Men and Dogs (24 page)

24
Where Hannah Went

B
EFORE HANNAH COULD go, she needed to steal Rumpus.

So, around one o’clock on Monday afternoon, she went up to Palmer’s house. First she tried both the front and side doors,
which were locked. This neither surprised nor deterred her; no one as meticulous as her brother would ever leave a door unlocked.
She’d seen a dog door that ran in and out of the kitchen—perhaps she could lure Rumpus outside through it, or, if necessary,
squeeze in. The main obstacle was the privacy fence, but again Hannah wasn’t discouraged. After surviving a three-story drop,
a ten-foot wall was nothing. She dragged the neighbors’ garbage can to the wall, climbed on top of it, and, giving a quick look back and forth, hopped over. As soon as she hit the yard, Rumpus appeared, tearing into her with a bark as soundless as it was furious.

“Hey, there,” Hannah said to her. “Came just for you.”

She leaned over to grab the dog, but Rumpus immediately darted away into the house. Hannah crawled in after her, grunting as she forced her hips through the small plastic dog opening. (Too much Charleston she-crab soup.) The next thirty minutes were a breathless chase, with Rumpus darting under the table and the bed, dancing away when Hannah would get close, and then taunting her with cold, beady stares. Only a finger smeared with Palmer’s oily natural peanut butter finally slowed Rumpus down.

Taking the boat from the DeWitt property undetected was no small feat, but Hannah happened upon some luck that Monday. DeWitt had announced he would be away until nightfall, birding—the warbler had set him off—while Daisy’s day was completely booked with the museum committee, a beginner’s guitar lesson, and something else Hannah had not listened to. The DeWitt House staff always cleared out by three, so Hannah calculated she had a two-hour window to complete the preparations for her journey.

The scheme had come to her all at once while being chewed out at Virginia’s house. It was clear that if Hannah wanted to know what became of her father, her approach would have to be more scientific. And so she would follow the exact footsteps her father had made, packing the same supplies, taking the same boat, putting in at approximately the same time of day, charting the same course. Not that she was going to find out anything definitive. But perhaps she might stumble upon a clue as to what happened. A perspective, which was a hell of a lot more than she had now.

With Rumpus safely stashed in the cab of Will’s second truck (he kept an extra in the garage for “hauling emergencies”), Hannah returned to the DeWitt House and backed the vehicle into the yard. She hadn’t been inside the carriage house for years, and now, stepping into the dusty, mildewed gloom, she remembered why. From the dim shaft of light spilling in through the sliding door, she could just make out the form of the boat. Edging closer, she gazed at the shrouded object for a moment, then shoved away the easels; deflated, boxed beach toys; and old dining chairs barricading the vessel to free it of its filthy tarp with a snap. She peered inside. More or less the same as she remembered it, aside from a few cigarette butts, no doubt remnants from Palmer’s college trip to Rockville.

Taking a deep breath, she walked out to the truck. Hitching it up wasn’t nearly as complicated as she’d feared. Proud of her accomplishment, she pulled the boat into the yard and hosed it off. Rumpus was now alert and, nose pressed against the window,
watched with interest as years of dirt and mold ran off the sides of the boat and onto the grass. Hannah walked around it,
trying to remember everything her father did before trips, then paused and made a quick list.

She went through the items as quickly as she could. She had at least an hour yet; still, the last thing she wanted was her mother or stepfather coming home and politely asking what in God’s name she was doing.

Getting the boat to the club was the trickiest part. The street was quiet, probably due to this grim fall afternoon, but driving with the boat was a more unwieldy task than she’d guessed. It took two tries to back out, and she cut at least one corner too close, barely missing a fire hydrant. She managed to get it into the water without submerging the truck, then tied the boat to the dock and loaded the supplies. Finished, she drove the truck back, parked it exactly where it had been before,
then returned, dragging Rumpus behind her.

There was no sign of life anywhere. The club must have cut the staff when the cold came; even the bar seemed shut down for the duration. Taking the dog in her arms, Hannah descended the ramp and got into the boat. Rumpus hit the deck, limbs splayed.
It made her uneasy, how quiet the club was, as there would be no log saying where she went.

“Enough,” she said to Rumpus, who scrambled unhelpfully under a bench. Hannah lumbered about the boat, untying and coiling and pumping the gas line; once the lines were free, she pulled the cord. To her surprise and pleasure, the boat started immediately,
but she couldn’t remember exactly how the levers worked. The boat lurched backward, the aluminum hull making a horrible sound against the dock. A flock of seagulls scattered above while Rumpus shot out to the lip of the bow. Finally, coaxing the controls in the right direction, Hannah pulled away.

The huge expanse of harbor stretched out before her, terrifying and lonely. The chop was high, and an eerie mist hung over the creeks to her right. Bracing herself, she steered in the direction of the jetties, a huge underwater wall of rock built at the mouth of the harbor a century ago to prevent the storms from washing the islands away. This is where the authorities had always assumed her father had been heading; everyone knows it’s one of the best spots in the harbor to fish.

