Whale Season (20 page)

Chapter 34

“D
o you know any polkas?” Jesus asks. This is not exactly the question Jimmy Ray expects. “I make it a point as a professional to know a little bit of everything,” he says. “But I'm no Frankie Yankovic.”

The two men are driving the American Dream down the narrow dirt road that leads to what was once Pettit's Alligator farm, although Jesus doesn't know that. He just knows it's the main road in town, and it leads out toward the peninsula he saw earlier—and it's deserted. Deserted is a good quality in a road.

“I love Yankovic,” Jesus says, as if they're just out for a drive. “A lot of people don't know that he isn't Polish at all.”

This is more than Jimmy Ray ever wanted or expected to know about America's Polka King.

“Can you sing me a little?” Jesus asks.

Jimmy Ray gives him an incredulous look. “Sing you a little
polka
? You brought me out here in this storm to sing
polka songs
?”

“Well, no. But I think it would make the experience a little more pleasant for us both.”

“You're fixing to kill me, but first you want a musical interlude?”

Jesus turns to Jimmy Ray, looks sheepish. “Well, you didn't have to bring your harmonica, just because I told you to.”

“You had a machete.”

“I was just holding it,” Jesus shrugs. “Wasn't trying to scare you.”

When he says this he no longer looks menacing, just tired and dirty. Looks like Jimmy Ray's friend again—just a little bit more lost, and a little less harmless. Jimmy Ray softens.

That's some kind of crazy you got going on, he thinks and can't imagine the struggle inside the man's head.

“Well,” Jimmy Ray says, “no musician can resist a willing audience.”

Jesus smiles. Jimmy Ray takes the harmonica and riffs a classic blues-based two-step beat. “Roll out the barrel,” he growls. “You gots to roll out that little barrel baby 'cause I'm your handyman.”

Unfortunately, the polka loses a lot in translation.

When they finally arrive at the end of the road, Jesus guns the engine. What little gas the Dream has left in it propels it through the passion fruit flower archway. Then it stalls.

In the clearing sits the ghost house.

“Shoot,” Jimmy Ray says, amazed.

The electrical storm is raging around them. White-capped waves surround the small house. The gigantic gator grin, an entrance like no other, rocks in the high wind.

“What's this?” Jesus asks.

“A miracle,” Jimmy Ray says.

At that moment, on the dirt road that connects Whale Harbor to the interstate and the rest of the world, Dagmar is officially going twice the posted speed limit. The rain is sheeting down, makes the road fluid around her. The Mercedes is well designed, able to go 100 mph on the Autobahn.

This, however, is not the Autobahn.

Going 50 mph she hydroplanes but has the presence of mind to take her foot off the gas and downshift. The small convertible spins like a bottle in the center of the road. The car is heavy so it doesn't flip.

Lucky, she thinks right before her head hits the steering wheel.

Leon is also feeling lucky, but not entirely happy about it. He's sitting alone in the parking lot of the Round-Up in his mandarin orange 1975 El Dorado looking at himself in the rearview mirror. “Rancid Creamsicle. That's what I look like. A big friggin' rancid Creamsicle.” The shrink-wrapped money is in the trunk. Bob the Round-Up Cowboy is wantonly tossing his lasso in the blinding rain.

Life is good. Leon knows he should be happy. He has every reason to be happy. If he leaves right now, he can be in Miami in three hours. He can rent a room at one of those pink hotels and drink imported beer. Maybe even watch wrestling on the pay-per-view channel. With a big bag of shrink-wrapped cash, you can even eat the macadamia nuts from the tiny locked refrigerator. Life, at the moment, is filled with possibilities. There really is nothing to keep Leon in Whale Harbor anymore. No women. No family. He can sell Grammy Lettie's house—since there really is a house to sell now. Sell Lucky's. Start a new life. And he knows he can, and should, do this because as soon as Trot discovers that there was a big bag of money taped to the bottom of the Posture-Perfect, he's going to be pissed—and that's never good.

