Duma Key (7 page)

Mostly I listened to the sigh of the waves, so like the breath of some large sleeping creature, and looked out through the glass wall that fronted on the water. Because of Big Pink's elevation, I couldn't see the beach at all from where I was sitting, fairly deep in the living room; from my armchair I might have been on one of those big tankers that trudge their oily courses from Venezuela to Galveston. A high haze had crept over the dome of the sky, muting the pinpricks of light on the water. To the left were three palm trees silhouetted against the sky, their fronds ruffling in the mildest of breezes: the subjects of my first tentative post-accident sketch.
Don't look much like Minnesota, dere,
Tom Riley had said.

Looking at them made me want to draw again—it was like a dry hunger, but not precisely in the belly; it made my mind itch. And, oddly, the stump of my amputated arm. “Not now,” I said. “Later. I'm whipped.”

I heaved myself out of the chair on my second try, glad the kid wasn't there to see the first backward flop and hear my childish (“Cunt-
licker!
”) cry of exasperation.
Once I was up I stood swaying on my crutch for a moment, marveling at just how tired I was. Usually “whipped” was just something you said, but at that moment it was exactly how I felt.

Moving slowly—I had no intention of falling in here on my first day—I made my way into the master bedroom. The bed was a king, and I wanted nothing more than to go to it, sit on it, sweep the foolish decorative throw-pillows (one bearing the likenesses of two cavorting Cockers and the rather startling idea that MAYBE DOGS ARE ONLY PEOPLE AT THEIR BEST) to the floor with my crutch, lie down, and sleep for two hours. Maybe three. But first I went to the bench at the end of the bed—still moving carefully, knowing how very easy it would be to tangle my feet and fall when I was at this level of exhaustion—where the kid had stacked two of my three suitcases. The one I wanted was on the bottom, of course. I shoved the one on top to the floor without hesitation and unzipped the front pocket of the other.

Glassy blue eyes looked out with their expression of eternal disapproving surprise:
Oouuu, you nasty man! I been in here all this time!
A fluff of lifeless orangered hair sprang from confinement. Reba the Anger-Management Doll in her best blue dress and black Mary Janes.

I lay on the bed with her crooked between my stump and my side. When I had made an adequate space for myself among the ornamental pillows (it was mostly the cavorting Cockers I'd wanted on the floor), I laid her beside me.

“I forgot his name,” I said. “I remembered it the whole way out here, then forgot it.” Reba looked up
at the ceiling, where the blades of the overhead fan were still and unmoving. I'd forgotten to turn it on. Reba didn't care if my new part-time hired man was Ike, Mike, or Andy Van Slyke. It was all the same to her, she was just rags stuffed into a pink body, probably by some unhappy child laborer in Cambodia or fucking Uruguay.

“What is it?” I asked her. Tired as I was, I could feel the old dismal panic setting in. The old dismal anger. The fear that this would go on for the rest of my life. Or get worse! Yes, possible! They'd take me back into the convalescent home, which was really just hell with a fresh coat of paint.

Reba didn't answer, that boneless bitch.

“I can do this,” I said, although I didn't believe it. And I thought:
Jerry. No, Jeff.
Then
You're thinking about Jerry Jeff Walker, asshole. Johnson? Gerald? Great Jumping Jehosaphat?

Starting to drift away. Starting to drift into sleep in spite of the anger and panic. Tuning in to the mild respiration of the Gulf.

I can do this,
I thought.
Crosspatch. Like when you remembered what B-and-C stood for.

I thought of the kid saying
They condemned a couple beach houses at the north end of Casey Key
and there was something there. My stump was itching like a mad bastard. But pretend that's some other guy's stump in some other universe, meantime chase that thing, that rag, that bone, that connection—

—
drifting away
—

Although if a big storm like Charley ever hits this part of the coast dead-on
—

And bingo.

Charley was a hurricane, and when hurricanes
struck, I peeked at The Weather Channel, like the rest of America, and their hurricane guy was . . .

