Just that fast, the wave’s gone and I’m reeling her into me. She clutches me around the shoulders, and I squeeze her, giving her a kind of hug around the backpack. Then she bends, plants her hands on her knees, and hacks out a mouthful of gulf water. When she straightens, still wobbly, she says, “That was the storm surge?”
“ ’Fraid not,” I answer. “Just its baby brother.”
Max shakes her head and kind of grins at me. She puts both hands on the steering bar, leaning into it for support. I tell her, “If you’d have gone in, I’d have come after you.”
I say this without thinking, but I can tell it touches her in an unexpected way, like she’s not sure what to do with it. She looks off, toward the girl. Sabine’s got her doll tucked inside her garage bag poncho, only its scruffy head popping through the top. She says, “I had a baby brother. When my daddy left, he took him. But me, I stayed with the others. Me and Jasper and all the rest.”
This seems to land funny on Max, as a far-off look crosses her face. But whatever it is, she brushes it away and says, “Maybe we should go back, just get to solid ground.”
But I shake my head. “We’re nearly halfway across, just as close to the side we want. Besides, road’s too narrow for me to turn around. Hang on now.” I climb into the water up to my knees and help Max slide up to where I was, at the controls. With my hands on her shoulders, I can feel her shivering, and it’s not just from the chill. She’s rattled good. I place her hands on the steering bar. “Twist here to give it gas.” I untangle that rusty chain wrapped around the headlight, loosening one end. I unwrap a few feet of it, leave the rest attached, then walk out till it’s tight, like a leash. I nod at Max and add, “Don’t run me over.”
I start inching ahead in the dark water, staying steady with each sloshing wave that slaps into my side. Here and there I sweep my foot along in front of me, and a couple times I find the edge of the road and shimmy back to the center. It feels like I’m walking through a swirling thick gumbo roux.
The first thing my eyes actually can make out is the silhouette of the scuttled Capricornia, a dark black shadow on a dim gray horizon. It’s nearly a half mile out, but that acts as a landmark and helps me figure out just where I am. About fifty feet and ten minutes later, I can see signs of the far shore.
I look back at Max and yell, “Almost there!”
Sure enough, with every step, the road starts rising up, until by the time we get to the ramp at the east end of the Chains, I’m kicking through only a half foot of surf. I guide Max up onto the shoulder and wrap the chain back around the headlight. After we take our original positions, sandwiching the kid, I twist my wrist to shoot us forward once again down Infinity Road.
On the eastern side of the Shacks, the gulf is high but at least where it belongs, down by the beach. Compared to where we were, it’s smooth sailing, and I accelerate through the slanting rain. We veer left and pass a dozen houses along the intercostal, all boarded up and dark, and then the northern edge of the Chenier Sanctuary. Not long after, we pass the turnoff for my home, and a mile later, we hit the outskirts of town. None of the streetlights are lit, and even the traffic lights are dull, rocking wild in the wind like buoys on the ocean.
You go your whole life hearing a phrase like “ghost town,” and you never really give it much thought. But as we pass by the water tower and Cormier’s Grocery, past the Sleep EZ Hotel and Leroy’s Lounge and the All-Rite Washeteria, we don’t see a soul, just sheets of rain washing empty flooded parking lots.
I turn left and bring us along Buccaneer Boulevard, where homes line the intercostal. The choppy water washes over people’s empty boat launches, swamps the shoreline decks with four-foot waves. Somebody’s Adirondack chair bobs violently along the water’s edge, and a rainbow beach umbrella gets sucked out of a backyard, up into the twisting gray clouds.
I keep squinting into the rainy darkness, eager to catch a glimpse of the iron bridge. It’s Max who sees something first, and she lets out a bit of a yelp and squeezes my sides. “It’s still down!” she cries. “We’re gonna make it.”
