FROM AWAY ~ BOOK TWO Read online

  Though its been years since they’ve really known him, they talk about Aaron. Wish they’d been more kind to him. That they hadn’t grown apart, for which they almost - but not quite - take responsibility. They disagree about what kind of adult Aaron would’ve grown into. Agree about what a sweet guy Max has always been. For sticking by his old friend. Despite social repercussions.

  The girls exaggerate the degree to which they are stoned. Take turns making moves on Max. Some he allows. Some he doesn’t. Their smoothly practiced manner worries him. Reminds him how long it’s been since they hung out. The duo seems to have accrued a bit more skill and experience in the elapsed time than he is strictly comfortable with. This anxiety fights his lowered inhibitions to a stalemate. Leaves everyone happily frustrated.

  And hungry.

  The afternoon has faded towards evening unnoticed by the basement dwellers. Even without medicinally-augmented appetites, they’re well within rights to be peckish.

  Max remembers the hamburger in the fridge. Offers to barbecue. The girls act grossed-out by the very concept. Vegans. Naturally. Meat is for animals. Humans can be better than that. They shake their heads at poor, unevolved him.

  Then - getting nervous about smoking up in the home of their local Sheriff - Allison suggests they all go elsewhere. Continue reminiscing, without the threat of arrest hanging directly above their heads. Mandi knows just the place. Holds her hand up like a puppet. Makes it bark. Silently.

  Allison laughs. Repeats the motion back. They quiet-bark at one another, until their puppet-hands suddenly attack. A flurry of grabby-finger-bites becomes a soft slap-fight, before petering out.

  Agreeing on where, they now decide it is when.

  Rising, each girl takes one of Max’s hands. Drag him to his feet.

  Max, at this point, is pretty amenable. He feels the girls are somehow almost fixed now. Returned to what they once were. Back when they were friends. The four of them. Being with them like this? Almost like hanging out with Max again. If they want to take the party someplace else, he’s willing.

  Who knows? He might even be able.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Patrol Two? This is Tower One. Come in.”

  Burl is reluctant to answer.

  Until now, the night’s been quiet. Water rippling past. Engine purring below. Shipmates all but silent since boarding. The events of the day lending it gravity. Leading more to rumination than discussion. Burl and Roscoe keep their mouths shut. Avoid saying anything that might upset Sylvie.

  “Patrol Two, you copy?”

  Burl picks up the microphone. “This is Patrol Two. Go ahead, Tower One.”

  “Gonna need you guys to get back to T-Three. Sounds like we may have something happening out there.”

  “Roger. Wilco.” Burl slows up. Turns the wheel.

  The boat arcs away from the shore. Cuts a tight circle. Heads back. The shipmates squint into the new direction. Ahead: The sun hangs just above the water. Getting ready to quench itself for the night.

  “What’s the story, Tower One?”

  “They’re reporting action on Underwater Three.”

  “No shit...” Burl looks back at his companions. They’re listening closely. “What kinda action?”

  “Multiple sightings. At least two. Possibly more. Fast-moving black shapes. Too quick to make out any detail. Only Bernie caught sight of the first one. But both were looking when the second went past.”

  Roscoe reacts. “Both of ‘em saw it? Lisa too?”

  Staring at screens for long hours, a person will often think maybe they saw something. No one on the boat can remember a time when a sighting was corroborated by a second set of eyes.

  “You need a repeat, Patrol Two? Am I not coming in clear?”

  “No. You’re five-by-five, Tower One. Anything else?”

  “Negative. Tower One over and out.”

  Burl throttles forward. The boat complains. Pushes through rougher waters. Meeting more resistance. Wind against them now. Blowing mist against the windscreen.

  The direction itself is off-putting. The shipmates accustomed to keeping the island to their right. Circumnavigating clockwise. Having it on the left is odd. Wrong, somehow. That wrongness is hard to shake. Sinking in as they buzz back towards Tower Three.

  “Whaddya think?” Roscoe tries to break the tension. “Garbage bags? Caught in the current?”

  Burl half-smiles. Nods.

  Sylvie ignores him entirely. Stands. Opens a built-in locker. Dumps her jacket inside. Starts stripping down. Roscoe watches her. Nudges Burl, too. She notices.

  “I’m not putting on a show, bitches. Suit up.” She pulls her wetsuit from its pack. Shakes it out.