It wasn’t a short trip. She drove the boat slowly to stay reasonably dry in the chop. She could feel herself calming down.
It felt good to pull away, to watch the houses shrink to the size of toys, the cars and people by now almost invisible. The
DeWitt House loomed over all of the mansions around the Battery; even a mile out, she could see the window to her room.

The wind was merciless, and the cold numbed her hands and feet despite her layers of down and fleece. Should she have a sandwich?
Too early. A beer? Too chilly. Should she put on a life jacket? No, no one wore a life jacket except for kids. She knew where they were, though. It was part of the checklist. Middle compartment—one for every passenger. One for her, one for Rumpus,
four to spare.

God, this is stupid, she thought. I’m so cold. She tried to focus, to concentrate on the trip’s purpose. All right. If he were going to the jetties, would he have headed left? There was a ship far off on the horizon. Could he have gotten caught in someone’s wake?

She shook her head, attempting to channel her father. Focus, Hannah, focus. What had it been like for him? Like this? No,
almost certainly not. He left in April, after all, not late October.
A beautiful April night. She began to get angry. What had she
thought
would happen? Did she actually think she would find an answer out here? Be beamed up? Did she think she was going to meet a fucking pirate ship?

Rumpus climbed up on the bow, her body shaking with mute barks.

“What, Rumpus?” Hannah sighed. Maybe pirates after all. Peering just ahead, she immediately saw what the dog was barking at:
a gray fin, slicing through the waves. She tried not to yelp. Had her father been eaten by a shark? But the fish was moving in humping arcs. It slowed down as if to get a better look at her and swam next to the boat, tipping its smiling face up briefly.
It was a dolphin.

Rumpus growled, teetering dangerously close to the edge.

The dog looked back at her.

“Rumpus, no. Seriously. Get back here.”

Rumpus paused, as if politely considering Hannah’s request for obedience, then turned and leapt into the water.

Knocking over the cooler and banging her knee on the middle seat, she ran to the front of the boat. Rumpus—surprisingly athletic—was paddling away at a good clip.

“Rumpus!”

The dog ignored her, bobbing up and down in the waves. Hannah began to panic. Coming home after this adventure was already going to be tricky: Daisy would be pissed off and confused; DeWitt would be disapproving; Palmer would be annoyed. She had weighed all of this, and already planned on doing a few backflips to get DeWitt to give her a bit of money and let her be on her way. But coming home after stealing the truck, the boat, and Palmer’s dog, and then having to explain that Rumpus had drowned in the course of Hannah’s spiritual journey . . . well. She might as well tie up and take a taxi straight to the Charleston/
Dorchester Community Mental Health Center.

Hannah kept the dog firmly in her sight, sighing with relief as she got the boat close to her. Hannah grabbed a sandwich from the cooler.

“Look, Rumpus!” she yelled. “Food!”

The dog slowed down at this, looking back.

“That’s right. Stay, puppy.”

Leaning gracelessly over the water, Hannah grabbed Rumpus’s collar, heaving her up high enough to wrap her arms around the animal. She staggered. The terrier was light, but her vigorous squirming sent Hannah falling backward. Her balance was already challenged by the waves, and, arms full of wet, twisting dog, she was unable to brace herself. She heard a large crack that she recognized instantly as the back of her head. For a moment, the sight of one of her eyes went completely white.

Feeling a wet snout on her face, she opened her eyes to see Rumpus hovering curiously above. She turned her head a little to look past the dog at the sky. Already the last watery light of the cold, wasted day was giving way to nightfall. She was alone.

25
Someone Is Coming

W
HEN HANNAH WAKES, the darkness is relentless. No stars, no moon. She wonders how long she’s been out. It seems to be well past sunset. She sits up gingerly. The pain. Rumpus, who, taking Hannah’s cue, has been curled up against her legs, lifts her head and quivers her nose.

Everything seems to be working, basically—her head, neck, and senses. It’s suspiciously quiet. The only sound is the water slapping against the metal of the boat. After a few moments of enjoying the peace, Hannah realizes that the engine has died.
She fishes the flashlight out of the bag she brought and crawls to the stern to investigate. There is still a bit of fuel sloshing around in the tank, so that’s not the problem. She pulls the engine cord. Nothing happens. She pulls it again. No,
something is wrong. It’s broken. She leans in with her light and inspects the machinery but, knowing nothing about engines,
finds this a completely useless act. She tries to yank the cord once more. Nothing.

She sits down to try and think, then remembers her phone. She takes it out and sees, to her surprise, that it is four in the morning. Could she really have slept that long? There are seven missed calls from her mother. She looks at the screen, considering.
If she calls her mother at this hour, she will be seen as nothing more than a crazy, incompetent mess—again. There will be screaming . . . possibly the police. Hannah just doesn’t know if she can take that right now. But if she waits until later in the morning, she might be able to get just DeWitt on the line and make a joke out of all this.

