Timothy of the Cay

  "How long will it take us to get to Providencia?"

  "Oh, at five knots, let's say ... three days—if we get fair winds—four days, at most..."

  Dr. Pohl said there'd be seizures, minor ones but maybe major ones, too.

  "Then we stay there how long?"

  "Just long enough to hire a guide."

  Dr. Pohl lost one patient on the operating table.

  "Then from Providencia to the cay, how long?"

  "Oh, another two days, if we're lucky. Maybe the turtlemen will know exactly where it is..."

  Another patient was brain damaged.

  A ticking in my stomach had begun. Much as I tried not to, I was still thinking about tomorrow. I tried to clear my mind of the operating table and the ether smell and the gigli saw, but couldn't. My hands began to shake and I was ready to yell out, "I'll stay blind!" when my mother returned.

  She said, "I saw Dr. Pohl in the hall, and he said he thought everything would go well tomorrow."

  He'd said that to me this morning.

  I said, "Could I please have a drink of water?"

  I hated to have to ask someone for something so simple. But I'd already knocked two glasses off the bedside table by reaching for them.

  She put the straw to my lips and said, "It's really pretty outside and not too hot." It had rained during the night. "Would you like to take a walk, Phillip?"

  I said, "Okay." Maybe that would help. "The nurse said she put my shoes in the closet." I'd been in the room twenty-four hours and didn't know where the closet was. It seemed that every ten seconds, in every way, I was reminded that I was blind.

  With my parents on either side, my father's hand lightly on my arm, guiding me, we left the hospital and walked a long way. The afternoon sun warmed my face and traffic noises rose and fell beside us. The exhaust fumes were bitter. Yet I didn't mind the sounds or the fumes. I welcomed all of them. I might never feel the sun again, hear the cars, smell the vapors. Suddenly, fear of the operation returned.

  I tripped and fell, then tried to laugh it off.

  ***

  Back in the room, we didn't talk very much. There didn't seem to be anything else to say.

  I could smell food, hear the dinner carts out in the hallway, but knew there'd be no food for me tonight. Another reminder of tomorrow.

  Just before visiting hours were over, the night nurse came in and said, without thinking, "It's going to be another beautiful sunset tonight."

  At that moment, I knew for certain I had no choice. I had to go ahead with the operation. There were sunsets and sunrises I wanted to see. And cays.

  My parents stood by my bed, holding hands with me, and it was my mother who said, "We love you very much, Phillip, and have great faith in you and in Dr. Pohl." She bent over and kissed me, saying, "We'll go up in the Empire State Building..."

  My father said, "We'll need your eyes to spot those coral heads on the way to Providencia..."

  He squeezed my hand until it hurt.

  Those might be the last words I ever heard from them.

  16. The Squall

  APRIL 1886—Under full sail, the Gertrude Theismann was far out in the Atlantic, roughly 250 miles off Trinidad and Tobago, at the tip of South America, when the weather turned ugly. In early afternoon, heavy sooty clouds filled with electricity swept in from the east and claps of thunder echoed in the distance.

  Timothy didn't need to be told that a storm was approaching after ten days of fair winds and gentle seas. He could see it and smell it. The air had suddenly freshened and chilled. The taut halyards and shrouds had begun to vibrate and sing. He felt a throb of excitement. He'd never been at sea in a storm.

  Luther yelled, "Clear de topside!"

  Stow anything loose that might slide or whip around. Check lashings. Loose gear could mean broken legs or worse.

  Timothy stowed his holystone, the soft sandstone block he'd been grinding over the wooden deck several hours a day for a week, and then joined Horace Simpson. They tightened the straps on a couple of empty barrels used to catch rainwater.

  Then the cold-edged wind began to screech and Mr. Tanner shouted orders to furl the royals, crojack, and flying jib. Lower and gather them in.

  Timothy's heart beat faster.

  The flying jib and crojack, the fore and aft lower sails, could be easily furled. The royals meant going high up the mast.

  Timothy eyed them, those rectangles of canvas bellied out three-quarters the way up. He eyed the ratlines. Fear came back in a hot rush, shortening his breath.

