Around 19th, Will saw a disheveled man with a drooping mustache, his head swathed in bandages, hobbling on a single crutch. “Dr. Cline!” Will called to the man. “It’s Will. Will Murney. From St. Mary’s. I shine your shoes. At the Tremont.” The man said nothing initially, but then seemed to recognize Will as the diligent boy who worked on the scuffs of his boots at the hotel.
“I warned those on the beach. On my horse. I didn’t wait for Washington. The warning was issued. The storm was much greater, west of the city.”
“Yes, sir. That’s where I was. At the orphanage. I’m sorry about your wife.”
“My wife?” he asked. Isaac Cline’s weather bureau’s errors were not only spectacular and historic, but personal. Will heard his wife, pregnant with their fourth child had drowned. Dr. Cline was able to save his youngest daughter and his brother, Will understood, had saved his other two, both Allie May, who Will knew from Rosenberg, and her sister, Rosemary.
“The calculations showed the winds would subside. The flooding was to remain tolerable. I rode out on the beach. Move back. The warning. I did all I could.” Mr. Cline had launched into the sort of exquisitely internal reckonings that could be turned over and over in one’s head for the rest of one’s life. And he was only thirty-nine years old.
“Yes, sir. Are you alright?” Will asked politely, looking up at him.
“Certainly not.”
69
BIRDY’S KISS
Birdy, Unger’s daughter, stepped through the broken door of her father’s grocery onto its narrow porch, strands of her limestone-colored hair in her face. Two small children, Birdy’s younger sisters, were inside with Mr. Unger, who was speaking to Mr. Ott, the stonecutter.
“Mama’s dead,” she told Will. “I’m their mama now,” she said, pointing back to the children. Birdy then kissed Will on the side of his head for no reason he could think of.
“I’m sorry, Birdy.”
“Mama didn’t even drown. She had a heart attack that night.”
This struck Will as more tragic, not less, and he issued the proper condolences again.
Birdy said she was sorry too. There were now dark circles under her lavender eyes.
He told her about Frank and Albert and the girls dorm coming down, about the John S. Ames and the salt cedar trees, then didn’t know just what to say next, so they just sat a spell on the porch steps until he decided to go on and ask her what he came to ask her.
“Have you heard what happened to Grace Ketchum?” he finally asked.
“I’m afraid for her,” Birdy said. She got up and went back inside to pick up one of the children before returning to Will. She sat back down on the steps and seemed unready to leave for a long time. Will obliged her, still thinking of how she had kissed him. “She lives right down there yonder, Grace does,” Birdy finally said. “I haven’t seen her though,” she added, looking into Will’s eyes. “Only her daddy.”
“You can’t get down there right now,” he said.
“You should try again tomorrow.”
“I will.” The child Birdy had brought out with her onto the porch had already fallen asleep in her lap. “Birdy, could I tell you something else?”
Birdy drew a breath, her eyes locked on him. “I wish you would.”
“Afterwards. After the storm, when we were still out there. In the John S. Ames, I mean. Stuck in the salt cedars. Frank and Albert were all tied to one another with lots of slack. But we were together, and we started hearing this yelling. Deep wailing, like a bunch of animals caught in traps. Screeching, moaning. Frank wanted to know if it was people or not and Albert covered his ears. He told us to do the same.”
Birdy pet the child in her lap. The child fell more deeply asleep by the moment.
“Albert called it the hollerin’ of the dead. He said we ought better not listen to it. To cover our ears. Frank said it wasn’t the hollerin’ of the dead and I told Albert there was no such thing, in any event. But it came closer. I guess it was people worse off than we were. Or maybe it was factually the hollerin’ of the dead. I don’t know. It went away after a while. It must have been about three or four in the morning. Dreadful cold.”
Will looked back to make sure no one was listening but Birdy.
“Bird,” Will continued, “after all that, there were tricks in the air. Some in the water too.”
