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  I followed behind her as she flew down the hall and into her own room. And I stopped at the door just out of sight and heard her say, Darling—she was speaking to Father—darling, forgive me for saying in front of your friends those things you heard me say. I was purposely waiting so that I could tell you not on our vacation but once it was over, back in our home. But the strangest of feelings came over me last night, and I opened my mouth and out it all poured. And he said to her, And so what will you do? And she back to him, I haven’t decided. I can’t say for certain. We must decide together. But if you stay here and the worst transpires, then it’s up to me and … And then she digressed and went on to say that she sort of understood what Roscoe had meant when he had said that at bottom it was all metaphysical, that she once herself went to church for a time because, though Jewish, as Charlie was Catholic, she thought it best to continue for him what his father had begun, and how most of the gospels to which she had listened had seemed to relate so much to her life that she thought it coincidence, as when one hears one day a new word and notes thereafter how it seems to appear in every book and on every tongue. But she came to see, she said, that they, the gospels, were arranged to relate to her life precisely, and to all other lives too. Little reminders, that’s what she called them. But that was some time ago, she said to my father, and now that Charlie was older he went by himself, if he went at all, she added parenthetically, because one never knows with boys of that age.

  I forgot to forgive you, she continued, for giving me a poem that was not yours to give, and so I punished you with my disclosure. What she had done, she said, was worse, far worse, than the deception of the poem. His intentions, she said, if not his actions, had been good from the start, whereas hers had not. But they’d talk of that later, when safe on the ferry, she pleaded with him as I listened nearby. And Father explained in his slow, thoughtful manner that he’d promised to stay if a storm blew up, adding that obviously, when he’d made me that promise he hadn’t believed it would all come to this. Ah, Carole said. I’m beginning to see that what you promised was to choose her over me, and that is okay, that I can deal with. But understand this. Then she went on to explain in more words than were needed to my unfortunate father that his hapless daughter believed that she was a mermaid and that a great wave would come forth, and so on and so forth. And Father stopped her to say that he already knew what his young daughter held in her mind, and couldn’t she, Carole, see that she, Meredith, would be cured of her longing when the storm came threatening but ultimately waveless and she found herself afterward changed and yet unchanged and ready to go on? But that’s just the point, explained the frantic woman. The wave may just come, just as she said. Don’t let yourselves drown! And furthermore, darling, forgive me for saying, but you cannot deny it, there’s something for you here, some yearning for violence that I don’t understand. And can’t you see, she said, that this crazy notion that the violence the storm brings will bring you some kind of awakening, some elevated experience, makes no sense at all? And Father said, If you’ll only stay with us, I’ll try to explain. And you’ll see that it’s not unlike the connection that you felt while fishing, only … But Carole interrupted to cry, I heard you reciting that dreadful passage to Belinda and Roscoe about will and will not. It’s not worth the risk, I beg you, come with me. I love you, you see. And as for your daughter, we’ll take her by force, and I’ll be the scapegoat, and she’ll hate me forever, but at least she’ll be alive. For I cannot believe—but then she did not say it, and after a moment my father spoke softly. Maybe there are mermaids, said he. And Carole said, Yes, with a crack in her voice. Yes, maybe there are, for the sea is a strange world about which we know little for all our technology. But even if there are, the poor little things are bound to come washed up eventually anyway because of pollution, the terrible things that we do to the sea. They’ll come up like the porpoises washed up on the shore, and when it’s too late we’ll say it’s too bad. Your daughter was right to holler at me for taking the cockle, the beautiful cockle which I didn’t eat. I hid it outside where she wouldn’t see it, but it stunk up the yard after it died, and the meat came out like an over-sized tongue, and when finally I could bear it no longer, the smell of its death, I buried it.

  It’s time to be going, she went on after sighing. I said that I love you, what more can I say? I’ll go to the shelter and keep my fingers crossed, and maybe in a few days the storm will have gone and we’ll be reunited. And if it is you who are gone, washed out with the waves, I’ll love you anyway for as long as I can, for I’ve always thought you a very kind man. I will think of you often … but tell me one thing, one thing before I go. You did write the first poem especially for me, in your very own words, did you not? And then there was silence so that I imagined that he had nodded and they were embracing for the very last time. And then she came out into the hall with her duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and when she bent down to hug me, the big bag swung forward striking my chest. Please change your mind, she said into my shoulder. I love you, and Charlie does, too. Why should you love me? I asked with displeasure, for surely I’ve succeeded in showing you frankly how I feel about you. I love you in spite of, said the fish-eyed woman … I love you simply because you are mine. I’m not yours, surprise! said I. Our coming together was merely an accident not unlike my birth into the wrong world. Have it your way then, she said as she rose. I have no more time. I’ve got to fly. But before she could do so I was overcome by one final urge to make sure she knew that I knew what she didn’t know I did. And thus I said to her, So, will you really go and have it? Said she, You heard? Every word, said I. His hers and yours. And she said, Most likely, most likely I will. And with that she flew, down the dark hall, her duffel bag banging against her thigh. But she turned back again and knocked on the door where Father’s friends were staying. Rubbing sleep from his eyes and looking bewildered, Roscoe came out and said in the hallway that Belinda was sleeping, that she had heard the sirens and had taken two Valiums to calm herself down. He seemed thoroughly surprised to learn that Carole was leaving, and after apologizing for all that he’d said on the previous evening, he hugged my stepmother with all of his might. And when he released her, she went out running, her mouth wide open, as though in horror, into the gray wall of low clouds and high clouds, into the sound of the siren still screaming off in the distance.

