Under a Dark Summer Sky (23 page)

Tec even helped Trent up. “No hard feelings, eh?”

Trent just shook his head in wonderment while his heartbeat returned to normal. But then the chattering mass of men shut up and parted to reveal a group of colored people approaching from the direction of the town. A woman was at the front in a torn and filthy uniform that might have once been white.

“Can we help you?” Trent asked.

“My name's Missy Douglas,” she said, “and we need some place to stay.”

He recognized the name. Roberts's men had teased him about a girl called Missy. “Why aren't you at the store?”

“No room at the store,” she said without emotion, “for people…people like us.”

He was struck by the simplicity of her words. If he had been denied shelter by a bunch of niggers, he would have taken a terrible revenge on the next one he saw. She looked exhausted to the point of collapse, but there was fire in her eyes. There was a little boy holding closed a big gash in his arm. A man with wild eyes dragged his right leg like it was broken. All were soaked through.

“Come, sit down,” he said to her and helped her into the boxcar doorway. The others followed. The veterans stood around curiously, unsure what to make of the newcomers. Trent turned away to deal with them but she caught his sleeve.

With great urgency, she said, “Mister, you got to get them back inside. It ain't over. This just the eye.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. The men had poured onto the tracks to wait for the train, scattered for maybe five hundred yards.

“There's worse coming—it right behind us. You got to get them inside, and fast.”

Trent set off at a run after the men. There was little hope of persuading them to return to the smelly confines of the boxcar while the sky was clear, but he had to try.
Might
as
well
tell
ketchup
to
get
back
in
the
bottle.

Missy turned to find a big man with a lazy eye smiling at her. “Missy,” he said, “my name's Sonny. I one of Henry's boys. He talk about you all the time.”

“Yeah, but he didn't say how pretty you was,” said a little guy who looked about twelve except for the weary worldliness in his eyes.

“You must be Jeb,” she said. “Henry talk about you all the time too.” Just saying his name caused a pain in her chest. More than anything in the world at that moment, she wanted to feel his arms around her and hear him say it was going to be all right. But he was somewhere else, far away and safe, somewhere the wind didn't tear your house to pieces, somewhere bodies didn't float down flooded streets.

“I'm Franklin,” said a man with a crumpled hole where his eye should be. He saw her glance at the wound and covered it with his hand. “Sorry, ma'am, I lost my patch in the storm.”

“Franklin?” called a small voice from the back of the boxcar. “That you?” Violet shuffled forward. Her dress was torn and stained, her hair a wild mess from the wind and water. One eye was swollen shut where a stone had flown into her face.

Franklin hugged her off her feet. “Violet!”

She slumped into his arms.

“Look at you,” he said. “You got one eye, like me now. Don't matter—we got two good ones between us. That all a person needs.” He turned to Abe, who lurked behind his mother's legs. “And who is this young man?”

“My name's Abe,” he said. “I hurt my arm.” The gash was long and deep and pink as a shark bite.

“Well,” said Franklin, “let's see about that. I ain't no doctor, but I seen plenty of soldiers hurt worse than this.” He tore his shirt into strips to bind the wound.

“You was a solider?” Abe asked, eyes wide.

“Yup,” said Franklin. “We all was. Still are, come to that. There.” He pulled the bandage tight. “Now you a soldier too.”

A whistle sounded, high and clear in the quiet air.

Missy looked up to see the bald man's head appear in the doorway, eyes lit with excitement. “It's here! The train's here!” he exclaimed. “Just like I said it would be. Come on, fellas, all aboard!”

“We comin', Mr. Watts,” said Jeb.

Missy clasped his shoulder. “Please don't go. It ain't safe out there. The storm, it comin' back, and—”

Lemuel patted her with a big paw. “Don't you worry, ma'am. We be halfway to Miami by then.”

“Franklin,” Violet said, “listen to Missy. Please don't go. It ain't safe. Stay here, with us.” She put an arm around Abe's narrow shoulders.

“With you?” Inside the question was another question. He took a tentative step forward. “Do you mean…?”

Violet took something from her pocket. A sandpiper, carved from driftwood. “Look. I keep this with me all the time. It make me feel safe. You…make me feel safe.”

Jeb cuffed Franklin on the shoulder. “Yeah, best you stay here. Don't want you crampin' my style when we get to Miami.” And then, with a wink, he was gone, along with Sonny and Lemuel.

Franklin called after them, “Y'all take care of Jeb now, ya hear? He ain't old enough to drink!”

