But it could be more, if there were complications.

  Complications. God. He turned and yelled to the kid, “Hey, you speak any English?”

  The boy didn’t answer. Dan shone the light at him for a second and saw that he was terrified. Also that he wasn’t seventeen, as he’d thought at first. Now he figured twelve or thirteen, with long spindly legs. “Hey,” he said again, making his voice kinder, “We’re going to be all right here. ¿Comprende? Buenas. Tout sera bien.” He knew that last was French, but Spanish was a Romance language, too; maybe the meaning would filter through. And the boy might have been responding to that or just to his tone, but he grinned a little.

  Dan turned back to the woman. He wished he knew her name. He started to ask, but just then she sucked a sudden breath and stiffened. He held her arms, reminded her to relax, talked her through it. This time, her hand left the gunwale and searched for his, gripped it so hard it hurt.

  When the contraction receded, she lay there, panting, her head thrown back. He said, “How many kids you have?”

  “¿Qúe?”

  “How many kids? Children? ¿Niños?” He pointed at her stomach, held up one finger, two fingers, three fingers.

  “Este es el cuerto hijo.”

  Graciela could only occasionally see the man who talked to her out of the orange light. She didn’t understand who he was or where he’d come from. It had crossed her mind that he was an angel, but this seemed unlikely. She certainly wasn’t dead; she felt too much pain. Still, he was here, talking with her, and he sounded friendly.

  Then she had to stop thinking about it as the wave gathered again, first in the back of her mind, then moving down her body like massive steel rollers. She tightened her grip on his hand. The angel-devil leaned into her face, telling her something in his strange slow language that only now and then she caught a word of. Then he was breathing with her, only more slowly now, and she remembered the chant old Aracelia had taught her last time, how to breathe to the rhythm of the chant. She concentrated on that as the wave crashed over her, until she couldn’t breathe anymore at all.

  IN the absolute dark of midnight, he could see—not only the luminescent hands of his watch, soldered together and pointed straight up, not just the weird emerald fire of the sea as it broke around them. It was as if his sight had been sharpened. He didn’t think he was dreaming, though he was deadly tired. It was as if he had the eyes of a cat, just for one night.

  Or maybe somewhere up there, the moon was out, above the riding clouds … .

  He and the woman were communicating now. They didn’t share a language, at least not a spoken one. But the language of hands, of help, they shared that. Isolated from the rest of humanity, separate and alone, they had only each other.

  The boy bailed. He’d been bailing so long, he must be exhausted, but he was still dragging the helmet up and dumping it over the side. The water came in as fast as it went out, but at least it wasn’t rising. If the seas didn’t get any worse, Dan thought they might make it till dawn.

  If they were still afloat when light came, they ought to get picked up. He figured Reska had eventually gotten the engine started again on the whaleboat. If not, they had the radio; the ship would have left station to pick them up.

  Conclusion: Barrett knew he was adrift out here with two Cubans; they’d be searching for him. There were other ships out, too. Sooner or later, they’d run into one. If they could stay afloat … He blinked, realizing he was falling asleep, and sat up and looked around. Darkness, that was all, and the flickering light that ran along the tops of the waves. The world had contracted to the limits of the open boat, as if all that mattered was here: himself, the kid, and the woman.

  The good news was that she seemed to be doing okay. He even knew her name now. She’d said it several times, guiding his hand to her chest, as if that was where she truly existed. “Graciela,” she’d said. “Graciela Gutiérrez.”

  “Daniel Lenson.”

  “¿Cómo es tu nombre?”

  “Daniel. Dan.”

  “Dan,” she’d whispered, eyes sagging closed again.

  “Graciela,” he murmured now, still holding her hand. She muttered something back. But her voice was higher. He glanced at his watch. Not much interval now.

  Suddenly, she gasped and pointed to a leg. He ran his hands down it, dug into the spasmed knot of muscle. Potassium would help. Wasn’t there potassium in seawater? He decided giving her seawater was not a good idea. Maybe a drink from her bottle? He pointed to it, but she shook her head fiercely.

  When the contraction passed, she moved her legs slowly. She seemed uncomfortable on the wood, and he took off his foul-weather jacket and padded the cuddy with it under her back.

  SHE lay exhausted, feeling the sea beneath her. But this wasn’t so bad, she thought dreamily. The sea was warm on her bare legs. Only her lips hurt—cracked, raw, open wounds. She thought of the water again but didn’t reach for it. It was not for her.

  The contraction came again. It felt as if she was being forced through the huge rollers they used to crush the cane. The smooth green stalks went in, then came out as an emerald paste as the sweet juice drooled down into the tubs. She remembered the sweet smell, like cut grass and molasses.

