AT 29 (104 page)

“You know your name.”

“A name means nothing without context. My kid, if I ever have one, will know more about who he is, but even that won't be much, one generation, a complete blank on what came before.”

“Why does it matter?”

Whitehurst lifted his head, grimacing. “When you spend a childhood alone, you burn to know.”

“Do they all feel this way?”

“Orphans? Some do. Those of us left at the door without an explanation like me.”

“You remember?”

“I was three years old. All I know is what Sister Marie has told me. He had one arm. She says I'm big like him. He said he was too old to take care of me. That's it. Loved me, but not enough to keep me.”

Jimmy thought he understood. “It's not about who you are. It's why you were left behind.”

“Yeah, mate. I want to know why I was dropped on Saint Malachy's doorstep. I want to know why I'm alone in the world.”

An hour before sunrise the storm moved on. The clouds parted, revealing stars. Nigel pointed out the Southern Cross. The wind died down and the tide retreated. When the first grays of dawn hinted at the sky Jimmy stood up and stretched his legs. Nigel had been asleep for fifteen minutes. He looked down to be sure he was breathing, but decided not to wake him, less concerned about a concussion. His color was pale, his face pasty and his swollen knee twice its normal size. His head wound no longer bled, but it looked painful in the gathering light. He tiptoed to the edge of the rocks and dipped his foot in the water. Shivers wracked his limbs. Jimmy knew it was exposure. Twelve hours in the elements, wet and in a constant wind, with no clothes; they'd be lucky if they escaped pneumonia. The stairs seemed far away. He decided to wait until the sun came up before going for help. As he returned to Nigel's side, Les reentered his mind, filling his emotions with longing, sadness and a vestige of hope. Maybe she had returned to the orphanage. Maybe she went back to her parents in New Hampshire. She had to turn up.

Illa was up and out with the sun. He frowned when he came over the rise and saw two vehicles parked on the cliff. Surfers, he surmised, novice surfers who neglected to consult the tides. It wouldn't rise until early afternoon. He pulled his vintage Ute next to the newer one, casting a glance at the second vehicle a few spaces away. It looked like a rental. One of the ubiquitous Holden's that foreign tourists drove. He turned off the motor and got out, turning his attention back to the newer Ute. Recognition dawned slowly.

He had a soft spot for Bells Beach in summer, but not during the day when the whites came. They made him uncomfortable with their stares. The surfers were no better. They acted like they owned the waves. So, he came early to walk with the sun and smoke his first cigarette of the day while the sand was still deserted. Sometimes, he dove into the water and swam like he did when he was a boy.

He walked to the railing, taking the pack from his shirt pocket. He fumbled in his shorts for a match then lit the cigarette. He circled around the cliff and meandered further to the stairs, leading down to the Winkipop surf break. The surfers would be there, somewhere out in the calm waters, unaware that their quest would be denied. His foot nudged a bottle carelessly tossed on the ground under the railing, a liquor bottle, half empty. He looked out at the ocean. It was brilliant blue. The sun sat above the horizon and he looked left and right, expecting to see the surfers drifting somewhere beyond the rock strew shore. Jimmy noticed the figure at the top of the stairs. He nudged Nigel.

“Someone's here.” Nigel lifted his head.

“Does he see us?”

“I don't think so.” Jimmy raised his arms and waved. His left shoulder protested.

Illa moved to the top step. He let his eyes scan the full length of the empty shore. Then he looked again at the water questioning why no one was visible. To his left he caught something out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head, squinting to make it out. A man was waving from the rocks. Illa didn't wave back. He walked casually down the stairs. A towel was on the bottom step and some clothes, pants and a shirt, soaked. An object was further down at the edge of the rocks, white with red and blue stripes, some lettering. He took another drag and looked back at the gentle surf. The man was still waving, perhaps a quarter of a kilometer away. Then he noticed a second figure, trying to sit up. He ignored them and made for the bottom of the stairs. Another hot day like yesterday, thunderstorms in the afternoon. Two more drags on the cigarette then maybe a short swim. The object was a surfboard, cracked and dented.