She squints into the wet darkness. From the lights onshore, she can tell she’s somewhere in between Fort Sumter and James
Island. The boat appears to be in some kind of current, drifting out toward the open ocean, but Hannah takes heart in the fact that movement is slow. The only other ship she sees is far out on the horizon, lifetimes away.

She sits on the bottom of the boat. At least it’s not raining. Things aren’t so bad. She knows the thing to do is not to panic.
Rumpus wriggles and stretches next to her. Hannah pats her head. She fishes in the cooler for a beer and a sandwich. She is suddenly ravenously hungry. And really there’s nothing to do anyway but eat. She finishes one sandwich, then takes out another and a bag of chips. After giving half the second sandwich to Rumpus, she digs into the potato chips, nibbling around the edges and then sloshing the crumbs around her mouth with sips of beer. She becomes bored. It’s the main thing about being adrift, isn’t it? She could try and sleep more, but she isn’t tired. In fact, she can’t remember being so awake.

Hannah sternly tells herself not to panic; all she has to do is make herself seen. She turns on her flashlight and waves it from side to side in a wide arc for a few minutes, which discouragingly elicits no reaction. If anything, the ship seems to be speeding up. She yanks open one of the doors and grabs an orange flare box, thick with dust. The ship is closer now—close enough for her to see that it is a Carnival cruise ship, probably the same one she was staring at when she fell off her bicycle. Its brilliant lights illuminate the water around it, and from the glow she can just make out the cheerful logo and the name painted in garish letters on the side: elation. Hannah fumbles at the flare box and pries it open. Inside is an orange pistol; she grabs it, holds the gun over her head, and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens—cursing, she claws at the box and finds what must be the shell and jams it in.

Holding the gun above her head again, she pulls the trigger. She hears a charged, whizzing sound above as the flare traces a beautiful arc, raining pink sparks that illuminate the water around her.

She looks over at the cruise ship, which is still churning toward her. Her mind rages ahead. All right, OK, this flare thing isn’t working either. She’ll get the life jackets—one on her, one on Rumpus. They’ll jump in together like doomed lovers.
Sure, it’ll be cold as hell, but she’ll call her brother first, then he can call the police or something. . . . Oh, God,
she thinks. I really am so truly screwed.

Hannah looks up slowly. Her face is wet; she is surprised to find that she is crying. The boat is a mess of littered cans and wrappers, she almost drowned, and she still has no answers. But what, exactly, was she expecting to find out here? There is a squad of people onshore, a whole team safe in their beds, who have bent their lives to take care of her. Her mother,
her brother, her husband, her stepfather. Virginia and Warren. Jenny White, even. And yet she is in the middle of the cold harbor, chasing the final ghost. Still waiting faithfully with the dog.

Hannah has to let out a small laugh.

She is alone at sea, because.

The coast guard boat comes at five o’clock in the morning. Even when she spots it from far away—just a tiny white speck on the horizon—she knows it’s coming for her. Vaguely surprising, though, as it’s so early she hasn’t yet called anyone.
The vessel, white and proud as a nurse in a starched apron, motors without hesitation to her boat. She can see a figure standing at the railing: DeWitt, bundled up in a down coat and hunting cap. The vessel comes alongside the johnboat and ties up.

“Hi,” Hannah calls back. “You found me.”

“Wasn’t all that hard.”

Men in white uniforms leap down onto her little boat and maneuver it into towing position, paying little attention to Hannah herself; indeed, after a rather brisk medical examination,
they seem annoyed that the affair hasn’t proved more dire. At last, Hannah hands Rumpus up to her stepfather, then climbs aboard.

“How’d you figure out where I was?”

“Well,” he says, wrapping her in a blanket, “you didn’t come home, so I looked in town all night. Finally searched the house and saw that the boat was missing. Called the coast guard, and they said there had been reports of a woman in a fishing boat shooting a flare gun at a cruise ship. Figured that crazy lady could only be you.”

“Word is you scared the hell out of the passengers.”

“I was going to call,” she says. “I was just waiting until an appropriate hour.”

“That’s mannerly.”

“Anyway, thanks for being here.”

“Well, of course.” DeWitt takes off his hat and scratches his head somewhat furiously. He seems almost irritated, but Hannah can’t be sure. “Of course I’m here.”

And she would tell him those things. Really. But she’s a little too cold right now, so she just says thanks again. DeWitt nods, still looking vaguely uncomfortable. He’s not so great at this either.

“Well.” DeWitt looks down at her father’s old boat, littered with flare cartridges and sandwich wrappers and beer cans. “Looks like you had yourself quite a night.”

“I did.”

“So, I don’t want to . . .” DeWitt shifts from foot to foot, then gestures at the water. “Guess what I mean is, you all done out here?”

“Yes.” Hannah nods and wraps another towel around the shivering dog. “Thanks. I am. I’m all done.”