Dead in the Water

  “… and if we have any trouble, the Coast Guard will pick up this frequency,” Ramón was saying. You had to give the guy credit for sensitivity: he was promoting the safety features heavily. It was clear to everyone John was concerned about the voyage vis-à-vis his son—

  —floating like a little planet, a precious lifespark comet—

  Donna furiously rubbed her eyes. Damn, she must be getting PMS or something. Overtired. It wasn’t like her to whine and sniffle.

  Hey, maybe she should go get her presents and play spin the bottle with these guys. Le Bouf! It would cheer John up and get Ramón off Ruth’s back, ho-ho. And it might shut off the Poor-Me’s, ’cuz that’s all this was, nothing wing-ding-ding cosmic—you could make a career out of singing about Mr. Wrong, but that was about the only instance where brooding about it made any sense; and there weren’t going to be any good decisions made tonight, officer ma’am, sorry gee.

  So. What about humping one of these guys? Sorry there, too, girl, because the old bump and grind was not much more than that without the love factor, witness Daniel.

  Yeah, witness him for involuntary manslaughter, but the parents weren’t interested and she was out of her territory; and his parting shot was that she should see a shrink about her hostility toward men.

  She took a deep breath and slid her hands under her arms. Maybe she shouldn’t have come on this cruise. Damn straight she should’ve; she was in no condition to work. Maybe Randolph, her big boss, had known that. Hadn’t he told her she’d logged too much vacation time? Sometimes the subtleties were lost on her. Sometimes not.

  “Hey, what’s that?” John asked. He was hovering over a gray box with a screen in the middle. Donna recognized it as the radar, chocked up a point on the quiz for herself and a demerit for John.

  “Hijo,” Ramón murmured, standing beside him. The green on his olive face made him look ghastly. The hollows beneath his eyes lengthened into diamonds as he glanced up, at the window. “Big fog bank, dead ahead.”

  “Wow.” John left the box and walked to the front of the bridge. “You see, Donna?”

  “Excuse me,” Ramón said. “I’m going to make sure they know about this.”

  He left. John said, “Don’t they have some kind of communications in here?”

  She shrugged. “Yeah, a couple of cans and some string.” She traced a circle on the unlit light table. “Listen, have you heard anything about this Cha-cha character?”

  “Look.” John pointed at the windows.

  Donna looked. Blinked. One moment there’d been nothing but black, rocky water; now, a swirling line of fog rose like steam. It floated in the air, spotlighted by the moon, rolling and churning like a whirlpool. It glowed bone-white in the moonbeams as it thickened and expanded. Curls fanned outward, grasping upward, east, west, looping back into the water. Like a long, huge log on the water, or the white curl of a monster surf wave. For ghosts.

  “Weird,” Donna said.

  “It just came up on us. Ten seconds ago, there was nothing there. I was watching the radar screen.”

  Donna heard the tension in his voice. His eyes were wide, uneasy.

  The lights on the Morris’s king posts cast glowing spheres like disembodied heads along the waves of mist.

  “There sure is a lot of it,” he said.

  Hey, I saw this one, she wanted to tease him. John Carpenter directed it and Adrienne Boobeau (as Glenn called her) starred in it. There’s this evil fog, see, and it takes over a town. But everything ends okay. Trust me on this one.

  ’Course, a whole lotta shakin’ goes on first, heh heh …

  But she wasn’t sure he could take a joke. He was worn out, too, didn’t look so hot; and people in that condition sometimes forgot to laugh. So she put a hand on his shoulder and said, “We’ll probably go right through it. You’ve got to expect fog on the ocean, John.”

  “It looks dirty,” he said, not listening to her.

  Donna peered out the window. Streaks of moisture ran down the glass. The windscreen caught some of them and flung them in strips back into the night.

  And when they went, they were tinged with a gray cast, like some kind of sea-smog pollution. The moon must have shifted behind some clouds, she reasoned; and the fog that hung a few miles from the bow was colored the same unwholesome mustard as the charts.

  Beyond it, the inky ocean lay untouched.

  Blackness.

