Lord of the Deep Page 11
When the work was finished, Mikey climbed off the boat. He sat on the wooden rail that edged the pier, arms crossed over his knees, gazing around the harbor at the few early lights freckling the village. They’ll come down along the seawall, he thought. Like yesterday. She’ll be following them.
Now nothing moved but the low swells quietly rising and falling against the rocks below the sea wall.
Alison.
She was the one good thing he had to look forward to. If she didn’t come, could he even go out? How many more “Billyboys” could he take?
At first they were only shadowy shapes. Then he could make them out distinctly, Cal, Ernie . . .
She wasn’t with them.
Mikey’s spirits flattened. He stood and squinted into the vagueness back where the seawall began, searching the shapes, the shadows.
Nothing.
He glanced toward the boat.
The cabin was an envelope of light in the darkness. Bill was rummaging through his lure drawer, just the top of his head visible.
“They’re coming,” Mikey called.
Bill looked up, nodded.
Cal and Ernie approached, two dark shapes bobbing as they walked.
Mikey took up the stern line and pulled the Crystal-C closer to the pier so they could climb aboard.
They nodded to Mikey, one after the other. Cal handed Mikey two six-packs of Tecate, then stepped down onto the boat and turned, and Mikey handed the beer back to him.
No words. No smiles or good mornings or friendly fisherman’s chat. Let’s go. We got fish to catch. We’re burning daylight.
Mikey dropped the stern line, glancing one last time toward the seawall.
The engines rumbled low and deep. Cal laughed inside the cabin. A pickup truck pulled onto the pier and parked. A man got out and threw a coiled hose over his shoulder. Another skipper.
Down in the lighted cabin, Mikey could see Ernie rubbing his hands together, all fired up and ready to go.
“Damn good fighter, that dolphin fish was,” Mikey heard him say to Bill, so loud it sounded as if he were shouting. “Cal’d like a shot at one, too, wouldn’t you, Cal?”
“Is the pope Catholic?”
“Hear that, Billyboy?”
Bill peeked past Ernie and nodded for Mikey to get the ropes and jump aboard.
How can I? Mikey thought.
But he untied the Crystal-C and dropped the ropes on deck. He leaned out over the gap and pushed the boat away from the pier, then stepped aboard.
Bill brought the throttle up, slow and easy.
The Crystal-C rumbled slowly out into the harbor.
Mikey looped and stowed the dock lines. Usually this was a time when he liked to go in and listen to the anglers chattering, all excited about the new day.
But today he stayed out in the stern cockpit. He sat on the starboard gunnel, looking back at the dark island.
After they’d cleared the harbor, Cal came out onto the stern deck, tapping a roll of paper on his palm. He squinted at Mikey. Today he wore a T-shirt that said BUY ME ANOTHER DRINK, YOU’RE STILL UGLY on the front. A fresh cigar glowed in the corner of his mouth.
“Ali wanted me to give this to you,” he said, still tapping the rolled-up paper.
Mikey stood.
A fluff of burning tobacco ash fell onto the roll, and Cal quickly brushed it away, scowling.
Mikey waited, wanting what Alison had sent him. A bright red ribbon held it closed. Mikey hadn’t noticed Cal bringing it aboard.
When Cal didn’t hand it to him, Mikey said, “What is it . . . sir?”
“One of her drawings, I suppose.”
Cal sucked in on the cigar. The tip glowed bright. He let the smoke out in Mikey’s direction, not in his face, but close, his eyes steady, unmoving. He tapped the roll on his palm one last time, then handed it to Mikey.
“Thank you, sir,” Mikey said.
He didn’t look at it at first, trying to keep his eyes on Cal, because Cal was looking at him weird, his gaze never wavering.
Mikey blinked, then looked down at the rolled-up paper. It was in pristine condition. Smooth and clean. Mikey wanted to unroll it right then and there, but not with Cal standing over him like that.
Cal didn’t leave.
“She’s a handful, my Ali. But that girl has a God-given talent.”
“Yes sir,” Mikey said.
Cal removed the cigar and blew out another stream of smoke, this time shooting it out the side of his mouth.
Then he humphed, and went back into the cabin.
Mikey took a deep breath.
Cal stopped and glanced one more time at Mikey, then turned back, saying, “So where we headed today, Billyboy?”
Mikey ran his hand along the paper. The ribbon was tied perfectly, not rolled over or crushed. He tugged a loose end and the bow fell apart. The paper spun wider in his hands.
“All right, men!” Ernie all but shouted.
Mikey looked up. Ernie and Cal were crowded around Bill, up at the wheel.
