Ship Captain's Daughter Read Online Free Page B

the attic to check the garment bags, but it wasn’t there, either. Finally, it dawned on him; he had put it in the basement clothes locker under the stairs, the one with the mothballs in it. He ran down and grabbed it, shot outside, and headed for the car. But when he bent down to say good-bye to the dog, he noticed a screw missing in the gate latch and ran back in, got a screwdriver, and fixed it. By that time, we were running late.
    Racing down Piedmont Avenue, we spotted trouble—a ship in the bay, headed for the bridge. It seemed like we could beat it, but by the time we got to Garfield Avenue, it wasn’t looking good. Dad started gunning for the bridge, but just as we were about togo over, the warning bells went off— ding, ding, ding —and the big white arm came down. There we were, the first car behind the last car that made it.
    Dad didn’t swear in front of me very often, but this was one of the times that he did. Every minute’s delay cost the company money, and the company was not forgiving. Watching the lights of the oncoming ship creeping toward the open span, the three of us sat in silence. In the glow of the lights of the dashboard, I could see my dad’s cheek muscles clench and unclench. Mom even stopped talking.
    After a few minutes, I looked out the back window and—wow!—the whole sky was full of magical shifting shafts of light over the hills of Duluth—green, white, and pale yellow columns, bleeding and blending into each other, as when you turn a kaleidoscope.
    â€œHey, look,” I said, glad to break the silence.
    â€œHoly Toledo!” Dad said. “I haven’t seen an aurora borealis like that in ages.”
    I asked him what caused it, and he started to tell me about gases, and sunspots, and solar winds, and electrical charges, the arctic sun, and the earth’s magnetic field, and how sometimes he would see this from out on the water along the North Shore. He made me say “aurora borealis” over and over again, and then we all started saying it, and then the bells started ringing. The big arm in front of us lifted, and the bridge locked back into place. Dad put the car in gear, and we were off, leading the parade of cars making low whining noises on the metal span. As soon as we got to the Superior side, Dad turned left onto a side street to avoid the traffic lights and floored it. Mom’s knees hit the glove compartment when he jammed on the brakes. He thought he’d spotted a police car up ahead, but it was just a taxi.
    When we passed Barker’s Island going about a hundred miles an hour, we could see the beginning of the dock—but noship. “Uh-oh,” Dad said. “They must have shifted her back.” In another five minutes, we were at the turn in Allouez, in South Superior. When we roared up to the guardhouse, we could see that there were no spouts down. The ore train was moving toward us and the ship was at the end of the dock, loaded. We screeched to a stop. Dad jumped out of the car, flashed his pass at the guard, and started running, without looking back or even saying good-bye.
    â€œGoodbye, Willie,” Mom muttered to herself.
    We sat there for a minute, watching him. Then Mom slid over to the driver’s seat, put the car in reverse, and turned around to back up. “Oh no!” she cried out. “He forgot his mackinaw!” She grabbed the coat and turned around, but he was gone. She slumped down in her seat. From the backseat, I could see a little tear run slowly down her cheek and land on her lip. She licked it, sucked in her breath, and then I watched as she rolled down the window and yelled at the top of her lungs, “I hate that bridge! And I hate steam boating!” The two of us drove home slowly.
    That night it sounded like there was someone or something in the house—like an animal rustling around. I crept into my parents’ bedroom, but Mom wasn’t there, and