The thrill that rushes over me is like a high I can’t describe—I’ve saved us—but lasts only a few seconds. Then I see the skeleton structure and feel the heavy sag of the truth. Instead of trying to explain, I go ahead and take the turn onto the entryway, swinging us around the lowered crossbar. Max must’ve seen the section of the bridge attached to the island side, the section we’re driving along right now. The tires make a buzzy hum as they race along the grillwork. Below us, the intercostal waters churn. For this brief stretch, we’re aimed in the right direction, true north, and I imagine Max’s heart lifting with hope. But it’s not long before I’m forced to pull over, and I feel her hands go soft on my sides. The ATV’s weight shifts, and then she’s on her feet at my side, looking up into the storm.
“Screw you!” she yells.
The iron bridge isn’t like most drawbridges, split down the middle into two sides that tilt like ramps. Instead, there’s three sections—one on each side that stays locked in place and one in the center that can be raised on towers, like a capital H. That raised section is what Max and I are looking at now, maybe fifty feet straight up, high enough for sailboats or the occasional snooty yacht to pass under. It leaves a gap in the road about a hundred feet across. We can see over that empty space to the other side, where the road leads to safety. Right now, those hundred feet may as well be a hundred miles.
I get off the ATV. Holding on to a guardrail, I walk close to the road’s edge and look down. I’ve never actually seen whitecaps on the intercostal, which is normally smooth as a pond. Max says, “We’ll find a boat. Somebody left behind a canoe or something.”
“We’d capsize for sure,” I tell her. “You want to be in that water? Let alone with the kid?”
We both look back at Sabine, who’s clutching Jasper, huddled in her Hefty bag.
Max leans in close so the girl can’t hear. “Better than waiting for that storm to drown us, don’t you think?”
“You’re not thinking this through, Max,” I say, which draws me a pretty nasty look. But I go on. “Figure we somehow do make it over, and somehow scramble through the swampy crud on the far side, which by now is probably like three feet of thick mud. Then we get to the road and what? We start walking north? It’s six miles to Hackberry. We’re in a hurricane now. It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better. No way can we be out in the open.”
She looks at me, and I can see the light fading in her eyes. “So we die?”
“Maybe not,” I tell her.
When I was a kid, I was friends with the iron-bridge guard. He was an old skinny guy from Arkansas named Dallas, and he’d sweat away the day in his booth on the far side, listening to talk radio, reading mystery novels, and aiming his face into a tiny fan. I’d ride my bike to visit him, and he’d pay me fifty cents to bring him a cold Coke and some Lucky Strikes from Zeb’s Gas ’n’ Geaux. I always bugged him to let me operate the bridge, but he told me he’d get fired. After he decided to retire, on his very last day, he invited me inside the booth and gave in to my request. Dallas let me punch the buttons that activated the blinking red lights and lowered the crossing guardrails. He even let me turn the key and lift the lever that raised the bridge. It was big, but I could shove it up with just one hand. I remember being surprised at how easy it all was.
“I’ll climb over,” I tell Max.
She gives me a curious look. “Over where?”
When I aim my face at the booth on the far side, her eyes follow mine and she says, “Who’s the impulsive one now? No way. That wind’ll blow you off like a dead leaf. That’s suicide.”
That word falls heavy on me, and for just a second, I consider what she’s saying. But when I search myself for the sad impulse that made being gone an option, I can’t quite find it. Before, I was nothing more than a kid brother who screwed up. Now, with these two relying on me, I’m a guy with a chance to save the day.
>
“It’s the only way,” I tell her. “Our best chance. Once I reach the guard booth, I’ll lower the bridge. In fifteen minutes, we’ll be long gone.”
She reaches for my hand and holds it in hers. “Your face is all busted up. How do we know you didn’t get a concussion? I should go.”
I shake my head. “You don’t know how to drop the bridge. It’s got to be me.”
She’s quiet while she’s looking for a way to change my mind, a better way. There just isn’t one. When she realizes this, she shrugs. “I don’t like splitting up.”
“You got to stay with her.”
As one, we glance back at Sabine.
“You said you’d follow my lead,” I tell Max. “That was part of the deal.”
Max plants her hand on her hips, then looks up at me. “This deal sucks.”
