The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (2 page)

“Ahoy there,” Father called. “We're coming around.”

“Help me, for God's sake!” yelled the voice. “I'm sinking!”

“Stay calm, man,” Father called. “We're coming.”

The water grew rough and I gripped the sides of the boat. Father maneuvered expertly, and in no time we were alongside the rowboat, which was rapidly taking on water.

A huge bear of a man was waving his arms, his ragged black beard and shoulder-length hair blowing about wildly. There was a large gash on his forehead. Blood streamed down his cheek and onto his dirty shirt. A small, tawny dog with a pushed-in face and curly tail jumped about, barking frantically.

“Shut up, you flea-bitten mongrel,” the man yelled, kicking the unfortunate beast with his filthy black boots.

“Oh, good Lord, what a brute,” gasped Mother.

“It's all right, Johanna,” Father whispered. “We'll only need to have him aboard for a short while.” He threw a heavy line over to the man's boat.

“Grab hold, and pull us in closer.”

The man reached, stumbled, and fell forward. His boat dipped and bobbed precariously. Mother screamed, and the little dog began jumping and yapping all over again.

Father threw our life preserver toward the man. “Calm down and use the life buoy!” he shouted. The man stood unsteadily and, instead of grabbing the ring, flung himself toward us, overturning his boat. Both man and dog tumbled into the sea.

“Jesus H. Christ!”

I knew Father was concerned, for he never used the Lord's name in vain. The brute splashed toward our boat and gripped the side. Mother and I screamed as our sloop lurched dangerously. Father, now lying on his belly, grabbed the man and pulled. A huge wave splashed over them, dragging the man under. He emerged, terrified, and broke from Father's grasp.

“Don't panic,” Father yelled. “Just take my hand!”

The man disappeared underwater again. This time he didn't resurface. Only the dog was visible, paddling strenuously around the capsized boat. “No, Father!” I screamed, as he peeled off his topcoat.

“Edward, no!” Mother stood, reaching out for him, the boat rocking wildly.

“I can't let the man drown!” Father yelled. “Johanna, just hold tight to that line!”

With that, Father dived into the sea.

“Oh God, oh my dear God!” Mother whispered, over and over again.

My eyes darted about, trying to fix Father in my sights. I saw him break the surface, gasping for air, his dark hair slick to his head. He had the man's massive arm draped about his shoulders and he swam in a frog-like crawl back toward our boat.

“Freezing,” Mother whispered. “Dear God, Edward, you must be freezing!”

Finally, Father was at the edge of the stern. The dog paddled vigorously alongside them, his head bobbing just above the water. Mother reached over, still grasping the line. “Edward, darling, grab my hand,” she shouted.

Their hands touched, and for a moment I thought everything would be all right. But as Mother bent over, the brute grabbed the line. I saw it all in slow motion—the way the thick rope looked small in his massive hands as he yanked it toward him, the look of horror on Father's face as Mother toppled over the side, the crazy angle of her body hitting the water, her skirts billowing out around her, her broad-brimmed hat disappearing in the dark-gray sea.

“Mother!” I screamed.

“I'll get her, Lucy,” Father shouted.

I watched him struggle to free himself from the brute's desperate grasp. A great flash of lightning ripped the sky in two. I screamed when I heard the whack of Father's head against the side of our boat.

I don't know why I jumped into the water. I only knew that that was where Mother and Father were.

It was so much colder than I ever dreamed, my skirts wrapping around me like icy fingers. I thrashed about, fighting the waves, which seemed intent on pulling me under. The salt stung my eyes and burned my nose, and despite how much I willed it to be so, I could neither see my parents nor stay afloat.

The last thing I remembered was the bottom of the boat swinging around toward me, and the dull thud as it hit me square in the forehead. For a moment the sky swirled madly above me, and finally even the sky was swallowed up by the icy, gray nothingness of the angry sea.