Ernie clapped Bill on the shoulder. “Let’s do it! We’re gonna snag that marlin again, I just know it, I can feel it in my blood!”
Mikey turned away and sat back on the gunnel.
The hum of the engines sliced through the cool morning air, the boat riding easy on the flat sea. They were traveling parallel to the coastline now, heading out toward the point.
Mikey held on to the tingling feeling of not knowing what Alison had sent him. Carefully, slowly, he unrolled the paper.
There were three drawings—two magazine-sized and one about the size of a postcard. There was something written on the small one. A note. He quickly turned it over. Save that one for last.
The first of the larger drawings was the one of Bill with the big-muscled arms, the one he’d wanted.
The other was of him and Billy-Jay, squatting down. Billy-Jay was touching the striped ono. Mikey focused on Billy-Jay’s hands, his eyes went straight to them. The drawing just naturally took him there. That was what Alison had pinpointed, Billy-Jay’s hands.
He studied both drawings, looking over every detail. When he couldn’t wait any longer, he turned the small one over.
It was sketched in black ink with a fine-point pen on slightly thicker paper. High-quality paper.
It was of him.
He was standing on the flying bridge, squinting into the sun with his hand under his T-shirt, scratching his chest. On the shirt it said INTREPID, with the jumping marlin under it. And below that Alison had added Skipper: Mikey Donov—. The rest of it was lost in the folds around his arm.
At the bottom in small, clean print was a note.
If we lived in the same town we’d be friends. I know
we would. I don’t think I’ll ever, ever forget you,
Mikey Donovan.
Love,
Alison
Mikey turned toward the island.
The pier grew smaller and smaller as the boat knifed toward open sea, the slight roll of the hull hypnotic and familiar.
I won’t forget you either, Alison Flynn.
He turned and looked in at Bill, sitting sideways in the pilot’s seat, his back against the window. One hand on the wheel. Silent. A steaming mug of coffee. Thinking whatever it is that Bill Monks thinks.
Cal and Ernie were now at the table, breaking out the cards. Coffee, cigars, poker chips.
Mikey rolled the three drawings back up and retied the ribbon, then took them and carefully nestled them into the towel drawer across from Cal and Ernie.
Ernie flicked cards to Cal and himself, eyes squinting against the smoking cigar pinched between his teeth. “All right, let’s see how well you can do without your little girl and her luck.”
Cal humphed. “You’re running on empty, little brother.”
Ernie chuckled, then glanced at Mikey. “You practice your boat handling last night, boy?”
Cal shook his head, grinning.
Mikey made his way forward,
not letting his face change in the slightest way.
Bill turned, noticing Mikey approaching.
Mikey wondered if he’d been thinking about last night in the carport. Mikey felt bad about that. Really bad.
“Bill,” Mikey said. “About last—”
“It’s forgotten, Mikey.”
Mikey studied Bill’s face, the creases around the eyes, the smooth, sun-dark skin and small chin scar. For the first time Mikey noticed a slight graying at Bill’s temples.
Bill smiled. “Believe it or not, Mikey, I was thirteen years old myself once. I believed something was either right or it was wrong, and that there was no in-between.” Bill paused, then looked down and said, “Well, there is an in-between, Mikey.”
What did that mean?
Mikey pursed his lips. “I’m really sorry, Bill, really. But I can’t do this, not with these . . .”
He turned toward Cal and Ernie. When he saw them looking, he turned back.
“Can’t do what, son?”
The word son threw him. He hesitated.
“It’s just . . . it’s just . . . wrong, Bill. What they did is wrong and I can’t go along with it. I’m sorry.”
Bill turned away, looking toward the horizon. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
“Why are you letting it bother you so much?” he said softly. “It’s my problem, Mikey. Not yours. It shouldn’t matter to you.”
“But it does matter.”
“Why does it matter, Mikey?”
Mikey had no figured-out answer for that. It was just something he felt. “I—I don’t know,” he finally said. “It just does, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m not turning around and taking you back.”
“I’m not asking you to take me back.”
Bill frowned. “Well, what are you asking?”
Mikey looked into Bill’s eyes, not knowing what to do, what to say. His throat was on fire, about to explode. He hated this.
Bill sipped his coffee, studying Mikey over the rim.
Mikey studied him back.
When Bill dropped his gaze, Mikey did, too, then turned and made his way aft.
Out on the dark stern deck, he glanced back into the lighted cabin. Bill, Cal, and Ernie were all watching him. They seemed curious, or maybe amused.
Mikey glanced toward the rocky shoreline, passing by less than a hundred yards away, shadowy in the murky light.