  Roscoe frowns. “We’re not actually going to--”

  “If need be we will. I don’t know.” She pushes one foot into the neoprene leg. Works it up over her calf. “But we’re going to be ready.”

  “We’ve never--”

  “Things change.” The suit pulls tight over her knee. She adjusts the pad. Stretches the wrinkles out. Before starting on her other leg, she glances at the men. Still motionless. “Roscoe. Suit. The fuck. Up.”

  With a pointed sigh, he moves to his locker. Steps out of his shoes. Undoes his pants.

  Burl focuses on driving. His eyes occasionally glancing through the windshield. Mostly roving between two screens: GPS and vertical sonar imaging. Where he’s at. What’s beneath him. Maybe, if he doesn’t make eye contact, she’ll forget he’s there. That he’s still dressed for land.

  “Burl. I want you dive-ready two minutes after we hit our twenty.”

  Shit. He nods. Shit.

  Roscoes smiles to himself. He wouldn’t’ve let the big guy get away with it either. At 6’4” and over 280 lbs, how Burl continually imagines he can blend into the scenery unnoticed is beyond him.

  Sylvie pulls the suit up over her hips. Lets it snap tight. Without preamble, she begins: “So according to Max, it wasn’t just: There was a problem with the genny and then an explosion. To hear him tell it? The explosion was completely after the fact.”

  The men look at one another. Uncomfortable. Say nothing. Let her purge.

  “He said Aaron was already practically dead by the time it happened. Torn to pieces before Max even found him.”

  Burl flinches. Not ready to hear her put it so bluntly.

  Roscoe’s eyes are wide. “What?! How’s he say it happened, then?”

  “He didn’t know. Something knocked him down, coming out of the shed. Something big and black and wet. Cut up his arm pretty bad.” She stretches the suit over her bosom. No easy task. Shifts her weight back and forth. Settling herself in. “But before the lighthouse lost power, Max saw something go by a camera. Underwater. Too fast for him to make out. A black shape.”

  “G’wan!” This is more than Roscoe can buy.

  “I’m telling what I was told.” Sylvie finishes getting her arms into the suit. Reaches back for the zipper pull.

  “Oh, sure.” Roscoe is not impressed. “What you were told... By a scared teenager, caught in the blast that - excuse me, Sylvie - blew his best friend to smithereens in front of him. You know he’s got to have a concussion at the very least. Probably in shock. PTSD or something. And let’s be honest: Kid’s a stoner in the first place. Who knows what’s going on in that skull of his?”

  “Which is why I haven’t already told you about this. Why I wasn’t planning to.” Sylvie sits. Puts on her booties. “But I didn’t tell Bernie or Lisa at Tower Three, either. And now, this call comes in? Similar independent reports. A few days apart. What am I supposed to think?”

  Roscoe has no answer. Concentrates on pulling his suit up past his waist. Then, over the expanding girth of his barrel chest.

  Ahead, a buoy. Their destination. Burl eases off the throttle. Watches a 3D image of the ocean floor beneath them as the boat slows. Fully dressed, Sylvie taps him out. Takes his seat. He unzips his hoodie as he crosses to his own foot locker.


  Above: Tower Three. Backlit by the setting sun. Its beacon ever-turning. A tall, thin spike. Stationed atop a craggy bluff. Watching over the entrance to a steadily darkening cove. Heavily forested along its shoreline. Thrown in shadow with the sun so low in the sky.

  “Patrol Two, this is Tower Three. Come back, now.” Bernie’s sounding a bit shaky. A distinct quaver in her voice.

  Sylvie picks up the microphone. “Patrol Two here, Tower. Looking straight up at you. See anything else worth mentioning since calling in?

  “Negative. Neither sight nor sound.” Bernie laughs. Broken. Brittle. “And our eyes have been peeled, believe you, me.”

  “Good. Keep it that way, Bernie. We’ll do a sweep. See what turns up.”

  “We, uh... Thanks for comin’ so quick, Patrol Two.”

  “No worries. Probably nothing, Tower Three.”

  “It’s...” Bernie takes a second to compose herself. “That’s a negative, Patrol Two... It ain’t nothin’.”

  Burl pauses. Wetsuit to his waist.

  Roscoe pauses. Sliding a bolt into a speargun.

  Sylvie pauses. Puts microphone to lips. “Say again, Tower Three?”

