Surrounded by Sharks (5 page)

Davey opened his eyes to a nightmare. Ocean. Ocean forever. He tried to figure out how long he’d drifted and how far he might have gone. But his memories were vague and dreamlike. He remembered floating on his back when he could and treading water when he had to. He remembered flickering on the edge of consciousness, slipping under the surface, pushing his way back.

He didn’t know how far he’d gone or even in which direction. All he knew for sure was that the current had finally let go of him, and he was very far from land. He straightened himself up in the water. His legs felt rubbery and numb as they churned slowly underneath him. They moved just enough to keep his mouth above the water. When he needed to, he flapped his arms to help. They hurt more, weren’t as numb. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

Little waves pushed him around, and fear punched him in the gut. He was out here alone, in deep water. Anything could be in here with him. It could be just below him, or just behind.
Sharks
. The word popped into his head. He looked down into the clear blue depths. Under the surface, his legs somehow looked both short and far away. At the end of them, he saw his feet, moving slowly back and forth. He saw no other shapes. But there was another fear lurking inside him, this one as big as the entire ocean. He tried not to give it a name, but it already had one.
Drowning
.

He squinted into the distance. He looked at the horizon the way he used to look at the board before he got his glasses.
His glasses
. The thought gutted him. How was he supposed to see land when he couldn’t tell the difference between an
E
and a
Z
from twenty feet away? Still, he had to try. His arms, his legs — they wouldn’t last much longer out here. The small swells were making him work harder, sapping what was left of his energy.

He pushed his arms clockwise through the water and kicked a little harder with his right leg. Slowly, he began to turn. He squinted into the distance as he went.
Please, please, please
, he thought.

Nothing this way.

Nothing that way.

Nothing that way, either.

And then, when he was sure he must have gone all the way around already, he saw it. Had it been there before? Had he missed it? It wasn’t much, just a hazy blue-gray lump off in the distance.
Thank God
, he thought.
Thank God
. He didn’t know if it was the island he’d come from or a different island. And he didn’t care. It could have been the Island of Boy-Eating Monsters and he would’ve been thrilled.

He stopped squinting. It got a little fuzzier. But now that he knew where to look, he could still see it. The next question, the big one: Could he reach it? The thought of swimming filled him with a profound and heavy tiredness. He felt like he’d already swum enough for a lifetime today.

He couldn’t let himself think about it. If he didn’t swim now, he wouldn’t get another chance. It really
would
be enough for a lifetime. He lowered his head. He told his legs to kick, told his arm to rise up and fall forward. He didn’t know if any of that would happen until it did.

Slowly, and just barely, he began to swim. It seemed so crazy to him because he was pretty sure he was heading right back in the direction he’d just come from. Why did he expect this time to be any different?

He pushed the thought out of his mind. He tried to replace it with something better. He thought about what he’d do when he got back to land. First, he’d just lie on whatever beach he washed up on for a very long time. Maybe a day. Then he’d get up and walk or crawl or roll or whatever he could manage until he found his parents. He pictured his mom and dad, and the first thing he thought was,
I’m in trouble. They’re going to be so mad
. A second later, that seemed funny to him.
In trouble? Ya think?
Facedown in the water, just for a second, he smiled.

And then he thought,
I’m definitely getting that bed tonight. Brando can have the cot, and he’d better not say anything about it, either. I’m a year and a half older, and that’s that
.

He looked up to make sure he was still headed in the right direction, and he was surprised to see how much bigger the island looked already. It seemed like a weird shape for an island, but then he’d never seen one from out on the water before. He dropped his head down and kept going.

The burning ache was returning to his muscles now. It wasn’t as bad as before yet, but it wasn’t good, either. How many strokes did he have left in his arms? he wondered. How many kicks did he have left in his legs? Would it be enough?

He stopped thinking about it, and for a while he just swam. He made slow, uneven progress. He wouldn’t have been surprised if jellyfish were passing him. But at least he was headed in the right direction. At least he was making progress. He might even make it.

He made himself wait before he looked up at the island again. It was a waste of energy, and it threw his rhythm off. But it was the only thing that kept him going. He made another deal with himself: Four more good strokes and he could take a quick look. He wanted to see how big it looked now. He wanted to know that he was getting closer to his destination.

And he was. He was getting so much closer, in fact, that on the third stroke, he hit the island with his head. It made a hollow plastic
BONK
that he could hear right through the water.

The second stand was a lot like the first. It was about the size of a toolshed back in Ohio, but made of weathered wood with no-nonsense metal storm shutters on the front. The big difference was that the shutters were still closed on this one.

“No coffee here, either,” said Tam. He looked back down the walkway. The coffee would be ready back at that first stand by now.

Pamela pointed to the sign on top:
ASZURE ISLAND BAR
. “Might have Irish coffee,” she said.

“
Mom
,” said Brando. He was twelve, and he already knew you weren’t supposed to make jokes about the Irish drinking.

“That’s what it’s called,” she said.

“Really?” He filed the information away. Irish coffee: a joke you were allowed to make because it was true.

The stand faced out onto a beach, which more or less faced a bigger island off in the distance. “What’s that?” asked Brando, pointing to it.

“Key West,” said Tam.

“Bet this beach is popular,” said his mom, nodding in front of them.

Brando looked around. “There’s no one on it now,” he said.

She smiled. It was a small, not particularly happy smile. “The bar’s not open yet,” she said.

They were moving on when they heard something from inside the stand. It was a loud thump followed by a sharp voice. That meant the same thing in Florida as it did in Ohio: Someone had just dropped something.

