Siren's Storm

was a child, Will had always found their talk soothing. Tim had been interested in the parental gossip, but Will tried to listen not to the words but just to the calming drone of the voices, like the crash of the sea. It was hard now, though, since the words were about him.

“You should have seen him.” Carl’s voice was a sigh, and Will could picture his uncle sitting at the ancient wood table, swigging a bottle of non-alcoholic beer. Will’s father always kept the fridge stocked with them in case Carl came over.

Carl had waited until Will’s mother went to sleep to mention anything about the incident on the beach.

Carl is a wise man, Will thought. Mom would’ve had to be strapped to something.

“He looked… well, to be honest with you, Bert, he looked crazy.”

Will’s father let out a soft hissing sound. “It’s the timing.”

“Next week. I know.” There was a gentle clink as Carl set his bottle on the table.

Next week. The God’s honest truth was that Will hadn’t realized that it had been almost a year. But of course it had. It’s the end of June, isn’t it?

It was frightening how little he thought about the night his brother died. He used to think about it all the time, trying to remember what had happened. He would talk to anyone who would listen in an attempt to puzzle out the events of that night. Will knew that he and Tim had gone sailing at sunset. There was nothing unique about that. Except Tim hadn’t come back. And Will had. The police had found him on the beach, unconscious. He’d been wet, his face covered in blood. Nobody knew how he’d gotten there. And nobody knew what had happened to Tim.

Eventually people stopped listening to Will. They would sit with him while he talked, sure, but their eyes would lose focus or drift to the clock on the wall. Will could tell that some of them didn’t believe that his memory was like an empty shell. He had to remember something, they’d say. Something. But Will didn’t remember.

Why did they find me when they never found Tim?

It was a question with no answer.

The wind howled mournfully through the trees. It was dark, but Will could see the branches bending with the gusts. He wondered how many trunks would be torn from the earth before the night was over.

“Don’t say anything to Evelyn.” His father again.

“Of course not. I just don’t know-maybe there was a girl, Bert. But-”

“In this storm?” Will’s father sounded doubtful.

“I didn’t see anything.”

“There was nothing to see.” Silence. And then, “He’ll be better in a couple of weeks. This anniversary is taking a toll.”

“I know it is.”

Will lay on his back, still feeling the motion of the waves with his body. He could still see that girl. He could see the water as it closed over her, gobbled her up. She had seemed so real.

He stood up and went to the bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered on, revealing his greenish face in the mirror. Maybe I am crazy, he thought, staring into his own eyes. No matter how often he saw it, he couldn’t get used to the purplish scar that ran diagonally across his forehead and sliced down the top of his cheekbone. His sandy hair covered it most of the time. But sometimes the wind would push it back, and a passing stranger would stare. It made Will feel like Frankenstein-like someone stitched back together. Especially in a place like Walfang, where all of the summer people were surgically perfected.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I could just remember, Will thought as he pulled open the medicine cabinet. If I just knew what happened.

Will pulled out an orange bottle and unscrewed the white plastic top. His doctor had prescribed sleeping pills, but Will hated taking them. They made him groggy and lethargic the next day.

Then again, so did staying awake all night.

He shook two pills into his palm and popped them into his mouth. Then he scooped cool water from the faucet to wash them down. He put the bottle back and closed the medicine chest, then clicked off the light.

Will settled back under the ancient quilt his great-aunt had stitched and listened to the wind’s complaints. He tucked his feet under Guernsey’s warm body. There’s a hurricane happening on the other side of this wall, Will thought.

The wind picked up. The sturdy oak near the farm stand stood tall, refusing to bend, but the wind simply redoubled in rage. A crack like a gunshot, then several pops and a groan as the wind delivered its vengeance. The oak leaned, then toppled with an explosion and a strange silver tinkle.

“Greenhouse,” Will’s father said.

Footsteps, and the sound of the kitchen door opening and slamming shut. The house was suddenly silent. Will lay perfectly still in the darkness.

A year ago, Will’s father would have shouted up at both of his sons to get their asses downstairs and help. But not now.

Will curled onto his side, like a question mark. He knew he’d fall asleep eventually. He just had to wait.

Chapter Three

From the Walfang Gazette

City Cleanup Scheduled Today

Walfang’s mayor, Claire Hutchinson, has asked all city employees to assist with the cleanup of city beaches today. Tropical Storm Bonita didn’t cause as much damage as forecasted or feared, but it still packed high winds and waves that have left the beaches riddled with detritus.

“Our economy depends on the tourist trade,” Mayor Hutchinson read from a prepared statement last night at a press conference. “When tourists come to Walfang, they expect to see the pristine white sand beaches we’re famous for.” A spokesman for the Department of Public Works…

“Good morning, sunshine!” Gretchen chirped as Will shuffled groggily into the kitchen the next morning. She slid two fried eggs onto a plate and headed to rescue the toast from the toaster. Will’s dad had been meaning to fix the pop-up feature for the past eight years, but Gretchen knew its quirks.

“What are you doing here?” Will asked, blinking at her with heavy lids. “Why does it smell like bacon?”

“Because I made you breakfast,” Gretchen replied as she set the plate before him. “I figured bacon would probably be the only thing that could wake you up.”

Will glanced at the clock: eleven-thirty. And here he was, in his own kitchen, while the girl from next door was cooking away like Snow White bent on feeding an army of mining dwarves. That was so Gretchen. She only spent summers in Walfang, but whenever she and her father appeared, they just picked up as if they had never left. “Where is everybody?”

“I think your dad’s at the hardware store. Your mom is-”

“Well, look who finally rolled out of bed,” Evelyn Archer said as she walked in from the living room. Her dark eyes scowled at Will. “Your father could use your help, you know. Humberto can’t come in today.”

Will scooped up a forkful of egg. Arguing with his mother never got him anywhere.

“Bert isn’t here right now,” Gretchen told her.

Mrs. Archer removed her laser glance from Will’s face and turned to Gretchen. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Here I am!” Gretchen singsonged. She paced over to the coffeepot and poured the dark, rich liquid into Will’s mother’s favorite cup. “He told me he had to get the tractor fixed in town-said he’d be back in a couple of hours.” She held out the mug, and Mrs. Archer accepted it gratefully.