The Fog (19 page)

Christina found that almost more horrifying than Anya’s belief that the wet suit
was
the sea. But I’ve never been in the cellar, she thought. I’ve never even thought about the cellar.

Was the cellar full of water now — full of storm and tide, crawling up the walls of Schooner Inne to drown her in bed?

Christina tried not to cry. She wanted more than anything just to keep listening to Blake’s voice. His wonderful, rich, boy’s voice. She told Blake about trying to find the fear files and getting caught like a cheap thief. “You don’t think I’d steal money, do you?” she said anxiously.

“No, but you might do something else equally dumb. Leave it, Christina, just leave it. They’re bigger than you are. More powerful. The Shevvingtons had one talk with my parents —
one!
— and wham! I’m two hundred miles west. I try to tell them it was important to go down the cliff after that man in the wet suit and they tell me not to make things up and how much I’ll like boarding school.”

She could see him, all lean and handsome and windblown. I love you, she thought. It’s wrong and I’m going to stop tomorrow. She said, “We might get a hurricane.”

Even as she spoke she heard something come off the house — a shutter or a storm door perhaps — and rip agonizingly, and crash around in the alley.

“Take care of yourself, Chrissie,” he said. There was a catch in his voice. She treasured it. “Listen,” she began.

A thick, gnarled finger with chipped layers of red polish disconnected the phone.

“Christina,” said Mrs. Shevvington softly, “I have told you not to use the telephone without permission. Who were you calling? We will find out when the bill comes, of course, so do not fib.”

Christina did not fib. She did not speak at all.

“Bedtime,” said Mrs. Shevvington.

Christina walked up alone, into the waiting dark.

The Shevvingtons stood below on their balcony, their arms folded like chains, and smiled at each other.

She would never sleep. The winds outside were trying to throw the house into Candle Cove. Perhaps the passage in the cellar was undermining the house so it would cave in from the bottom as well.

Every hundred years, thought Christina, turning Frankie’s remarks over in her mind. I could read old newspapers, couldn’t I? And find out about the boy on the bike and the honeymooners and the sea captain, and even the weather and the tides.

She tugged her hair into a ponytail and stuffed it up under the baseball cap. She had a lot of hair. It made a puffy pillow on top of her head.

On the very last page of the mystery book she found out who the murderer was. She had misunderstood every hint. She had never realized at all who the bad guy was. Christina had been completely tricked.

Had she misunderstood every clue in Schooner Inne as well?

She got out of bed and padded silently into Anya’s room, making no noise to disturb her. Standing in the dormer, Christina looked out at Candle Cove. The waves did not curl in pretty frothy fingers. Tons of black and green water sloshed to the cliff tops and fell back. Wind cut canyons through the water. Even as she watched, a dinghy and a small motorboat filled with water and sank. A larger boat tore loose from its mooring and was dashed against its neighbor, hitting it like a sledge, until they both splintered.

The tall utility poles along the parking lot above the wharf threw a thick, mustard-yellow light over the chaos.

There was only one human being visible. Not a fisherman struggling to save his boat nor a house owner trying to fasten a shutter.

Anya.

White as a bride, clinging to the Singing Bridge.

So many clues! thought Christina. I missed every one.
Anya
was cut away from the safety of the rest of us — not me.
Anya
is the endangered species — not me!

Robbie had said that whenever somebody drowned, the bridge sang. Over the fierceness of the storm Christina could not tell if the bridge was singing. She could not call to Anya to stop her.

Tonight
, the tide had whispered.

But it had been Anya whispering.

Anya announcing her plans.

Christina ran down the stairs. She had to get to Anya. Fast.

The front door, of course, was locked.

Christina clung to the big brass handle, unable to think at all. How had Anya gotten out? How was Christina to get out?

She raced back up the stairs and pounded on the Shevvingtons’ bedroom door. (Did people like that sleep? Or just lie awake, gloating and planning?) “Open up!” she screamed. “We have to go save Anya. Unlock the front door. Get ropes. Call the fire department!”

The Shevvingtons did not open the door.

She shook it hard and kicked it. “I need you!” she screamed. “Help me get Anya.”