  As rain attacked in bursts, squall seas mounting, Timothy hesitated and Luther singled him out. "Lay aloft an' furl, you damn nigra boy..." His eyes matched the lightning, full of meanness.

  This time the climb wasn't to test courage. This time there'd be no cowardly moment in which to cling to the ratlines, give way to the height or to the roar of the storm, plead silently for help.

  Horace shouted, "Climb ahead o' me!" and shoved Timothy to join Luther and the others running across the slick deck toward the foremast. Salt spray sheeted over them. The ship had begun to heave and roll, slanting over the waves, heeling to port under the full spread of her sails. Those sails had to be reduced or they could be torn away.

  For the second time in ten days, Timothy was going up a tall mast. This time rain spattered him, wind grabbed at him. Heart slamming, his hands grasped the ratlines as the sailor above him left them. He made his legs move up.

  Over the storm's fury, he heard Horace shout, "Remember what I tol' you!..."

  When you get out on the yard, lay your belly over it, let the footrope take your weight; keep the middle of your soles on the rope. Don't step, slide your feet along.

  The footropes were about four feet below the yards. Below that was empty air, then the deck or roaring seas. Fall and die! Above were churning clouds.

  Wishing he'd never seen a ship, wishing he were safe at home in Back o' All, Timothy climbed.

  Horace kept shouting, "Keep goin', keep goin'!..." Then, "Go to starboard," as they reached the foreroyal's yard.

  A rope less than an inch thick was the only thing between Timothy's soles and certain death 165 feet below. He wanted to close his eyes but didn't dare.

  Moving around him, Horace shouted, "Come on out, yuh doin' fine!"

  Timothy found it hard to breathe but forced himself to follow. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Luther grinning at him, coming his way. The grin said, Meet Ol' Debbil Wind.

  In a moment, edging along the spar, separated from both Horace and Luther by seven or eight feet and sandwiched between them, Timothy found himself pulling at the leech lines to draw the wet canvas in. Leg and arm muscles straining, he soon realized he was almost as strong as the Bajan. There was no pause for fear. He didn't look down or up, just at the folds of the heavy, water-soaked canvas. Gather them in; tie them off.

  Twice more, he went aloft, each time as scary as the first. His feet slipped off the soaked mainroyal-yard footrope, causing a suck of breath, causing his stomach to drop like a cliff boulder. But his belly was firmly across the spar, as Horace had instructed, and his hands firmly clutched sail. A few seconds later he regained footing and kept pulling.

  After the sails had been furled, he collapsed on his hands and knees on deck near the mizzenmast, as if he were praying, his whole body trembling. Though the squall wind had lessened, rain was still pelting down.

  A moment later he raised his head and saw brown feet in front of him. He looked upward into the bleak face of Luther Oisten. "Lay aloft, nigra boy," said Luther. "Check de ties on de mainroyal."

  It was unnecessary, everyone knew. Those ties would hold even if the wind blew for three days. For three weeks.

  Timothy glanced at Horace, who was standing nearby.

  Horace was staring at the Bajan and seemed ready to speak. Even to fight him. But an order was an order.

  Horace finally looked back at Timothy and murmured, "Do it." Don't cross the bo'sun. Show him! Show
him, dammit.

  Luther smiled at Horace. "Yuh dis boy's keeper?"

  Horace nodded. "In a way."

  Meanwhile, Timothy was headed for the mainmast shrouds, hoping there was enough strength still left in his arms and legs to get him up and down the ratlines.

  Captain Roberts and Mr. Tanner stood impassively, just watching. After all, the captain had ordered the Bajan to train the boy.

  When Timothy finally returned to the deck, exhausted, he hated Luther Oisten as much as he feared him. But Horace said quietly, "Yuh won."

  He could climb and sail with the best of them, though he was only fourteen.

  17. My Bald Head

  At about eight o'clock, after my parents had gone back to the Commodore, an orderly came into the room to shave my head.

  "My name is Harold," he said. "I'll be givin' you a free haircut. First I'll use the clippers, then a razor."

  "On my whole head?"

  "Yep."

  "Why do you have to do that?"

  "So no germs can get in during the surgery. Doctor's orders."

