The Keeper's Son

by Homer Hickam

  “My soul these days belongs to the Kriegsmarine, Father. As you very well know.”

  “Ruprecht says you do not attend services regularly.”

  “Difficult to do on a U-boat,” Krebs answered.

  “Do you recall the significance of Advent?”

  “The coming of Christ,” Krebs replied.

  Father Josef nodded, then dug into his bag and handed Krebs an apple. “If you cannot attend services, at least read from Scripture from time to time. Else your soul will become as shriveled and ugly as this ripe, beautiful apple in a week’s time.”

  “Yes, Father,” Otto replied, wondering if he had ever seen a Bible on board the U-560. Probably Max had one squirreled away.

  “Come, Ruprecht, the other children await us.”

  After the priest and Ruprecht had gone to minister the same tribulations on the children of the village, Krebs said, “Father Josef can be a gruff old bear.”

  “I suppose,” Miriam replied. “But the truth is the children love him to act gruff at Advent. They know it is all just an act. And, even though he scares them, they’ll be giggling about Ruprecht tonight when I put them to bed.”

  “Will you come and put me to bed, too?”

  “Sometimes, you are a silly man, Captain.”

  “That’s what all my boys on the U-boat say, too. Will you?”

  “Perhaps. Will you come to the celebration tomorrow? There will be a procession to the lighthouse.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Good. We shall go together.”

  “Together. I like the sound of that.”

  She said, as she allowed him to hold her, “Otto, I have a great favor to ask of you.”

  “Of course,” he said, his hand touching her flaxen hair. “Anything. You know that.”

  “Will you take Harro aboard your boat?”

  Krebs was not surprised by the request. Miriam had been hinting about it, saying how worried she was for the boy. He had already given it some thought. Harro was assigned to the Second Flotilla, the U-560 was in the Ninth. But things could be arranged if you knew the right people. “I will see what I can do,” he told her. “But I think yes.”

  “You are a good man, Otto,” Miriam said.

  “No, I’m not,” he said reflexively. “I have done many things during my life that would certainly not qualify me as a good man.”

  Miriam fixed her eyes on him. “Otto Krebs, you are a very, very good man.”

  “Miriam . . .” He hesitated, then plunged on. “You are a woman—”

  “Thank you for noticing!” She laughed. “I have never been anything else.”

  Krebs felt clumsy. He released her and took a step back, trying to clear his head. He had practiced a speech but he’d completely forgotten it. He stumbled over his words. “Listen. I have no need for my pay. There is no place to spend it in a U-boat. I want you to have it.”

  Those wonderful blue eyes widened. “What are you saying, Otto?”

  “That I want to take care of you. That maybe I’m in love with you. That maybe we could . . .”

  She put a finger to his lips. “Dear Otto,” she said in a sighing voice. “Please be silent.”

  He gently removed her finger. “I am not like your Walter. But I would make a good husband, I swear it.”

  “I told you to be silent.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “You, of course. What you want is much, much too soon. You are just caught up in the moment.”

  “I love you, Miriam,” he said. “A million moments will not change that.”

  “One of us must act intelligently,” she said staunchly.

  “Why? Why must we act in any other way than how we feel? When I am with you, I sometimes wonder if I am in heaven. Perhaps I didn’t survive that last depth-charge attack after all.”

  It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it instantly but it was too late to take it back. Miriam turned away. “We are not in heaven,” she said. “And you must live, Otto. You will keep Harro alive, too.”

  “Oh, I’ll live. And don’t worry about Harro. I will take care of him.”

  “I will take that as a sacred promise. Come back to me when you’re finished with your next patrol. And bring Harro with you. I will marry you then, if you still want me.”

  “You give me orders already.” He smiled. “I can tell you are used to being a wife.”

  She grinned at him, a devilish grin. “It is easy to act like a wife with you.” Her eyes glanced toward the stairs and she held out her hand. “Come. I will show you what I mean.”

  Happily, he let her lead him up the stairs to her room.