  Donna distinctly heard the word and turned her head expectantly toward John. He stared at the fog with his hands in his pockets.

  “Did you say something?” she asked. He shook his head. “Well, then, did you hear something?”

  The door opened and Ramón strode back into the room, looking unhappy. He slammed it behind him and muttered something in Spanish.

  “Something the matter?” Donna asked.

  He waved his hand. “No. It’s okay.” His face belied his words.

  “It’s coming toward us.” John crossed his arms and held his body stiffly as if bracing himself for impact.

  The fog unfurled and began to travel at a fast pace toward the ship. It moved faster, running at them, lengthening on either side until it exceeded Donna’s line of vision. Unconsciously, John took a step backward. Donna leaned forward, putting her hands on the base of the window.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s just a fog bank. It can’t hurt us.”

  “Absolutely,” Ramón agreed. “Air and water. That’s all it is.” He crossed to a small desk in the left aft corner and picked up a phone receiver, punched a button.

  “Sir, thick fog conditions. I, ah, had some trouble with Ruffino. Need a replacement. Recommend we do a search of his fo’c’sle ASAP.”

  Donna looked over her shoulder. He reddened and shifted his shoulder as if to shield the phone from her.

  “Aye, sir.”

  The fog rushed faster, faster, as if it actually would collide with them. John said, “I’ve got to get back to my son.”

  As he turned to go, an earsplitting bellow pierced the air. John cried out and Donna grabbed his wrist.

  “Sorry.” Ramón pressed another button. A few seconds later, the bellowing repeated, less loudly. A foghorn. Donna nodded to herself.

  “We put the horn on for other ships,” Ramón explained, lapsing back into his teacher voice. “No one’s around for hundreds and hundreds of miles. You saw that on the radar, Doctor. But just in case, we start it up. We have our own signal.” He cocked his head, listening, counting like an orchestra conductor. “Three short blasts, one long.”

  Who, who, who, whooooo?

  “That’s good,” Donna supplied, straight man to his safety lecture.

  He cracked a smile, showing off his dazzling teeth. He seemed pleasant enough, but it was hard to tell if that was his real self or just his bait. But if he didn’t grow out of his superficial gotta-have-you routine, he’d either end up lonely or with some chick (in the worst sense of the word) who married him because she liked his ass or his clothes.

  “That señora won’t think it’s comforting. The rich one.”

  “Oh, you mean the divine Ms. VB?” Donna said, trading a grin with him.

  “That’s Ms. VBH. H, you peasant.” John chuckled, seeming a little more relaxed as he resumed his walk to the door.

  “You know,” he said, “in the olden days, ships used to sacrifice one of the crew to the gods if there was a crisis aboard. Think we got us a candidate?”

  “Unfortunately, a little fog doesn’t qualify.” Ramón put his hands on his hips and cocked his head, watching the thick, white blankets. The foghorn blared as the mists covered the bow and spread over the containers, waves on a giant’s beach spilling over fragile seashells.

  “Maybe it’ll get worse,” Donna said, making a show of crossing her fingers. “We can always hope.”

  “I’ve got to go back to Matt,” John said. “This might frighten him.”

  Donna said, “I’ll go with you.” Ramón opened his mouth
, closed it. Glanced back at the radar screen and flicked some switches. Time for him to get back to work, anyway.

  “Be careful on the ladderway,” he said. “It’ll be slick from the moisture.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the tour.” Donna gave the window one last look.

  Beside her, John gasped.

  She whipped her head toward him. “What?”

  He stood rigid as a statue. Pale, white, his eyes were huge. She shook his arm. “Jesus, John. What?”

  He exhaled, shaking his head, and smiled sheepishly at her. “I don’t know why I’m so jumpy. I’m sorry. I thought …” When he pushed his glasses up on his nose, his hand trembled.

  Donna waited. A dull red crawled up his neck and fanned across his cheeks.

  “It was just a trick of the light, but I thought I saw a face in the fog,” he said finally, clearly embarrassed. “It sort of dove onto it and pushed itself … but it was just the light.” He shrugged. “Or my own reflection.”