I picked up Reba. She seemed to weigh at least twenty pounds in my soupy, half-asleep state. “The hurricane guy is Jim Cantore,” I said. “My help-out guy is
Jack
Cantori. Case fuckin closed.” I flopped her back down and closed my eyes. I might have heard that faint sigh from the Gulf for another ten or fifteen seconds. Then I was asleep.

I slept until sundown. It was the deepest, most satisfying sleep I'd had in eight months.

v

I had done no more than nibble on the plane, and consequently woke up ravenous. I did a dozen heel-slides instead of the usual twenty-five to loosen my hip, made a quick trip to the bathroom, then lurched toward the kitchen. I was leaning on my crutch, but not as heavily as I might have expected, given the length of my nap. My plan was to make myself a sandwich, maybe two. I hoped for sliced bologna, but reckoned any lunchmeat I found in the fridge would be okay. I'd call Ilse after I ate and tell her I'd arrived safely. Ilse could be depended upon to e-mail everyone else with an interest in the welfare of Edgar Freemantle. Then I could take tonight's dose of pain medication and explore the rest of my new environment. The whole second floor awaited.

What my plan hadn't taken into account was how the westward view had changed.

The sun was gone, but there was still a brilliant orange band above the flat line of the Gulf. It was broken
in only one place, by the silhouette of some large ship. Its shape was as simple as a first-grader's drawing. A cable stretched taut from the bow to what I assumed was the radio tower, creating a triangle of light. As that light skied upward, orange faded to a breathless Maxfield Parrish blue-green that I had never seen before with my own eyes . . . and yet I had a sense of
déjà vu,
as if maybe I
had
seen it, in my dreams. Maybe we all see skies like that in our dreams, and our waking minds can never quite translate them into colors that have names.

Above, in the deepening black, the first stars.

I was no longer hungry, and no longer wanted to call Ilse. All I wanted to do was draw what I was looking at. I knew I couldn't get all of it, but I didn't care—that was the beauty part. I didn't give Shit One.

My new employee (for a moment I blanked on his name again, then I thought
Weather Channel,
then I thought
Jack
: case fuckin closed) had put my knapsack of art supplies in the second bedroom. I flailed my way out to the Florida room with it, carrying it awkwardly and trying to use my crutch at the same time. A mildly curious breeze lifted my hair. The idea that such a breeze and snow in St. Paul might exist at the same time, in the same world, seemed absurd to me—science fiction.

I set the sack down on the long, rough wooden table, thought about snapping on a light, and decided against it. I would draw until I couldn't see to draw, and then call it a night. I sat in my awkward fashion, unzipped the bag, pulled out my pad. ARTISAN, it said on the front. Given the level of my current skills,
that
was a joke. I grubbed deeper and brought out my box of colored pencils.

I drew and colored quickly, hardly looking at what I was doing. I shaded up from an arbitrary horizon-line, stroking my Venus Yellow from side to side with wild abandon, sometimes going over the ship (it would be the first tanker in the world to come down with yellow jaundice, I reckoned) and not caring. When I had the sunset band to what seemed like the right depth—it was dying fast now—I grabbed the orange and shaded more, and heavier. Then I went back to the ship, not thinking, just putting a series of angular black lines on my paper. That was what I saw.

When I was done, it was almost full dark.

To the left, the three palms clattered.

Below and beyond me—but not so far beyond now, the tide was coming back in—the Gulf of Mexico sighed, as if it had had a long day and there was more work to do yet.

Overhead there were now thousands of stars, and more appearing even as I looked.

This was here all the time,
I thought, and recalled something Melinda used to say when she heard a song she really liked on the radio:
It had me from hello.
Below my rudimentary tanker, I scratched the word
HELLO
in small letters. So far as I can remember (and I'm better at that now), it was the first time in my life I named a picture. And as names go, it's a good one, isn't it? In spite of all the damage that followed, I still think that's the perfect name for a picture drawn by a man who was trying his best not to be sad anymore—who was trying to remember how it felt to be happy.

It was done. I put my pencil down, and that was when Big Pink spoke to me for the first time. Its
voice was softer than the sigh of the Gulf's breathing, but I heard it quite well just the same.

