Seven

“Okay. So you had a dream about Mr. Alton, and he was down somewhere by the river?”

“I don’t … I mean … ” The dream has fled. It seemed so vivid when I woke up, but now all I can remember is the impression it left, like following deer tracks in mud. “It was about the river, but I don’t think Mr. Alton was in it.”

“Why are we doing this, then?” Tyler’s voice is full of vinegar.

I snap back, “Because you don’t have any better ideas.”

So we drive past the condos lining the downtown em-bankments, eyes squinted, searching for your pa-paw’s old pickup. We search Tuck’s Cove, that harbor east of the Indian mound. Tyler doesn’t say a word. He’s worried about what Bo is telling his parents right now. He’s annoyed with me, thinking we’re wasting time.

But your pa-paw has come to the river, Holly. I know this because it’s what draws our dreams and deepest thoughts. He’s come to the river because everything else is so thin. The stupid stuff people talk about—what they ate for lunch, some sale at Foot Locker—I get mad just listening to them now. The river is the only thing that feels real anymore.

But Wilson Lake is fifteen hundred acres. Half a dozen marinas dot its shores. Probably two dozen resorts and campgrounds, and hundreds of cabins on private land. This could take forever.

Pulling out of Tuck’s Cove, Tyler says, “Well, where to next?”

“There’s Bay Hill Marina, the one with the restaurant.”

“On the south shore?” He groans.

“We can’t give up until we’ve looked everywhere.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tyler sighs. “Let me make a stop first.”

“What? What do you have to do now?”

“A friend is leaving town. I need to say goodbye.”

“We don’t have—”

“It’ll take five minutes, Jane.”

I slump down in the seat. “Five minutes, right?”

“Five minutes.”

Neither of us say anything else. My phone rings. Mom again, and this time I turn it off. Your pa-paw’s down by the shore, Holly. I know because he has to be. Please, God, let him be. Otherwise, we’re totally lost.

We drive to a neighborhood that was probably really pretty once. Now it’s falling apart. Porches sag, and tinfoil covers windows. Tree roots tilt the sidewalk slabs until they crack. There’s a lawn that’s all weeds and tire ruts, with a white Florence Utilities van parked under a maple. Ultimate Steve sits on the front porch with a bunch of people I don’t know. They’re all older. They’re all as shabby-looking as the house.

I follow Tyler through the front gate. It looks like somebody bashed in the mailbox with a baseball bat, then scribbled Shut up! You can’t play!!! across it with paint marker. There’s a girl on the porch wearing Jackie O sunglasses, her black-soled feet propped on the railing. Launching a jet of cigarette smoke, she yells, “Whoo, Tyler! Show us some tits!”

The rest of them fall out laughing. We’ve walked into the tail end of a running joke. Judging from the empty beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays, it’s been running since last night.

Tyler grins. “Morning, LeighAnn.”

The girl stands up, blocking our way. “Do it!” she answers. “Tits!”

And he does. Like a puppy performing a trick, Tyler yanks the front of his shirt up, showing a soft slab of belly and chest.

“That’s what momma likes,” she crows, stepping aside. “That’s it!”

“Max, can’t you do anything with her?” Tyler asks the guy picking at a guitar.

“I’ve tried. Believe me, I have tried.”

Ultimate Steve gives Tyler that shoulder-banging half-hug boys do. “Missed all the fun! Thought you were coming after that church thing yesterday.” He scratches at his beard like he’s got fleas. I can’t help glancing at the stump of his missing pinky finger. Idiot.

“I was. Just, uh … some stuff came up after. Just didn’t feel like a party.”

“Holly stuff?” LeighAnn asks. When Tyler nods, they all sort of lean toward him for a moment. LeighAnn wraps an arm around his neck, presses her head against his.

Who are these people?

“But hey, I couldn’t let Patterson run off.” Stepping around LeighAnn, Tyler gives the tall guy a real hug, squeezing him tight. “Glad I didn’t miss you.”

“Me too.” Really tall, Patterson stands stooped over everybody else, like a tree in a storm. “Hey, I’m giving you my Vox.”

“What? Why?”

Patterson shrugs. “I won’t have the space for it. But we took off the casters, so you’ll have to find new ones.”

“Well, thanks. Really. But doesn’t the band need—”

LeighAnn shakes her head. “We’ve got the Mini Colossals with the Weber speakers.”