“Christina, Anya is sound asleep. Go back to bed. This house has withstood a century and a half of storms, and it won’t give way to this one.”

Christina beat on the door with her fists. “Anya is on the Singing Bridge. She’s going to step off into the Cove.”

Mr. Shevvington ripped the bedroom door open. He wore a long, dark maroon robe, like Christmas kings. “Stop this!” he roared, louder even than the sea. “Go to bed.”

“Look out the window!” cried Christina. She was sobbing now and it was hard to get a deep breath. What if Anya had already gone to the sea?

“We have had enough of your nonsense,” said Mr. Shevvington.

She stared at him. “But Anya — ”

“Is fine.”

“Is going to drown!” she screamed, as if volume could convince, screaming so loudly she was raw in her throat just from those four words.

Mr. Shevvington folded his arms. He stood in the bedroom door staring down at Christina. It seemed to her that the corners of his mouth wanted to smile. Mrs. Shevvington, sitting up in the bed, did smile. Then she pushed the remote control button for her television.

Christina whirled and ran down the stairs to the kitchen. From her book bag she ripped her house key and flew back through the black-and-gold halls to the front door. She jabbed her key in the lock.

It did not fit.

“Your key fits only from the outside, Christina.” How mocking was Mrs. Shevvington’s voice. How sure of victory!

But victory would be Anya’s plunge into Candle Cove. Anya, who thought the sea was keeping count … when all along it was the Shevvingtons.

Christina ran to the windows in the living room. Shuttered on the outside against the storm. She ran into the dining room. Shuttered and barred. The kitchen door was locked; the side door locked.

“Stop this!” she screamed. “Let me out! If you won’t save Anya, let me!”

Behind their door, the Shevvingtons laughed.

She had thought that in the end they would be Good. That when push came to shove, they were grown-ups; they might be mean, but they would not stand by and let Anya walk off the cliff.

She had been wrong.

She did not live with people who knew the meaning of Good.

Trembling on the stairs, Christina tried to think. She cast her eyes up for some other kind of help. The glass in the cupola winked.

I can get out the top, thought Christina; they haven’t closed the bottle entirely.

How long the ladder was. How many rungs there were. As if she were passing into another world, another time.

Christina pushed open the window through which Anya had talked to the sea. She slid out. There on the top of the house — so high it felt like the top of Maine — she stood, a tiny girl on a tiny ledge above the entire Atlantic Ocean.

The gale had gathered the sea and all its creatures and was hurling it mercilessly against the cliffs, reaching for the house. She stood on the roof like a twig in a blender.

I’m here, she thought, but how do I get down? Anya is still on the Singing Bridge, but she can’t hear me over the storm!

“Blake!” whispered Christina. She did not have a real voice anymore. She spoke only with the ghost of her lungs. “Somebody — Mother — Daddy — Miss Schuyler — come get me, please!”

She yanked Frankie’s baseball cap down hard on her forehead to keep it from blowing away.

Nobody will come get me, Christina thought.

And if anybody is going to get Anya, it has to be me.

Behind her, the window closed. A tiny sound, audible because it was not part of the storm, told Christina the truth. The Shevvingtons had latched the window.

Christina turned, terrified, and lost her balance, slipping backward toward the sea, her bare feet sliding on the cruel roof.

In the cove the waves clapped.

T
HERE WAS A BLUR OF
stars and rain.

There was time to think of the outrage of it all: that she should tumble to her death like the sea captain’s bride when she was the
good
one! The Shevvingtons, who deserved a watery grave, would live on.

There was time to think of the horror of her very own lungs filling with water instead of air. Would it hurt? Or would she merely cease to be?

She slanted between the sea and the sky, pummeled with rain, assaulted with noise. Her toes curled on the shingles, trying to hang on. Below her, the sea screamed and taunted. It tossed feathers of sea foam on her bare legs.

She screamed, throwing her hands out, tilting herself backward, trying to lie down, trying —

But there was nothing there.

Her feet reached into space, gravity yanked her body after them, and her hands held only air.

