Marcia Talley - Without a Grave

‘I don’t like what I see on CNN. They say Helen’s heading directly for the Abacos.’

‘Hurricanes can be very unpredictable. Look what happened with Jeanne.’ Molly had mentioned to us earlier that Jeanne had meandered around the Caribbean for ten days before steaming out into the empty Atlantic. Then she surprised everyone by making a two hundred and seventy degree turn and heading back toward land. Just like a woman. Unpredictable.

On the other end of the line Paul snorted. ‘May I remind you that Jeanne devastated the Abacos.’

‘Bad example,’ I said, picking up an apple and checking it for brown spots.

‘You must always assume a storm is going to turn in your direction and act accordingly, Hannah.’

‘That’s why the house is battened down and I’m in the Pink Store, buying groceries.’

By the time I reached Winnie and the checkout counter, I had promised Paul that if it looked like the hurricane was going to be a doozey, I’d hie myself to the airport and nip out of there, pronto.

Over the next two days, resorts emptied. An unbroken procession of golf carts, ferries and taxis transported grumbling guests and their belongings to the airport where they waited in long lines – sitting on their bags, sleeping at uncomfortable angles on plastic chairs – for the privilege of being packed into tiny planes and flown to safety on the mainland.

Safety . I had to smile. When Hurricane Helen finished with Abaco, she’d no doubt head straight for Florida, then where’d they be?

Rudolph Mueller joined the stream of evacuees, too, flying himself back to San Antonio where his young family awaited. He left his son, Jaime, in charge. Jaime, who nobody’d laid eyes on for weeks. Maybe he’d evacuated, too, and just forgot to tell anyone.

Cabin cruisers, motor yachts and fishing boats headed west in flotillas. Mega-yachts, too, just as quickly as crews could be flown in to drive them back to their owners in Jupiter, Palm Beach or Miami.

Meanwhile, cruising yachtsmen were jockeying for secure moorings in Hope Town, Man-O-War and Hawksbill Cay, all popular hurricane holes, or deciding to risk a mooring in Marsh Harbour or a tie-up at one of the marinas.

By the time it was certain that Helen would make landfall in the Abacos, the Parker inquest had been cancelled, Radio Abaco shut down all programming except for storm warnings and evacuation notices, and it was too late for me to leave the islands.

I got my ditch kit together: passport, money, prescription meds, my wallet containing my Blue Cross/Blue Shield card – and put it all in a wheely duffle along with enough drinking water and clothing for three days. I packed canned goods and unperishables in a canvas tote, and added a can opener. Manual. I found some long-life milk only two months past its sell-by date, so I chucked that into the bag, too. My sleeping bag topped everything off.

Over the last of Molly’s chicken and a casserole of green beans, Molly and I discussed what to do. There were no designated shelters on tiny Bonefish Cay. Two women riding out a hurricane alone on an otherwise deserted cay didn’t seem like a good idea to me, even if we were both able-bodied gals described by everyone who knew us as ‘spunky.’

Our designated shelter was the Hawksbill Cay All-Age School, but Molly taught poetry there from time to time, and wasn’t convinced it’d be any safer than staying at home on Bonefish. ‘Trust me when I tell you, Hannah, I’d rather ride out the storm in Pro Bono than in the Hawksbill All-Age School.’

An alternative was the St Frances de Sales Catholic Church in Marsh Harbour, but we didn’t know anybody there.

Then on the Cruisers’ Net that morning, a welcome announcement. Jaime Mueller (who claimed he never listened!) called in on open mike to say that the Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina could be used as an evacuation center.

‘He just wants to curry favor with the locals,’ Molly grumbled.

‘Curry away,’ I said, delighted. ‘Any port in a storm.’

‘Not quite any. My late husband was a builder,’ Molly told me. ‘Let’s check the Tamarind Tree out.’

‘What I really want to check out, is that shack in Kelchner’s Cove. Since we’ll have free access to the grounds, do you think…?’

‘Snap out of it, Hannah! Hurricane? Remember?’

‘There’s a party pooper in every crowd.’

Twenty minutes later, it seemed odd to find the turnstile up and the gate to the exclusive resort unattended. When we found him, Lou, the gate attendant, was dragging pool furniture into the fitness center with the help of another staffer. Sitting on an empty planter ten feet away, watching, was Alice Madonna Robinson Mueller.

‘Hello, Alice,’ I said.

Her tears had dried, but they’d left tracks of blue-black mascara down her cheeks. I was going to ask her what was wrong when she said, ‘Oh, hi, Hannah. Who’s your friend?’

‘This is Molly Weston. She lives over on Bonefish Cay, too. We’re hoping to ride out the hurricane with you.’

‘Oh, goody! It’ll be nice to have a friend staying here.’

‘Looks like you’ve been crying. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, really. It’s just that Jaime can be such a stinker ! I wanted to go home, begged him, but he said if he had to stay, I had to stay.’ She folded her arms across her bosom. ‘And now it’s too late.’

‘Well, if it’s any consolation, Alice, I’m stuck here, too. My husband’s back in Maryland, totally pissed off that I didn’t make it out in time.’

Alice hopped off the planter, seemingly cheered by this news. ‘Jaime says this place was built to withstand winds up to one hundred and eighty miles an hour. Can you imagine? I’ve already got my space picked out. Come and see.’ Like a camp counselor on a field trip, she led us into the dining room where I’d last eaten lunch after my talk with Gabriele, down a narrow corridor and into an elegant, mahogany-paneled club room decorated in British Colonial style, more reminiscent of the Raj than the West Indies. Small items that could easily become projectiles – silverware, glassware, vases – had been stored away, leaving only tables and chairs. Ceiling fans circled slowly overhead.

‘I’m behind the bar,’ Alice said. She pointed out her mattress, pillows and blanket; a pile of Vogue and People magazines; and something that made me want to take her in my arms and whisper there-there into her hair – a teddy bear so well loved he was nearly hairless.

‘What a lovely little nest you’ve made for yourself, Alice,’ said Molly.

‘I couldn’t bring everything, of course.’ She started to tear up again.

I picked up her hand, squeezed and held on to it. ‘We’re going back home to pick up our things now, but after we return and get settled in, let’s sit down and have a nice chat. Okay?’

Alice managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere and plant it on her face. ‘I’d like that a lot, Hannah.’

‘What a sad little creature,’ Molly said after Alice had scampered off to retrieve something else she’d forgotten from her cottage on the point. We were wandering around the club room, casing the joint. ‘Poured concrete floors,’ Molly said, testing the carpet with her toes. She laid a hand flat on the wall. ‘Solid concrete construction here, too.’ She leaned back, checking out the ceiling. ‘Reinforced trusses, two-by-six and not two-by-four, that’s good.’ She pointed. ‘And they’re nicely camouflaged, but can you see where they used hurricane straps to tie the roof to the walls? That should prevent lift-off!’

Even I could see that except for the picture window overlooking the pool, all the windows had been constructed, Bahamian-style, out of wood and high-quality plexiglass. They became their own hurricane shutters when lowered and dogged tightly down. ‘And another plus?’ Molly added. ‘The doors open out, and not in.’