The weight of water - Anita Shreve [89]
“What time of day did you say that you went down to that house where your wife was dead?”
No response.
“What time was it?”
No response.
“Do you understand me?”
No response.
“What time of the clock was it, after you heard of your wife’s death, that you went to the house the first time, the first morning after the murder?”
No response.
“Did you go inside?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you go around in the different rooms?”
“I went into other rooms.”
“Didn’t you find a good deal of blood in those rooms?”
“Yes, sir.”
“On the floor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were you asked, since you were here day before yesterday, what your wife’s name was?”
No response.
“Did anybody ask you before you came in this morning what your wife’s name was? Didn’t somebody ask you?”
No response.
“When did anybody say anything to you about your wife’s name since day before yesterday, do you understand?”
No response.
“Are you a Norwegian?”
No response.
“You do not understand, do you?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you speak with any one about your wife?”
No response.
“Did you tell anybody your wife’s name, before you came here this morning?”
No response.
“What is Karen’s full name?”
“Karen Alma Christensen.”
“Was your wife’s name Matea Annette?”
“Anetha Matea Christensen.”
“Was she not sometimes called Matea Annette?”
No response.
“Do you understand my question?”
No response.
“When were you married?”
No response.
“When did you marry your wife?”
No response.
Tapley finally gave up this old appeal, and the court declared that Anethe M. Christenson, as written, was the victim in the case.
Billie is doubled over at the waist, as if she will be sick. She coughs several times. Her skin has gone a shadowy white, and there is perspiration on her forehead. She cries. She does not understand what is happening to her. “Mom,” she says. “Mom.”
The boat catches a gust, and it feels as though we have been hit by a train. We heel over, and I bang my head hard on the chart table. I hear the crash of dishes in the cabinets. A thermos on the counter slides the length of the Formica counter and topples onto its plastic cap. I kneel on the teak planking and hold Billie as best I can. I fight a sense of panic.
“Rich,” I call up the ladder. I wait for an answer. I call again. “There’s water on the floor,” I shout.
It is hard to hear his response. Before the storm, the sounds from the water were soothing. The gentle slap of waves upon the hull. But now there is a kind of churning roar that is not just the engine. It is as though the ocean has become more difficult to slice through, as though the sea were causing resistance. Above this noise, I hear Rich call to Thomas, but I cannot make out the words.
Thomas slides down the ladder. He is soaked despite his slicker. He seems not to have the metal clasps fastened correctly. He sees me with Billie, with Billie bent over and crying. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
“I think she’s seasick.”
He squats down beside us.
“She’s frightened,” I say. “She doesn’t understand.”
“Did you give her the half pill?”
“Yes. But it was probably too late.”
Thomas reaches for a dishtowel and uses it to wipe Billie’s forehead. Then he blots his own face. He is breathing hard, and there is an angry swelling to one side of his cheekbone.
“What happened?” I ask, pointing to the bump.
“It’s rough out there,” he says. He flips off the hood of the slicker, wipes the top of his head. His hair is mussed in an odd kind of sculpture that would make Billie laugh if she felt better.
He puts his hand down to the teak planking to balance himself. He is still breathing hard. Trying to catch his breath. Our faces aren’t a foot apart. I think, looking at him, He’s frightened, too.
Thomas yells up the companionway. “There’s water over the teak, Rich. I can’t tell how much.”
We can hear Rich’s voice, but again I cannot make out the words. Thomas stands up and leans against the ladder. “OK,” he says in answer to something Rich has asked.
I watch Thomas take a tool from a galley drawer and then remove a cushion from the dinette. In the bulkhead is a socket.