“That Vox is de-damn-licious, though,” Max adds. “Shut up and take it.”

They talk about push-pulls and SPSs and two-by-twelves. It’s white noise to me, but ends with Tyler following Patterson into the house to grab the amplifier. Through the door, I glimpse the living room—a drum kit beside the couch, and walls covered in stained burgundy carpet. Somebody’s sleeping on the couch with his arm thrown over his eyes. I waffle, not sure if I should follow them in or not. Then the storm door bangs shut and I’m stuck outside.

“Jane? How goes it?” Ultimate Steve asks.

“Good.”

He nods, shaking a cigarette from a half-empty pack. A girl with a sketchy-looking dye job sits on the porch rail, talking
to LeighAnn. When Steve leans back, she wraps her arms and legs around him. He turns to whisper some little joke to her. She chuckles, nuzzling his ear. She’s gross. I can see her pink satin whale-tail sticking out of the back of her shorts.

“So this was, like, a goodbye party?” I ask.

“Uh-huh. Yeah. Patterson just finished his bachelor’s in forestry … ” LeighAnn gets distracted searching for a lighter. “Uh, headed up to South Carolina. To the Congaree National Park.”

“Neat. So he’s going to be a park ranger?”

“Yeah, but actually, natural resources manager.”

“Okay. Neat.” I nod without really knowing what that means.

“Yeah.”

We fall into foot-shuffling silence. Empty beer bottles fill the window sill behind Max. Draining another one, he sets it in the line.

“Want something to drink?” LeighAnn asks.

“What? No.”

Ultimate Steve laughs. “Jane’s church-folk, LeighAnn.”

“I meant a Mountain Dew or something.” She curls her lip at him. “I figured she’s—you’re still in high school, right?”

“I’m fifteen.”

“Yeah, so I wasn’t going to give her beer, just that it’s miserable hot out here.” She turns back to me. “So, want some sweet tea? Or we’ve got just water or—”

“I’m not thirsty, but thank you.”

LeighAnn nods. “And just for, whatever, the record? This is kind of a special occasion, with Patterson leaving and Labor Day and all. We’re usually sober by Monday morning.”

They all laugh. Max says, “Now, don’t lie to the girl, Lee-Lee.”

“I’m not! I don’t know about you, but I don’t—”

“What about Fourth of July? When we went to your brother’s?”

“That was a special occasion too! That was celebrating the birth of our country!”

“What about when Twitchy was here?”

“Twitchy was here! Another special occasion!” Now LeighAnn’s laughing along with them. “I can’t help it if my life is blessed with good friends and cheap beer.”

They all think it’s hilarious. I just stand there, silent, while they jabber like blue jays. I notice that LeighAnn, Max, and Ultimate Steve all have the same tattoo—the silhouette of an airplane—inked onto their inner right forearms. When Tyler and Patterson reappear, carrying a battered black amp between them, I see that Patterson has the same tattoo. I guess it means they’re in a band together, or maybe a cult.

Tyler and Patterson load the amp into the rear of Tyler’s pickup, then come back to lean against the porch railing. Tyler asks, “Ultimate, you spending the night in South Carolina?”

Ultimate Steve shakes his head. “Have to be at work tomorrow. Dropping Patterson off and turning right around.”

Max says, “Don’t even slow down, just open the door and shove him out,” but nobody’s listening.

Tyler asks, “How many days have you been up?”

Steve shrugs.

“Tyler, we need to go,” I say.

“What? You guys running off already?” Steve asks. “Come on, big guy.”

“Sorry, but yeah. We’ve got some … uh, stuff that can’t wait. But listen, nobody’s called looking for me, have they?”

“No. Should I be expecting someone?”

“Well, just in case my parents call? Tell them I’ve been with you all day, but I just left. Okay?”

“Sure.” The way Ultimate Steve grins at me when he says it is the last straw. Snatching Tyler’s keys out of his hand, I hiss in his ear. “You want to hang out here all day? Fine. Maybe one of the herpes sponges over there’ll make out with you. I’m going to help Holly.”

I walk off the porch. None of them are worth a glance backward. Tyler yells after me, “Okay! We’ll go, Jane. Give me one second, okay?”