  He asked me to sit on a chair, and soon the hair clipper buzzed. I knew I'd look funny if and when I ever saw myself. Completely bald.

  Harold asked, "What kinda operation you gonna have?"

  "There's a malformation on my optic nerve. Dr. Pohl is going to try and relieve the pressure. Then I can see again." Hopefully.

  "Never heard any complaints about him," said Harold.

  "He's supposed to be world famous," I said.

  "That I didn't know," Harold said, as the buzzing stopped. Cut hair had fallen over my face and he brushed it off. "Now I'm going to put some shaving cream over your head. I want you to hold very still."

  He said he had a straight razor, then he laughed. "You got to hold still 'less you want the surgery to begin tonight."

  I felt the warm cream, then the sharp blade as he pulled it over my skull. It tickled more than hurt.

  "Oops," he said.

  I'd felt that cut.

  "I nicked you. Shame on me! Jus' hold still."

  Before he finished and wiped my skull clean, I heard a female voice. "Hi, I'm Dr. Leonard." Her hand touched mine. I could smell her perfume. "I'm your anesthesiologist. I'll be putting you to sleep in the morning."

  Harold said, "And she does it right!...You can get back on your bed now." He said, "Good luck," and departed.

  I ran my hand over my head. It felt like a bowling ball. I was almost glad I couldn't see myself.

  As I climbed back on the bed, Dr. Leonard said, "You're the talk of the hospital. We've never had a castaway patient. You're a live Robinson Crusoe..."

  That's what the newspapers and Time magazine had said. Life had run a picture of me holding Stew Cat, walking off the Sedgewick.

  "Mind if I sit here?" She sounded young.

  "Fine."

  "A lot of people, especially in this town, have wondered about being stranded on a tropical island. I'm almost envious."

  "It was different," I said.

  "I read that there was an old Negro with you. And a cat."

  "Yes. Timothy died on the cay but my cat's in Curaçao."

  "How long have you lived down there?"

  "Two years, including the time on the cay."

  "Some people have all the luck." Then she paused before saying, "Phillip, I'm going to do my very best to make you comfortable and keep you comfortable tomorrow. Mind if I ask you some questions? I've already talked to your parents."

  "Ask whatever you want."

  "Dr. Pohl said you had a tonsillectomy several years ago. Did you have any problems?"

  "No, I just hated it when they put that mask over my face. The ether stinks. "

  "Yes, it does. I plan to have the nurse give you a sedative very early in the morning so that you'll be almost asleep when they wheel you out. Did you have any aftereffects?"

  "I was sick to my stomach when I woke up. My throat hurt. They wouldn't let me have any water. Just an ice cube to suck on. "

  "That was because of surgery on your throat. This time you can have all the water you can hold."

  I nodded, then asked her about something that had been worrying me for almost a week, ever since the morning in Dr. Pohl's office. "Will I feel it or hear it when they start to drill?"

  "I guarantee you won't. That's my job. You won't feel a thing," she said.

  "How about when I wake up?"

  "I'll be honest with you, Phillip. You won't feel very good. You'll feel very tired and weak. The back of your head will hurt."

  "Do you think I'll be able to see?"

  "Oh, I hope so," she said. "Dr. Pohl is one of the finest surgeons in the world. He works miracles."

  I said, "I hope so, too."

  She reached over and took my hand, squeezed it, then I heard her getting up. The chair squeaked on the linoleum floor. "The nurse will give you a sleeping pill at nine o'clock so you'll get a good night's rest, and I'll see you at six A.M."

  She said, "Sleep well," and then her heels squeaked as she went away. I could always tell when someone was coming in and out by their heel squeaks. Her perfume lingered.

  "Well, look at you," said the nurse when she came in at nine o'clock with the sleeping pill. "I like the shape of your head. No bumps."

  "Do I look funny?" I asked, rubbing my palm back over my totally bald head.

  "You look different. I tell any patient who has to be shaved that the hair starts growing back within two hours. It does. By the end of the week you'll feel stubble."

  "Is that true?"

  "Absolutely! Now, take this pill...." She put it into my left hand, giving me a glass for the right one.

  I swallowed the pill.

