Passage

“She falls out of a tree later,” Joanna said.

“Really?” Maisie said, perking up. “Do you want to hear a neat thing about the Hartford circus fire? The Flying Wallendas, they were this acrobat family, they were up on the high wire, and they heard the band play the duck song, and—”

“Not right now,” Joanna said. “Maisie, I need a map of the islands in the Pacific Ocean. Do you have one in one of your disaster books?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, starting to get out of bed.

“You stay there,” Joanna said. “I’ll get it. Do you know which book it’s in?”

“I think Best Disasters of All Time,” Maisie said. “In the part about Krakatoa. It’s the one with the Andrea Doria on the cover.”

Joanna pulled it out of the bag and brought it over to the bed, and Maisie began searching through it. “Krakatoa was the biggest volcano ever. It made these red sunsets all over the world. Blood red. Here it is.”

Joanna leaned over her shoulder. There was a map, all right, but it was no more than a pale blue square with the outlines of India and Australia in black and a red star labeled “Krakatoa.” “You had a book with a map on the cover,” Joanna said.

“Yeah, Disasters of the World,” Maisie said. “But it’s not a very good one either.” She kicked off the covers. “I think there’s one in Earthquakes and Volcanoes.”

“Maisie,” Joanna protested, but Maisie had already gotten out of bed and extracted the book from the pile.

“It blew the whole island apart. Krakatoa,” she said, flipping through the book. “It made this huge noise, like a whole bunch of cannons.” Maisie turned pages. “I knew there was one,” she said triumphantly and dumped the book on the bed. “See? There’s Krakatoa.”

And there were Hawaii and the Solomon Islands and the Marshalls, scattered across an expanse of blue. “Do you see Midway Island anywhere?” Joanna asked, bending over the map.

Maisie pointed eagerly. “Right there. In the middle.” Of course. That’s why it was called Midway Island. And there was Pearl Harbor. Where was Malakula? She peered closer, trying to read the tiny print. Necker Island and Nikoa and Kaula, and a bunch of unnamed dots. It would be no proof of anything if Malakula wasn’t on the map. There were dozens of minuscule islands between Midway and Hawaii.

“What are you looking for?” Maisie demanded, breathing hard.

Joanna looked at her. Her lips were lavender. “Back in bed,” Joanna ordered, pulling back the covers.

“I want to help you look.”

“You can look in bed.”

Maisie dutifully clambered in and lay back against the pillows. “What are you looking for?” she repeated.

“An island named Malakula,” Joanna said, laying the open book on Maisie’s knees so they could both see it. “And the Coral Sea.”

“The Coral Sea…” Maisie murmured, poring over the map, her short hair swinging forward over her puffy cheeks. They had less color than the last time Joanna had seen her, and there were violet smudges under her eyes. It was easy to forget just how sick she was.

“Here it is,” Maisie cried.

“Malakula?” Joanna asked, following Maisie’s finger.

“No. The Coral Sea.”

Joanna’s heart sank. The Coral Sea was all the way down by Australia. There was no way Mr. Wojakowski could have covered it in a native dugout. Or in a motorboat, for that matter. It was hundreds—no, thousands, she corrected, looking at the map’s scale—of miles away.

He had made it up—the coconuts and the jammed machine guns and the Katzenjammer Kids. Maybe there’s an explanation, she thought, bending over the map again. Maybe he meant another island, with a name like Malakula. Marakei. Or Maleolap. But neither of those was any closer to Midway than Malakula, and Midway was the only island for hundreds of miles in every direction that began with an M. But you said yourself there were dozens of unnamed islands. And it’s been sixty years since World War II. Maybe he got the names mixed up. I need to talk to Mr. Wojakowski, she thought.

She closed the book and stood up. “Thank you. You were a lot of help. You’re a very good researcher.”

“You can’t go yet,” Maisie said. “I have to tell you about the people at the circus. They all tried to go out the main entrance, but they couldn’t, ’cause of the animal run, and the Wallendas—”

“Maisie, I really have to go,” Joanna said.

“I know, but I have to tell you this one thing. The Flying Wallendas and everybody tried to get them to go out the performers’ entrance, but—”

“I promise I’ll come back so you can tell me all about the tent and the Flying Wallendas. Okay?” She started for the door.

“Okay,” Maisie said. “Does she die?”

Joanna stopped cold. “Who?”

“Pollyanna. When she falls out of the tree.”

“No,” Joanna said. She came back around the bed, picked up the remote, and turned the TV back on. She hit “play.” “It’s a Disney movie.”

“Oh,” Maisie said, disappointed.

“But she hurts her back and can’t walk,” Joanna said. She handed Maisie the remote. “And she’s very crabby about it.”

“Oh, good,” Maisie said. “Did somebody have an NDE about the Coral Sea?”

“No more questions,” Joanna said firmly. “Watch your movie,” and went back up to her office to listen to the tape again. He had definitely said Malakula and the Coral Sea. She called him and left a message for him to come in at three, and then went through the transcripts again, looking for some definitive discrepancy that would make the interview unnecessary. And, reading through his accounts, she became more and more convinced there had to be some mistake.

The naval terms—hatches, islands, flight decks—and the gratuitous details—not just a canoe, but a dugout, not just a soda fountain, but one that made cherry phosphates. Surely he couldn’t have made up the Katzenjammer Kids and the neighbor lady two doors down and the newsreel about Pearl Harbor. He had even known the name of the movie that was playing.

But he couldn’t have been on the Yorktown and in his hometown when Pearl Harbor was bombed. And the Norfolk story was full of believable details, too, from the PA system to Woody Pikeman asking, “Who’s the wiseguy?” I have to talk to Richard, she thought.

The phone rang. She picked it up, hoping it was him. It was Mrs. Haighton. “I got your message,” she said. “I’m afraid neither Tuesday nor Thursday will work. I’ve got a hospital board meeting Tuesday, and Thursday’s my afternoon to volunteer at the crisis center.”

We’ve got a crisis right here, Joanna thought. “How would Wednesday afternoon work?” she said. “Two? Four? Or we could do this in the evening.”

“Oh, no, evenings are even worse,” she said and launched into a litany of board and organizing committee meetings.

“Earlier then,” Joanna said doggedly. “I really need to schedule you this week, if possible. It’s important.” But this week was absolutely impossible. Maybe next week. No, that was the Women’s Center fundraiser. The week after.

And by then, we’ll have no volunteers at all, Joanna thought. She printed out the transcripts, and took them and the tapes to the lab to show Richard. “Hiya, Doc,” Mr. Wojakowski said. He was standing outside the door in the exact spot where she’d left him.

“What are you doing here?” Joanna asked, turning hastily away to open the door so he couldn’t see the stricken expression on her face.

“I figured I’d stick around till you got done with your meeting,” he said, following her into the lab. “I remembered what you said about talking about the stuff you saw while it was still fresh in your mind, and I didn’t