  “Look: We need to get recorders hooked up to these things. Somebody has to go back to the Old Men. Tell them we need the budget upped. This gear? It’s falling apart. It was out-of-date when we got it! We need to be able to go back, review our footage. Send to you guys, for second opinions, and--”

  “Bernie! What did you see?”

  The ocean breathes beneath them. They rise and fall. Waiting.

  “We couldn’t say sure. It moved too fast. But that second time - when we both saw it, Lisa too... It’s somethin’, Sylvie. Something is down there with you.” She swallows. Loud enough for the mic to pick up. “Please, you guys. Be careful.”

  The shipmates exchange anxious glances.

  “Roger that, Tower Three. Patrol Two over and out.”

  Sylvie flips switches. Running lights burst to life beneath the boat. Brilliant white LEDs. She presses a button. Wakes up a new monitor. Four views: Night-vision cameras show green silt floating through the blackness beneath them.

  Burl crams his monstrous arms into the suit. Tugs the neoprene fabric up over his hairy shoulders. His eyes never leave the vertical sonar screen. If there’s anything down there, he will see it.

  Roscoe sets a loaded speargun into its rack. Starts loading another.

  Sylvie aims the boat towards the island. Clicks buttons on a monitor. Their progress marks itself on the GPS screen. Squares tint green on an overhead grid as they pass. Clearly highlighting the territory they’ve covered.

  Once he’s zipped, Burl takes the wheel. Sylvie moves out of the way. Behind him. Roscoe passes her a speargun. Speaks quietly. “I never actually thought--”

  “I know.”

  Nearing the shore, Burl turns the boat. On the grid, their boat starts back out along a second row of squares. Turning them green one by one.

  Three sets of eyes move between the monitors. Watching for any sign. Anything at all out of the ordinary.

  “Patrol Two! We’re getting a ping on sonar. Nothing on camera yet. But something’s on the move.”

  The shipmates straighten. Look out over the water. It’s calm all the way to the edge of the sky. No sign of anything worrisome below the surface.

  Sylvie takes the microphone. “Where, Bernie? Keep us apprised.”

  “Sorry. Sorry, Patrol Two... Grid mark AA-6.”

  “Back by the shore.” Burl slows the boat. Turns it around.

  Sylvie reaches past him. Clicks buttons on monitors. Changing views.

  Bernie’s voice is strained: “Now at CC-7, Patrol Two.”

  “Getting closer.” Burl taps the sonar. “Almost in range. We should be seeing it soon.”

  Roscoe braces his feet. Looking over the side. Into the water.

  “--looks like--” Bernie’s voice is broken. Obscured. Another voice talking over her.

  The boat’s sonar pings at them. A bright red dot on the very edge of its range. Closer, moments later.

  The radio crackles: “My God! Patrol Two! It’s coming right at you!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “It all got started on account of yer Grams was a philatelist.”

  Dawn blushes. Not sure she needs to hear more.

  “That’s what I thought too, first I heard.” Martin laughs. “Sounds like some sort of sexyal preversion ya didn’t even know they had a name for, don’t it?”

  “Grampy!”

  “No use in denyin’ it. Ya get yer cheeks from her, and they just lit up like they was stoplights, ducky.”

  The restaurant had emptied out by the time they returned. Only kitchen staff remained. Cleaning up. Closing down. Martin had sat Dawn at a blue picnic table. Disappeared. Left her with a dramatic view of the ocean nearing sunset through the restaurant’s floor-length windows. She’d fallen into it until he returned. Loaded down: Two ancient boxes and a binder.

  “Nothin’ dirt-minded about it, anyhow. Philatelist’s just another way of sayin’ stamp collector.” He lifts the binder from the pile. Lays it open. On each page: Dozens of stamps. Laid out in no perceptible order. Stuck down on paper hinges. Many dried out. Drifting as the pages turn.

  “Magazine ad got her started. Set her up with pen-pals. Tradin’ stamps from near about every damn place. Australia to Zanzibar. Folks round here heard tell? Started savin’ any mail they got. Dropping it off, so’s she could add their stamps to her collection. They’da just tossed ‘em, elsewise, so why not?”

  He opens a beat-up cardboard box. Full of used envelopes. Corners cut off. Stamps liberated. “Sometimes - just every now and then - somebody’d forget: Leave a letter inside. Yer Grams was a lovely lady, but Lard Tunderin’ Jayzus, she was a right busybody, too. Readin’ folks private missives came to be her favorite part of the whole enterprise. Got so she’d be disappointed any time she got an envelope without there was a letter inside. That’s when these showed up.”

