When the Night Comes

by Favel Parrett

  When he looked up his face was pale.

  The Bunsen burners turned off one by one and then the hissing sound was gone. Then there was no sound, not even one squeak on the linoleum floor as Mr. Wilkins told us about the accident. About how he had seen it all from the overpass. About how he had been the first one there.

  He told us that the car had hit the boy so slowly that he would have been fine, he would have just had a sore head and some bruises, but somehow, by some kind of crazy, sick chance, the front bumper bar nicked the skin on the boy’s neck and sliced through his carotid artery.

  Mr. Wilkins started to cry again then. He just stood there by the blackboard crying with his hands covering his face.

  “I didn’t know what to do.”

  Outside the clouds had rolled in and it felt like night was coming down fast. That’s what the light was like—the night coming. I was worried that it would be dark before I got home. That I would be walking in the darkness.

  The end-of-day bell rang in the hallway outside and the sound cut through the air. It made me jump. There was some shuffling, movement from the back. Andrew Olsen stood up and walked to the door. He hesitated for a second, holding the door partway open.

  “It’s okay,” Mr. Wilkins said, but he wasn’t looking at Andrew. He was looking down at the floor again.

  There was a rush of movement then. Most of the kids who sat in the back grabbed their books and followed Andrew Olsen. They didn’t even put their beakers and test tubes and Bunsen burners away. They just walked to the door as fast as they could, heads down, almost running. I could hear their voices outside. It sounded like they were laughing.

  Mr. Wilkins sat on the edge of his desk. He wasn’t so pale now. He told us, the ones who stayed, that he was very sad and that he had been sad for a long time—he hoped by becoming a doctor he could do some good. For someone. Maybe he could put the past away. Leave it there to rest.

  “I can’t forget that boy lying on the road,” he said.

  I thought about the footage that had been on the news—the flashing lights reflecting off a fallen schoolbag. The emblem of a waratah shining out in the dark.

  I never knew that Mr. Wilkins was there. That Mr. Wilkins had been there trying to stop the bleeding. Trying to keep Tom Balinski’s heart pumping.

  The boy lying on the road had not been alone.

  OUT THE WINDOW

  The last time I saw Mr. Wilkins was in homeroom at the end of the week. Some parents had come to say good-bye, mothers mostly, and he flirted with them all, made them laugh and blush. He could get away with that.

  “Call me Anthony,” he’d say.

  “Oh, Anthony, you will be missed!”

  Some of the mothers gave him red wine and chocolates and cards, and he kissed them all on the cheek. The room was full of people for ages. When students started to leave, I got in line to say good-bye. I didn’t have anything to give him, not even a card. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought to make one and I wished that I had.

  Mr. Wilkins shook my hand, a strong, firm handshake.

  “It’s been a pleasure,” he said. I shook his hand back but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t tell him what a difference he had made. How much he had helped me find a way, some loose path to follow. I didn’t tell him. I just left the room quickly, my cheeks burning.

  I walked fast toward the bus stop, but when I got halfway to the school gate I could feel the freezing air on my arms. I wasn’t wearing my blazer. I’d left it behind. I ran back to the classroom and everyone had gone except Mr. Wilkins. He was sitting on his desk, looking out at something far away—the mountains, the stars, at the galaxies beyond the Milky Way. Like he was already gone, staring out at his future.

  I grabbed my blazer. It was lying over the top of a chair. “Maybe everything happens for a reason,” he said. I turned around and Mr. Wilkins was staring at me. He got up off his desk, picked up his bag, his red scarf, put it around his neck.

  “I don’t know. If you keep doing science, if you keep working hard, then you will be able to go anywhere, do anything. You could work on the moon—at the bottom of the sea—Antarctica—Helsinki—Zanzibar. Anywhere. Anywhere far away from here.”

  He walked over to me then, put a solid hand on my shoulder.

  “I know you will do it,” he said.