  Donna nodded. “Let’s go back downstairs,” she suggested. “I think we’re both pooped.”

  The foghorn blared. Ramón waved a hand and said, “Ciao.”

  Donna opened the door, paused, and turned.

  “About this Cha-cha,” she said.

  Ramón made as if to ward her off. “Don’t talk to me about that one.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why not?”

  “I filed a complaint on him last trip out. Union won’t let me talk about it.” He checked his watch and picked up a clipboard. “How long ago did we see the radar blip, Dr. Fielder?”

  “Is he dangerous?” Donna pressed.

  Ramón laughed uneasily. “No. It’s just that, well, he’s a very bad cook.”

  “I see.” Moving her shoulders, she gestured to John, who went out the door first. She followed after.

  They went down the first two flights of stairs at a steady clip. Then John stopped and pressed his hand into his side, panting. He said, “My knees are wobbling.”

  Donna waited. She kept in good shape; it was part of her job.

  “Well, what do you think?” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Whew, I’ve got to start going back to the gym when I get home.”

  “About what?” she asked, leaning over to stretch her calves. “The fog or Cha-cha?”

  “Both, actually. But I meant Cha-cha. No one seems to be very worried about him.”

  “They don’t seem to be very worried about anything.” ’Cuz they’re all stoned, she thought grimly. Then, sighing to herself, she said, “I’ll keep an eye on him.” Next time she traveled, she was going to tell everyone she was a secretary.

  “Thanks.” John straightened and continued down.

  No problem, that’s what she got paid for. Shit.

  Donna continued down as well.

  The stairs, more properly the ladders, led out into a companionway parallel with the captain’s quarters and something called the “writing room,” but which was locked and had a No Entry sign on the door latch. Around the leeward corner, a row of cabins stretched toward the dining room. On the opposite side there were more cabins, all of them empty save for a single occupied by Kevin, the surfer.

  In concert, John and Donna walked around the corner. Hers was the first cabin on the row and his and Matt’s, the last. John was quiet, his shoulders tense and pinched. He seemed to be noodling something around, so she kept her own counsel as they made their way.

  They neared her door. Soft curls of fog streamed from beneath it and floated down the companionway.

  Joining those that were streaming from beneath Ruth’s door.

  The cold, white mist wrapped around their ankles and undulated with their footfalls. John grunted and lifted his foot.

  “Hey.” He lifted the other one, danced around in a circle.

  “It’s just fog,” she reminded him.

  He looked up ahead, started to walk-run through the patches that misted by, Kleenex on guy wires.

  “This stuff will be bad for Matt. He shouldn’t … he’s on the frail side.” He ducked his head.

  “There’s nothing under your door,” she called to him. “I left my porthole open. Ruth probably did, too.”

  Donna stepped to Ruth’s door and rapped lightly. “Ms. Hamilton? You okay?” She checked her watch. Eleven-twenty. She was probably sound asleep. This stuff couldn’t be good for an old lady.

  At the end of the companionway, John unlocked his door and hurried in. The door shut.

  “Ruth?” Donna said with more force. Now the fog was piling around Donna’s knees, cold and clammy like a mud pack. She couldn’t see her feet.

  “Mrs. Hamilton?” After a moment’s hesitation, she tried the knob. It turned; the door was unlocked. She’d have to talk to her about that; with all these strangers around (Jesus, with Cha-cha, who looked like a member of the Manson family, around), caution was in order.

  There was a funny noise, a thud of wood, or was it a clang? Donna listened. Nothing. Well, the hell with it. She opened the door.

  The foghorn blared.

  The cabin was laden with smoke-gray fog, so thick Donna couldn’t see a thing. It was like being in a snowstorm. She stepped forward and hit the end of the bed with her shins.

  “Mrs. Hamilton? It’s Donna.” Her arms flailed as she bent at the waist and touched the bed. Nothing there but sheets.

  Maybe she’d gone out, was sitting in the dining room right now, having a cup of tea.

  “Mrs.—?”