  The contraction eased, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before another took its place. Only a little while now until the baby came. She could feel it move and shift, feel her body mold itself around the insistent heaviness being forced through it. It hurt so much sometimes, she couldn’t breathe or even think, but it was comforting to know that soon it would be over.

  She remembered the first time, with Coral
ía. How frightened she’d been, and how sick.

  Yes, sick, with chills and the vomiting. They hadn’t known what was wrong with her for a long time, and the sanitario at the farm had not known what to say. Then Armando had taken her to the hospital in Minas. They told him she had to have a certain medicine but that they did not have it. And Armando had looked at them with a hard look and said, “I will get it. Give me a prescription so that I may buy it when I find it, and I will get it for her.”

  And it had taken him two days to go to Camagüey and get the medicine and come back. Part of the way, he rode on a sugar truck, and the rest he had to walk. He’d walked all night to bring her the medicine. Later when she asked where the radio was, she found he’d had to sell it and borrow money, too, for the medicine; it was foreign and very expensive. Then her time had come, and she’d been so frightened, and then she’d had Coralía. But then she had been sick again and for eight days had not known anyone, so they told her.

  The second child, Victoria, she’d come very easily. There had been no problem with her; all the old woman had to do was talk to her a while, then later cut the cord. The only thing that made her sad then was that she knew Armando wanted a man-child, to pass on manhood as it had been passed to him by his father. Who could blame him for that? But he had never said anything or slighted the girls in any way. Yes, a good man. She saw his face again, leathery and lined, the metal teeth startling in his face, as if from another life. But the third child, Tasita, had been difficult again. And when she came, she never breathed or moved at all. So much pain, and then the sweet little face with its eyes closed so peacefully …

  Feeling the wave coming again, breathing fast to make up for when she would not be able to breathe at all, she thought suddenly, I can die, too. The last time Tasita, and this time me.

  Only it didn’t feel frightening now. Now, in the darkness, it felt reassuring. She wouldn’t hurt any longer if she died. And for another, she believed.

  She thought now calmly, waiting for it to reach her, that made all the difference. Who could really be afraid, thinking that if you died, why then you would be with them again? With Victoria and Tasita and Armando, and her mother, Dona Eli, and her father, José. He had not known the revolution; he’d passed away while Castro was in the mountains. And maybe it was better that way; a man with her father’s temper would never have been happy after the revolution. Maybe that was why the revolucionarios said that you should not believe. Because without that, then you were afraid, and if you were afraid, you would do as you were told.

  Then the crest pressed her down again, and she stared into the dark, arched helplessly in the crushing grip of something more ancient and more cruel than anything one understood until they had to give birth or die.

  AND the sea heaved endlessly through the dark hours.

  Dan sat beside her, staring into nothingness, and thought, There’s something wrong.

  He couldn’t remember how long it was supposed to take. But if the average was twelve, and this was Graciela’s fourth, if he understood what she was saying at all, it shouldn’t be taking this long. It had been almost twelve hours now and the contractions were still coming, the times between them varying, but never more than three minutes apart. For a long time, she’d borne them with courage and held his hand. Then she’d passed gradually into irritable querulousness. She’d begged him for something for a long time, but he never understood what it was … . Now her hand dangled limply in the water, not moving at all.

  She was getting weak, dimming, going out, like the batteries of a soaked flashlight.

  He had to do something. But what? He thought desperately of a cesarean, but he didn’t have a knife. Anyway, that wouldn’t save her, only the baby.

  Suddenly, she screamed, a terrified burst of animal sound followed by rapid, agonized Spanish.

  He took a deep breath, fighting panic. He’d hoped it would be a normal birth, that he could just coach her and catch the baby when it came. But it seemed it wasn’t going to work that way.

  Okay, boy, he told himself. It’s time to see what’s wrong.

  He turned the flashlight on and thrust it between his teeth. The feeble glow was no brighter than a lighted cigarette. Leaning swiftly so as not to capsize the boat, he washed his fingers in the clean seawater outside. Not touching anything else, he bent close to her opened legs.

  Her hot, strained flesh opened easily to his searching fingers. Inward, inward, sweat prickling on his back. Her inner flesh was slippery with blood and fluid. He set his teeth and kept probing in.

  Something hard—hard and smooth and slightly gritty. He moved his fingertips along it and felt the curving.