T
he feeling of being thrown about in the waves like a rag doll, gulping and choking on salt water was so vivid, and the terror of the underwater darkness so real, that it was some time before I realized that I was no longer, in fact, still there in the sea. It was that strange yipping, insistent and urgent, that seemed to draw me out of the darkness.

Slowly, slowly, I came to, gradually realizing that the tangle of cloth around my arms and legs was no longer my cold, wet skirts, but something dry and warm. Opening my eyes seemed an impossible task, so heavy were my eyelids. It took a great effort
to open them, fighting to keep my eyes from rolling back in my head.

It was dark, but not the cold, inky blackness of the sea. A warm, soft darkness greeted me, and recognition melted over me like a salve. It was my very own room I lay in; the tangle of cloth around me, my very own bedclothes!

With difficulty I hoisted myself up on my elbows. I blinked in the dark, fighting the throbbing in my head.

It had been a dream then, after all—a terrible, bad dream! I closed my eyes to the memory of it, wincing at the images that crept into my brain. Mother, and then Father …

No … no.... I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. I was home in my own bed, safe in our own house. The house creaked as if to reassure me, a familiar sound I'd never appreciated before.

But that other sound … that yipping. There was something familiar about it, too. I forced my eyes open again and turned toward the noise. At first, what appeared before me was a kaleidoscope of muted shapes and colors. I squinted harder and rubbed at my eyes. Slowly the jumbled images converged, and my eyes crossed in an effort to bring the scene before me into focus.

A sound escaped my lips as I saw clearly for
the first time. It was a little dog. A small, tawny dog with a blackish, pushed-in face; short, bowed legs; and a tail curled up like a pig's. I fell back on the pillow and tried to control the racing of my heart. It was the dream again … the boat, the brutish man and his dog. How in the world could the pathetic pup be here in my room? My lips and mouth felt suddenly parched, and the room spun. Maybe I was delirious. Hallucinating. Perhaps I had lost my mind, maybe in the stupor of a fever.

But the yipping was real enough, although softer now. I closed my eyes and heard a rapid clicking noise. I realized it was the retreat of the animal, the sound of its little nails tapping along Mother's polished wooden floors. Mother wouldn't like that, not one bit.

But then, the clicking returned, followed by the sound of footsteps. I felt a cool hand on my forehead.

I looked up to find Addie, her white apron tied over her crisp blue dress.

“Oh, lass,” she whispered, stroking my face, the hint of her Irish brogue creeping into her voice as it did whenever she was excited. “There ye' are, finally.” She turned and hurried toward the door.

“Mrs. Simmons,” she called, her voice urgent, “'tis time to come up here, 'tis! Miss Lucy is awake!
Do come quickly!”

Her words caused a quake in the pit of my stomach. She was calling to Mother! A small smile spread across my face, and the tension I'd felt began to melt away. I was home safe in my bed, and Mother was coming to me. I closed my eyes, saving my strength for the sight of her.

I heard her feet on the stairs, heavy and fast, so unlike Mother's usual dainty, graceful step. She was worried, of course, I reasoned, and thinking of nothing but of getting to me more quickly.

In seconds I felt her take my hand. I opened my eyes slowly, anticipating how I would drink in the sight of her.

First, the kaleidoscope, a great dark splotch spinning round before my eyes. I shook my head slightly and scrunched my eyes very hard, peering out beneath lowered brows.

I blinked several times and sat up as best I could. The image before me came into focus. I froze.

The woman holding my hand wasn't my mother at all, but a complete stranger! She was making soft clicking noises with her tongue.

“There, there, now,” she said. “There, there.”

I stared at her for a moment. She was a short, plump woman, with full cheeks and small, close-set blue eyes. She had thin lips and several chins
beneath the first one, which sat like a miniature apple beneath her mouth.

I looked past her toward the door.

“Where's Mother?” I asked, my voice not much more than a raspy cackle.

The plump woman squeezed my hand and opened and closed her mouth several times. She glanced at Addie.

“Oh goodness,” she said, finally. “She doesn't remember. Perhaps it's a blessing.”