  13

  The Killakeet Church of the Mariner, built from the planks of a wrecked schooner, began its life in 1908 as a place to store fish meal and the assorted nets and gear of a short-lived commercial enterprise that called itself The Outer Empire Fishery and Crab Pot Company. After the company went bust, the people of Whalebone City simply took over the building, painted it white, and threw open the door for any preacher who wanted to come and preach. The first one who came was a former rumrunner from Mobile who called himself Captain Sam. A good carpenter, Captain Sam added a stunted steeple to the roof of the church and also a brass ship’s bell. The bell was rung Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings for services. If for any reason all the residents of Whalebone City needed to gather, the bell could be rung by any citizen. One would have thought ringing the bell by mischievous boys would have been considered great sport, but the purpose of the bell was respected by everyone.

  The interior of the church was plain and functional except for the pews, which were made of a golden poplar with seat backs, end panels, and hymnal racks fashioned from a deep burgundy walnut. They were the pride of every Killakeeter and had been hauled over by boat after Buckets O’Neal, across the sound to gadabout, had spotted them about to be thrown away by a fancy landsmen’s church. The preacher’s pulpit was constructed from the wheelhouse of the Cheryl Roberts, a forty-five-foot workboat swamped by the hurricane of 1913. The cross on the wall was made of driftwood fashioned by Trudelle Thurlow not too long before she died.

  It was the first Sunday in December when Preacher, feeling strong and confident, gazed benevolently over his people. The pews were filled, the faithful ready for his sermon, and he had followed Josh Thurlow’s advice and gone to sea for a day of fishing on Pump Padgett’s boat. He felt now as if he finally understood the people in his flock. It was a pretty morning. The sun was out and angled through the windows in a flush of golden light. Preacher had organized his sermon around the Gospel of Matthew, chapter four, verses seventeen through twenty-one, where Jesus made disciples out of fishermen. But before he got to the Scriptures, Preacher wanted to say a few words about his adventures at sea. Pump Padgett stirred uncomfortably at the reminder. Preacher had been quamished nearly the entire time. Pump had never known a man could throw up quite so violently or for so long. He’d fed the fishes, for sartain.

  After his personal chronicle, which left most of the men snickering and the women astonished, Preacher moved on, quoting the account of Jesus accosting the fishermen who were repairing their nets. “How would you feel if a man came along and took your sons away from you while they were fixing your nets?” Preacher asked. “You would not like it, I’d wager, and might have a word to say against it. Matthew didn’t write down what Zebedee had to say, but I don’t believe he fought too hard. He must have seen that there were greater things for his boys to do, and that was to take up the word of the Gospel and spread it yea across the nations.”

  “They should have finished mending the nets first,” Pump muttered.

  “Shut up, old man,” his Mrs. whispered in a voice close to a growl. There were similar comments and asides between misters and missuses all over the church. Preacher had indeed hit upon a hot topic that was going to keep the men somewhat awake and the women nearly attentive.

  Before Preacher could ratchet up his ser
mon a notch, the door to the church swung open and he stopped to see who it was that had come in late. So did everybody else on the pews, heads swiveling. Dosie Crossan stood in the doorway, dressed in her riding pants, boots, and a blue denim shirt. When nobody said anything and continued to stare, Dosie said, “I’m sorry I’m late.” Then, in the continuing silence, she added, “The tide was high so I had to ride around through the woods.”

  Josh went up the aisle and escorted Dosie back to sit beside him and the Keeper. “I’m glad you came,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Well, you promised me a picnic,” she whispered back. “So I packed us a lunch.”

  Josh grinned and gave a hushed introduction to his father while everybody in the church cocked an ear. “We’ve met,” Keeper Jack whispered back, which was news to Josh. “We’re neighbors, Dosie and I.” They shared expressions of familiarity, which, for some reason, left Josh mildly unsettled.

  Five pews behind, Queenie O’Neal caught the eye of as many women around her as possible. There was a triumphant atmosphere inside the church that Preacher took as a response to his sermon. He moved on to what he considered a most appropriate allegory. “You tuna fishermen have to go out a long way to catch the big ones,” he pronounced, “just like the Lord God Jesus the Christ had to go into the places of sin to catch his big ones, too. It was why He consorted with prostitutes, thieves, and tax collectors. That’s why He said the healthy have no need of a physician, only the sick.”

