Home Fires (26 page)

“Pretty, with earrings.”

“Earrings?” Maggie had asked.

“Like those,” Karen had said, pointing. She had crawled close to Maggie, her sandy fingers touching the earrings that dangled from Maggie's earlobes. Back then, like now, Maggie had worn only one or two pairs.

Maggie had reached up to feel which ones Karen meant.

“Oh, the pair of dice,” Maggie had said, smiling.

“When I grow up, I'll have earrings like those,” Karen had said.

Maggie could see her wearing them now. In the sea on the other side of the glass, the seaweed dancing around her, Karen was beautiful, back to life, keeping Maggie company, and wearing the dice earrings that meant she was all grown-up.

Tap, tap,
Maggie.

Tap, tap,
Karen.

Pair of dice.

Paradise.

“W
E
'
RE
going down with a hook and a towline, and we're going to pull the sucker out of there,” Hugh Lawson said, water streaming off his face mask.

“It's our only bet,” Mike Hannigan said. “The tide is shooting through the hole, and the car's slipping inches every few minutes. She could go down at any moment.”

“Can't we open the doors?” Ned asked. His lungs ached with unbearable worry and from being unaccustomed to pulling air through a regulator. The divers were gathered on the creek's bank, right beside the bridge. Up on the road, Marty Cole was backing Big Bertha, the truck with the fiercest towing power, to the edge.

“Can't, son,” Chief Wade said. “Outside water pressure is too great, and besides the doors are all bashed in. Crash impact does that.”

“We attach the hook to the front axle,” Hugh said, “and Marty winches her in nice and slow.”

“I don't want any of you boys anywhere near the car when Marty starts pulling,” Chief Wade said sternly. “If she goes down, I don't want any heroes pinned underneath. And get Mrs. Davis the hell out of there.”

“Haven't been able to thus far,” Hugh said wryly.

“She'll stay right next to me,” Ned's father said, his eyes trained on the crayon-yellow life jacket bobbing alongside the car.

“Ready up there, Marty?” Chief Wade bellowed, precipitating a violent spell of coughing.

“Ready,” Marty called back.

“I'm afraid of that front axle breaking,” Ned's dad said, frowning. Bigger by half than any man there, as he stood, he looked like a sea monster rising from the creek.

“It's the only place we can get some grab,” Hugh said.

“It's all rust.”

“The car's a fucking rust bucket, and the axle is our only hope,” Hugh said.

Ned started into the water after his dad, but Chief Wade grabbed his weight belt.

“Hold it right there,” the chief said. “You've done your part. The hardest thing about being one of us is knowing when to sit back and watch. You can't do it all.”

“My girlfriend's in there, Chief,” Ned said. Surprised, and humiliated, he burst into tears.

“See what I mean, Neddy? You've done your part. Wait here with me.” Ned crouched beside the chief, staring with blurry eyes at the sinking car. He felt grateful that the chief didn't reach over with a consoling hug or pat or anything. He'd spent so many holiday dinners with this guy, the chief felt like a grandfather, and Ned didn't want them to acknowledge his tears in any way.

“Anybody can save her, it's your dad,” the chief said in a low, husky voice. “I've seen him at accidents, like the time a car ran over a bicycle, and everyone was fussing around with the Hurst tool. Your father just picks the car up with his bare hands so we can pull out the cyclist and get him some first aid.”

“If he could have done that for Maggie,” Ned said in a voice without hope, “he would have by now.”

“G
ET
her out of the water,” Matt said through clenched teeth to the crowd at large. His eyes were on Anne, still treading water next to the car. He imagined the car sinking, creating a vortex, pulling Anne under.

“Please, God,” Gabrielle was praying through tears streaming down her face. “Please let Maggie be alive. Let her be rescued.”

Matt stood close to his sister-in-law, and all eyes were on Anne. She had become their lifeline to Maggie.

Dumb bastard, he thought dully. This is the kind of family you threw away.

You're going to go home to the smell of nail polish, the music of exercise videos, the flavors of máche and arugula, the warmth of a Sterno stove. You stupid, fucking asshole, you gave up a woman who would freeze at the side of her drowning niece for one who hasn't spoken to her sister in five years. Asshole, he thought, shithead.