• • •

Jeb, Sonny, and Lemuel sloshed along the tracks in the direction of the train. In the beam of the locomotive's headlamp, the scene ahead of them was one big, heaving mass of men. Although keen to board, they were in no hurry, enjoying the respite while they smoked in the welcome stillness under the stars.

“What you gonna do when we get to Miami?” Jeb asked Lemuel.

“I gonna get me a big ole steak and a bucket full of beer.” Jeb threw him a surprised glance. Lemuel did not drink.

“All's I want,” said Sonny, “is to sleep in a real bed, just for one night.”

“Shit,” said Jeb, “what's wrong with y'all? We survived a hurricane. You got any idea how much the ladies gonna love that story?”

As they approached the train, Jeb heard a familiar voice, which cut through all the noise and confusion. He searched the crowd, eyes darting from face to face until he saw him.

“Thank us later!” Henry shouted in exasperation. “Just get your asses on board. NOW!” The unruly group of veterans surrounded Henry, all wanting to shake his hand. The train's long-delayed arrival and the horrors of the past few hours had released in them a kind of euphoria, making them even more difficult to manage than usual.

“Boss!” cried Jeb. He and the others pushed their way through the crowd to Henry's side. Lemuel lifted him into the air. Sonny asked, “You just cain't stay away from your old pals, huh?”

Henry's face split into a huge grin that disappeared just as quickly. “Hurry now, boys, and get on that train. Storm's not done with us yet.” With a wary look at the sky, he said, “I got to find Missy and Selma. Where's Franklin?”

“Franklin gonna wait it out with the locals inside that boxcar over there,” said Jeb. “With his sweetheart.”

“Speakin' of which…” began Sonny.

Henry's eyes passed from one man to the next, forehead creased in confusion. “Why you fellas all grinnin' like fools?”

Jeb clapped him on the back. “There's someone in that boxcar you got to see.”

Henry broke into a run. Over his shoulder, he said, “Get yourselves on board the train—that's an order! I'll deal with you later.”

It had taken Selma longer than expected to slog through the filthy water to Doc's office, and with every step, she had regretted her decision. She was on a fool's errand, she knew that, had known it when she set off. She could feel Mama was gone. Of course, she couldn't tell Missy that. And yet here she was, in the open, under the eye of a hurricane. And for what? To confirm what she knew already, what the collapsed roof of Doc's office told her when she finally arrived? There might be someone alive under the massive pile of jagged timbers, but she figured the chances weren't good.

She forced herself to move faster through the water, heading back in the direction of the station. The others would be safely inside the boxcars by now, whose enormous weight should stand up to whatever the storm still had to throw at them. Unseen objects brushed her legs. Some were soft. She closed her mind to what they might be. A dead raccoon floated by, its clever paws curled over its face, finally overcome by the element it craved. Out of nowhere, a very much alive cottonmouth snake sped toward her across the water, its white jaws glowing in the darkness, opened wide to strike. She snatched up a broken fence post and swung it like a baseball bat. It connected with the snake's head and sent it hurtling into the gloom.
Shame
about
that; cottonmouth's good eatin'.
When the storm finally finished with them, there would be nothing to eat or drink, maybe for days. For Selma, that was her worst nightmare. With deep sadness, she thought of her shelves of carefully stored preserves and canned goods lined up neatly in the shed and the fresh lemon cake she'd made just that morning. All gone.

She thought of the faces of the people at Jenson's store, people she had lived alongside her whole life, people she thought she knew. Their expressions, a mix of shame, mortal fear, and determination, would stay with her always. It was time to accept that nothing would ever change Heron Key, no amount of death or destruction. It would go on as before, as it always had. And if she didn't like it, well then there was only one choice.
If
I
want
a
fresh
start, I'll need to find it somewhere else.

Her whole life had been spent within a twenty-mile radius of Heron Key. She had never wanted to be anywhere else. Missy had shown her pictures of other places, in discarded copies of the Miami newspapers and of course in her beloved encyclopedia. Maybe she would go to Georgia. People said it was nice there. But why not somewhere completely different, somewhere far away from all the memories? Jamaica? Aruba?
Hell, why not France? Henry sure liked it there.
He was the traveler in the family. From the time he was little, he had talked about the world. He used to draw pictures of the continents in the sand, then fill them in with different kinds of seashells. Just as she felt Mama's absence, she felt Henry's presence, and not far away.
Where
you
at, brother mine? What made you come back here?

No, she realized, she would never leave Heron Key. They were joined together forever. And anyway, she figured people were the same wherever you went, didn't matter how far. The only way to get away from them was to fly to the moon.

The eye started to cloud over. She was still some distance from the station. Wind stirred the water into peaks. She needed to speed up.

