“Hey, look.” Nick pointed downriver, where lights gleamed against the darkening sky. Jason straightened as he threw water overboard, and saw a towboat—intact, upright, apparently unharmed, sitting motionless on the river with its bow pointed downstream. His heart gave a faint throb at the sight. It was too weary and discouraged to express anything more.
Nick displayed a more active interest. He dropped his bailing jug and turned on the electric motor, then steered for the towboat, half a mile away.
As he neared the towboat, Jason gave up his bailing and sat wearily on the gunwale. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. Stars glimmered faintly in the darkening sky. There were navigation lights glowing on the boat’s mast, but Jason saw no other lights on board. It was only when he got very close to the boat that he realized it was aground on a bar in only a few inches of water, and its entire long tow of barges with it. It was as if the river had dropped out from beneath the boat and its barges and left them intact, still ranked in formation, on the mud.
Debris was stranded on the bar as well, though not as much as Jason might have expected. The main current of the river was elsewhere, and carried most of the wreckage with it. Dead fish, though, were everywhere, lying in the shallows in schools. Jason figured he’d never want to eat fish again.
Retired and Gone Fishin’ avoided the debris and came gently aground on the bar about twenty yards off the stern of the tow boat. Nick shut off the electric motor, stood, and waved his pole at the towboat.
“Hey! Ahoy!”
It was the first time, Jason thought, he’d ever actually heard anyone say “ahoy.”
“Ahoy the towboat! Anyone aboard?”
The towboat answered only with silence. Nick shrugged, then bent to pull off his already-waterlogged shoes. “Let’s pull the boat over the bar,” he said, and jumped into the water. Jason pulled off his sneaks and socks and dropped over the opposite side of the bass boat, then was surprised at the near-liquid mud that sucked him in nearly to his knees. Without the weight of its two passengers, Retired and Gone Fishin’ floated free. Pulling one foot after another from the suck of the mud, Jason and Nick walked the boat up to the stern of the towboat, which Jason saw was named Michele S.
The towboat was slab-sided, with a tall, squared-off super-structure. The pilothouse stood four decks above a raftlike hull that barely seemed tall enough for someone inside to stand upright. It hardly seemed possible that such a top-heavy design could travel anywhere without falling over. There were ropes dangling over the side, and Nick used one to tie off the bass boat. While Jason pulled free of the mud and went straight up one of the ropes, Nick climbed first into the bass boat, then jumped from there to the rail of the towboat. Jason found himself smiling at the way Nick was breathing hard after just the little climb to the towboat’s lowest deck.
They stood on the boat while mud and water dripped onto the steel deck. Nick caught his breath and ahoy’d again. The only sound was the water river rushing past the stern.
“Look,” Jason said, and pointed. There were davits overhead, on the end of the superstructure, that had once held a—would it be lifeboat, intended for lifesaving? A boat, any-way. And the boat was just as clearly gone.
“Wonder why they left,” Nick panted. “You’d think they would be safer here.” There were doors leading into the superstructure from the main deck, and Nick opened one about halfway down the superstructure. He groped inside for a switch and found it. Light flickered on, revealed a narrow steel corridor.
“At least their batteries seem to have a good charge,” Nick said. He ventured in, bare feet slapping on the deck. Jason followed, and felt a sudden glorious rush of relief, finding himself safe. Indoors in a place unlikely to fall down, a place that had electricity, that probably had beds, toilets, water… and, he realized, food.
His dormant hunger woke at this thought, a hunger that clawed and bit at his belly from within. Jason had never been so hungry in his life. “Can we find the kitchen?” he asked. “The galley? Whatever it’s called?”
“That’s just what I planned,” Nick said.
They headed forward through the crew quarters. There were sleeping accommodations for six, but only four of the beds seem to have been used. Forward was a tiny toilet and a shower, then a room the width of the superstructure with a dining table. Jason’s mouth watered.
The galley was right ahead, past some stairs. Jason went straight to the huge metal refrigerator door and opened it. Gallons of milk and juice sat on racks. He reached for one.
“Careful, there,” Nick said. “The refrigeration might not be on.” It wasn’t, but the milk was still cool. Jason tore off the cap and tipped his head back. He took one deep swallow after another from the jug. The cool sweet milk flowed down his throat. He had never tasted anything so glorious. Runnels of milk ran down his cheeks, splashed down his shirt. He didn’t stop drinking until his lungs ran out of air, and then he just took a gasping breath and drank some more. Eventually Jason had to gasp for air again. Then he had to cough, and cough again, and when he bent down to clear his throat, he found that his cheeks were hot, and there were tears in his eyes. And then he became aware of Nick watching him, and Jason slapped the cap on the milk jug and turned away. Tears blurred his vision, and he stumbled against a table. Sobs clawed at his throat like razors, and his limbs had turned to water. He stood there, leaning against the metal table, and let the grief come keening out. Nick put his arms around Jason and thought, Oh God, I don’t need this. This isn’t my boy.
“Take it easy,” he said. “Take it easy, okay? We’re safe.” Jason turned to him, buried his face against Nick’s shoulder. The sounds he made were like the whimpers of a dog caught in barbed wire, a pain so fundamental, so primal, that it caused the hairs to rise on the back of Nick’s neck. Damn, Nick thought, damn. This is not my kid.
“It’s okay, Jase,” Nick said. “It’s not your fault. Just take it easy.” They stood that way for several minutes, Jason’s cries raining down on Nick’s heart, and then Jason turned away and sat slumped at the table, his face a swollen misery.
“You all right?” Nick asked. A stupid question, but Jason nodded anyway. Give him some privacy now, Nick thought.
So Nick turned to the refrigerator and took out cold cuts, cheese, bread, and pickles. He made some sandwiches, put them on a plate, and put them in front of Jason. He took one of the sandwiches himself, and while he ate he made a thorough search through the refrigerator.
The cook of the Michelle S. was very organized. Meals had been arranged well ahead of time, though not cooked. There were at least four days’ meals prepared, but the most inviting seemed to be the four thick sirloins waiting in a stack, along with vegetables and a sack of new potatoes. Nick wondered if the boat’s crew were all fat as Santa Claus.
The gas stove lit when Nick tried it. He cut up potatoes and onions and set them to fry in a skillet, and put a pot of water on the stove for boiling vegetables. He looked at Jason, still slumped in his chair, and the boy’s pure misery made him want to offer comfort, but he didn’t know what comfort he had in him. Sorry your mother’s dead, kid. Too bad about your dad being in China and all. It didn’t seem adequate.