  She fluffed my pillow and said, from habit, "Lights out."

  I didn't argue.

  Then she took my hand and held it a moment. "I go off at midnight, but I want to tell you not to worry. If there is one patient in this hospital who'll get the 'A' treatment, it's you. I'll be back on duty at four tomorrow afternoon."

  She leaned over and kissed my forehead.

  "G'night," she said, and squeaked away.

  The hospital noises, softer now, floated in again. I remember thinking about that first hour of being blind. I was on the raft, of course, so frightened that I could hardly breathe. If your sight fades slowly, then I think you are finally prepared when all light is lost. When it is sudden, you panic.

  Timothy held me tight during that first hour, I remembered. Real tight.

  18. Home

  APRIL 1890—Trace of a smile around his lips, eyes warm with memory, Timothy stood on the dew-wet deck of the SS Bartolina in the early-morning coolness as St. Thomas arose in the distance. The faint green dome of Crown Mountain welcomed him home. He'd been looking forward to this moment for four years.

  After going to Rio, then to New York, on to France, then back to New York—a voyage of seven months—the Gertrude Theismann had made five more coffee runs to Rio and another to England, never coming near the Leeward Islands. He'd finally "jumped her," left without permission, a month ago.

  As Tante Hannah would say, "De crab nebbah forget 'e hole."

  Tante Hannah. Mr. Tanner, the chief mate of the Theismann, had been kind enough to write two short notes for Timothy to mail to Back o' All, telling her he was alive; that he thought of her constantly; that he missed her and loved her. There was no way of knowing whether or not she'd received them.

  Main thing now, he was headed home at last, a "workaway" sailor, exchanging work with the Bartolina's deck crew for passage from New York to St. Thomas. This was often done when a sailor had little or no money.

  He'd changed. He knew he'd changed, in his body and in his head. After leaving the island as a boy, he was returning as a man of eighteen, more than six feet in height, body heavily muscled from days and nights of heaving on lines and grappling with sails, fair weather or storm.

  He'd learned much aboard the Theismann, even from the Bajan. B
ut now he swore that never again would he leave his own sea, the summery Caribbean, his gentle islands and cays. The two trips across the Atlantic had taught him about gales and snow and ice. From now on, he'd sail where palm trees grew and trade winds caressed, where the sky and the ocean stayed blue most of the time. He still didn't like shoes.

  "Dere 'tis, my islan'," he said to a bukra sailor standing nearby him.

  The early sun was lighting up Crown Mountain.

  "I bin homesick foh four year. Feel de wahrm win'..." He tilted his head toward Crown Mountain, his smile increasing until it was as brilliant as the sun.

  "Who are you going home to?" the sailor asked.

  "My Tante Hannah, de womahn who raise me."

  "No girlfriends?" the sailor asked.

  Timothy laughed. "None dat I know of." Girls hadn't been on his mind four years back. Going to sea had been about the only thing in his head. Maybe girls would enter his life now.

  "You plan to stay ashore?"

  He'd thought about that a lot. He thought he'd stay with Tante Hannah for a while, take up where he'd left off: go fishing with Wobert Avril, spend some time with Charlie Bottle, then find a job on an interisland schooner. Go down the Leewards and the Windwards.

  First, though, was Tante Hannah. "Ah tink Ah'll be sittin' ashore foh a while."

  Hidden under his mattress in crew's quarters were gifts for her from Rio, France, and England. In a leather sack tied to his waist were twenty-six gold dollars. Six would go to her; twenty would go to the Bank of Denmark, toward his own schooner. That dream was as much alive as it had been when he was twelve.

  "Evah bin downg here?" Timothy asked, shifting his look to the sailor.

  "No."

  "Ah, go to Magen's Bay, jump into de wahrm wattah, den sit 'neath a coconut palm. Dat's whot I plan to do..."

  Get his feet and bottom into warm sand again.

  ***

  Thick black smoke coiled up from the stack of the Bartolina, the first steamship Timothy had ever boarded. Though it was steadier and sometimes faster than the Theismann, Timothy missed the quietness and cleanliness of the bark. The coal-burner's engine thudded and the iron hull shook. Another reason to return to sailing.