I should leave him, Holly. Instead, I slide into the passenger seat and wait for him to say his goodbyes. Steve follows him down to the pickup. “Sometime soon, you need to get with Max. Patterson’s leaving, and we need a rhythm guitar, and—”

Tyler shakes his head as he climbs in. “Thanks, but I’ve just got a lot going on right now.”

“Come on.” Setting his hands above the door, Steve shakes the truck on its chassis. “What’s more important than rock ?”

“I’ve just got a lot going on right now.”

“Well, think about it at least.”

“I’ll think about it. See you around.”

“See you.”

They bump fists through the window. Steve doesn’t say anything to me. Did he hear what I told Tyler? I don’t care if he did or not—him or any of those other losers.

Tyler pulls away from the curb, slipping his Aviators on. “What was that about?”

“You tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Well, when did you start hanging out with Ultimate Steve again, anyway?”

“He called me after Holly’s accident, and, whatever, we started hanging out.”

“So that’s where you’ve been the past month? Getting drunk with Steve and his band? Hiding in that house back there?”

“Did you see me drinking?”

I stare out the window.

“Did you see me drinking?”

“No.”

“Then don’t accuse me of stuff. I said goodbye to a guy I’ll probably never see again. You should get that; you of all people.”

“Fine. I do. But then why don’t you come to church anymore?”

“Oh, come on,” he groans. “Jane, don’t go all Jesus dork on me, okay? I can’t deal with it right now.”

“Our faith is being tested, Tyler, and we’re failing! If you’d been coming to church, maybe God would show us where to find Holly’s pa-paw now.” I touch Tyler’s wrist. “Maybe if you promised to start coming again. If you were sincere, maybe He would—”

Tyler yanks his hand away. “Maybe if you’d visited Mr. Alton once since Holly drowned, you’d already know where he is. Maybe we wouldn’t need a miracle then.”

“I … I’m not pretending to be perfect, Tyler.”

“Good, because you’re not, so stop dumping it all on me.”

We head across the dam to the south shore and Bay Hill Marina. I stare at my hands folded in my lap.

“Tyler, we’re going up against … I don’t even know. But we’re going to need gifts of the spirit. This is a time of trial for us, and we need the gift of wisdom to see truth from lies.”

“This isn’t a ‘time of trial,’ Jane. It’s just crazy shit that’s happening.”

“Tyler!”

“It’s crazy, fucked-up shit, and talking in Sunday sermons won’t help.”

“Tyler, I—”

“You want to know why I haven’t been going to church? Because I never got anything out of it, okay? Not really. I liked spending time with Holly. That’s all.”

“That’s a lie!”

“It’s not! I was never seized by the Holy Spirit or whatever. Like God was showing me things or whatever. Now that Holly’s gone, there’s no reason to go anymore.”

It’s a lie, Holly, I know it is. We saw him filled with the Holy Fire. We saw the tears on his cheeks when he was saved. But now Tyler is hurting and angry and falling away from the Lord’s embrace. I want to help, I want to say the right thing, but I’m pathetic at that stuff. You know I am.

You were the one who loved everybody and made them feel loved. You’re the one they all leaned toward like plants toward the sun. You’re the one who should be here. But I try to imagine what you would tell Tyler right now.

A question. You wouldn’t tell him anything, you’d ask a question.

“So … what’s their name?”

“What?” Tyler’s voice is thin and tight like a wire. He thinks I want to argue some more.

“Steve and his friends. They’re a band, right? What’s their band name?”

“Stratofortress.”

“Huh?”

“Strat-o-fortress. It’s a kind of plane.”

I nod. “So why’d they name themselves that?”

“Don’t know, I wasn’t there.”

I look back down at my hands. “Well, at least it’s better than that other band name.”

“What other band name?”

“The name of the band you and Ultimate Steve were in.”

“Was I ever in a band with Steve?”

“Yes, you—” He almost got me, Holly. Then I see the grin cracking through his mask of confusion. “You’re not making me say it.”

“Say what?”

“The name of the band.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s stupid.”

“I was never in a band called ‘Stupid.’ I’d remember that.”

“No, not—I’m not saying it.”

“Well, you’re the one who keeps bringing it up.”

“Well, I’m the one who’s dropping it.”

“Dropping what?”

I stare out the window.

“Dropping what?”

“Ahghh. You’re like my brother.”

“Dropping what?”

“The band,” I say, hiding my face in my hands now.

“Which band?”

“Quit!”