So Leon knows what he really needs to do is put the car in reverse, back out of Lucky's parking lot, and never look back. He turns the key in the ignition. The windshield wipers slap on. The headlights waver in the rain. He checks the rearview mirror again.

“I still look like a friggin' rancid Creamsicle.” Then he throws it in reverse. But instead of pulling away, he idles. The engine rumbles, bucks.

That kid is missing.

And so is Dr. Ricky Jesus.

And the money has to belong to that Levi couple. They owned the Dream. They have to be dead.

These are not my problems, he tells himself, and the engine whines.

Then, unfortunately, he thinks about all the people who came to him when he was Bee-Jesus. They all wanted him to save them, but he couldn't. Never could save anybody, he thinks. Not Miss Pearl, the Amazing One-Ton Wonder. Not Grandma Lettie. Not even my own boy, Cal.

When he thinks of his son, Leon remembers that awful look of panic on Cal's sweet face as the water pulled him down. The memory feels so real, Leon can't catch his breath; feels as if he's drowning in it.

Not even myself, he thinks. I can't even save myself. And he feels beyond sorrow, all tapped out. So Leon pullsÊout of the parking lot and starts down the long dirt road that used to be paved, used to have a sign that welcomed visitors to Whale Harbor. He heads in the blinding rain toward the interstate and the world beyond. No reason to stay, every reason to leave. Time to start over. Get a new life.

But then, about a mile down the road, he sees Dagmar, bruised and bleeding, waving him down in the sheeting rain. Her tiny sea green convertible blocks the road. He has to stop. So he does. He opens the car door to let her in. He plans to explain that he's leaving, starting over. There's nothing left for me here anymore, he wants to say.

But the dome light makes her face seem even more beautiful. Soft as magnolias.

“That Jesus guy got Jimmy Ray,” she says.

She's dripping all over the mandarin orange leather of the Pimp Daddy Caddy. “I'm pretty sure of it. I think he's going to kill him.”

That's when Leon notices it. He can't believe he never noticed it before. In the soft moon of the dome light, Dagmar's eyes—they're Cal's eyes with those tiny specks of green and gold.

Our son, he thinks. Then leans over and kisses her hard.

Dagmar's stunned. So is Leon.

“Let's go kick some psycho butt,” he says and throws the Pimp Daddy Caddy into reverse.

For once in her life, Dagmar is speechless.

Chapter 35

B
leeding to death is not an unpleasant experience, except for that moment of sheer panic when you realize it's going to happen, and you're helpless to stop it, and you don't want to die so your heart races, beats against the bone of your chest, and you'd like to scream but you can't.

Other than that, it's really quite a lovely way to go.

Of course, as the blood leaves your hands and feet the cold becomes difficult. But then, luckily, when the blood slips away from the brain you lose consciousness. Then die.

Except for the mess, it's all rather pleasant.

“You're not giving up this easy, Trot Jeeter.”

The sweet voice pulls him back into life. He opens his eyes.

“That's good,” Carlotta says. “You look at me. You stay awake.”

She's elevated Trot's head and applied pressure so that the bleeding has slowed. “They trained all the dealers at the casino in first aid,” she says. “I know what I'm doing. Just do what I tell you. Just look at me. Nowhere else.”

Even if I die, this is my lucky day, he thinks.

“Can you hear me? Can you wink at me?”

Definitely lucky.

The rain is coming down horizontal. Hard. Stings the skin. The smell of dead fish is overwhelming. The waves crash over them. Carlotta holds Trot close. She has to keep him awake and his head above water. Has to keep him focused, alert. Has to make sure they both don't drown.

She's trying hard not to panic, but it's difficult. Sam's lifeless body is rocking back and forth next to her. It's half on shore, half still afloat. Every now and then, a wave carries the dead boy's hand and it brushes up against her back. Or her leg. Or arm.

It's so cold, lifeless. She wants to scream, but can't. Can't upset Trot. Can't risk it. Can't move him either. His skin is already clammy. Blood seems to be everywhere. Pressure must be maintained—she knows that.