Christina landed immediately. Even her feet were surprised, and both her ankles turned in, having assumed, in a muscle and bone way, that they would never again hold up her body. She was standing on the sill formed by the odd little dormer of Anya’s bedroom.

Her tears of terror blended with the rain, as if she were one with the clouds.

Below her the roof formed a very slanted passage away from the sea cliffs, toward the street. She crawled onto the shingles, trying not to think of the waiting arms of the waves below. The roof sloped more steeply than Breakneck Hill. There had to be a window she could get in. She caught the edge of a shutter and clung to it, trying to get away from the sea. It was the window of the Shevvingtons’ bedroom. She could see their shadows.

She thought of the sea captain’s bride. Had she tried to catch herself, too? She thought of Anya. Was this Anya’s route — or had the Shevvingtons let her out, knowing Anya’s state of mind?

Christina crawled forward, slithering closer and closer to the grim edge. The rain caught on the shingles and glittered like diamonds that would never be strung on necklaces. Don’t slow down, she told herself. If you stop to think about what you’re doing, you’ll panic.

Below her was the nearly flat roof of the kitchen stoop. Christina inched down the wet shingles, clung for a moment to the gutters, dangled her feet as far as she could, and let go.

She could not even hear the thud of her own feet landing. The sound of the storm had drowned the sound of her crash.

Anya, wait for me! Christina thought. Her chest hurt from the desperate thudding of her own heart.

One more jump to go. Down into the back alley. But this last jump would be the worst; pavement was hard, unforgiving. The ocean might call,
Float in me.
The earth made no such promises.
Break your bones on me,
said the earth.

She jumped, landing knees first in a puddle full of sodden leaves. Her knees were skinned and bleeding. Her insides felt jarred loose. She stared up at Schooner Inne. She could not believe the height she had come down. She saw the Shevvingtons rushing from window to window, trying to figure out where Christina was now.

“I got down,” she whispered. “I’m off the roof, Anya. I’m coming, just wait for me.” Her knees buckled and left her in the puddle. She had to crawl. Like a whipped puppy she pulled herself forward, crying uselessly into the wind. “Anya, Anya, don’t do anything!”

Every light in Schooner Inne went on.

It’s not enough they won’t help, Christina thought, they’re going to come out and stop me! Oh, I hate them! How I hate them!

Christina hauled herself up, ran out the alley, and down the black steepness of Breakneck Hill.

How fast I’m going! she thought. I’ve never run so fast in my life.

It was like flying. She did not even seem to be using her feet. She was windblown, like a seabird in the air currents.

This is how the boy on his bike felt, she thought. It was worth it to him. He was happy when he —

When he broke his neck.

Christina grabbed the fence, tearing her fingers on the thin, harsh metal. She slowed herself with her hands, braking with her palms.

Then she forced herself to walk. She counted her steps, making her feet land hard and flat. One hand was bleeding. She wrapped it in —

Oh, no, thought Christina. I’m wearing my nightshirt.

It was an XXXL barn-red T-shirt on which her mother had embroidered Christina’s name in silver thread.

I look like a Christmas card. If they see me wearing a T-shirt and absolutely nothing else on a cold Maine October night, they’ll lock me up. I’ll be Val’s roommate.

Singing Bridge was empty, no cars hummed over its metal treads.

She was too late. Anya had gone to the sea.

Sobbing, Christina rushed to the edge of the cliffs.

Candle Cove, too, looked like a Christmas card. Waves curled in shepherd’s crooks, layers of white sea foam icing on green cakes. There, climbing down to the ledge where the honeymooners had picnicked, was Anya, clad all in white.

Anya glanced up and waved as sweetly as if they were at a school soccer game, cheering goals. “I heard you call,” said Anya, happily, who could not have heard anything above the roar of the elements. “I heard you say to wait for you. I’m so glad we’re going together, Christina.” Anya’s face was invisible, clouded by the black hair that frothed in the wind, glittering with diamonds of night mist.

Christina knelt by the terrible wet cliffs, and the shepherd’s crooks of water tried to hook her body and drag her into the final fold. I have already climbed down a house! thought Christina. I can’t face these rocks. I can’t fight the sea again.