“Merciful God,” Gabrielle wept, shuddering convulsively. Matt slid an arm around Gabrielle, and suddenly he felt Steve's arm, encircling her from the other side. Together the Vincents were praying out loud. He stopped swearing at himself and listened.

The words didn't come easy to him, and his effort was creaky. But silently, standing with his sister- and brother-in-law, Matt Davis remembered how to pray.

“Allow this couple's daughter to live,” Matt prayed with tears veiling his eyes, “as you couldn't allow ours. Don't let them suffer as Anne has this last year. As I have. Bless Karen's soul, even as you keep Maggie safe on earth. Please, Lord, bless us all.”

A
NNE
felt exhausted from the effort of making her arms and legs move constantly against the cold current, and from the knowledge that the end was near. No matter the outcome, good or bad, it would occur in the next minutes. Hugh Lawson and Thomas were swimming out, pulling the long towrope between them. Now they split up: Thomas came toward her while Hugh dove down to attach the hook to the beetle's front axle.

Pulling her back, farther and farther away from Maggie in the car, Thomas wrapped his arms around Anne.

“We have to give Marty enough space to pull her out,” he explained when Anne tried to struggle against his embrace.

“Will this work?” Anne asked, her teeth chattering. Half turning, she looked through Thomas's face mask, hoping to see reassurance in his eyes.

“It has to,” he said.

Now Hugh was sidestroking over, his air tank glinting in the eerie blue light. Hugh gave a thumbs-up, and the great hydraulic winch began to grind.

It strained and whined, like the spinning wheels of a car stuck on ice. Anne focused her eyes, for any sign that the car was budging.

Did Maggie realize that this was it, that the winch would either pull her free or not? Was Maggie aware? That during the next moments she would either be freed from the car or drown at the bottom of this creek?

All through the past year Anne had tortured herself with the same questions. Did Karen know? During the fall had she realized what was happening? Listening to the high-pitched whine of the winch gears, Anne stifled her sobs.

Cacophonous mechanical noise: metal punches in a factory, presses in a print shop, work trucks rumbling out of the city garage. Water magnified the ugly sound, filling Anne's ears. She stared at the car, its front end seeming to lift ever so slightly.

Then, peace. With no tension on the towline, the winch motor settled down to a gentle hum.

“The car?” A voice called from the bridge, and then another voice. “The car!”

Where the car had been, there was only flat, black water. The car had sunk without a trace.

“The axle broke,” Thomas said. Taking a deep breath, struggling out of his air tanks, he started swimming. Anne followed behind, gasping for breath.

“Was it here?” Thomas yelled to people on the banks. “Is this the spot?”

“Right there! My baby!” Anne heard Gabrielle scream. “Maggie, Maggie!”

Thomas dove.

H
OLDING
his air tank in his arms, Thomas Devlin breathed steadily through the regulator. Awkwardly, he unhooked the light from his belt, shone it along the creek bottom. Eelgrass fluttering in the current, a school of mackerel, and there: the car.

The car had slid off the tree trunk, its four tires resting square on the silty, pebbled bottom. It wasn't going anywhere now, so Thomas had nothing to lose. His light caught Maggie, her cheeks full with her last breath of air, her left hand clawing at the windshield. And here was Ned, swimming fast toward the car.

There was not a sound in the world except for Thomas Devlin's heart beating in his own ears.

Get back, he gestured with his hand, urging Maggie away from the windshield. But of course she could not see him. All Maggie Vincent could see was his bright light, shining through Old Whisper Creek like a cruel full moon.

He took one last breath and then, because he needed to use both his hands, he dropped his light. Shrouded in black water, he planted his feet on the car's crushed hood like Ahab on the white whale. Using his air tank as a weapon, like a harpoon, he struck the windshield again and again. Now Ned was beside him, beating the glass with his fists. Each time the metal connected, Thomas heard a gentle
ping
.

On the fourth try, he felt the windshield give way. Ripping the glass out with their bare hands, he and Ned reached in for Maggie. Struggling, she clutched their wrists. They pulled, but she was stuck.

Fumbling, Ned took a breath from the regulator, then eased the rubber mouthpiece into Maggie's mouth. She fought, terrified at first, but then she began to breathe. Watching Ned cradling Maggie's head, feeding her air, made Thomas realize that Ned was saving the woman he loved, and he felt flooded with pride.

Pushing Maggie against her seat, feeling his way because he could see nothing, Thomas Devlin put his feet through the windshield and wedged them against the caved-in side door.