  “Amen,” Doc Folsom intoned. “Preacher, you’re hitting them out of the ballpark today!”

  “Never mind baseball, Doc!” Preacher cried in a happy voice. “I feel like a man who just loaded twenty ton of coal and got a ‘well done’ from his foreman!”

  Herman sat beside his brother, Fisheye, completely and utterly miserable and not hearing a word that Preacher was saying. He was in his best Sunday-go-to-meeting coveralls, and even had on shoes, but it was not his shoes that were making him miserable. He hadn’t expected his missus to show up at church. That she had not accorded him the common courtesy of apprising him of her intentions was bad enough. But when he saw her sit beside Ensign Thurlow, a sudden storm of jealousy struck him like a winter gale. He sighed so deeply that his brother shot him a look. “What’s with you?” he hissed.

  “I’m going to have to fight Ensign Thurlow,” Herman said.

  “Why’s that, you little snipe?”

  “ ’Cause he’s trying to steal my girl.”

  “I thought you hated girls,” Fisheye said reasonably.

  “All but one,” Herman replied.

  Fisheye realized Herman was talking about the Crossan woman. “She’s too old for you, you moron. You’re twelve! Hell, she’s too old for me.” Then he grimaced as he received his reward for cursing in church, a sharp elbow up around the second rib by Glenda, his pigtailed wife, who was also the sister of the Jackson twins and three months pregnant.

  After an hour, Preacher finally wound down and completed his sermon, which he thought had gone very well. Many of the men had stayed awake through a lot of it, and the women kept looking around at one another, no doubt taken by his allusion to the family being much like the crew of a fishing boat, all dependent on one another. The collection plate was passed around, getting a nice stack of nickels and quarters, and then the choir and the congregation stood up for a final hymn. It was the same hymn they always sang at the end of the services while the surf grumbled, and the wind whistled, and the sand stirred outside as counterpoint. It was the hymn that Killakeeters thought had been written especially for them:

  Lord, whom winds and seas obey,

  Guide us through the watery way;

  In the hollow of thy hand

  Hide, and bring us safe to land.

  Outside, Genie stood waiting with saddlebags strapped aboard. She was tied up beside old Thunder, and both horses had taken the time to get to know one another. There had been a lot of nickering and snorting and stamping of hooves, but they had finished their conversation by the time church service was done.

  Josh walked Dosie outside, shaking hands with Preacher and introducing Dosie to him. “Glad you came,” Preacher said. And then, pointedly: “Services are at eleven o’clock every Sunday.”

  “I’m sorry I was late, Reverend,” Dosie said.

  Preacher was so pleased at being called “Reverend,” he said loud enough for all to hear, “Miss Crossan, you may come anytime you like, early or late, and you will be most welcome.”

  Keeper Jack came along and he and Dosie shared another friendly glance. “How is it you’ve met?” Josh questioned.

  “As I told you, Dosie is my neighbor,” the Keeper said. “She and I have sat out in her rockers a few times, sharing some coffee and talking about this or that.”

  “You have a wonderful father, Josh,” Dosie said. “He has told me so many stories about you.”

  “He’s been known to exaggerate,” Josh replied, frowning.

  Keeper Jack grinned. “So I have,” he allowed. “But it’s all in good fun. Now, Josh, here’s Thunder and he’s yours for the day. Light the light for me, if you will, then bring Thunder back when you’re ready. Pump will be along to spend the night in the lantern room. I’m going to stay here and have Sunday dinner at the Hammerhead and talk a spell with Queenie about the lighthouse celebration. Likely, I’ll drink some whiskey, too. Preacher’s sermon made me thirsty for it, don’t ask me why.”

  Willow came out of the church, accompanied by her parents, Hook and Winifred Mallory. Her brother Stobs, the Maudie Jane radioman, and his wife and baby son were there, too. Willow caught sight of Dosie. “You could protect the sand,” she said.