“A band called ‘Quit’? I kinda like that. Very art rock. Very—”

“Tighty-Whitey and the Banana Hammocks!”

And when I shout the name, you’re shouting it too, Holly, out in that frost-silvered night on the edge of memory.

“That’s disgusting,” I’d said.

“Don’t be like that. This is going to be fun.” Under the street lamps, your eyes shimmered. Your cheeks glowed pink from the cold. Fingers around my wrist, you pulled me up the sidewalk into the bowling alley.

They were some of your school friends. I only knew Tyler, who’d come to youth group with you the week before. I didn’t like him. Two years older than us, big and loud, already a rock star in his own mind. He was—he is—the kind of guy who’d think a band name like that was hilarious.

You didn’t tell me their show was a rock opera, Holly. Or that one of their buddies would run up wearing a rubber dragon mask—but somehow representing their gym coach—and put Jeb White in a chicken-wing armlock. Or that, defeated and stripped to his underwear, Jeb would sing a song rhyming “loneliness and fear” with “Buzz Lightyear.” Or that finally he would battle with the dragon again, this time wielding the unstoppable power of rock ’n’ roll.

I stood in the bowling alley snack bar, in an audience of nine people (including Steve’s mom), thinking this was what drugs must feel like. But you bounced around and pumped your fist. Bending your mouth to my ear, you yelled, “They’re pretty awesome, huh?”

They were ridiculous, Holly. You could have played better with your feet. Your cheeks still glowed pink, though, even out of the cold. When you looked at Tyler, your eyes still shimmered.

I asked, “You like him?”

“No. But kinda.” You buried your face against my shoulder. “But really I just wanted to support him. He quit the marching band this year so he could focus on his real music.”

“I was just gonna say he plays guitar like a guy who’s spent years practicing the tuba.”

“Jane, don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you always are.”

Jeb decided not to slay the dragon—that’s not what the power of rock ’n’ roll was for. Instead they shared Pixy Stix and closed the show with a duet of “Bridge Over Troubled Water.”

“So does he like you?” I asked, as they sang against the thunder of bowling balls.

“I don’t know. I mean, yeah, but there’s this other girl he really likes. Amber.”

“But what? She didn’t come tonight?”

“She’s not into music like this.”

“Forget Amber, then.” And what else could I do but jump up into one of the booth seats? “Whoo! Banana Hammocks! Yeah!”

The band looked over, a little startled. Steve’s mom looked over.

“Encore! Banana Hammocks! Hit me again!” Then you joined in. “Tyler! Banana Hammocks! Yay, Tyler!”

The band grabbed their instruments again. They started into something sharp, fast, and just barely holding itself together—the musical equivalent of getting shoved down the stairs. You loved it. You jumped around and hugged my neck.

I yelled into your ear, “If he’s still thinking about Amber after this, we’ll kidnap him and you can have your way with him, yeah?”

“Cool! Can I keep him tied up in your garage?”

“Sure!”

Now, without you, Tyler and me chuckle together, even though I’m mad at him.

“No, you were so into us,” he says. “You were more into us than Holly.”

“What? Whatever. I only made a total fool of myself hoping you’d get up the guts to ask Holly out. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Don’t lie. We had you revved up.”

“Whatever. I just knew if Holly paid seven dollars to wear ugly bowling shoes and listen to that, she really loved you.”

The word sucks all the air out of the car. Death rots the sweetest memories first, Holly. It hides inside them like a razor blade in an apple.

But you did love him, didn’t you? Even though he was loud-mouthed and filthy-minded, you loved him, and God used your love to draw Tyler to the church. We saw the bigger-than-life rock star choke up and tremble the night he was saved.

I judge people too quickly, Holly, I know. I’m prickly, I don’t give them a chance, Jesus doesn’t want me for a sunbeam, I know, I know. But you know what? Happy little sunbeams don’t rescue their friends’ trapped souls from rivers. The sunbeams—Hanna Marie, Brooke, all of them—they cried for a few days, then moved on. They’re out goofing off and making out with boys. I’m all you’ve got left.

They could move on because they don’t still need you, Holly. But who’s going to keep me from being prickly and judgmental all the time now? Did you even think about that before you went and drowned?

I chew my thumbnail, peeling it away from the stinging quick. Fine, fine, I’ll try to be nicer. I’ll try to be more open. For you.