  Then he opened the closest window, lifted himself onto the ledge, and without looking back jumped out onto the concrete path. I watched him walk away from the classroom, away from the old buildings of the school, until he was gone, and there was only the empty window and the cold air blowing in.

  SITTING AT THE WHARF

  It was just us. Me and Bo.

  From where we were, we could see all of Hobart rise up out of the river. The city and the houses going up the hills, and the mountain there—its stone face behind the clouds.

  We were at the bottom of it all, sitting on the wharf together. Me with my legs swinging out above the black water and Nella Dan across from us, brilliant in the autumn sun.

  She was a good ship. A good ship.

  And as if he could hear the insides of me, Bo said, “You do not know whether a ship is good or not until you have been on board for a time.”

  He looked down at the water then, the palms of his hands resting loosely on his legs.

  Stillness.

  “I have been on some ships that were not so good. Just places to work and to sleep and to get through the time. Saving your pay, waiting to go home. But it turns out that Nella Dan is indeed a very good ship. I have been lucky.”

  I looked at Bo’s face, the way he was looking at his ship. Maybe he was thinking about his friend, Soren, or about leaving again tomorrow. Or maybe he was thinking about his island, his home. A place far away that I only knew from stories.

  A rowboat painted sky blue and orange, a small house made of wood.

  Three giant walnut trees all in a row, and the sound of the Baltic Sea.

  “Yes, I am lucky,” he said again. “And tomorrow we head for Macquarie Island.”

  I knew about this place. Bo had told me. A green mountain in the sea, so full of penguins and elephant seals that it is hard to walk for them. They are everywhere, on every bit of flat land you can find. On the beaches and in the grasses and even inside the work sheds of the station.

  “I think it is one of my favorite places,” he said. “Yes. Maybe the only thing wrong with the place is the wind. It is almost always windy and there is nothing you can do. It is just this force that is there. But the penguins and the elephant seals and the birds—well, they do not seem to mind. They are fine. It is their home and they are used to such things. They are used to it.”

  A car horn blew, and Mum’s white car pulled up, the engine running. Bo got up and waved to Mum. He held out one of his hands to pull me up.

  “Maybe you will go there one day,” he said.

  I got in the car, in the backseat, and Bo got in the front. I turned around as we drove off. I looked through the back window. Nella Dan—her red reflection streaking out on the water, the brightest thing in the whole of Hobart. She lit up this whole gray town. I waved to her.

  Mum and Bo were talking in the front and my brother was back at home, probably watching TV. We turned the corner and headed up the hill and soon buildings blocked my view, but I kept looking down toward the water anyway, looking for her as I had done so many times. I could hear her calling—calling out to me.

  I made a wish then, a kind of promise, that I would go where she had gone, that I would see what she had seen. That I would remember this.

  The next morning, when Nella was leaving, I was at school and I wasn’t really thinking about her. I didn’t know then that her engines would not start, that she was late to leave. That she did not want to go. That all the crew and passengers eventually got off and stood on the wharf with their families and friends while the engineers tried to get her engine going. And later on, after everything, people said that it was so strange, because
she was always in such a big hurry to get going. Always so eager to get back to her ocean. But this time, she clung to the wharf of Hobart and it was like she did not want to go.

  But she did go, a few hours late. She headed down the Derwent and down past our lookout at Kingston and then out on her way to where albatross and the petrels came out of the mist to see her again. To show her the way.

  MS Nella Dan

  VOYAGE 3, 1987/1988 SEASON

  29th November 1987

  POSITION: 51° 29.800’ S, 155° 39.700’ E

  CAPTAIN’S NOTE: Some of the marine science equipment has malfunctioned, so we head to Macquarie Island a few days earlier than planned. We will try to resume marine research on the return voyage.

  * * *

  Erik sharpens the knives.

  I watch him from the red booth—sharpening wand in one hand, knife in the other. Casually, as if the ship isn’t rocking. Casually, as if he has been doing this for all his days.