  And then, made peaceful at last by the monster’s departure, I sat by the window, watching the sky change and thinking, Most likely, a most peculiar woman, most likely indeed. And when the sirens ceased screaming, I heard the sky grumble, but ever so low, so that I didn’t know that I had heard it until it had stopped. And sometime later the grumbling came louder, black and impervious, sounding as though the universe itself had shifted somewhat. And then the leaves on the trees just outside my window froze in fear and moved not at all. But the gray sky grumbled yet one more time, not in the distance but now overhead, and all at once the poor little leaves blew out screaming and fell back defeated. Then the light drizzle began to come harder, hitting the pane at a furious angle. And then I heard in the sky the sound of the swirling of a monstrous boomerang which surely some devil had set into motion, and I found myself ducking as though it would strike. But it disappeared suddenly, as if at once intercepted by some even greater devil, who now stood chewing, chewing and laughing, happy to see that the games had begun. Then the sky burst open with the sound of boomerangs, and missiles too, and the rains came down with far greater force. And then Father came in with Roscoe behind him, and we sat in a row to wait for the wave. And after a while, Father closed the curtains and counted the candles in his breast pocket. And eyeing the candles, Roscoe asked him, Should I wake up Belinda? And Father said, No, I’d let her sleep. This is nothing. It will get worse. And Father said to me, She left lonely forever the kings of the sea. And I said to him, With bosom friends are others blest, but we have none, but we have none. And he smiled and took my hand, but I saw the moist film at work
in his eye, and then, when he blinked, it condensed into a ball and came rolling down his nose, and had his smile not perished, it might have served to check the tear which eventually fell onto my hand where it rested in his upon his thigh.

  And I said to myself, Most likely, most likely the woman is a fool. And then I realized that the foolish woman had gone away with only her duffel bag, and thus the painting that she had promised to spare from the wave was here instead! And shaking my hand free from Father’s, I wheeled from the room with him calling behind me. And when I returned with her sketches on my lap, and behind them the painting, my father nodded and Roscoe said, Oh. This painting, I explained handing it over for Father’s inspection, was a gift. Carole promised its creator that she would carry it to safety. And look at these sketches. Carole planned to work them up in charcoal and likewise pastels when she got home. But Father only went through them slowly and then put them aside. And I nodded my head to let him know I was waiting for a more decisive response, but he only said, Oh, with a question in his eye. Perhaps, said I, we should ride to the ferry. Perhaps it hasn’t left yet. These mean so much to her, it doesn’t seem right. And then Father stood up with his face all aquiver and his moist eyes glowing, and since Carole had taken our car, he set his wet eyes on his indifferent companion who yet understood readily and handed over the keys. On the way out Father peeled the tablecloth off the kitchen table and wrapped up in it all Carole’s sketches and the gift. And all I could think was, Most likely, most likely the artist would die a glad woman thinking that Carole had taken the painting, but the painting was here and Carole was not, and time was passing and Carole had said, Most likely.

  The rain stopped while we were still driving, but the wind blew fiercely and sent the van wandering all over the road. Faster, said I, and Father said, I am. Then he pulled right up and parked at the dock and jumped out of his seat and ran around the van and took me in his arms. And together we rushed to the edge of the dock where we could see against the gray wall of sky the boat escaping. And out from the dock house came an old man pointing, pointing and shouting what we already knew, that the very last ferry had just departed. And he shouted, too, some directives which he urged us to follow back at the house. But Father ignored him, and so shrugging his shoulders, the old man got into his car and drove away.

  We watched, then, the ferry some fifty yards gone now, and I said to Father, Can you see her? And he shook his head, and said, Carole Carole, and I said, Shout, Father, and he said it louder, but not much louder because he doesn’t know how, has never made a shout-like sound in his entire life. But he kept on saying it, and I kept on shouting it, and it was Carole Carole Carole in his deep and soft voice, and Carole Carole Carole in my high and loud one. But it didn’t matter anyway because the wind blew our voices right back to us, Carole Carole Carole, right back where they’d begun. Then I spotted her among the others, and I saw that she had seen us, too. And I pointed for Father and he leaned over the dock rail and squinted his eyes on the level with my finger. Carole Carole Carole, I shouted. Carole Carole Carole, he said. We watched bewildered as she ran to a man dressed in a uniform, and with her arms flying frantically and her hair blowing straight up into the air, she spoke to him urgently. Carole Carole Carole, we cried. She pulled on his sleeve and pointed in our direction. But he pointed upward, toward the control room, and Carole ran up the steep metal stairway, her black cotton skirt swirling around her, her hair spreading out like a peacock’s fan. And another uniformed man came out of the cabin, and Carole wrung her hands and repeated her story. But the uniformed man only pointed at the sea, and then at the sky off to the west, and Carole looked down and then up. But as he swept his hand to include in his warning all of the people below on the deck, Carole grabbed his arm and pleaded at length. But he shook himself free and pointed once more to the sea and the sky and the people, and once more Carole followed his finger.

  After the uniformed man had returned to his cabin, Carole came down slowly, gliding down the stairs with her arms at her side, her fingers dangling, gliding slowly, a spirit in the wind. And Father said, Carole Carole Carole. And Carole came to the boat’s railing and squeezed in through the crowd there. Carole Carole Carole. And she stared at us, with her long hair standing out in all directions, and her face ablaze at the center, flushing anguish and glowing love. Smaller and smaller she became until her flaming face was a spark. But we stayed on anyway, saying Carole Carole Carole, even when the rain started up again. We stayed to see the spark flickering at the center of the crowd that was merging into a gray band on a gray ship against a gray sky. And then we stayed on to see the ship become a speck. And when the speck passed over the horizon we lowered our faces to look at the sea, and I said, Father? and he mumbled, Fire. But we knew very well that it was nothing but our faces, flushing anguish and glowing love, reflecting on the water, riding on the waves.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1992 by Joan Schweighardt

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-2862-2

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