The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

He slammed the door, and the tires splashed away along the shiny asphalt. He watched the red glimmer of the taillights disappear. She was too smart, and she'd guessed too much, he knew. There had to be a way to keep her out of it now. The wind struck, raw and wet, and falling water drove against him in steady waves. Streaks of ice glittered on the bricks of the hotel. Slush sheeted off the roof, most of it blowing away down the street, and in gurgling puddles at the curb clots of snow floated like miniature icebergs. Hunching against a sodden gust, he pushed up the few steps, water shimmering copiously around him. Rain smoked down in rolling clouds now, and it blurred the light in the hotel window, hammered at his face to slide dripping fingers down the nape of his neck. Another gust struck just as he reached the top of the stairs, and for an instant, he could barely move against it.

The wet doorknob yanked out of his hand, and the door slammed in his face. He clutched at it again. His jacket slapping around him, he yanked the door with both hands. A sudden billow drenched the foyer, pushing after him. The inner door also flew open, and he caught the street door before it could pound the wall again. As the turbulent downpour slanted through, he struggled with the door, finally slamming his shoulder against it. At last, he stood, gasping and dripping on the carpet.

'Sir?' In his bathrobe, D'Amato quavered behind the desk. He beckoned, looking worried.

The rain stirred along the beach like a pulsing liquid entity. Lightning mottled the sky, and the rocks glittered.

Every particle of the sea heaved. A single strip of foam lashed continually across the surface, and thick currents undulated like gigantic snakes.

Fierce wind gnawed at the land. The beach vanished in flying plumes, and debris gorged the air. Freezing water scoured the rooftops of the beach houses, wave after wave shattering down as though the sea had left its bed in great convulsions. Cataracts spouted from the boardwalk.

Blocks from the beach, teeming pools already shivered between the houses, spreading, merging in the streets, until streams swirled into intersections and surged over curbs to engulf the sidewalks. Frothy currents gushed, lapping at cars, trees, houses.

Behind Decatur Street, rain lanced and ricocheted into the courtyard, and thunder rattled the windows along the back of the apartment building. Steady torrents cascaded from the fire escape, plunging from ruptured drainpipes as the cellar stairwell filled.

The infant made terrible noises, the small angry face clenching like a fist.

Near the crib, photographs and plastic religious figures crowded the low shelves, and Steve hovered uncomfortably, his clothing dark with damp in long ovals down his arms and legs. He gasped at the steamy warmth of the room, and for an instant, D'Amato looked embarrassed: apparently, the landlord's family never suffered from the lack of heat. Flashing movement dragged Steve's attention back to the picture tube. 'That's farther down the coast, isn't it?' he asked, edging closer.

Film clips of devastated towns rolled behind the commentator. Tensely, D'Amato muttered something in Italian, clearly urging his wife to hush the baby so he could hear, and Steve glanced at her. She'd pulled a coat on over her long nightgown but still looked mortified at his presence. Lifting the infant from the crib, she crooned almost inaudibly while making a slight jiggling movement, but she never stopped staring at the set.

Still more photographs of dark-complexioned smiling faces covered the top of the television; beneath them the storm raged. Steve glimpsed houses twisting in the flood, bedraggled people snatched from rooftops, a brief shot of children pulled from a bogged car. 'Cresthaven, Blackwater,' the voice droned on, 'Ebb Cove and...'

'Eh? Near here?' She stopped rocking the baby, her face and lips the color of one of the sheets she'd been folding when he'd entered. 'Eh?'

'Mrs. D'Amato, please, sit down.'

'We got to,' her husband murmured.

'Did they say it?'

'...Stone Harbor, Rock Shore, Edge Water...'

'Did they say?'

'Got to.'

Could waves be that high? Steve watched, paralyzed. Static and glimpses of gray violence pulverized his nerves. 'What?' At once, they all realized that the desk phone had been ringing. D'Amato teetered vaguely into the doorway, but the baby began to wail, and he paused, his glance flicking back to the television as Steve squeezed around him.

'Steve? Is that you?' Her voice sounded faint, rigid. 'I'm at the station. Can you hear me? The connection's bad.' An electric burr grated. 'Can you get out on your own?'

'What's happening?'

'Didn't you hear? We have to evacuate.'

The very concept filled him with dread: months of searching, only to have the town itself ripped away.

'Steve, can you hear me? There are still some older people I have to get. Will you be all right? Is anyone else at the hotel?'

'Just the D'Amatos.'

'For crissakes, why are they still there? Tell them to get the hell out now. Go straight to Pinedale. And don't try to use the bridge--they closed it twenty minutes ago. Go straight out the old highway to--'

A faint buzz emanated from the phone.

'Kit? Hello?'

'Ah, Dio, Dio!' The woman wailed in panic, and instantly the baby's shrieks intensified. Steve barely had time to put the phone down before D'Amato rushed at him. 'They just said! We got to get out!' He dodged back inside, and his voice harmonized with the woman's harsh wails. 'What are you do? Get that...!' Steve stood with his hand on the phone, listening to them argue in English and Italian, repeating over and over about the property and the National Guard and the evacuation center and the property and insurance, while beneath the cacophony of the baby's shrieks, the television muttered instructions on how to turn off gas and electricity and issued advice about emergency routes and pickup points as well as warnings about downed power lines.

'That van out back is yours, right? Does it run?' Steve peered through the doorway.

'Yes?' The man looked up, puzzled. 'Yes, it runs, the van.' The woman bit her lip.

'That's it then. Better grab what you need for the baby and run. I'll just get my suitcase.' He gave the woman what he hoped resembled an encouraging smile and headed for the stairs.

'Sir? Sir! They say must leave at once.'

'Won't be a minute.' He bounded up the staircase. Below him, the sounds of rapid movement--of drawers coughing open and the woman's urgent complaints--faded into the thin wails of the infant. Before he reached the top of the stairs, the lights flickered.

The television exploded as it struck the wall. 'Now, will you shut up?!'

The girl cringed deep into the chair. 'You heard it! We have to get out of here.' She gave a small, hiccuping gasp. 'Perry, please--we'll die if we stay!'

His hand lashed out, open palmed, again and again, knocking her face from side to side and battering away her words.

'We'll die,' she gritted her teeth, tasting blood as he struck her again. 'Stop it! We'll die. You have to listen to me!' She sobbed in terror. 'Stop!'

'Shut up!' It burst from him in a roar that racked his throat. 'Will you leave me alone? I have to think!'

Rain cracked at the window like a fist.

XXIII

While the sea twisted in countless anguished circuits, a gale howled ashore and dragged the ocean with it. Where beach had been, waves spewed in varied directions, explosions of muddy froth marking lines of collision. Darker currents surged across what choppy, sodden earth remained.