When the dead boy's hand comes to rest on her thigh, his dull fat fingers, she takes a sharp breath. Feels the acid in her stomach rise. Focuses on Trot.

“You'll be fine,” she says in that voice that's an odd mix of steel and silk. “I called for backup on your cell. They'll be here soon.”

With each wave, Sam's fingers seem to move back and forth over her thigh. Caress it. It's difficult not to scream.

“You got to hold on,” she says to Trot. “Hold on tight.”

He wants to smile, but can't manage it. Things are murky. He's not sure what happened. All he remembers is that Jesus had the boy. He doesn't remember drawing his gun. Doesn't remember Jesus saying, “You believe in salvation?” Doesn't remember the machete, or Carlotta finding him.

A wave crashes over them both and makes her cough so hard she nearly loses her grip on him. “You're lucky I like the beach,” she says.

“You make me want cotton candy,” Trot whispers.

Or at least thinks he does.

Chapter 36

J
esus never could resist a good miracle “Miracle house? That should be interesting,” he says, as if he's just another tourist planning his day. “I'll clean up and we'll take a quick look. It'll be fun.”

Jimmy Ray says nothing. He stares out the window into the night and can see the whitecaps of high waves illuminated by lightning as they overwhelm the small house. He picks up the harmonica and plays an old Underground Railroad song. “Wade in the Water”—“God is gonna trouble the water.”

Gives him strength. Hope.

Jesus hums along as he takes the top bed sheet off the king-sized Posture-Perfect and wraps it around his bony waist. He washes his face in the tiny marble sink with the small pink shell soaps that Mrs. Levi had bought to match the towels. Then tidies up the machete.

“Mistake,” the voices in his head whisper. “You're making a big mistake.”

But he ignores them. How often does one get to see a miracle?

When he's finished he says, “Presentable?” There are still traces of blood deep in the creases of his face.

“Somewhat,” Jimmy Ray says and looks away. How'd you get so wrong? he thinks and looks back out the window. The night is so dark it feels as if he'll be swallowed up by it. The anger of the storm is the only light. The ghost house sits in the middle of this fury, its silvered timber dulled.

“Doesn't look like anybody's at home,” Jimmy Ray says.

“That's all right. We'll just take a quick look around.”

When Jesus passes through the tiny kitchen he blows out the pilot light of the oven. Turns up the gas. The smell is suddenly overwhelming. “This will take awhile, anyway,” he says.

Jimmy Ray is clearly alarmed. “You figuring on killing me in this thing?”

Jesus smiles, proud. “It's the Hallmark card of death, don't you think? Killed by the American Dream—how perfect a death is that for a Buddhist?”

Jimmy Ray shakes his head, sadly. “I don't know, son. Exploding like that sort of fit Leon, but it seems a little too flashy for me.”

“Oh, I'm not blowing you up. That would be gaudy. Carbon monoxide is so much more thoughtful. The silent killer.”

“Makes you ralph, I've heard.”

Jesus is clearly disappointed in his friend. “You're going to be fussy, aren't you? You promised me you weren't fussy. And now, here you are, being fussy.” He picks up a flashlight from on top of the tiny refrigerator. “Salvation is never easy,” he says to himself and the two men run out into the cresting storm, Jesus swinging the machete over his head like a majorette at halftime; Jimmy Ray two steps behind.

It'll be okay, Jimmy Ray tells himself. The rain chills his skin. Uncle Joe's snub-nosed Colt Classic .38 bulges in his pant pocket. I can handle this. As he runs, he sings in his rumble of a voice, “Wade in the water. Wade in the water, children. Wade in the water. God's a-going to trouble the water.”

Luckily, help is on the way. More or less. The Pimp Daddy Caddy tires are nearly bald, so the mandarin orange car is weaving through the quickly flooding town like a wayward ocean liner. But at least it's moving and going in the right direction. Since there's only one paved road in Whale Harbor, Leon knows that there's really only one place to go with a $250,000 land yacht that is nearly out of fuel.

