At this point, one of the beasts decided to jump completely out of the water. The snout, then the torso, then the tail rose into the air. It blocked the sun. I screamed. I could not help it. In that moment, I wanted my camera — partly so that I could get it on film, but mostly so that I would have a measure of distance against the fact of such raw wildness. Without that intermediate shield of glass, it was not safe for me to be so close to such things. I had been right on top of untamed animals before — the Sister, with her splintered rows of shimmering teeth, sprang to mind — but despite this physical proximity, I had always had a degree of intellectual remoteness, the keen observer’s eye overriding every other concern. I could not feel afraid when I was considering how best to frame the shot. Now there was nothing to insulate me.
The whale rotated in midair, thirty feet away, the fins flung balletically outward. It might have been alive since the world was new. The shadow dwarfed our boat. As I watched, the creature seemed to fall in slow motion. The crash came like thunder. I grabbed at the railing, too stunned to scream. A wall of spray climbed above the waves. The boat rocked perilously. I staggered backward, colliding with Mick.
“Relax,” he said, in my ear. “That’s just how they scratch an itch.”
THAT EVENING, WE came upon Sea Pigeon Gulch. We were strolling toward the cabin, each hefting a carton of gear. I had not been paying attention to where we were going. My mind was still packed with a throng of whales. Mick and I were arguing happily about whether cetaceans might be sentient. There was evidence on both sides of the question. Then he stopped dead. We had reached the edge of the water. Sea Pigeon Gulch was its usual, sinister self. A shadowy chasm, filled with restless ocean. I had not been near the place since the discovery of Andrew’s body.
I froze. Mick flushed a dark red. He grabbed my arm and tugged me away.
“I can’t believe they’re doing an autopsy,” he said, pelting along as though his life depended on it.
“What?”
“Nothing. Nothing.”
“No, tell me,” I said eagerly. “Galen said the same exact thing when he was talking to the doctor.”
“Uh-huh.”
I cast my mind back, trying to recall Galen’s phrasing. “Don’t they always do an autopsy when somebody dies?”
“Only on TV,” Mick said. “In real life, not so much. If it’s obviously natural causes, like a heart attack or old age, they don’t bother. But in this case — oh, hell.”
In his urgency, he had begun to outpace me. I doubled my strides to keep up, trotting in his wake like a poodle on a leash.
“Think about it,” he said. “There are two ways the thing could have happened. Andrew is strolling by the sea. He slips. His ankle breaks. He falls, banging his head. He lands in the water. He drowns.”
“Yes,” I said. “Exactly.”
“That’s one interpretation,” Mick said sourly. “The other is that someone whacks him on the head first. That’s why he goes down. He’s already unconscious when he hits the sea.”
I paused in shock. For a minute, I did not even draw breath. Mick strode onward, and I gathered my wits, jogging after his retreating form. We reached the porch together. He threw himself into a deck chair, gripping the armrests. I sank onto a bench beside him, setting down my carton of gear.
“You get what’s coming to you,” he said. “I believe that.”
“What?”
“I never liked Andrew. It’s not much of a loss, in my opinion.”
There was a small silence. Then Mick stood up with a sudden movement.
“I’m heading in,” he said. “You coming?”
I shook my head. I did not watch him go. He slammed the door hard enough that the entire cabin shook. There was a band of gold above the water. The sun was a crimson orb, its contours disfigured and distended by the clouds. When that fiery ball touched the sea, a bright arrow streaked toward me, a pointing finger, the reflection broken up by waves.
17
IT IS MID-DECEMBER. In Washington, D.C., this is the heart of winter. The sky over Dupont Circle will become as gray and smooth as a length of linen. The streets will be filthy, disfigured by mud and fallen leaves. The schools will occasionally close, not because of snow, but because of rain.
I remember, as a child, strolling with you on a winter afternoon, right down the middle of the street. That was the only patch of solid ground left. You walked in front and I clutched at the hem of your poncho. The downpour hammered my umbrella. The sewers had been overwhelmed by the tempest, unable to accommodate so much liquid. The gutters had filled. The sidewalks had flooded. Cars had turned into islands, their wheels submerged. Water brimmed against shop windows and doorways, and the rain turned the pools into mosaics of light. There was a row of pedestrians moving along the double yellow line together like a parade, albeit a hurried and commonplace one, schoolchildren, mothers with shopping bags, and men in suits, all rushing to get home before the storm worsened. I remember that day perfectly. I remember that when night fell and the temperature dropped, the overspill left standing on the pavement froze solid. I woke to a glassy wilderness. That is winter to me: a lingering drizzle, the glitter of ice, and the schools closed, again.
But in California — or rather, off the coast of California — there is no true winter. The season has changed, but not in any way I recognize. The nights are a little cooler, the wind a little wilder. The fog has become semipermanent. It begins in the morning, just a tuft or two on the ocean. In the afternoon it thickens, pale and bright. In the evening it smothers the house in an impenetrable blanket, every window rendered blind.
I have dreamed of sharks. I dream of whales now.
A month has passed. It has been a month since Andrew’s assault, and I am still here. Recently I walked outside barefoot. I put on gloves, a coat, even a hat — but halfway to Breaker Cove I glanced down and observed my poor, pale toes caked in mud. It took the shock of the cold to alert me to my error. One day I brushed my teeth with liquid soap rather than toothpaste. One day I fought with the coat rack. As I came in the front door, it seemed to lunge out at me, a bulky, man-sized shape. I struck it with both hands, knocking it sideways and sending the jackets thudding to the floor. I have found it difficult, too, to keep track of time. Andrew’s attack seems to have done some damage to my internal chronometer. I often find myself surprised by the sunset or startled by a meal being put on the table, unaware of the hour.
Then there was the day I got into a screaming match with Forest. The conversation began civilly enough, a chat about the female white sharks. The Sisters had left for balmier waters, and Forest suggested that perhaps there would be a change in their breeding patterns soon. Global warming had begun to alter the character of entire oceans, reshaping the tides. Without warning, I flew into a rage. There in the kitchen, I shrieked that I was tired of hearing about the Sisters. I was tired of biologists in general. There had to be something more to talk about in the world than sharks, whales, seals, and birds. At this point, Mick intervened, marching me into the kitchen and force-feeding me cookies and tea. Forest slipped away, and the whole thing blew over. Still, I was shaken afterward. That anger had come out of nowhere, as unstoppable as a volcanic eruption, surprising even me.