Along the highway, the sun flashes through the tops of the pines like a school of fish. Then there’s the sign: Bay Hill Marina & Resort. Tyler turns in, steering past the fuel dock and floating restaurant.

“That’s his truck! There.” He jabs me in the shoulder. “You were right. You figured it out.”

“We don’t know if he knows anything about Holly. We haven’t figured anything out yet.” Still, I clasp my hands together for a quick prayer of thanks.

Tyler pulls into the spot beside your pa-paw’s pickup. Down the steep slope, the marina fans out across the water. Boats idle in and out, sending brown diesel clouds scudding across the water. Shirtless, lobster-skinned men yell back and forth, cluttering the docks with coolers, tackle boxes, coiled hoses, radios. Everything is covered in spiderwebs and bird poop.

And there’s that smell, the fetid stink of lake-bottom mud. It’s the smell of afternoons on Dad’s boat. Of swimming lessons. Of thrashing, glittering bass pulled from the water. It’s the smell the monster catfish carried up with it too. It’s the smell of Swallow’s Nest Bluff and the day you drowned. And it’s really the smell of death, isn’t it? It’s fish and plants rotting to black slime down in the drowned forest.

“There he is,” Tyler says, making me whirl around. “Mr. Alton! Hey!”

He’s lying on the dock, skinny butt in the air, beside a houseboat that needs a paint job. Seeing us, he climbs to his feet, pulling a fistful of weeds out of the water in one hand, a steak knife in the other. “Well, hey, Tyler. How are you? And Jane too.” He shoves the dripping mass of plants into a Taco Bell bag already fat with hacked-up stalks. Starting to hug me, he stops because his arms are wet. I hug him instead.

“How’ve you been, Little Bit?” he whispers.

I don’t know how to answer, so I squeeze him tighter. He’s thin, Holly. I can feel his ribs.

“What’s all that?” Tyler asks, pointing to the bag.

“Oh, this milfoil is terrible.” He drops the bag on the houseboat’s deck. Boats on this side of the marina move through thousands of feathery stalks poking out of the water. In some spots, the milfoil has turned the marina into a lawn so lush my dad would kill for it. “It gets tangled in the propellers, gets everywhere. But anyway, can you guys stay? Come aboard, come aboard.”

He offers a hand to help me onto the boat. I ask, “So, when’d you buy a boat?”

“Oh, it belongs to a friend. I’m just borrowing it for a while. Staying at the house was just … hard. I just needed to get away for a while.”

I nod. I can’t imagine what it would be like living there, alone with the silence.

We duck into the cabin, which smells like fast food grease. The houseboat’s furniture is scratched and patched, and there’s a gap under the counter where the mini-fridge used to be. The only things your pa-paw took from the house are one suitcase, his guitar case, and a bulging photo album. The album is open to some snapshots of your dad and mom and you when you were a toddler, pushing a toy lawn mower.

Tyler pulls himself into the swivel-mounted chair overlooking the piloting console. “So you doing any fishing while you’re out here?” he asks.

“Oh, sure. Caught a two-pound crappie yesterday, just off the dock there.” Your pa-paw clears the table, grabbing beer bottles, Taco Bell wrappers, and a plastic fork, balancing them on the teetering stack of garbage rising above the trash can’s rim. I slide into the booth. There’s more photos, all of your me-maw, lined up along the edge of the table so your pa-paw can stare at them while he’s eating. Still talking about the fish he caught, he scoops them up and slips them into the photo album.

He flips to another part of the album, one filled with publicity shots and newspaper clippings. Taking out a picture, he hands it to Tyler. “All right, young man, tell me who that is.”

“Duane Allman,” Tyler says without hesitation.

Your pa-paw laughs. “You know it.”

“But this was before the Allman Brothers, right? Back when he was just a studio musician, right?”

“Just a studio musician?”

“I mean—”

“Yeah, Aretha Franklin came in the one week, and Duane just wrote her an R&B hit. Then the Osmonds came in the next week, and we just knocked out a bubblegum hit for them. Then Jimmy Hughes—”

“How about I just keep my mouth shut from now on?” Tyler asks.

Your pa-paw laughs again, handing him another picture. “You don’t know this one. You should, but you don’t.”

“Uh … ”

“Give you a hint. Bruce Springsteen and Pins and Needles both did covers of one of his songs.”