  He slides a cigar box across the table. Dawn opens it. Inside: A stack of envelopes. Tied with pink ribbon. She riffles through. Looks at the addresses. “Who are... Ronald and Esther?”

  “Birdy’s parents.”

  She looks at him. “Birdy?”

  “Friend of yer Grams. Not whatcha call ‘sentimental.’ After her folks passed, she was goin’ through their belongings. Came across these. Their love letters. Meant nothin’ to her, but they had the stamps on, so...”

  Dawn smiles. “So she gave them to Grams.” Beneath the letters in the cigar box, she finds a small book. A photo album. Thick black pages. Two black and white photos on each. Tacked down with little silver corners. Locations and dates scribbled beneath in white pencil. The courtship of Ronald and Esther.

  “That hooked her. Stamps? Pssh! Who gave a good goddamn about stamps? Not yer Grams. Not anymore. Knowing stuff like this was out there, she started askin’ after it, flat out: Old letters layin’ round? Snapshots? Anything anybody got handed down and didn’t have no use for, but maybe felt wrong about gettin’ rid of? She’d take it. Take care of it. Hold on to it. Said if they ever realized they still wanted it after all, she’d have it waitin’ for them.”

  Martin braces himself on the table. Stands.

  “And people just gave that stuff to her?” Dawn laughs.

  “Only half the blessed island, that’s all.” He gathers the binder and boxes together under one arm. “Gave ‘em the excuse to clean out their cellars, anyway.” He limps to the front entrance. Tests the doors. Locked.

  “And they all trusted her to keep it for them.”

  “If you’da met her, you’d understand. Yer Grams... She sure was somethin’.” Martin crosses to a door: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. He unlocks it. Starts up the staircase inside. Pauses on the third step. Looks back at Dawn.

  “Holy lifters! Ya waitin’ on an engraved invitation? Get yer starn in gear and follow along, girl!”

 
Dawn follows her grandfather up the stairs.

  To the attic.

  ~

  Ka-chink: A pull-string ignites a bare hanging bulb. Reveals the attic. Filled. To the actual rafters. Boxes. Crates. Barely a path wide enough to walk through the collected materials.

  “Got so’s nobody threw a thing away without first checkin’ to see if Merry might want it.” Martin lifts the lid from the nearest box. Picks through the contents. “Brung her a bit of everything: Birth announcements. Wedding invitations. Bills of sale. Draft notices. Funeral programs. Death certificates.”

  Dawn absorbs it all. Greedy for more. “Their whole lives laid out on paper.”

  She picks up a framed diploma: Doctorate in Animal Husbandry. Beneath it are related degrees in agriculture. Bona fides. Taken down from an office wall, where they’d proudly hung for years. Testaments to someone’s education and qualifications.

  In a hat box she finds: A collection of cards. Condolences for someone’s loss. A toddler. Taken by polio. Too soon, the repeated sentiment. God’s plan.

  Another crate is filled with poetry: A hundred copies of a self-published chapbook. Thin. Two staples and a folded blue cardstock cover: All Glory to our Creator. One on top is tattered. Opened. Read. None of the others show any wear at all.

  Martin watches his granddaughter as she pokes around. The look on her face: Wide-eyed wonderment. Almost makes up for the missed birthdays and Christmases.

  “I still can’t believe people just gave this stuff up.”

  “Mostly wasn’t theirs anyway.” Martin leans against a wall. “Only reason they’d held onto it at all’s it once meant something to somebody they loved. The idea of throwin’ it away felt like throwin’ away the people, too.”

  “Did anybody ever come back for any of it?”

  “Nare a one.” He shakes his head. “By time yer Grams took it off their hands, you can bet it didn’t reckly mean anythin’ to anybody anymore.”

  “But it’s all so... Precious. This room, it’s like a treasure trove.”

  “That’s exactly how my Merry saw it.” Martin limps over to a hope chest. Lowers himself onto it. “Yer yer Grams’s granddaughter and make no mistake. Kindred spirits if ever there were. Seein’ all yer hard work on that thinganabob, there: Yer Family Tree? Nobody would’ve appreciated that like yer Grams. I can practically see the woman pokin’ her head up. Readin’ over yer shoulder.”