  He remembered watching Nan emerge in the bright green-tiled room: the obstetrician’s big gloved fingers showing him the crown of the baby’s head; Susan’s legs shaking, shaking; and Dan swallowing with sudden terror. He could see the top of the baby’s skull. But it was too small. Microcephalic! He glanced around at the nurse’s face, the doctor’s, searching for the horror and shock and pity. But their eyes were unconcerned, routine, and he gulped back his fear and watched as Susan groaned and pushed again and the baby moved forward an inch or two. He saw then that the head wasn’t too small after all; it was just pointed, like the end of a football.

  This came back to him, and he remembered Dr. Carter’s casual deep voice as he “just widened the canal a little, make it a little easier.” How Susan had screamed, then cursed him wildly, but Carter hadn’t taken offense, just smiled and patted her leg and said she was doing fine.

  “Bueno. Mucho bueno. You’re doing fine,” he murmured now, and slipped his fingers around the crown of the baby’s skull.

  Something tough and only yieldingly elastic was holding it back. He pried it outward, pressing down on the hard yet at the same time yielding bone, till he got his middle finger under the lip. Graciela was rigid, making no sound at all. Maybe she’d passed out. That would be good … or maybe it wouldn’t, if she went into shock. Sweat broke down his back again as he started working around it, pulling outward at the membranous ring. The baby’s head was jammed against it with enormous force. But he pulled steadily, closing his eyes, concentrating all his attention on the tips of his fingers, trying not to tear anything, just gradually working his way all the way around, top to bottom to top again.

  Graciela screamed again, suddenly, coming out of whatever syncope or absence she’d been in. Her muscles tightened around his hand. At the same instant the baby slid forward, jamming his finger against the edge of the cervix, or whatever it was. Then the boat bucked upward under his knees and a deluge of warm water smashed down on them. The deck dropped away, and he cursed wildly and jerked his hand out and pushed himself back, scrambling aft.

  When he pulled the line in, there was nothing at the end. The life jacket was gone. The nylon strap dangled ragged where the stitching had torn out of the kapok. He held it, mind desolate. He didn’t have anything else to put on it. Already the skiff was drifting around, presenting its beam to the sea. When that happened, they’d go over. His foul-weather jacket? No way to make a scoop out of that.

  Out of nowhere, he remembered a light-filled afternoon at the Naval Academy: in the natatorium, fifty guys in the pool treading water, the instructor telling them to listen up, the Navy didn’t give you a fifty-thousand-dollar education so you could drown and waste it. He was going to show them how to abandon ship safely, how to swim through burning oil, and how to stay afloat.

  How whenever you were in a cotton uniform, you had your own life preserver with you.

  He pulled his wallet and keys out, stuffed them into his shirt pockets, and buttoned them. Then he stripped his pants off and tied knots in the ends of the legs. He pulled the belt out of its loops and rove the line through them. Then he bent and put it carefully over the side.

  He opened the makeshift drogue with a jerk on the line, then paid out as the stern skidded around. Better, but they were still going downwind fast. By now, the w
ind should have backed to north or even northwest. They were headed south, right back toward Cuba.

  Back to Graciela, to find her into another contraction. He waited till she was done, breathing with her, saying whatever came into his mind—that she was doing fine; they’d be picked up soon; the ship would find them at dawn. Then, when it passed and she sagged back, he dilated her a little more. Warm fluid trickled over his fingers.

  HE jerked himself awake, feeling instantly confused, then frightened, then guilty—as if he was responsible for this, for everything.

  Graciela moaned again, and he sat up and pressed the switch on the flashlight. The filament didn’t even redden. He dropped it into the water that sloshed back and forth across her opened bare legs.

  Then realized he didn’t need it.

  The sky was still dark, but here and there were streaks lighter than the rest, faint rays, not yet what you’d call dawn, but like the ribs of a fan unfolding behind the gray clouds. The seas rolled endlessly toward them, black and gray in the distance, then translucently emerald as they towered. They crested but didn’t break, passing silently beneath the boat. It took a while before his slowed mind realized the reason.

  The wind no longer roared, no longer drove the sea mad with its siren song. Only a steady breeze cooled his face as they rose once again, and he looked across a world of water toward a distant black bank of departing cloud. He lifted his wrist and licked greasy salt film off the face of his watch.

  Dawn crept toward them across the sea.

  Graciela lay sprawled in her nest under the cuddy. Her hair straggled wet and tangled from beneath the cloth. It covered her face. Her cracked lips were bloody, and blood and shit darkened the water that rolled between her open legs.

  The kid was sleeping, too. In the growing light, he looked even younger than Dan had thought last night. Dan looked back at the sky. Was that blue? He stared at it, unable to decide if it was clear sky or just a glimpse of a higher, paler cloud cover. If it was blue