He looked back in at Bill.
Then he jumped overboard.
Immediately, the Crystal-C slowed, then stopped. The stern rose and settled.
Bill ran out. “Mikey!”
The ocean was warm and luxurious. It filled Mikey’s ears and flooded his eyes, so soft, so clean. He wiped a hand over his face.
Cal and Ernie came aft, too, but not so fast. They flanked Bill, Ernie with his hands on his hips, Cal squinting with the cigar in the middle of his mouth.
Mikey watched them, wondering what Bill would do.
Cal took the cigar out and held it down at his side, never taking his eyes off Mikey, and Mikey marveled at the view from so low in the water, all of them seeming so distant now, looking down on him.
The Crystal-C sat purring on the water, waiting. The outriggers stabbing the dawn sky.
Ernie shook his head and went back into the cabin. Cal threw his cigar in the water and followed a moment later.
Bill stayed where he was.
What was he thinking? Did he care? Was he angry?
It really was amazing how much he looked like Billy-Jay.
Mikey started swimming away on his back, slowly, his eyes on Bill. He felt confused and restless and empty, just as he had trying to sleep last night. He hadn’t planned to jump off the boat. Why’d he do it?
Bill.
He seemed so alone now.
It occurred to Mikey that it had been like that every day of the charter. He’d been with Cal and Ernie, yet never with them at all, not even once.
It hadn’t been like that with other charters.
His heart suddenly flooded with sadness. And gratitude, too, for Bill. And for how Bill felt about Mom. And for how Billy-Jay would never have to worry about anything in his whole life as long as Bill was around.
Bill turned to go back into the cabin.
“Wait,” Mikey whispered.
He kicked up in the water and waved and shouted. “Bill, wait! Come back! Dad!”
Bill stopped and turned, his lips parted.
He walked back to the transom, the worry draining away from his face. Never taking his gaze off Mikey, he leaned forward and pointed.
At Mikey.
Just pointed.
“I’ll—I’ll be there to clean up when you get in, okay?” Mikey called. “Okay? I’ll be there.”
Bill cupped his hands around his mouth. “I’m counting on it.”
Then he turned and strode back through the cabin, passing Cal and Ernie without a glance. He slid into the pilot’s seat and throttled up.
The Crystal-C slipped around the point.
Engines thrumming.
Fading away, fading away.
Mikey floated.
His hands and feet barely moved.
All he could see of the Crystal-C now were the outriggers and the top of the flying bridge, moving away around the point.
What have I done?
Why did . . .
“Come back!” Mikey shouted. “Bill! Come back !” But there was nothing there now—no thrumming, no outriggers, no flying bridge—nothing but the long, sharp horizon and empty sky.
Gone.
He looked back toward the harbor. Scattered morning lights woke in the dark hotels and bobbed above the water.
Mikey turned and slowly swam toward shore.
His arms felt weak and his throat burned.
He swam between the rocks into a small cove. Water streamed from his legs as he stumbled up onto the beach, his shirt and shorts clinging to his body. He dropped down onto the sand and lay back with his face to the sky.
And closed his eyes.
Only moments later, it seemed, he woke with the new sun sprinkling down all around him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GRAHAM SALISBURY’S family has been in the Hawaiian Islands since the early 1800s. He grew up on Oahu and on Hawaii. He graduated from California State University and received an M.F.A. from Vermont College of Norwich University. He lives with his family in Portland, Oregon.
His first novel, Blue Skin of the Sea, won the Bank Street Child Study Association Children’s Book Award, the Judy Lopez Award, and the Oregon Book Award and was selected as an ALA Best Book for Young Adults. Under the Blood-Red Sun won the Scott O’Dell Award for Historical Fiction, the Oregon Book Award, Hawaii’s Nene Award, and the California Young Reader Medal, was an ALA Notable Book and Best Book for Young Adults, and is on many state award lists. Shark Bait was selected for the Oregon Book Award and was a Parents’ Choice Silver Honor Book. Jungle Dogs, his most recent novel, was an ALA Best Book for Young Adults.
Graham Salisbury has been a recipient of the John Unterecker Award for Fiction and the PEN/Norma Klein Award.
The author would like to thank John Honl for giving him a life on the sea.
You can visit Graham Salisbury at his web site: www.grahamsalisbury.com.
Other books by Graham Salisbury
Blue Skin of the Sea
Under the Blood-Red Sun
Shark Bait
Jungle Dogs
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Copyright © 2001 by Graham Salisbury
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March 2003
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eISBN: 978-0-307-43355-8
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