The ground suddenly became treacherously uneven.
Must
have
left
the
road.
She felt her way along with bare toes, shoes lost in the water. Her ankle twisted as she stepped into a hole. She pulled her foot out and tried to quicken her strides against the weight of water, pushed her legs harder, and leaned forward.

And then she stumbled.

Her right foot plunged into a hole and stuck fast. Sharp edges of something heavy gripped her ankle tight. They bit into her flesh when she tried to twist free. As she felt around beneath the water, her hands told the awful truth: her foot was impaled on a sharp object. It went right through. Pain and anger forced a cry from her mouth. She hauled on the trapped foot, but the jaws only tightened. A quick look at the sky and her inner clock told her there was little time left. Agaou's hot breath blew hard against her now. The water suddenly retreated, and that was when she knew: the surge was coming. She would stand no chance out in the open. She felt the return of the storm's fury, just moments away now.

Only one choice remained: she must lose the foot. Plenty of people got along fine with only one. She pulled and pulled with all her strength. The teeth bit harder, sunk deeper. She was well and truly stuck, just like a bear in a trap.

Her hands cast around for something, anything, sharp enough to cut but met only useless pieces of wood. “No, no, not like this,” she growled into the empty darkness. “Help!” she called. “Someone help!” But there was no sound except a faint, distant rumble, coming closer.

She looked up at the sky just in time to see the stars disappear.

• • •

“Come on, Dwayne,” said Noreen. “We cain't stay in this truck all night. I need to go to the bathroom, and Roy's diaper is dirty. Look, the water's gone right down, we should just—”

“Be quiet a minute,” he said. “You hear that?” Dwayne sensed a change in the air. Noreen was right—the water had suddenly receded, as if someone had drained a bathtub. But the wind was up again, worse than before. There came a sound, at first unremarkable. It was a low, scratchy thudding like the footfall of some giant animal. He felt it in his gut more than heard it with his ears. It was the vibration of something incredibly heavy, approaching at great speed.

Noreen had opened her door. “Well, I'm going—”

“No, don't!” he yelled, but it was too late.

The surge was upon them.

The enormous wave struck the truck and flung it along as if it were made of balsa wood instead of heavy gauge steel. All the glass gave way and the water rushed in.

He heard Noreen scream and reached out for her but found Roy instead. He fought to keep the baby's head above the torrent. It engulfed Dwayne up to his chin, tried to fill his mouth and nose. It flowed through the cab like a raging river and swept Noreen out of the open door. He caught her hand just in time.

“Dwayne!” she screamed.

The water poured across him with such force that his grip on Roy's body weakened. He needed both hands to secure him.

“Hold on!” he yelled, but Noreen looked from him to Roy and back again. Then, very deliberately, she closed her eyes and let go of his hand. And vanished.

The water closed over Dwayne's head. His hands held Roy above the surface, just under the roof of the pickup. The boy's body had gone limp. And still the truck continued to fly sideways, pushed along at great speed by the wave's watery fist. Dwayne expected a crushing impact at any moment, which would wrench Roy from his grasp. His lungs burned for air. He managed to raise his mouth into the roof space, took a big gulp of air, and went under again. He would keep Roy safe until he could breathe no more. That was the only thing that mattered. It seemed impossible that there was so much water in the sea, and yet it still kept coming.

Dwayne's world shrank. There was only the airspace, Roy's warm body in his hands, and the fight for breath. The waves developed a rhythm, like the surf, and he began to time his breaths to coincide with the low water. His arms ached. His hands began to go numb. He carried on like this for what felt like hours but was probably only ten minutes. A dead moray eel floated through the cab. Its silky tail caressed his cheek.

There was no more feeling in his hands, but Roy's weight was still there. With each gulp of air, he had just enough time to check that the boy was breathing.

The truck struck something solid that halted its sideways progress. Dwayne struggled to make his hands retain their grip. They felt like two pieces of dead meat. The muscles in his arms were on fire. The water receded slightly, enough for him to keep his face clear. Whatever had stopped their progress had absorbed the impact of the truck without smashing it. He could just make out the lines of graceful arching branches in the space where the door had been. Mangroves. Of course. They could withstand almost any amount of force, even hurricane winds, and they now held the truck in a cushioned embrace. He took several grateful breaths.

“Roy, you okay?”

Roy opened his eyes. Dwayne realized they were not alone. Several naked corpses, anonymous in death, were twined like lovers around the mangrove roots.

Zeke's voice: “Give him to me.”