I know he’ll go on forever about FAME Studios and who he wrote songs for and who he went on tour with. And Tyler will lap up every word.

“Okay, I’ll give you another hint,” he says.

I cough loudly. “Actually, Mr. Alton, we need to ask you some stuff. About Holly.”

He smiles and sighs at the same time. “Should have known you didn’t come down just to keep an old fart company.”

Was that a joke, or bitterness? Or one disguised as the other? I cringe, staring up at him, not sure if I should laugh or apologize.

“What do you want to know, Little Bit?”

“We wanted to know if any … strange stuff … has happened. Since the accident.”

“Strange stuff?”

I look at Tyler, still in the pilot’s chair. He gives me a tiny shrug, then tries to help. “Just, y’know, anything strange,” he says.

“Okay, Mr. Alton, you know we’re not crazy, right? I mean, if we tell you something … ”

Your pa-paw’s hands are shaking so bad he can’t hold the album. Setting it down, he presses them flat against the tabletop. “Her ghost is in the river, isn’t it?”

For a moment, there’s only the water lapping against the hull. Me and Tyler stare at him, then turn to stare at each other. I say, “Show him the ring.”

He presses your ring into your pa-paw’s hand. Tyler says, “It’s Holly’s ring. I gave it to her the day she died.”

Turning it between his fingers, your pa-paw sees the word HELP. His eyes darken with pain. Tyler tells him about Rivercall and the catfish, about Pastor Wesley saying he wanted to help and Bo showing up at my house.

Your pa-paw closes long, calloused fingers—musician’s fingers—around the promise ring. He looks stunned. I don’t think he hears half of Tyler’s story. Finally, he asks, “But what’s happening?”

“We don’t know,” I say. “That’s why we came here. We thought maybe you’d know.”

He just shakes his head, and hope evaporates.

“Well, why did you ask if Holly was in the river?”

He bends down and opens his guitar case. Tyler whispers, “The Dreadnought,” in a worshipful tone that makes your pa-paw grin weakly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, slipping the guitar strap over his head. “Can’t go anywhere without her. Only family I’ve got left.”

I cringe again, the joke inch-worming too close to the truth to be funny. But your pa-paw doesn’t notice. Carrying the guitar, he leads us up onto the deck.

The old guitar is a C. F. Martin Dreadnought, its glossy black paint scuffed and scratched. It’s a veteran of a thousand days in sweltering studios, a thousand nights onstage. He told us he won it from Johnny Cash in a poker game. Of course, he also used to tell us he once had a pet saber-toothed tiger named Gut-Ripper Sam, so who knows.

“Couple nights after I came here, I was playing, and … ” He plucks a few notes, stops and tunes one of the strings. “It might not happen this time. I don’t know.”

“What might not happen?” I ask nervously.

“Just keep your eye on the plants.”

He starts playing. Long fingers jump like grease in a hot skillet. The guitar is plain, but it’s plain and true. Notes rise from its rosewood chest. A breeze off the river whirls them out across the marina like dandelion seeds.

Under the tea-colored water, streamers of milfoil wave with the currents. I watch them, wiping sweat from my face without looking away.

Hearing the Dreadnought’s voice again makes me remember those afternoons when you’d ignore me. I’d try on your clothes or bounce a rubber ball against your floor and closet door, getting so mad that you wouldn’t do anything except practice guitar. Sitting on your bed, you’d spend hours curling your fingers at unfamiliar angles across the strings, teaching them to move the way your mind wanted them to.

Tyler lifts his Aviators up, then shakes his head. “What are we—”

I sink fingernails into his arm. “Shhh! Quiet.”

I never take my eyes off the weeds. If I don’t blink, I can see new spirals of leaves unfolding. Stalks stretch upward, slow as the afternoon shadows, reaching toward the music.

People walk by without noticing, but down in the murk, the milfoil winds around dock bumpers and slack mooring ropes. Tiny snowflake flowers blossom, then fall to the water. The longest stalk reaches under the railing, making me jump back. “Stop! Mr. Alton, stop!”

The song breaks off. The clatter of the marina pours back in on us.

I grip the railing and peer down. “Holly? Holly, where are you?”

There’s no sound, no bubbles, no motion in the water except for the plants continuing to grow for several minutes. They keep climbing up the railing, working with the patience of a girl learning her instrument, teaching her fingers to move the way her mind wants them to.