  “Beg pardon?” Dosie replied.

  “If you are looking for something to do, protect the sand.”

  Josh introduced Dosie to Willow. “Willow knows things about people,” he said.

  “Some people say she’s a hoo-doo,” Hook added helpfully.

  “She’s not, though,” Winifred interjected. “Are you, Willow?”

  But Willow walked away without answering.

  “Well, that’s our Willow,” Josh said, and her parents and all within hearing nodded agreement.

  Josh and Dosie climbed aboard their horses, leaving the Keeper and most of the island population watching after them with pleased expressions. Herman Guthrie, however, was not among them. He had already made it home and was sitting dolefully in a rocker with his chin in his hands. When Fisheye strolled by, his wife on his arm, he said, “You still plan on fighting Mister Thurlow?”

  “I reckon,” Herman said.

  “Well, don’t beat him up too bad. He’s my captain, you know. He might take it out on me.”

  “I’ll try not to,” Herman replied dolefully.

  “You don’t look too happy about it. Maybe you ought to give it another think. Mister Thurlow’s pretty big. Maybe he won’t go down so easy even under the hammer blows of a tough little snipe like you.”

  “Shut up, Fisheye!” Herman cried, and ran inside the house.

  Glenda linked her elbow in Fisheye’s arm as they walked on. She said, “That Crossan lady is surely pretty, though a bit cheeky, what with wearing pants to church.”

  “Kind of hard to ride a horse in a dress,” Fisheye replied, wanting to take up not only for Ensign Thurlow’s woman but his brother’s, too.

  “I rode a wild pony in a skirt many a time when I was a girl,” Glenda disputed.

  Fisheye nodded at the recollection. “I remember that. And you were a sight doing it, too! You could ride like the wind. We had a time, didn’t we, when we rode them old wild things? That’s when I first paid attention to you.”

  “No, that’s when I first paid attention to you,” Glenda teased. “You were as wild as the ponies.” Her arm pulled him closer. “You know, I been meaning to tell you. Three months ain’t so far along I couldn’t use a little ride now and again.”

  “On a wild pony? Why, you’d be bound to fall off and . . .
oh.” Fisheye blushed a deep scarlet but his pace picked up in the direction of their little house three streets back from Walk to the Base. Glenda smiled, hugging her husband’s arm.

  14

  Josh rode along, stealing an occasional glance at Dosie, just to prove to himself that she was really there. Dosie was aware that Josh was giving her the eye. It was a delicious feeling that she liked and mistrusted at the same time. She therefore decided to change the subject, even though there wasn’t one. “You’re not a half-bad rider,” she said.

  “Thanks. I learned on the wild ponies. Bareback.”

  “That must have hurt.”

  “You have no idea, especially when I got to be a teenager. Where did you learn to ride?”

  “Daddy taught me. He was an Olympic rider.”

  “Olympics, eh? Did he win a medal?”

  “No, but he won my mother. Her father was a judge.”

  The beach stretched before them, lined by dunes on one side and the booming surf on the other. In the distance, as if beckoning, sat the lighthouse. Genie broke into a canter and Thunder, not to be outdone, paced her. “I give you fair warning,” Josh said. “Thunder may be old but he’s fast.”

  “Not as fast as Genie,” Dosie replied, laughing. “She’s a whirlwind!”

  “Let’s just see!” Josh touched his heels to Thunder, who instantly broke into a gallop.

  Dosie yelled, “Let’s have a bet!”

  “What’s the stakes?”

  “I’ll tell you after I’ve won!” she cried, and gave Genie the lightest touch with her heels. The big mare lunged ahead.

  They roared down the beach. Seagulls threw themselves into the air, then circled and followed, screaming insults. Josh and Dosie were both laughing so hard they were having trouble hanging on. For a hundred yards, the two horses were neck and neck, their eyes alight, coats glistening, frothing at the bit. But then Thunder let off and Genie flowed into the lead. Dosie looked over her shoulder and saw Josh and Thunder recede. She slowed Genie to a walk, then turned her around. “I win,” Dosie said as she came alongside.