“Mother!” I yelled, this time much louder. The word seemed to stick in my mouth, and my throat began to tighten. “Mother! Where's Mother?” I croaked. “Addie, I heard you call for her.” I yanked my hand away from the woman. The small dog began to whimper and turn his head this way and that.

“Oh, dear,” said the woman, shaking her head. “You'd better tell her, Miss Addie. I can't do it. I just don't have it in me.”

Addie came around and sat on the side of my bed. She took a deep breath and wiped her hands on her apron.

“Lucy,” she said quietly, “'twas an accident out on the water, there was. A terrible accident.”

“No,” I said, covering my ears and shaking my head. “No! I'm not listening to you!” I was angry
at her then, and angrier still at the plump woman, who was dabbing at her eyes with a hankie.

Though I wouldn't look at her, Addie continued. I stuffed my fingers in my ears and shut my eyes tight, but, try as I might, I couldn't shut her out.

“I know how difficult 'tis for ye, Lucy, an' how awful it must be to remember. But your mother and the captain were drowned out there on the water. A hero, your father was, in the saving of another. The odd fellow was seen floatin' ashore grasping the edge of yer little sloop, he was.” She paused as tears slipped beneath my crunched lids.

“'Twas a miracle you survived a'tall,” she said softly, “but thanks t' the life preserver, the wee pup Mr. Pugsley here, and the help of a stranger who witnessed the scene, ye were dragged, 'bout nearly lifeless, out of the water to shore, yer father's spyglass hangin' round yer neck. And even then, what with the water in your lungs and the pneumonia, we thought for a bit we might lose ye as well. Thank goodness you've come out of it, finally. Your auntie here and your uncle have been waitin'. They'll be here to care for ye, they will. 'Twill be better, in time, you'll see.”

Addie's voice cracked a little, and she put her arms around me. As much as I wanted someone to hold me, hers were not the arms I needed. I pushed
her away, collapsed into my pillows, and turned my face from them. I felt the dog leap onto the bed, felt his snuffling nose against my face. I yanked the bedclothes over my head and remained that way until I heard them all—all except for the dog, that is—retreat into the hallway, talking in whispers.

And that was how I came to meet my father's sister-in-law, my aunt Margaret, and the boat-wreck dog, Mr. Pugsley, and how I came to understand that bad dreams, terrible dreams, can sometimes be all too real.

I
t was my uncle Victor, ultimately, who saw to it that I recovered in short time—that I was up and about and able to at least make a
show
of being well. Now, you're probably thinking that I was quite fortunate to have had someone coaxing me back to health—someone relentlessly pushing me on along the road to recovery.

But I was neither fortunate nor lucky. In fact, my uncle Victor was scarcely concerned for anything but the reading of Mother and Father's will—an event that our old friend and attorney Barrister Hardy insisted take place in my presence and, as
he put it, with me healthy again in both body and spirit.

Judging from what little I knew of my father's younger brother (Father had alluded to Uncle Victor's financial woes and hinted at a certain chronic lack of determination on his brother's part), it may well have been that pressing, for my recuperation had been his greatest accomplishment to date.

My heart ached as we gathered in the library for the reading of the will—Aunt Margaret, Uncle Victor, Barrister Hardy, and me. And of course, my new companion, Mr. Pugsley, sitting watch at my feet. The barrister was seated at Father's desk; the rest of us sat facing him on the oak folding chairs from the game room—the very same ones we used to use for an evening of keno or chess. Ghostly memories of Mother and Father in happier days surrounded me here, making the task at hand nearly unbearable.

Barrister Hardy, a very proper Englishman who was always shy and bookish, seemed particularly uncomfortable, adjusting his small round spectacles and shuffling and reshuffling the stack of papers before him. He sent for Addie, requesting her presence as a witness to the proceedings. She came, rather grim-faced, wiping her hands on her apron
as though preparing for some loathsome household task. She draped an arm around me, but it provided little comfort.