  Music is blaring from the tape player—Judas Priest. Erik’s moving to the music now, to the beat, eyes fixed on the blade.

  “Living after Midnight.”

  His beard is growing, his hair cut short, skin still tanned from the summer against his clean white apron. Handsome even, some might say.

  He puts down the sharpened knife, takes a bite of bread—his lunch. He chews for a time, then picks up a fresh blade and begins his dance.

  Happy with his task. Relaxed.

  No longer a boy.

  A young steward at home, working on his ship.

  A man.

  THE NEWSPAPER

  On the table in the sunroom, the newspaper was open.

  A photo taken from up high, maybe from a helicopter or from the top of a steep hill. Nella looked like a toy ship, listing on her side in the shallows below. A painted toy ship built to sail in a pond, in a child’s bath. A ship that I could hold in my hand.

  I had never seen her look so small.

  Nella Dan is floating free as experts decide on her future

  BY ANDREW DARBY

  HOBART

  The Nella Dan rode at anchor at Macquarie Island yesterday while a final damage assessment was begun to determine the fate of the crippled Antarctic supply ship.

  As a decision whether to salvage or scuttle approached, it was confirmed that the ship’s Danish owner believed saving the ship was financially worthwhile but a salvage expert opposed it.

  The oil rig tender Lady Lorraine used 40 percent of its available 7040 brake horsepower to pull the ship of 2186 gross tons free of a rocky bottom on an early-morning tide yesterday.

  The Antarctic Division’s spokesman, Mr. Peter Boyer, said the Nella Dan was now 500 meters offshore at its usual Macquarie Island anchorage. From that point, the ship was swept aground on 3 December, apparently after its anchor dragged in heavy weather.

  A division official, Mr. David Lyons, said salvage divers taking their first look beneath the hull yesterday found more holed compartments than they had expected. “But all of those have now been secured in various ways and the ship is sitting quite comfortably at anchor at the moment,” Mr. Lyons said.

  Mr. Boyer said the divers shot videotape of the damage for analysis on shore by the salvage master and the ship’s representatives. The two parties may reach a decision today whether to scuttle the ship in deep water off Macquarie or try towing it to port for repairs, Mr. Boyer said.

  The division’s director, Mr. Jim Bleasel, has confirmed that the salvage company at first advised that recovery was unlikely, possibly dangerous, and the ship should be scuttled.

  Despite this objection, Nella Dan’s owner, J. Lauritzen SA, recalculated the cost of salvage and restoration. Mr. Boyer said Lauritzen had decided last weekend that it would be worthwhile.

  If the Nella Dan were to return to service next season for a final year with Australia, Lauritzen could expect to pick up about $2 million in charter fees. In a market short of such vessels, it could also expect to have work with other Antarctic nations in later years.

  The options being considered are towing the Nella Dan to dry dock in Australia for repair, and towing to the nearest sheltered deep-water harbor to rendezvous with a semi-submersible ship which could carry it to a shipyard for repair.

  A patriarch of Australian Antarctic work, Dr. Phillip Law, has suggested that the Nella Dan, which has carried about 7000 Australian expeditioners to Antarctica, should be saved from scuttling to become part of a museum.

  Mr. Boyer said this might be considered by the owner if Nella Dan was first able to return to service. “It appears that the idea of having Nella as a museum piece isn’t an option at the moment.”

  MV Icebird

  1987/1988 Season

  9th December 1987

  POSITION: 54° 30.000’ S, 158° 57.000’ E

  CAPTAIN’S NOTE: Detour to pick up the stranded crew and passengers from MS Nella Dan.

  * * *

  We stand together on the deck of Icebird. We pull away. We are leaving our ship behind.

  Klaus is next to me. His arm brushes mine, and I can feel the full weight of him there.

  “My father and your father,” he says, “they worked together for a long time.”

  I can see my father sitting out in the sun smoking his pipe, his eyes closed.