Jimmy couldn't get the attention of the black man on the stairs. He dropped his arms and stooped to help Nigel sit upright. His skin was cold to the touch. He was shivering.

“Can you hold on until I come back with help?”

“I need a fix, mate.” Nigel wrapped his arms around his chest.

Jimmy elected to dive. The pool at the edge of the rocks was clear and deep. He picked a spot where he could see nothing, but white sand ten feet below. The cold shocked his system. Walden Pond came to mind as he came up stroking.

Illa saw the splash. He watched the swimmer come his way, struggling to find a rhythm, too dumb to check the tides and not much of a swimmer, either. He thought about returning to his Ute and driving away.

Adrenalin enabled Jimmy's arms and legs to work. His left shoulder was too weak to be of much use. He shifted to his side and did scissor kicks, using only his right arm to steer and add thrust. It took longer than the calm waters warranted. He was tired and cold. His left shoulder throbbed. When he reached the rocks near the stairs he tried to stand, but he was breathing hard and his body said no. He crawled out on his hands and knees, fighting to catch his breath.

Illa decided to take a closer look, edging off the last step onto the rocks. He could see that the swimmer was panting unnaturally. He wasn't wearing a bathing suit, shorts maybe. He went closer.

Jimmy lifted his hand and tried to speak, but it was only a whisper. He wiggled his fingers, come closer. Illa saw the gesture. His curiosity overcame his reluctance. He came to Jimmy's side, stooped down and listened. Seconds later, he stripped off his shirt and dove into the surf, stroking expertly parallel to the edge of the rocks where Nigel still lay semi-conscious. Jimmy turned his head to watch. He lifted himself to his feet, shivering. He collected his soggy clothes and put them on, merely adding to his frigid misery.

Illa swam to Nigel and climbed up. While swimming, he concluded it was the Whitehurst. It was his Ute in the parking lot, his surfboard damaged on the shore. The two must have been stranded by the overnight storm. Nigel was unconscious and his lips were blue. His swollen knee stood out in a pale pink glow. The leg was crooked and stiff. He could no longer straighten it. Illa touched the big man's head, surveying the gash. It had to be a violent collision with the rocks. He calculated what to do. Then he took the huge man by his shoulders and dragged him to the water's edge, careful not to slip. He crouched to a sitting position, slid into the water and pulled gently on Nigel's arms until he could ease his body into the surf, using all his strength to keep Nigel's face from slipping under.

Ten minutes later Jimmy met the two men at the water's edge. He took Whitehurst's legs. Together, they carried his limp body to the stairs and up. They placed him in the backseat of Jimmy's car. His length prevented him from stretching out so Illa arranged him in a sitting position and got in next to the unconscious man to keep him from slumping down.

The exertion warmed Jimmy's body. His clothes smelled of must and clung to his limbs, but he was more concerned for Nigel who shook involuntarily as foams of spittle formed at the sides of his mouth. Suddenly, the big man wakened. His eyes went wide, but failed to focus as he let out a grunt then a louder pant.

“I need a fix.” He began to convulse.

Illa sat forward and gave instructions for Jimmy to drive. The road was clear as the wheels peeled off the dirt and found traction on the smooth asphalt. Illa began to rub Whitehurst's arms and shoulders, using long circular motions. The movement seemed to calm the shivers and Nigel leaned his head back on the seat. Apart from driving instructions, the black said nothing.

After a quick examination, peppered with curt questions, the emergency room doctor at Surfcoast Medical Centre called for an ambulance to have Nigel transferred to a
larger hospital in Geelong. He ordered Jimmy to wait in an examination room while he instructed a team of nurses to strip the barely conscious man, wash and dress his head injury and put a brace on his swollen knee. When he came into the examination room he had more questions.

“What's he on?” The doctor was in his thirties with light hair and skin. He wore thick, dark rimmed glasses that did not hide the lack of sleep in his eyes.

“His name is Nigel Whitehurst.”

“I know who he is. What is he on?”

“Is he going to be all right?”

“What drugs?”

“Pot and heroin. He had his last fix yesterday afternoon.”

