The woman put her head back and screamed again, the chords in her scrawny throat rigid, her hands clenched, her hair shaking.
In the back of the crowd people were shoving and elbowing to get to the dock side.
“Come on. Let somebody else see.”
“They’re going to cover them up.”
And in Spanish, “Let me pass. Let me look.
Now the woman was screaming, “Albert! Albert! Oh, my God, where’s Albert?”
In the back of the crowd two young Cubans who had just come up and who could not penetrate the crowd stepped back, then ran and shoved forward together. The front line of the crowd swayed and bulged, then, in the middle of a scream, Mrs. Tracy and her two supporters toppled, hung slanted forward in desperate unbalance and then, while the supporters wildly hung to safety, Mrs. Tracy, still screaming, fell into the green water, the scream becoming a splash and bubble.
Two Coast Guard men dove into the clear green water where Mrs. Tracy was splashing in the floodlight. The sheriff leaned out on the stern and shoved a boat hook out to her and finally, raised from below by the two Coast Guardsmen, pulled up by the arms by the sheriff, she was hoisted onto the stern of the launch. No one in the crowd had made a move to aid her, and, as she stood dripping on the stern, she looked up at them, shook both her fists at them and shouted; “Basards! Bishes!” Then as she looked into the cockpit she wailed, “Alber. Whersh Alber?”
“He’s not on board, Mrs. Tracy,” the sheriff said, taking up a blanket to put around her. “Try to be calm, Mrs. Tracy. Try to be brave.”
“My plate,” said Mrs. Tracy tragically. “Losht my plate.”
“We’ll dive it up in the morning,” the skipper of the Coast Guard cutter told her. “We’ll get it all right.”
The Coast Guard men had climbed up on the stern and were standing dripping. “Come on. Let’s go,” one of them said. “I’m getting cold.”
“Are you all right, Mrs. Tracy?” the sheriff said, putting the blanket around her.
“All rie? “ said Mrs. Tracy. “All rie?” then clenched both her hands and put her head back to really scream. Mrs. Tracy’s grief was greater than she could bear.
The crowd listened to her and was silent and respectful. Mrs. Tracy provided just the sound effect that was needed to go with the sight of the dead bandits that were now being covered with Coast Guard blankets by the sheriff and one of the deputies, thus veiling the greatest sight the town had seen since the Isleño had been lynched, years before, out on the County Road and then hung up to swing from a telephone pole in the lights of all the cars that had come out to see it.
The crowd was disappointed when the bodies were covered but they alone of all the town had seen them. They had seen Mrs. Tracy fall into the water and they had, before they came in, seen Harry Morgan carried on a stretcher into the Marine Hospital. When the sheriff ordered them out of the yacht basin they went quietly and happily. They knew how privileged they had been.
Meanwhile at the Marine Hospital Harry Morgan’s wife, Marie, and her three daughters waited on a bench in the receiving room. The three girls were crying and Marie was biting on a handkerchief. She hadn’t been able to cry since about noon.
“Daddy’s shot in the stomach,” one of the girls said to her sister.
“It’s terrible,” said the sister.
“Be quiet,” said the older sister. “I’m praying for him. Don’t interrupt me.”
Marie said nothing and only sat there, biting on a handkerchief and on her lower lip.
After a while the doctor came out. She looked at him and he shook his head.
“Can I go in?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he said. She went over to him. “Is he gone?” she said.
“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Morgan.”
“Can I go in and see him?”
“Not yet. He’s in the operating room.”
“Oh, Christ,” said Marie. “Oh, Christ. I’ll take the girls home. Then I’ll be back.”
Her throat suddenly was swollen hard and shut so she could not swallow.
“Come on, you girls,” she said. The three girls followed her out to the old car where she got into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
“How’s Daddy?” one of the girls asked.
Marie did not answer.
“How’s Daddy, Mother?”
“Don’t talk to me,” Marie said. “Just don’t talk to me.”
“But—”
“Shut up, Honey,” said Marie. “Just shut up and pray for him.” The girls began to cry again.
“Damn it,” said Marie. “Don’t cry like that. I said pray for him.”
“We will,” said one of the girls. “I haven’t stopped since we were at the hospital.”
As they turned onto the worn white coral of the Rocky Road the headlight of the car showed a man walking unsteadily along ahead of them.
“Some poor rummy,” thought Marie. “Some poor goddamned rummy.”
They passed the man, who had blood on his face, and who kept on unsteadily in the dark after the lights of the car had gone on up the street. It was Richard Gordon on his way home.
At the door of the house Marie stopped the car.
“Go to bed, you girls,” she said.
“Go on up to bed.” “But what about Daddy?” one of the girls asked.