The way Birdy began rocking the child soothed not only the child, but Will too. He felt he could go on. “What do you mean, tricks?” she asked.
The other child, this one even younger, opened the crooked door and wandered out onto the warped porch. The door closed with a clatter behind her and she came and sat down between Will and Birdy. The little girl looked up at them but didn’t say anything. She held a can with no label on it in both hands.
“It was still dark,” Will continued. “There was loud thunder far away or maybe it was the clothesline pulling, but I woke up and I look around and I see Frank and Albert leaning out over the side of the boat. The water’s just washing back and forth and the two of them are just staring down leaning out over the side. Then Albert says, ‘heavenly host, heavenly host’ and asks Frank if they’re angels.”
“Angels?” Birdy asked. “Inside the water?”
“Albert’s lips are blue and his head’s still bleeding a little. He was concussed as it turned out, but he’d stopped trembling as he’d done all night. He turns back to me and he says, ‘There’s people down there.’”
The child between them offered Will the can and he took it. “Thank you,” Will said, nodding. She smiled at him winningly.
“And I move over to them and Albert says, ‘Look, under the waves.’”
“Welcome,” the child whispered.
“Frank reaches over the side and begins to run his hand along the surface, and he says, ‘Oh my.’ He commences to talking as if he can see Sister Raphael and Sister Genevieve. He looks back with the warmest grin, talking about the little girl with the lisp. He points down and says, ‘Sister Camillus.’”
The child now laid her head on Will’s shoulder and Will put his arm around her. This pleased Birdy a good deal.
“Albert too. He’s going on about the Boudreauxs and the Grube brothers. Real specific. Names. And Frank starts to untie himself. Albert sees this and starts doing it too. They’ve come to entertain the idea that these folks populating the watery realms below are issuing some kind of invitation to us, or at least to go with them. So now both of them have commenced to trying to untie themselves and all, and they’re fixin’ to get loose. I see what’s happening, so I pop up and I tighten Albert’s knot first while he’s still going on about flowers and meadows and what not. At this point, they’re both certain we’re being summoned.”
“Like the Argonauts in that long poem you said Miss Thorne told you about,” Birdy said.
“Albert says the world is dressed in green and gold. He’s telling me they’re waiting for us. He’s holding forth about the trolley too. The trolley. Frank is almost loose now and calling out more names. Lizzie and Lilly, James, Maudie. He’s going on and on.”
“They’re talking about the same thing,” Birdy said.
“Like they’re seeing it together. I tell Frank not to unhitch. But he doesn’t listen. He’s not listening whatsoever. Meanwhile, Albert’s calling out in a melody, ‘home of my soul.’ He keeps repeating that. ‘Home of my soul. Home of my soul.’”
“What’d you say?”
“I said, ‘That ain’t home. Stay in the durn boat. The John S. Ames is the only home you’ve got right now,’ and I tried to cinch him up even tighter.”
“Did you look down, Will? Under the waves?” Birdy asked. The question made Will begin to breathe even more slowly.
“I wasn’t looking at first. I had my hands full with Albert talking about the blamed Pagoda. I could tell he was looking for Maggie. Bu
t then Frank. He’s usually got better sense.”
Birdy agreed.
“He turns to me, loose now, and he says, ‘the sisters are taking clothes from the line on the beach. Stiff with salt air.’ Something of that ilk or the like. Then he begins trying to jump off, but I’m holding him back.”
“Off the boat? Into the drink?”
“Right, and in the meantime, Albert’s gotten free. He says, ‘Maggie, Maggie.’ He’s nimble and much stronger than he looks. He pushes me and he jumps in.”
“But Campbells can’t swim,” she observed.
“No, ‘course not. And sure enough, he’s sinking down like a stone, so I’ve got to go in after him. He’s gonna drown down there. Down to the bird-less fathoms, he goes. So, I take a deep breath and I swim down as deep as I can and I find him, but just barely. I grab him and guess which way’s up. I break the surface right as I’m running out of air. Frank’s there and helps us both back in the boat.”