The doctor turned and left the room. An hour later he returned. Jimmy was on the examination table half asleep. He helped Jimmy to a seated position and began to listen to his chest with the stethoscope around his neck.

“Mr. Whitehurst is on his way to Geelong Hospital. Tell me what happened. Cough first, three times.” Jimmy followed orders, beginning to feel cold again. He explained the surfing accident and the night on the rocks. The doctor listened without comment then lifted a phone and called for a nurse to come into the room. The doctor didn't look up. “He needs to be washed. Draw some blood. Then sterilize around the stitches. I'm going to take them out. Also, get a room ready. I want him to stay overnight for observation.”

“Wait a minute,” Jimmy protested.

“Just a precaution,” the young doctor answered.

At noon the next day he was released. “What about my friend?”

“He has a concussion and his kneecap is fractured. He also has pneumonia.”

Jimmy nodded. “I thought so. I tried to keep him awake all night.”

“In addition to heroin and pot he had cocaine in his system.” Jimmy didn't answer. The doctor continued, “You don't, but your liver PSA is up.”

“Will he be okay?”

“Antibiotics will help with the pneumonia. He has no spleen, so it will take longer.” The doctor took a pad from his pocket and wrote something down. “This is where he's being treated.” Jimmy took the slip of paper. “He'll need help to get off the drugs.” Jimmy followed the doctor to the door. A nurse waited in the corridor to escort him to the exit. She smiled while the serious faced doctor slipped by. “Stop drinking, Mr. Buckman.”

Outside, the bright afternoon sun momentarily blinded Jimmy. The ordeal of the last thirty-six hours left him weary. He found the keys to the Holden in his pocket then looked around, spotting the car. A black man was leaning against the passenger side with a cigarette between his lips.

Illa straightened when he saw Jimmy approach. He tossed his cigarette and came around to intercept. Jimmy recognized the Aborigine who rescued them the day before. He wanted to say thanks, but before he could speak Illa reached for his hands and clutched them tightly. He looked at Jimmy's face, staring deeply into his eyes. Then he abruptly let go, turned and walked away.

He was back in a Melbourne hotel by late afternoon. He took a shower, put on fresh clothes and drove to Saint Malachy's. Sister Marie was waiting in her office.

“She was here yesterday, just long enough to collect her things. I tried to convince her to stay, but she was determined to leave.”

“Where did she go?”

“Back to America. I told her you were trying to find her.”

Jimmy dropped his head to his hands. “Why doesn't she want see me?”

“She's overwhelmed with grief. The Aldridge boy found his way into her heart.”

“She needs me.”

“She needs time.”

Jimmy raised his head. “Nigel is in a hospital in Geelong.”

Sister Marie leaned forward. “Is he hurt?”

“He had an accident while surfing at Bell's Beach.”

“Will he be all right?”

“He hit his head on the rocks. The doctor says it's a concussion. He also fractured his knee and he has pneumonia.” Sister Marie drew a breath and made the sign of the cross. She reached for her cane and started to rise.

“I'll go to him right away.”

“He's doing drugs, Sister.”

The nun came to a full stand behind her desk and gave Jimmy a sad look. She shook her head. “I hoped you would look after him.”

He slept soundly, no longer able to fight the fatigue and relieved that Les had surfaced. Maybe she didn't want to see him, but now he knew where to find her. She would be at her parent's home in Amherst. He could be with her in two days. Everything would be better when they were together again.

The three-hour layover in Sydney was just enough time. He took a taxi to the harbor and walked among the tourists to the steps of the Opera House. He followed a tour group inside and made his way to the counter where visitors were received. A cheerful man greeted him. Jimmy explained his purpose. The man looked at his watch and lifted his arm pointing to a set of stairs.

“They finish rehearsing in ten minutes. Take the stairs and go outside. They'll be coming out the side door.”

Fifteen minutes later the door opened and musicians filed out in ones and twos, carrying their instruments in cases. Jimmy studied the face of each woman. She came out alone, violin case in hand, statuesque, with long black hair. Jimmy came forward. She looked up and recognition crossed her face. He realized she knew who he was.

“Reina?”

The striking violinist stood still. She glanced past his shoulder as if she expected to see another person.