Without a moment's hesitation, Dwayne passed Roy to Zeke. His arms dropped into the water like they had been cut off. The return of blood to his hands was excruciating. He could not move his fingers. The wind once more began to pound the truck with water and anything else it could find. A chunk of cement big as a bowling ball slammed into the door frame beside his head. It seemed that the elements, having failed to drown the truck, were now intent on beating it to death.

“Come on,” said Zeke. “In here.”

Dwayne could see nothing beyond the edge of the mangroves. Feeling began to return to his hands. He pulled himself along in the direction of Zeke's voice. Once he got inside the trees, the wind and water's power was greatly diminished. He was able to stand and breathe freely. As he pushed toward Zeke's voice, behind him came the awful sounds of the truck's demise, as more and more missiles found their target.

He came across them deep inside the forest. Of Poncho there was no sign. Zeke had Roy afloat on a raft made of old tire inner tubes, which rocked gently with the motion of the trees. The boy stretched out his arms to Dwayne. Dwayne snatched him up, hugged the little body tight to his chest. At that moment, it felt like he could happily remain there for the rest of his life, in that same spot.

Then his eyes were drawn to something pale, caught between two branches. It was a scarf, printed with honeysuckle.

• • •

Over at Mitchell's store, the mood had been somber since Selma and the others had been forced to flee.

Jenson Mitchell sat alone in the back doorway. He knew it was extremely reckless and irresponsible. It was not safe to be out under the eye. He looked up. The circle of cloud was almost gone. Dirty water slapped the back steps. They had not yet seen the worst of this hurricane, if the back side winds brought a surge. It would not take much to overwhelm them. He should be inside, helping to calm people, reassure them—his friends, his neighbors, the people he had known all his life. But he could not. He needed to be away from everyone.

A few people had come outside to stretch their legs and relieve themselves, as the toilet had overflowed some hours before, but most had remained inside, despite the awful conditions. It was not clear whether it was out of fear of the storm, or of losing their place, or both.

He studied them as if they were an unknown species. Were it not for Trudy, he would simply have walked away and left them to their fate. He had always considered himself to be a good, honest man—not a great one, never that, but a good one—someone who would try to do his best by others in any situation. He had failed, and the bitterness of it nearly choked him. He could have—should have—done something.

Although no one could deny that Heron Key had its share of problems, all his life he had been glad, even proud, to say it was his home. He thought about the generations of his family and all they had invested in the town. The store wasn't just a place to buy provisions; it was a place where people came to get and give news, ask for help, or just talk to someone. Despite the terrible destruction of the town, he knew it could be rebuilt, would be rebuilt. But by far the worst damage, he felt, could not be repaired with any amount of money or labor: the storm had destroyed the vision of life he had treasured. It was gone. Forever.

Trudy stepped outside to join him. “Come back in, Son. It's not safe out here.” The wind had come up again. She pushed the hair out of her face. The sky was once more a mass of indigo clouds. “There was nothing you could have done.”

“I could have stopped him,” he said miserably. “I could have grabbed Ronald's gun and—”

“Ronald wasn't the only one who wanted them to go,” she pointed out. “Others would have taken his place.” A shrug. “It's just the way things are.”

“The way things are…” He shook his head. “Maybe you're right. But without Ronald in the lead, maybe some common decency could have got the upper hand. These are basically good people; you know they are.”

“Yes, they are, but good people in fear for their lives don't always do what's right.”

He stared at the worn wooden floor, deeply indented by the footsteps of generations of Conchs. “I should have done something, taken a stand. Even if I failed, that would count…for something.”

“True, and maybe got yourself shot in the process, and the coloreds would still have to leave. And how would that help anyone?” She glanced in alarm at the sky. “Come on inside now.”

Just as they closed the door, the wind slammed into the building. It felt stronger, wilder. The gusts of earlier in the evening had succeeded in weakening the structure. Again and again, it struck the store in a frenzy of force. With a terrible tearing growl, the timbers began to split. There was a loud groan and then a
crack.
To Jenson's complete amazement, the heavy steel anchor bolts sheared away. Three men threw their weight against the door to hold it closed.

The floor lifted and tilted one way and then the other, like a surfboard. The whole building was afloat. The crowd of people fell in a heap, crying and screaming in terror as the walls started to break apart.

And then the rear of the building rose up, as if a hand were trying to spill them out. People began to slide toward the door, scrabbled to retain a hold on anything solid while the world turned itself inside out. Cyril held on to Sam, who was barking hysterically. Warren Hickson clung to Mabel's generous girth. Cynthia's arms were tight around Ronald's neck. “Do something, Ronnie!” she hollered. “I don't want to die!”