several bags of potatoes, a cardboard box filled with green cabbages,
another filled with turnips, and a jug of home brew. Finegan is
stashing the goods in vegetable bins as they hand it over on the deck
of the houseboat and leave, one by one. He and Joey wave goodbye as the
group trudges up the steep ravine from the hidden bay where the
houseboat has been stashed all this time.
Finegan still has the jug of home brew hanging from one of his fingers.
Joey looks at the jug, then back up at Finegan, not saying a word but
saying volumes.
This time’s gonna be different. I don’t feel
the need no more.
______________________________
The houseboat is pulled alongside the yacht, moored with the grappling
hooks. Finegan is on the deck of the yacht, handing duffle bags of gear
down to Joey, who stashes them onto the front deck, running some of the
bags into the house itself. Some of the bags clang as though cookware
86
or tools might be inside. The ring of rowboats can be seen to one side,
taking on water, as are the speedboats. The yacht is starting to list
to one side also. Finegan says,
Might be a change of clothes in there for you
too. You’re growing like a weed. Captain’s log
in there too. Might make for some interesting
reading. . . No sense letting all this stuff
rot in the water. . . It was stolen in the
first place.
Finegan tosses the grappling hooks back onto the houseboat, and climbs
down the ladder at the side of the yacht as the houseboat starts to
drift away. He opens one of the duffle bags and fishes out the
captain’s log and, seated on a box, starts to flip pages. The log
reads,
We were swept inland by a giant wave coming off
the Gulf. Our compass is no help, is erratic.
Finegan takes a swig from his jug and continues to flip pages, reading.
In the background the yacht continues to list to the side, almost on
its side, and the smaller boats can no longer be seen, having sunk. The
raft make of logs had been tied to the houseboat earlier, and is
starting to tug away from shore with the houseboat as it drifts in the
current, the outgoing tide. The log continues,
Floods everywhere. Landmarks unrecognizable.
We’re out of food and water. Gas almost gone.
Finegan takes another swig from the jug, flipping more pages, scanning.
The shoreline is in the distance now, the floating raft lit from the
left by the setting sun. The final log entry says,
Drifted close to land. Taking the dinghy over.
Abandoning ship.
Finegan is about to take another swig from the jug but ponders it
instead. He goes over to the side of the houseboat and pours the rest
of the homebrew overboard, setting the jug down. He looks out at the
floating raft, drifting downstream with the outgoing tide along with
the houseboat. He says,
Lets cut that loose and go upriver a bit, see
what’s to see up there, eh?
Finegan picks up a knife and walks over to where the floating raft is
tied to the houseboat, slicing the line.
87
Eating Rats
The houseboat is peddling down what would have been main street of a
small town. Two-story brick buildings line both sides of the main
street, flooded to the floor of the second story. Much of the brick is
broken off, some buildings no more than a single wall with some boards
sticking out of it.
The place appears deserted until the mayor appears in a broken second
story window. The window has been knocked out to form a doorway, and a
rowboat is tied by a rope that disappears into the doorway. The mayor
is shirtless, has folds of skin hanging over the waist of his baggy,
dirty pants, as though he has lost a lot of weight. He has a scraggly
beard and hair on the long side too. He leans in the doorway, yelling
at Finegan.
You got any food?
Finegan replies,
Depends. You got anything to trade? I’m a
trader.
The mayor flaps his hand toward Finegan in disgust, as though to say
“go away”, and turns his back, walking back into the room.
The entire length of main street, several blocks, is flooded, with a
hillside at the end rising up out of the water. At the end of main
street is a hill topped with a nursing home complex. There are several
buildings, all of similar shape and size, and a parking lot. Finegan
heads for that hillside.
______________________________
Finegan and Joey are walking through the entry of the nursing home
complex. The buildings show the effects of quakes and high winds, some
thrown sideways, some collapsed in place, others standing but with
windows broken and roof partly blown off. A sign laying along the
walkway says, in fading paint, “Coolridge Retirement Home”. Finegan is
looking around as he walks, sometimes walking backwards, looking for
life. He hears a screen door creaking open. The woman manager says,
Can I help you?
A woman in her 30’s, her long brown hair held back by a bandana, is
standing in the doorway, holding the crooked screen door open. She is
wearing a man’s shirt that is too large for her, bound at the waist by
a tie, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She has a long colorful
skirt beneath, and is barefoot. Several cats run in and out of the room
88
as she opens the door. Finegan jerks his head to the side at the sound
of her voice.
Finegan Fine here, mam, trader. Perhaps I have
something you’ve been looking for, something
you need.
The manager says,
Oh, I don’t know. Unless you’re a floating
pharmacy. You that houseboat down there? The
one piled with, ah . . boy, you do come loaded.
What’all you got?
Finegan smiles and says,
Don’t rightly know, mam, until I do inventory.
As I said, I’m a trader, and I find I can rise
to any occasion.
Finegan stops short at this point, all but putting his hand to his
mouth, realizing they are flirting with each other and dropping
innuendoes. The manager catches this too, and tries to put the
conversation back on a safe footing.
Well, ah, we’ve got a retirement home here, old
folks. Mostly what they’re missing is
medication, but those that suffered from that
passed early. Now I’m here as head nurse with a