It's a no-brainer even for me, he thinks. But he doesn't want to think much more beyond that. Thinking always seems to get him into trouble. He knows that if he thinks too much, he'll soon convince himself that he should be afraid, and then he'll chicken out. So he just thinks about baseball. He has to, because he has no idea what they're going to do when they find Jesus and Jimmy Ray. He has no plan, no weapon, and borrowed courage.

I'm in my element when I'm in over my head, he reassures himself. Then wonders if the Marlins will ever make the World Series.

When they finally arrive at the end of the road, the Dream is dark. He parks a little way down from it. “They're probably in the house,” he says. Then turns the dome light on again quickly. Just one more look, he thinks. For courage.

Dagmar turns to him and finally speaks. “Thanks,” she says, and he hears Cal's voice.

“Anytime.”

Inside the house, Jesus and Jimmy Ray are sitting at the kitchen table waiting for the rain to stop. Jesus takes the flashlight and turns it on. Balances it on the table. The light points toward the ceiling, and fills the room with a burnished glow, as if the moment is already a memory.

“Maybe we could just talk,” Jesus says. “To pass the time. Wait for the rain to let up.” He's going to miss Jimmy Ray; he knows that now. Miss him a lot.

This is the mistake, the voices inside Jesus' head say. No talking. Never talk.

“I'm not ready for salvation,” Jimmy Ray says.

THIS IS WHY YOU SHOULD NEVER TALK,
the voices scream. Jesus understands now. Talking always leads to confusion. “Sorry,” he says under his breath.

“You okay?” Jimmy Ray says.

Jesus nods.

“I hope you understand what I'm saying,” Jimmy Ray says. “It's not that I don't appreciate the gesture—”

Jesus raises his hand to silence him. “Maybe we should stop talking.”

Salvation is a gift, Jesus wants to say, and not accepting a gift is rude. But he doesn't say this. Even thinking about rudeness makes him angry. He doesn't want to be angry with Jimmy Ray. He wants to be gentle. “We can just sit here quietly. That's okay.”

“I'm not trying to upset you,” Jimmy Ray says. “I just think you should know that I've thought about it and I'm not ready to go. Not yet. What I'm ready to do is to go back to New Orleans and take me a job at Preservation Hall; I know some of the boys there. And then I plan to find me a fine-looking widow with a solid pension who knows how to cook and still has most of her own teeth.

“You see I still got some living yet. You made me see that.”

“But the American Dream,” Jesus sighs, wistful. “Such a mythic death.”

“Son, don't get me wrong. I appreciate the beauty of it and celebrate its metaphoric qualities. It's genius.”

“You're not just saying that?”

Jimmy Ray shakes his head. “No, sir. I am touched that you honor me with such a death.”

“But—”

“Well—”

“Then you're going to have to kill me,” Jesus says, “because I have planned your salvation, and am counting on your salvation, and I will have your salvation.

“The only way you're going to go on living is over my dead body.

“Do you think you can do that? Kill me?”

Jesus places the machete on the table between them, within arm's reach of them both. The kitchen provides uneasy shelter. The wind outside is off-key and raging. The surf crashes up against the small house like a drunk. Saltwater flows though the worn walls. Rain sheets through the glassless windows. The two men cannot look into each other's eyes, but have no choice.

Neither is sure what they see.

“Forgiveness,” Jimmy Ray says. “I can forgive you and you can forgive me. And we can both walk away. You know, Buddha says there can be no true healing without forgiveness of ourselves and of others.”

Jesus nods and thinks about it for a moment. Then he says, “But if you're planning on getting out of here alive, I'd grab the machete, if I were you. The Colt has no bullets.”

Jimmy Ray isn't sure that he heard that right. “What do you mean? What Colt?”

“I know you have it. Go on, take a look at it,” Jesus says. “I wouldn't lie to you. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a liar. Go ahead.”

Jimmy Ray slowly takes the gun from his pants pocket. Checks it. Empty.

“I took them out,” Jesus says. “When you slipped away that night after your set at The Café, it was easy to figure out where you were. When you were asleep, I removed the bullets.”

“How'd you know I wouldn't check the gun again?”