“Will, you saved his life.”
“He was mostly drowned, yeah, but not quite. Frank turned him on his side and pretty soon he came to and commenced to jabber on about the stars in their courses above. He apologized for jumping in and all but drowning. Then he told Frank we couldn’t go with them anyhow.”
“What’d he mean?”
“I’m not sure. Frank asked if they were gone, all the people, and Albert said yes. But then he said that they were still there. Or somewhere, he said. He’d concluded that we just couldn’t see them anymore, but he knew Maggie’d be happy because it was all mostly outside there. That’s what he said. Mostly outside. And then it stopped raining and then Albert fell asleep.”
“What did he mean, Will? Still there?”
“He said maybe it wasn’t real like we think of real. But it was more than real.”
“Did you see it?”
“Well, I told them I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you did, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he said as if in confession. “I did.”
She looked at him as his eyes swelled and pooled.
Birdy, still rocking the child mildly, nodded her head, confirming all of it at once.
70
IN MR. OTT’S EMPLOY
Mr. Ott loaded the canned goods in his wheelbarrow outside of Unger’s, gave Birdy a note representing the funds agreed upon, shook her hand, then turned to Will, pointing back to his own shop across the street. “I need your help, Will.”
Will bid Birdy goodbye and crossed the street with Mr. Ott.
“Try again tomorrow, Will,” Birdy said. He nodded, then followed Mr. Ott.
“Not many are like to find their loved ones,” Mr. Ott said, striding ahead toward his storefront. Will agreed, catching up. Ott’s Monuments was damaged badly, but still stood. “With neither bodies nor graves, Murney, these folks will need something.”
It had been Will’s experience that Mr. Ott was always on firm footing on matters which were crucial, matters requiring a grounded wisdom. Ott’s family had been here cutting stone for ages, bringing order to life, as well as to the city’s many cemeteries. His skill in hewing rock and engraving markers for the churchyards was well-known and unsurpassed. His work throughout the island, as well as that of his father and his grandfather had shaped its character, if not its soul. Ott was a pivotal man.
“I’ve got some certificates, some papers in the back for anybody who wants one without charge, but my own hand’s unworthy for the notations. Your teacher, Miss Thorne, told me your pen’s full of character. I’ll pay a nickel for every ten you do.”
Will agreed to these terms, resolving to supplement his own style with the decorative serifs the stranger outside the Red Cross had utilized in his notepad. Mr. Ott went to the back room of what used to be his well-ordered shop to retrieve the certificates. He returned with a sheaf of clay-colored parchment decorated with images of cherubim, seraphim, and all manner of other winged celestials. The angels darted about the certificates in a lively manner, porting wreaths and ribbons, all converging above three empty crosses on a hill. Clouds and rays of sunlight lent additional life to the scene. Doves and garlands were plentiful too, here and there, and stationed three quarters of the way down under the words, In Loving Remembrance, was space for an inscription.
“They’re right glorious, Mr. Ott.”
“I ordered these some time ago for those whose relations chose cremation over burial, but I’ve never used more than a handful. People seem to prefer the terrestrial ground for their departed kin.”
“Mr. Ott, you don’t have to pay me.”
“It’s a square deal. Start with this one.”
Mr. Ott, with his huge rough hands, passed to Will one of the sheets and motioned him over to the desk. A sturdy quill and a small well of Bible-black ink awaited him there. Will saw several discarded examples of parchment on the desk, on which Mr. Ott had evidently tried to execute this endeavor in vain last night before this alternative plan had evidently come to mind.
Settling down into Mr. Ott’s large chair, Will measured out his approach. The paper had a nice heft and a pleasing texture with what he imagined were absorbent features. The quill felt vital in his hand. He lined up the parchment in a manner conducive to performing this project rightly and prepared to do so.