  “You are like him,” Klaus says. “Yes. I was sorry to hear about him passing so young.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I suddenly remember that the only photo I have of my father is there in my cabin, stuck on the bulkhead next to my bunk. My father standing at the top of the gangway holding me up in his arms. Me, just two, my hands outstretched trying to catch the colorful streamers that were falling from the sky. Nella Dan’s maiden voyage—twenty-six years ago.

  I look back at her now and she looks completely fine, like there is nothing wrong. But at the base of her bow there are rocks where there should be water. Rocks that have cut into her.

  “He loved that ship,” I say, and maybe it’s right that the photo is still there in my cabin, staying with her. He would like that.

  Klaus nods. I can see the burning in his eyes. He has spent the past thirteen years with her and he knows her better than most.

  “It’s been a pleasure working with you,” I say. I shake his hand. We pull out farther into deep water. Icebird feels so foreign and strange and none of us wants to go inside. We stay out on the trawl deck together and the air freezes our faces and our hands, we stay for our captain and bosun, we stay for our ship.

  Someone yells, “See you soon, Nella.”

  “Home by Christmas.”

  I look up at that gigantic mountain reaching for the sky, Macquarie Island. One of the most amazing places I have ever seen. Nella Dan is just a red dot now at the bottom of it all, her body half in the calm water, her body half on the land.

  Giant petrels circle over her, looking down.

  Good-bye.

  I say good-bye.

  MS Nella Dan

  1986/1987 SEASON

  26th August 1986

  POSITION: 42° 53.000’ S, 147° 19.000’ E

  CAPTAIN’S NOTE: Arrival in Hobart for commencement of 1986/1987 season. We are two full days ahead of schedule.

  * * *

  The light is coming—just early light. Nella Dan sails up the Derwent, our Little Red Ship. The hills are rugged and wild and rocky, and soon houses cling on along the banks. It’s getting lighter but the sky is gray. The rain comes, but I stay outside. The rain is soft and I do not mind. I want to see it all. To take it in.

  The smell of trees, not pine but a new smell—a tree I don’t know. Soon a small city grows, a town of hills that climb up to the face of a stone mountain. A large concrete bridge ahead.

  Hobart.

  Many of the crew have friends waiting and know this place. But not me. This is a new place.

  “You will love it,” they say, excited to be back.

  The Red Lion, the Dog House, the Hope and Anchor, the Ship Hotel
—places I will be taken, live music and dancing and beer on tap. I will be able to walk in a straight line for as long as I want. Pizza and sweet-and-sour pork and not having to cook so much, not having to work so hard. A few days. A welcome rest. Our home away from home.

  Nella Dan turns in, slows down. She knows the way, finds her place.

  The wharf is old, like ones from home. Wooden and aged, the harbor black and deep and still. The rain comes harder now, but I stay outside on the deck.

  Across from me on a small jetty, a child is standing in the rain. The hood of her raincoat is down over her head and it seems like she is sleeping—early morning, early slumber. Hidden there, almost invisible in the rain, but I can see her.

  I can see.

  She looks up suddenly. She looks at Nella as if the ship called out to her, Hello! Wake up! I’m here!

  And for no reason at all I wave to her. I wave again and keep on waving and she waves back. A beam of light breaks through the clouds and hits the bow and everything shines red. I take a deep breath of this fresh air and go inside to start the breakfast.

  I am filled with hope.

  JOY TO THE WORLD

  The sunroom was filled with people, Mum’s friends and crew from Nella, and food filled our round table. My brother had a plate full of cheese and he was walking around eating one slice at a time. He had no bread or crackers, just cheese.

  Bo put a record on the stereo and the speakers crackled, that moment of anticipation before the needle found its way to the first song.

  An organ, in rhythm. A chord. “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.”

  Mum cheered. It was her favorite, the soundtrack to a movie called The Big Chill. It looked like a really stupid movie, but the music was okay. My brother and I had to listen to the album for years and years until we knew every song off by heart. My brother really liked the one about a bullfrog called Jeremiah.