“Buddhist. Bad enough you have the gun.”

“I see.”

Jimmy Ray puts the gun back into his pocket. Who am I fooling? he thinks. I am too old for this. Living has slipped through my hands.

Jesus can feel the shift in him, the weakness. Jimmy Ray's skin seems suddenly like an overcoat worn slack. The old man eyes are back, weak and watery. Jesus plays his hand again. “You know you won't kill me. And it's not because of some moral compass you have. It's because you don't want to. You know I'm right. It is time for you to go.

“This world, Jimmy Ray, is no place for a noble spirit like you. There's just too much sorrow.”

Jimmy Ray goes quiet. He counts his dead as one would sheep. After a time he says, “Sorrow's the one thing we can be sure of in this world. That's why we got to make joy.” But when he says this, he doesn't sound convinced. It's clear he's struggling. He wants to believe, but isn't sure if he really does.

Jesus feels the bluff, and goes “all-in.” “But you know what they say,” he says, seductive. “Bowlers bowl—you can't change the nature of the world, Jimmy Ray. Sorrow grows in your bones.”

Time suddenly feels slowed. Jesus reaches across and hands Jimmy Ray the machete. Pushes the table over. The two men sit knee to knee.

“So kill me, or let me kill you,” Jesus whispers. The voices in his head go silent.

Jimmy Ray looks at the long sharp blade, and then at Jesus. “I'm not going to kill you, son.”

“But you brought that gun.”

“To talk sense into you.”

“Still, you brought the gun. And the Luger before that. Not exactly Buddhist.”

The words settle in. Itch. Jimmy Ray shrugs.

Jesus smiles. “Doesn't mean you're not a good man. You brought the gun because we both know that sometimes a life just isn't worth living anymore.

“Takes a real friend to give the gift of salvation. And you want that gift, now. I know you do. I can feel it.”

Jimmy Ray's knees shake slightly with the weight of the knife.

“I could take you back to the Dream,” Jesus says, “and let you lie on the satin sheets and you could live again that life you always sing about—all smoke and whiskey and big-lipped women reckless as Saturday night—not widows with their clacking teeth, but young women with smooth fine fur who will roll you between their legs until you are speechless and they will be all yours forever as you fall into that white hot moment of death and slip from this world to the next.

“I can do that for you because we're friends.”

Outside, the rain grows soft. The waves, slack. The storm is lifting. The world is suddenly too quiet.

“It would be a death fitting your great spirit,” Jesus says. “A death that will be remembered. A death that should not go to waste.”

The words pain the old man, because he feels the truth in them. “I'm sorry,” he says and reaches across and pats Jesus' shoulder. “But I can't let you do that, son.”

“Then kill me,” Jesus says.

At this moment, timing is everything. And Leon knows it. But that's about all he knows. All he wants to know. “Don't think!” he shouts and crashes through the kitchen door.

Of course, the best part about not thinking is that you have no way to judge the rightness of your actions. No censoring that informs you as to whether an idea is harebrained, or absurd, or too dangerous—or just plain stupid.

It is for this reason why heroes fall into two categories—the fearless and the morons.

So when Leon crashes through the kitchen door, a blur of color in his borrowed crime scene yellow and hemoglobin clothes, screaming “Don't think! Don't think! Don't think!” as he tackles Jesus from behind sending the chair and the man careening into Jimmy Ray and knocking the machete out of his lap and onto the floor so that Jesus could swoop it up and say, “I'll miss you. You were a good friend,” and then run out the door of the ghost house into the cold sweat of the night—Dagmar pretty much decides that Leon is one of the few men on earth who actually fits into both categories.

Leon is, indeed, the bravest and most stupid man she has ever met.

“You okay?” she asks Jimmy Ray, holds him close. He nods, shaky.

Leon helps him up. “I guess I saved you,” he says, shocked. “I've never saved anybody before.”

“I guess you did,” Jimmy says sadly.

And at that moment, $250,000 of American engineering and buyable luxury explodes.

The American Dream killed Jesus. Of course, he lit the match.