“June twenty-sixth, eighteen and seventy-two,” Mr. Ott said as Will dipped the quill into the dark well just so. “To September eighth, nineteen and double-aught.” Will stuck his tongue out in furious concentration as he carried out the zeroes in a striking oblong fashion, one which seemed to him both properly dignified and stylish. Mr. Ott was exceedingly pleased, looking over Will’s shoulder. “Fine. Fine work, son,” he said.
Then Will looked up at him. “The name?” he asked wordlessly.
“Ana,” Mr. Ott said, pointing down at the page and onto the open space.
Will looked at the crosses on the hill, then back up at the stonecutter.
“Go ahead. Carry it out. Ana-Marie Ott.” Mr. Ott’s enormous strength threatened to leave him, but he held on. His narrow eyes narrowed further the way they did when he worked under the sun. “Proceed,” Mr. Ott insisted helplessly.
Will placed his right hand at the top of the document to steady it again and turned his head so that his ears were parallel to the surface of the table. He felt his hand expertly guided by something, perhaps the very angels pictured on the certificate itself.
“She was my soul’s best song,” Mr. Ott confessed, turning away as Will completed the task. “I kissed her at midnight, and we said our farewells. She said goodbye to me. Goodbye, we are gone. She said she couldn’t hold on. I said I’d hold on for the both of us, but she just said goodbye again. I hung on to her until I was felled by flying slate. When day broke, I was alone on the roof.”
Will looked back at him. Mr. Ott had a deep six-inch gash behind his ear. “I’m so very sorry,” Will said. It seemed sometimes that this is all he said, now.
Mr. Ott looked at his wife’s name on the certificate. His lips moved, forming its simple syllables. “Much obliged, son. Fine work.”
“Thank you,” Will said softly.
Mr. Ott took the document and held it as far away from his eyes as he could, in order to get a more comprehensive view of the thing. “Fine work,” he said more firmly now, clearing his throat. “Much obliged. We can start with the rest on Monday. Eight o’clock.”
71
THE REAPPEARANCE oF JESSE TOOTHAKER
On the way back to the hospital, Will stopped to look at a house with enormous round holes in it, as if Fort Crocket had angled its guns across the city and fired. Next to it was another house, this one split in two, as if a giant sword had descended upon it. He stood before it, considering the idea of precision, when Jesse Toothaker appeared from nowhere again and began
speaking as if he fully expected Will to have arrived there at that moment, too.
“My friend Jim Moore used to live there,” Jesse said from behind Will. “He was sitting with his mother halfway up the stairs during the height of the typhoon. His sister, Abigail, was in that bedroom over there. Just yonder.” Jesse pointed for emphasis. “He said the wind shook the house like a terrier would shake a rat, then the house divided in two like you see here, just so. They never saw poor Abigail again.”
Will thought the surgical cut was a phenomenon, but he didn’t know Jim Moore or his sister. “I saw Miss Thorne today,” Will said, as Jesse began to scale the outside of the terrible wonder of a house.
“Dead or alive?”
“She was alive.”
“I saw Lucian Minor earlier today, but he was dead.”
“I don’t know him.”
“I also saw Clara Barton yesterday,” Jesse called down, climbing higher. “She’s alive. I saw her at the train station. She’s staying down at the Tremont.”
“Of course she’s alive. What’d she look like?”
“I reckon like an old lady does.”
Will wondered if a great person could be recognized right off. He suspected perhaps so. “I know she’s old, but what’d she look like, Jesse?”
“I don’t remember. Old, I guess.”
“Anything else?”
“She wore a dress,” Jesse said, now atop the split roof. “A black one if I recall.”
“Old and wore a black dress. Terrific, Jesse.”
Jesse looked down and shrugged. “If Baker was here, he could tell you.”
“Who’s Baker?”
“My brother.”
“Baker Toothaker?”
“What’s so funny about that?”
“Is he around?”
“No. He’s with my dad working on the railroad. Why do you want to know about Baker?”
“I want to talk to him. You know, you should be careful up there, Jesse.”
The Mourning Wave Page 18