The storm has raised many puzzling questions. How can one explain the abnormal behavior of wind and water? According to the United States Weather Bureau, it was a clash of
low-pressure fronts—one coming down from Alaska, one from the Rocky Mountains, and a third from the Gulf of Mexico. They met over the lake.
A spokesman for the Weather Bureau has stated that gale warnings were flown at all stations. The signal flags are well known to sailors—the red square with a black center, flown over a white pennant.
A retired lake captain, who wishes to remain anonymous, gave WPKX his explanation.
SCOTTISH CAPTAIN ON TAPE
: Greed, that’s what it’s all about. Greed! The owners of the boats put pressure on the skippers to squeeze in one or two more voyages at the end of the season. It means more profit for the company and maybe a promotion for the skipper and a bonus for the crew, so they don’t heed the storm warnings. Many a lake captain has taken the gamble. But this storm was a fierce one. It was a gamble that no man could win.
NEWSCASTER
: The result of last Sunday’s gamble: eight freighters sunk . . . 188 lives lost . . . nine other large boats wrecked or grounded . . . millions of dollars lost in vessels and cargo. But no one can estimate the cost of the terror and heartache caused by the Great Storm of 1913. And no one who has lived through this storm will ever forget it.
FOURTEEN
“Millions of dollars lost . . . But no one can estimate the cost of the terror and heartache caused by the Great Storm of 1913. And no one who has lived through this storm will ever forget it.” The newscaster spoke the words with deep feeling and threw down his script in a final gesture of regret and sorrow. The stage blacked out.
Immediately the audience erupted in applause and cheers, rising to their feet en masse.
The lights came up and Qwilleran stood and bowed and extended an arm toward his assistant, who rose and bowed. There were more shouts. She looked at Qwilleran for a cue, and they both made an exit through the door at stage rear. Maxine said, “Applause is kind of intoxicating, isn’t it? I think they were applauding my wig.”
“They were applauding your presence,” Qwilleran assured her, “and your gracious introduction.”
“I’d never been on a stage before an audience. I was too shy to be in school plays or even Sunday school pageants.”
Her husband appeared from nowhere. “Sweetie! You were wonderful! Qwill! Your performance was hypnotic! And the script was powerful!”
“It was the real thing, that’s all,” Qwilleran said modestly. “Everyone in the audience has family members who were there!”
“Yeah, my grandparents lived through it. They always brought up the subject at family reunions. Well, how about coming into the bar to celebrate, Qwill?”
“Thanks, but I’ll celebrate at the end of the run. I’ve got a big day tomorrow. I’ve got to go home and shift gears.”
“And feed the cats,” said Gary, who had heard it before.
Driving home, Qwilleran assessed the audience response. In Moose County, a live program of any kind was a special event; good or bad, it called for enthusiastic hand clapping and screams. As for standing ovations, the audience, he believed, was simply getting ready to go home. At tonight’s performance, they applauded the magnitude of his moustache as much as his dramatic skills. He knew he was a good writer, and he was a good reader of lines. He had spent all those hours reading aloud to the cats.
As he drove into the barnyard, his headlights illuminated the rear of the building, and there in the kitchen window was Koko, giving him a standing ovation!
The male cat was always a bundle of nervous energy, reporting that there was a message on the answering machine, or a meal was past due, or there had been a stranger on the premises. Yum Yum always hung back and looked worried.
On this occasion, Koko had pushed a volume off the shelf. It was
Simmons arrived on the Saturday-morning shuttle flight. Qwilleran picked him up at the airport.
“Janice is a nice woman,” the visitor said. “Glad to see that she’s finally getting married. Who is the guy?”
“John Bushland, prizewinning photographer and one of my best friends. He likes to be called Bushy and makes a joke of the fact that he’s losing his hair.”
“I hope he likes waffles. And parrots. Where’s the dinner being held?”
