Greg Weisman - Rain of the Ghosts

Miranda laughed.

Charlie looked back over his shoulder. Rain was probably already knocking on Joe’s door. “Look, I have to catch up. See you tonight!”

“Okay. Bye.” Miranda watched as Charlie backpedaled, waved and turned from the railing. Then he was gone too. She stood there for a moment, replaying the entire exchange in her mind. She was pretty sure they liked her. She just wasn’t yet a part of their world.

As an afterthought, she turned to Ariel. The blond woman stood there like a work of art, a figure bursting with life that had been captured and held forever in a moment of time made fixed and permanent. But Miranda didn’t take particular notice of that particular tension. She was used to her companion. “Can you take me back and forth to San Próspero tonight?”

Ariel, maintaining her resemblance to a marble statue, said nothing.

“My father won’t mind,” Miranda said.

Almost imperceptibly, Ariel nodded.

“Thanks.” A pleased Miranda turned and watched the ferry pull away.

Charlie rapped twice on the door to the pilot’s cabin. Joe reached back and opened it. Charlie slipped inside. Joe was talking. Rain stood there rapt.

“The Belle ’s second-to-last stop was Oxford, Mississippi, which Pete said was ‘a mule ride’ from his Pa’s farm. Lots of folks came out to see the local hero, his compadres and the Island Belle . Everyone was treated like royalty, see? The mayor hosted a barbecue. A big party. Pete’s parents and his little brother were there, beaming at their boy. Pete really didn’t want to leave them again. And by this time, a bunch of the men wanted to go home. Each stop on the tour had made them miss their old lives more and more.

“But ’Bastian wanted us to see the Keys before we all went our separate ways. He was proud of these islands and wanted to show his boys a good time, Ghost-style. ‘One last mission,’ he said, ‘one last flight and you can all go home.’”

“But you weren’t there,” Rain interrupted, confused.

“No. I was still in New York. I was hoping to meet them down here.”

“Then how do you—”

“’Bastian told me. When it was over. All over. He said, ‘I’ll tell you exactly once, Joe. But don’t ever ask me again.’ And so he told me. The whole thing. What I’m telling you now. But we never talked about it again. Not the war. Not this. None of it. I moved down here. And we were friends. But as far as he was concerned, life began in 1946.”

Rain nodded. Solemn. Joe’s tongue took another sojourn around his lips.

“The Belle left Mississippi and headed southwest. She was supposed to land at the naval base over on Tío Samuel. Your grandfather was piloting. Tommy was riding shotgun. Bear Mitchell had set their course down below, but there wasn’t much for him to do now except compose dirty limericks. Lance was at his station with the radio on, but no one was talking. Pete would stick his head into the cockpit every once in a while. It was a habit he’d picked up from being top turret gunner. The rest had nothing to do but sleep a little, if they could. A B-17 bomber is built for combat not comfort. It’s loud, uninsulated, cramped. I don’t miss that. Just the guys.

“It was raining. They were flying into a storm. A day later that storm would be reclassified a hurricane and dubbed Santa Julia , but the Belle ’s crew had no idea then it would get that bad.”

There was no music in Rain’s head. No sound except Joe’s voice. But she could see it. ’Bastian at the controls. Tommy in the next seat. Pete leaning in. Rain beating down. Lightning lighting up the cockpit like a hundred flashbulbs. But no thunder. Not yet.

“It was a bumpy ride. But still no indication from the Navy that they should turn back. They got close. Real close. But Julia… Well, the way ’Bastian put it, Julia made her presence known. Lightning hit the wing. An engine caught fire. The Belle started to augur in. ’Bastian and Tommy fought to keep her aloft, but the gale flipped her right over. They went down between San Próspero and Tío Sam’s.

“Sweetie, your granddad was the only survivor.”

Rain looked at her Papa, hanging on the bulkhead amid his smiling crew.

Joe took a deep breath and finished. “Sebastian Bohique was not a man to harbor regrets. He figured you took what life gave you, made your choices and lived with ’em. But this was different, see? He felt he kept those boys from going home. I didn’t blame him; the Navy didn’t blame him; the Army Air Corps didn’t blame him; even the families didn’t blame him. But he blamed himself. That’s the one regret he took to his grave.”

Rain and Charlie walked slowly down the beach under the late afternoon’s waning sun. She spoke quietly, almost to herself: “It all makes sense now. ’Bastian appearing. His buddies looking out to sea. He needed to set things right; he needed my help, and I let him down.”

“Rain…”

“But why appear to me? Why not to my mom? Or to Old Joe, who would have understood? Or to anyone who would have handled it better?”

She stopped, turned and stepped in front of a worried Charlie. “The armband’s the key. I know it is. And that means if I can get it back, I may still be able to get him back.”

Charlie looked miserable. “Rain, let it go. Come to the party tonight and forget all this. It’s… it’s nuts!”

“I know how it sounds, but…” She stopped, looked around helplessly, then attempted to gather her thoughts. When she spoke again, her voice sounded fragile in a way Charlie had never heard before. “My world got smaller without him in it.”

He wanted to reach out, at least put a hand on her shoulder. But he was afraid and then surprised and vaguely electrified when she put her hands on his shoulders. “That last night before, before he… he said the armband would make me feel part of something larger. I don’t know if I believed him then. But I believe him now. And I need you to believe too. I said I didn’t, but I lied. I can’t do this without you.”

Charlie stared at her for a long moment with his mouth hanging open. Does she get what she’s asking? How am I supposed to believe any of this? And yet despite himself, his mouth began to curve into a smile. “How can I help?” he said finally.

Rain smiled back. She linked her arm in his and propelled them both down the beach. “I don’t have a clue,” she said.

“Your magic number is fifty-seven,” Maq said, employing just enough volume to grab the kids’ attention. We were about thirty yards further down the beach, entertaining tourists for quarters.

“Bernie, that’s your age!” Maude Cohen squealed.

“Then that’ll be a quarter,” Maq replied. He smiled at me, and I smiled back, as Bernie Cohen, wearing a new but equally loud Hawaiian shirt, hurried to pull a quarter out of the pocket of his Bermuda shorts.

Eagerly anticipating her turn, Maude pushed at her fumbling husband. “Give him the quarter, Bernie.” And when he had, she turned on Maq: “Now, do me!”

Maq tipped back his old straw hat. He grinned broadly at Maude. “Your magic number is 171.”

Bernie, impressed, said, “Maude, that’s your—”

“Just give him the quarter, Bernie.”

Rain and Charlie approached. Maq absently called out, “Hey, Rain.” And I watched him pocket the second quarter as a fuming Maude pulled her husband toward the parking lot.

“Hey, Maq,” Rain said.

I was lying on my stomach on the sand, and Rain crouched down beside me, while Maq and Charlie exchanged greetings. She rubbed my head then scratched between my ears, asking, “And how is Opie today?” in a cutesy baby-talk voice. Coming from anyone else, I’d have been annoyed.