  The funny sound again. Not a thud, or a clang, but a long, melancholy sigh that seemed to echo past her ears. It cluttered; someone playing with a tape recorder to make spooky sounds. It reverbed. Donna swallowed and stepped sideways as she searched for the edge of the bed.

  “Are you all right?”

  That noise …

  The edge. She walked forward, dipping to the right to feel the bedclothes. They were soggy.

  The ship rolled to the left. Donna lost her balance and fell, not against the bulkhead as she expected but into an indentation. Metal jangled: clothes hangers. She’d fallen into the closet.

  Then something shot forward and hit her.

  She cried out and grabbed it. Laughed weakly. It was the closet door.

  Stepping out, she moved on up the side of the bed.

  Someone was standing on it. The faint outline of a figure glowed from a light hip-high to Donna. The source of the light must be on a nightstand, she reasoned.

  “Mrs. Hamilton?” No answer.

  Donna swallowed fog. She could almost feel it swimming around in her lungs, drifting up and down her windpipe.

  The closet door slammed back, forward, smacked against the jamb hard enough to do some serious damage. The foghorn bellowed.

  Thirst, someone said directly into her ear.

  Donna whipped her head around. Her knee smacked the night table. The things on top of it clattered. A round, heavy object fell off and hit Donna’s toe. It brilled once and bounced against the base of the night table. Alarm clock.

  “Ruth?”

  The figure made no movements. It stood about parallel with her head; Ruth must be kneeling at the porthole.

  To her left, the alarm clock went off again, jangling discordantly. It stopped in midsound as if someone had snapped it off.

  Donna climbed onto the bed, which was soft and wet and gave like a fungus as her knees sank into it. A dank odor emanated from it, of something old and unused.

  The figure looked too small to be a kneeling woman. In the wavering light, she saw a head too little, shoulders too narrow. Was it Matty Fielder, hiding from his father for some reason? Or just being a mischievous kid? His father would be frantic.

  “Matty? Ruth?” She touched the figure. Icy, ungiving flesh met her fingers—

  —and her heart lurched as she pulled back her hand. That was a dead person; she knew it. She knew what a dead person felt like. How cold, how hard, like a block of ice.

  Stupid, stupid, she told
herself, as she jumped off the bed. The figure tottered, swaying left, right, faster, faster, about to fall over. Donna had a sharp, vivid picture of it cracking into a million pieces.

  She covered her mouth, pulling herself together. She was acting like a rookie. Like some dumbass baby who—

  “Who?” Ruth’s voice. Donna sagged with relief, clunked herself in the forehead in embarrassment. Dumbo. Of course it was Ruth. Of course she looked different in the fog.

  Felt … different.

  “Ruth, it’s Donna Almond. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes,” the old lady said uncertainly. “I … I’ve been dreaming.”

  Dreaming? Did she have epilepsy? Donna thought about asking, decided to let it wait. There was enough going on.

  “You must be freezing. Let me help you.” Donna crawled back onto the mattress. The sheets were sodden. Already her mind made preparations for taking care of the old woman: get her to the dining room, coffee, maybe a shot of hooch.

  “I was dreaming,” the woman said. She moved away from the porthole of her own volition and found Donna’s hands. “I can’t even see you, dear.”

  “It’s just fog.” Donna maneuvered back to the floor and stood up, bringing the woman with her. “We sailed into it a while ago. It’s okay.”

  The foghorn blared. The closet door rolled and cracked. Rolled and cracked.

  “I’m so cold. My nightie’s wet clean through.”

  The reason she’d said she was thirsty, Donna figured. She might be dehydrated. “We’ll get you into some warm things. How about a cup of coffee? I’m sure we can scare one up.”

  “That sounds heavenly.”

  The sensation of Ruth’s disembodied, skeletal fingers grabbing on to Donna’s was eerie. Ruth stood directly in front of the light as Donna slowly led her past the closet; an aureole of buoyant wisps swam around her head and shoulders, like she was some kind of winter dandelion shifting in a chill breeze.

  Or something underwater, wafting with the currents.

  “This is a little frightening,” Ruth said with a nervous laugh. “I literally cannot see a thing.”