I've been waiting for you,
it said.

vi

That was my year for talking to myself, and answering myself back. Sometimes other voices answered back as well, but that night it was just me, myself, and I.

“Houston, this is Freemantle, do you copy, Houston?” Leaning into the fridge. Thinking,
Christ, if this is basic staples, I'd hate to see what it would look like if the kid really decided to load up
—
I could wait out World War III.

“Ah, roger, Freemantle, we copy.”

“Ah, we have bologna, Houston, that's a go on the bologna, do you copy?”

“Roger, Freemantle, we read you loud and clear. What's your mayo situation?”

We were a go for mayo, too. I made two bologna sandwiches on white—where I grew up, children are raised to believe mayonnaise, bologna, and white bread are the food of the gods—and ate them at the kitchen table. In the pantry I found a stack of Table Talk Pies, both apple and blueberry. I began to think of changing my will in favor of Jack Cantori.

Almost sloshing with food, I went back to the living room, snapped on all the lights, and looked at
Hello
. It wasn't very good. But it was interesting. The scribbled afterglow had a sullen, furnacey quality that was startling. The ship wasn't the one I'd seen, but mine was interesting in a spooky sort of
way. It was little more than a scarecrow ship, and the overlapping scribbles of yellow and orange had turned it into a ghost-ship, as well, as if that peculiar sunset were shining right through it.

I propped it atop the TV, against the sign reading THE OWNER REQUESTS THAT YOU AND YOUR GUESTS DO NOT SMOKE INDOORS. I looked at it a moment longer, thinking it needed something in the foreground—a smaller boat, maybe, just to lend the one on the horizon some perspective—but I no longer wanted to draw. Besides, adding something might fuck up what little charm the thing had. I tried the telephone instead, thinking if it wasn't working yet I could call Ilse on my cell, but Jack had been on top of that, too.

I thought I'd probably get her machine—college girls are busy girls—but she answered on the first ring. “Daddy?” That startled me so much that at first I couldn't speak and she said it again. “Dad?”

“Yes,” I said. “How did you know?”

“The callback number's got a 941 area code. That's where that Duma place is. I checked.”

“Modern technology. I can't catch up. How are you, kiddo?”

“Fine. The question is, how are
you
?”

“I'm all right. Better than all right, actually.”

“The fellow you hired—?”

“He's got game. The bed's made and the fridge is full. I got here and took a five-hour nap.”

There was a pause, and when she spoke again she sounded more concerned than ever. “You're not hitting those pain pills too hard, are you? Because Oxycontin's supposed to be sort of a Trojan horse.
Not that I'm telling you anything you didn't already know.”

“Nope, I stick to the prescribed dosage. In fact—” I stopped.

“What, Daddy? What?” Now she sounded almost ready to hail a cab and take a plane.

“I was just realizing I skipped the five o'clock Vicodin . . .” I checked my watch. “And the eight o'clock Oxycontin, too. I'll be damned.”

“How bad's the pain?”

“Nothing a couple of Tylenol won't handle. At least until midnight.”

“It's probably the change in climate,” she said. “And the nap.”

I had no doubt those things were part of it, but I didn't think they were all of it. Maybe it was crazy, but I thought
drawing
had played a part. In fact, it was something I sort of knew.

We talked for awhile, and little by little I could hear that concern going out of her voice. What replaced it was unhappiness. She was understanding, I suppose, that this thing was really happening, that her mother and father weren't just going to wake up one morning and take it back. But she promised to call Pam and e-mail Melinda, let them know I was still in the land of the living.

“Don't you have e-mail there, Dad?”

“I do, but tonight you're my e-mail, Cookie.”

She laughed, sniffed, laughed again. I thought to ask if she was crying, then thought again. Better not to, maybe.

“Ilse? I better let you go now, honey. I want to shower off the day.”

“Okay, but . . .” A pause. Then she burst out: “I
hate
to think of you all the way down there in Florida
by yourself! Maybe falling on your ass in the shower! It's not
right
!”