The section I pick to climb looks a lot like a ladder. There’s two metal beams a foot apart, and in between them, crisscrossed, are pistols like the buccaneers used to use. This decorative touch was done to honor our pirating past, something people might regret if they really thought about it. When I reach up high and take hold of one of the barrels, it’s chilly and slick, but it makes for a good handhold. I hoist myself up and plant a boot in the cradle of the first set of guns.
As I climb, the rain washes over me, dumping buckets on my head, and the wind tugs at my soggy clothes. The one good thing is that it’s shifted to a constant gust, strong for sure, but easy to take into account as I measure when to release my grip and when to hold fast. Plus, I’m on the inside of the girder and the wind is pushing me into the metal. It feels good to be taking some action like this, and I imagine Sabine and Max down below, watching me rise. I don’t look back, though. I keep my eyes lifted toward the prize. My hands aren’t bleeding, but they’re getting plenty chewed up. Red-black rust coats the buccaneer pistols, so it’s like I’m squeezing metal sandpaper, and each time I take hold, I can feel its bite.
About halfway to the raised section, as I lift one boot, my planted one slips from its hold. I drop down a foot, but my hands grip tight. My shoulders burn with the strain, and my face bounces into the girder, igniting the tender bruise. My feet scramble for purchase and find some, and as my legs take the weight, my arms ease up. I take a minute to pull myself together and decide not to check if that’s blood or rain in my one good eye.
I get back to work, climbing fist over fist, and after a while, I find myself directly underneath the raised section, which makes a roof over me and blocks some of the rain. Plenty still comes at me from the sides, but it’s nice to catch half a break. Only problem now—and one I hadn’t really counted on—is that in order to get up on top, I need to swing around to the outside of the girder, out over the water. This looks to be tricky business, as the beams are too thick to wrap my hand around. I reach around and get a sort of awkward reverse grip on the corroding guns, then slide one foot around and lock it in. Basically I’m hugging the ladder from the side, but I’m steady enough. The wind picks up, just a bit, like the storm’s decided I’m worth noticing again, a genuine threat to the way she wants things to be. I clutch the metal, press my body and face into the beam. She’s pulling at me good now, blowing at me from the front and sucking from behind. I close my eyes and think what Sweeney said before he ended that deer’s suffering. When a thing has got to be done, it’s best to get on and do it.
Celeste inhales and the wind lets up, and I bring my second hand around, then carefully my foot, and the switch is complete. I’m outside the structure of the bridge now, with about five feet to go till I can scoot under the railing of the raised section. But Celeste is ready, ticked at the idea of me nearing the summit. My ears fill with her howling, and suddenly the wind is whipping at me from all sides, tugging and yanking. I squeeze so tight that I crunch the rust, and a tiny shower of metal dust sprinkles my face, spiking my one good eye. On instinct I lean away, just a bit, and the wind rushes into that small open space, forcing my chest farther from the bridge. My arms and legs get stretched, but I keep my grip, and I’m like a sail now, anchored by my feet and my hands but otherwise blown back. This gale can’t last, and I’ll finish the climb, no doubt. It feels strange to be this confident, to feel so certain of my coming victory.
But you’ll never make it, Eli. Celeste’s voice rings clear in my head. And I’m not surprised to look up and see her there, standing on the raised section and looking down on me. Same as always she’s a masterpiece charcoal sketch, cast in black and white, but I can see the disappointment in her almond eyes. She shakes her head like she’s not sure why I even try. Give up, I hear. You just don’t have what it takes.
Maybe I holler her name a few times, and maybe it is I start crying. I don’t know. But suddenly I feel twice as heavy and the wind rips twice as fierce, snapping and yanking. The weight of how I’ve failed before settles in my bones, and my arms ache with the sum of all my defeats.
It’s only another few feet to the top. With just a little more effort, I could roll under the railing. The climb down won’t be nearly as hard, and in fifteen minutes, me and Max and Sabine, we could be free. All I have to do is pull it together and get past Celeste.