Suddenly, an army of white lights began swimming from his left. Pinpoints at first, like candles being carried in a distant procession. They drew closer, fanning out, surrounding the submerged car and bathing it in shimmering light.

With one monstrous heave, Thomas Devlin kicked out the dent in the crumpled door, freeing Maggie's trapped right arm. Wrapping her in his arms, as gently as possible, for it was obvious that she was badly hurt, Ned eased her out through the windshield.

The men surrounded Thomas, Ned, and Maggie. Hugh offered Thomas a breath from his regulator, and Thomas saw Ned pressing his own mouthpiece to Maggie's lips.

His heart full, his chest aching, this is how Thomas Xavier Devlin, former altar boy, namesake of the saints, father of Ned and lover of Anne, saw it:

They were angels and archangels, cherubim and seraphim, the men of the Island Volunteer Fire Department. And here they were, bearing Maggie Vincent, alive, straight to heaven, direct to paradise, safely home to her parents and Anne and all the people who loved her, miraculously back to the place where she belonged.

A
cheer arose among the crowd, from the bridge over Old Whistle Creek back to the cars parked two deep along Cross-Island Highway. Policemen surrounded Gabrielle and Steve, who had to be helped down the bank because they couldn't see through their tears. The divers and Anne floated Maggie in to shore, Anne and Maggie's heads pressed so close together you almost thought they were one.

Shrieking with joy, Gabrielle waded straight into the creek, embracing Anne, lunging for Maggie, being carefully restrained by Chief Wade, who reminded her gently that they had to be very cautious, at least until they determined the extent of Maggie's injuries.

Steve and Gabrielle knelt in the shallow creek, on either side of their daughter, whispering in her ears as the EMTs strapped her securely to the stretcher, Gabrielle's hands fluttering, from Maggie's hair to her eyebrows to her throat. Bright lights from the bridge illuminated the three Vincents like actors in a play, like figures of the holy family in the floodlit crèche on the church lawn at Christmas.

Standing tall, watching her family, Anne seemed oblivious to the fact that she wore nothing but a black lace bra and panties. Water flowed off her beautiful body, so magical and feminine, like Venus in
The Birth of Venus,
only without the scallop shell, only more magnificent than any woman Botticelli had ever painted.

The Uffizi Gallery, in Florence. How long ago had it been? Their second year of marriage? Their third? They had stood before the famous painting, so large it occupied a whole wall. Throngs of tourists surrounded them, pressing forward, pressing them together.

They had gazed upon the famous painting, so famous that everyone in the world knew it, you wouldn't be surprised to see it on a Hallmark card, a children's cartoon show, the crass place mat at any seafood joint, they had gazed at it for many moments, trying to figure out its magic.

The crushing crowd pressing them together, so that feeling Anne's bottom press against him, Matt had grown aroused, had reached around her to cup one breast and kiss her neck, right there among a hundred tourists in the Uffizi Gallery, and staring straight at Venus, holding his wife, Matt had known he had the more beautiful woman.

And there she was now, knee-deep in the muddy creek, naked except for her lace underwear, the bra one Matt recognized well, one he had brought her from Christian Dior last summer, an offering, a sleight of hand to keep her from realizing that he was having an affair behind her back.

Matt gazed not at Maggie Vincent, his niece who had so narrowly escaped the sweet spot of death, that perfect window of opportunity where life can end instantly. That moment when you might not even recognize how lucky you were to escape, how grateful you should feel.

Matt didn't gaze at Maggie, whose life had been saved by the same capricious forces that had let Karen die. He gazed with eternal love and deepening regret at Anne, his wife, who was being embraced, being swaddled in warm, dry blankets, by the man she loved. He narrowed his eyes, to focus on Anne and that man.

Anne, who couldn't take her eyes off of Maggie—as if she still couldn't believe they'd been able to save her, as if she were afraid the tide could rise and sweep Maggie away.

Matt watched Thomas Devlin hold his wife, caress her face, pat her hands with his own, as if trying to warm them, as if his weren't at least as cold as hers after spending all that time, over an hour, in the tidal creek. Now Anne looked away from Maggie, to Thomas Devlin. She reached up, held his face, and smiled into his eyes. She was speaking to him, but Matt couldn't, didn't want to, hear what she was saying.