Tam ducked his head around the far side of the stand. Sure enough, there was a door there, and it was slightly open. He looked over at Pamela, and she nodded. He walked toward the door, and Brando followed a few steps behind. He’d never seen the inside of a bar before.

Brando could hear more sounds inside as they approached: footsteps, shuffling. Someone was moving stuff around in there. He watched his dad knock. The sounds stopped. Whoever was inside was playing dead. Brando had done the same thing himself when people came to the door, muting the TV, lying low. Davey basically did it all the time now, up in his room. He nodded toward his dad:
Don’t be fooled
.

Tam knocked again, and the guy gave up. More shuffling, and then the door swung outward. Tam stepped back quickly, narrowly avoiding getting door-punched. A man ducked his head out and said, “Come back at eleven. Mimosas and Bloody Marys. Full bar at noon.”

He began to close the door. Brando couldn’t help but stare at his head. He had silver-gray hair, which Brando had seen plenty of times before. But his skin was something else entirely. It was tanned now and had probably been tanned steadily for the last five or six decades. Which is to say, it was something like leather. Brando smiled.
Davey would love this old dude. He’s just like the characters in his books
.

“Wait,” said Tam, and he grabbed the door.

Already staring at the man’s face, Brando could see he wasn’t happy about it. The man looked at Tam’s hand. Then he ducked his head out a little farther and looked at Tam’s face. “Like I said,” he snapped. “Can’t serve you till eleven!”

“We’re not looking for drinks,” said Tam. His voice wasn’t hard or angry, but it wasn’t soft, either. “We’re looking for a boy.”

The man seemed confused for a second. He had the look of someone who hadn’t gotten much sleep. To Brando, he looked kind of like a tired wallet. “We don’t sell those, either,” said the man. “Maybe in Miami.”

He looked over and caught Brando staring.

“You already got one, anyhow,” he added. He still didn’t look happy, but he’d stopped trying to pull the door closed.

“No, another one, our other son,” said Tam.

“It’s just that he’s … Well, he’s wandered off,” said Pamela.

Brando and the man were equally surprised. Neither one had seen her walk over from the path.

The man’s grim expression softened some. Maybe it was because he’d figured out what was going on or maybe it was because the mother of the boy was present. “Well, I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, “but I ain’t seen no boy around this morning. ’Cept this one here.” He nodded toward Brando. Brando nodded back.

Tam’s hand fell from the door. The man searched his morning-clouded mind for something encouraging to end on.

“Small island; you’ll find ’im,” he said. Then he tugged the door shut behind him.

Tam immediately knocked again.

“I’ll keep an eye out!” the man called from inside, and that was the end of that.

They continued down the walkway, turned the corner, and headed down the other side of the island.
So far, it’s shaped like an eye
, thought Brando.

Very quickly, they came across the dock. There were already a few people gathering for the next boat. They headed off the path to go ask them the same question they’d asked everyone else.

“We should print out a picture,” said Pamela. “We could just show it to them.”

The thought really bothered Brando, but he couldn’t say exactly why.

“Let’s at least go all the way around the island first,” said Tam. Brando could tell from his voice that the idea bothered him, too. “We’re not even halfway.”

“I think we are,” said Pamela under her breath.

Brando looked over just in time to see their flat expressions blossom into big fake smiles for the people at the start of the dock. And that really bothered him.

“Hello there!” called Tam. Pamela chipped in with a friendly wave.

Brando watched as a man stepped forward to greet his dad. They were about the same age and height. For some reason, they shook hands.

“What’s all the excitement here?” said his dad.

“Waiting for the boat back, unfortunately,” said the other man, as if he was trying to sell them a car. “Our time is up. Great week!”

“There’s a boat this early?” said Tam.

“Oh, sure,” said the other man. “Think this is the second one. Should be here any minute. Busy day at the checkout desk.”

A family of four joined the group as he was talking, proving his point nicely.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” said Tam. “The thing is — craziest thing — our oldest son seems to have …”

Brando didn’t listen to the rest. Behind him, his mom was already asking the new family the same thing. Instead, he walked out onto the dock.

“Don’t fall in, sport!” called his dad.

“Be careful!” called his mom.

Their voices were a little too eager, their calls directed more toward the small crowd than their son. The message:
We are not bad parents!

Yeah, yeah
, thought Brando, holding up his hand. He was looking at the boats. There was the white hotel launch, which looked new and sleek and cool. And there was another boat tied up next to it now.

It was an old motorboat. Everything about it was battered. The paint was largely gone and the engine looked primitive, like the first one ever invented. Looking at it, Brando thought there was a small chance it was powered by steam. Even empty and tied to the dock, the boat listed alarmingly to one side. All of which made this boat, of course, much, much cooler.

Brando knew immediately that it belonged to the weather-beaten old man at the bar stand. It was like the boat version of that guy. He looked back over his shoulder. His mom and dad were done working the crowd. They waved at him to come back. From the looks on their faces, he knew that they hadn’t gotten any information.

He had a new idea. He’d ditch them, too. He’d ditch them and spend the whole week hanging out with the old guy. He’d ride in the dangerous boat at top speed and listen to stories. Not the kind of stories that Davey liked, but real ones. Stories about people who drank Irish coffees, people who weren’t even necessarily Irish.

He thought about it some more as he rejoined his parents on the shore. When they left all the people behind and continued down the walkway, he wondered where they were all going. For a few moments, he thought about both things at once. He thought about anything, in short, other than the fact that his brother was still missing. He thought about anything other than the fact that he had known before anyone and had done nothing about it. He already knew that.