But I find I can’t go on. My legs and arms are paralyzed. I’m suddenly terrified that if I let go and attempt to climb, I’ll fall. Above me, my ghostly sister hears these thoughts, and her voice echoes in my mind: Would that be so bad? Isn’t that what you truly want?
Maybe it’s hearing the actual question, just laid out like that, but my answer is no. I yell, “I don’t want to give up!” Celeste’s face twists with anger, but I’m holding tight. I release one hand and stretch up, trying to rise. A blast of wind sweeps in hard, hits me like a baseball bat to the chest. My free arm flails out behind me. But my other grip is firm, fingers clenched around the X of the crossed pistols. As I struggle to secure my loose hand, I feel something strange in my grasp. Just a bit, the pistols seem to wobble.
In the next instant, I’m holding the corroded guns in my hand, snapped free from their rusty girders. Even more insanely, the iron bridge is growing smaller in my vision. I’ve been blown back, away from the superstructure, skyward. Celeste stands calmly at the railing, watching me get sucked up into the darkened heavens.
DOWN BELOW ON THE BRIDGE, MAX WATCHES ELI GET swallowed by the storm. That’s what it seems like to her. One instant, he’s clinging to the girders like Spider-Man, forty feet above her and Sabine, nearly to the raised section. The next, he’s aloft, blown into the open air, arms flailing as if he’s trying to figure out how to fly. A blink after that, he’s gone from view.
She rushes to the edge, where the road drops away. Beneath her, the turbulent intercostal waters thrash like a living thing. No sign of Eli. She runs now to the bridge’s side and bends in half over the railing. Here too there’s only the foamy and jagged waves. Panicked, she’s all but forgotten about Sabine until the little girl appears next to her. She points skyward. “He went up in the air,” she says. “Just like a angel.”
“Oh, God,” Max says, more curse than prayer. “C’mon!” She grabs the kid’s wrist and yanks her back to the ATV, hops on, then guns the engine and swings back toward the island. Max barely slows to maneuver around the lowered guard arm, skids on the rain-slicked street, and then races around the curved road that leads down to the waterfront. She scoots up the first driveway she comes to and hauls straight through the yard, chewing out chunks of soggy grass. “Stay here,” she yells at Sabine as she jumps off.
Max rushes onto a floating dock, the sections of which buckle and kick like a sidewalk in an earthquake. She peers into the dark waves, shielding her eyes from the rain with both hands and straining her vision to scan the waterline. She charges into the next yard and the one after that, passing picnic tables and hot tubs and aboveground pools, till eventually she’s under the bridge and on the wrong side, far from where Eli would’ve gone in. There’s nothing.
The thought of being alone out here drives Max
to her knees. And even though she understands that it’s hopeless, she cups her hands to her mouth and screams “Eli! Eli!” Her throat goes raw, and still she yells. Then, finally, she gets up and plods back to the ATV.
She finds the kid on the patio, red-helmeted, tucked up on a deck chair in a few inches of water. Sabine says, “Where did you go like that? Jasper’s really scared. He thinks we should break in someplace. We got to get inside.”
“Tell Jasper he’s got the right idea,” Max says. She needs to lean hard into the wind to keep from falling, and it keeps shifting direction. “But this isn’t the right place.” Without knowing its name, Max pictures their destination, the building she drove by in town when she was trying to find the lighthouse this morning. It was in the lot where the hotel she stayed in with her dad used to be. The new place, a store, looked like a fortress.
She sets Sabine on the ATV and climbs in front of her, then pulls the girl’s arms around her as if securing a seat belt. She zips back the way she came, up the gently sloping road. Following the same path they took this morning, but slowed by the storm, she makes her way into town, through the main intersection. She glides underneath a bouncing stoplight, extinguished, and a fill-up station called Zeb’s Gas ’n’ Geaux. Closer to the beach, she passes a barbershop and a trailer with “Daq Shack!” spray-painted on the vinyl side. There’s a half foot of water everywhere now, and Max remembers watching a movie set in Venice, where the buildings seem to rise from the ocean.
Into the Hurricane Page 9