Duma Key: A Novel Page 16

  “We’ve discussed it,” I said.

  “Perhaps you’d read me a poem this afternoon,” she said. “Your choice. I miss them so. I could do without Oprah, but a life without books is a thirsty life, and one without poetry is …” She laughed. It was a bewildered sound that hurt my heart. “It’s like a life without pictures, don’t you think? Or don’t you?”

  The room was very quiet. Somewhere else a clock was ticking, but that was all. I thought Wireman would say something, but he didn’t; she had rendered him temporarily speechless, no mean trick when it came to that hijo de madre.

  “It can be your choice,” she said again. “Or, if you’ve stayed too long, Edward—”

  “No,” I said. “No, that’s all right, I’m fine.”

  The book was simply titled: Good Poems. The editor was Garrison Keillor, a man who could probably run for governor and be elected in the part of the world I came from. I opened at random and found a poem by someone named Frank O’Hara. It was short. That made it a good poem in my book, and I waded in.

  “Have you forgotten what we were like then

  when we were still first rate

  and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth

  “it’s no use worrying about Time

  but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves

  and turned some sharp corners

  “the whole pasture looked like our meal

  we didn’t need speedometers

  we could manage cocktails out of ice and water …”

  Something happened to me there. My voice wavered and the words doubled, as if the word water from my mouth had summoned some in my eyes. I looked up and said, “Pardon me.” My voice was husky. Wireman looked concerned, but Elizabeth Eastlake was smiling at me with an expression of perfect understanding.

  “That’s all right, Edgar,” she said. “Poetry sometimes does that to me, as well. Honest feeling is nothing to be ashamed of. Men do not sham convulsion.”

  “Nor simulate a throe,” I added. My voice seemed to be coming from someone else.

  She smiled brilliantly. “The man knows his Dickinson, Wireman!”

  “Seems to,” Wireman agreed. He was watching me closely.

  “Will you finish, Edward?”

  “Yes, ma’am.

  “I wouldn’t want to be faster

  or greener than now if you were with me O you

  were the best of all my days.”

  I closed the book. “That’s the end.”

  She nodded. “What were the best of all your days, Edgar?”

  “Maybe these,” I said. “I’m hoping.”

  She nodded. “Then I’ll hope, too. One is always allowed to hope. And Edgar?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Let me be Elizabeth to you. I can’t stand being a ma’am at this end of my life. Do we understand each other?”

  I nodded. “I think we do, Elizabeth.”

  She smiled, and the tears that had been in her own eyes fell. The cheeks they landed on were old and ruined with wrinkles, but the eyes were young. Young.

  v

  Ten minutes later, Wireman and I were standing at the end of the Palacio boardwalk again. He had left the lady of the house with a slice of key lime pie, a glass of tea, and the remote control. I had two of Wireman’s egg salad sandwiches in a bag. He said they’d just go stale if I didn’t take them home, and he didn’t have to press me too hard. I also hit him up for a couple of aspirin.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry about that. I was going to ask first, believe me.”

  “Relax, Wireman.”

  He nodded but didn’t look directly at me. He was looking out at the Gulf. “I just want you to know I didn’t promise her anything. But she’s … childish now. So she makes assumptions the way kids do, based on what she wants rather than on the facts.”

  “And what she wants is to be read to.”

  “Yes.”

  “Poems on tapes and compact discs don’t cut it?”

  “Nope. She says the difference between recorded and live is like the difference between canned mushrooms and fresh ones.” He smiled, but still wouldn’t look at me.

  “Why don’t you read to her, Wireman?”

  Still looking out at the water, he said: “Because I no longer can.”

  “No longer … why not?”

  He considered this, then shook his head. “Not today. Wireman’s tired, muchacho, and she’ll be up in the night. Up and argumentative, full of rue and confusion, liable to think she’s in London or St. Tropez. I see the signs.”

  “Will you tell me another day?”

  “Yeah.” He sighed through his nose. “If you can show yours, I suppose I can show mine, although I don’t relish it. Are you sure you’re okay to get back on your own?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, although my hip was throbbing like a big motor.

  “I’d run you in the golf cart, I really would, but when she’s this way—Dr. Wireman’s clinical term for it is Bright Going On Stupid—she’s apt to take it into her mind to wash the windows … or dust some shelves … or go for a walk without her walker.” At that he actually shuddered. It looked like the kind that starts out as burlesque and ends up being real.

  “Everybody keeps trying to get me into a golf cart,” I said.

  “You’ll call your wife?”

  “I don’t see any other option,” I said.

  He nodded. “Good boy. You can tell me all about it when I come to look at your pictures. Any time’ll work. There’s a visiting nurse I can call—Annmarie Whistler—if the morning works better.”

  “Okay. Thanks. And thanks for listening to me, Wireman.”

  “Thanks for reading to the boss. Buena suerte, amigo.”

  I set off down the beach and had gotten about fifty yards before something occurred to me. I turned back, thinking Wireman would be gone, but he was still standing there with his hands in his pockets and the wind off the Gulf—increasingly chilly—combing back his long graying hair. “Wireman!”

  “What?”

  “Was Elizabeth ever an artist herself?”

  He said nothing for a long time. There was only the sound of the waves, louder tonight with the wind to push them. Then he said, “That’s an interesting question, Edgar. If you were to ask her—and I’d advise against it—she’d say no. But I don’t think that’s the truth.”

  “Why not?”

  But he only said, “You’d better get walking, muchacho. Before that hip of yours stiffens up.” He gave me a quick seeya wave, turned, and was gone back up the boardwalk, chasing his lengthening shadow, almost before I was aware he was leaving.

  I stood where I was a moment or two longer, then turned north, set my sights on Big Pink, and headed for home. It was a long trip, and before I got there my own absurdly elongated shadow was lost in the sea oats, but in the end I made it. The waves were still building, and under the house the murmur of the shells had again become an argument.

  How to Draw a Picture (IV)

  Start with what you know, then reinvent it. Art is magic, no argument there, but all art, no matter how strange, starts in the humble everyday. Just don’t be surprised when weird flowers sprout from common soil. Elizabeth knew that. No one taught her; she learned for herself.

  The more she drew, the more she saw. The more she saw, the more she wanted to draw. It works like that. And the more she saw, the more her language came back to her: first the four or five hundred words she knew on the day she fell from the cart and struck her head, then many, many more.

  Daddy was amazed by the rapidly growing sophistication of her pictures. So were her sisters—both the Big Meanies and the twins (not Adie; Adie was in Europe with three friends and two trusty chaperones—Emery Paulson, the young man she’ll marry, had not yet come on the scene). The nanny/housekeeper was awed by her, called her la petite obéah fille.

  The doctor who attended her case cautioned that the little girl must be very careful about exercise and e
xcitement lest she take a fever, but by January of 1926 she was coursing everywhere on the south end of the Key, carrying her pad and bundled up in her “puddy jacket and thumpums,” drawing everything.

  That was the winter she saw her family grow bored with her work—Big Meanies Maria and Hannah first, then Tessie and Lo-Lo, then Daddy, then even Nan Melda. Did she understand that even genius palls, when taken in large doses? Perhaps, in some instinctive child’s way, she did.

  What came next, the outgrowth of their boredom, was a determination to make them see the wonder of what she saw by reinventing it.

  Her surrealist phase began; first the birds flying upside-down, then the animals walking on water, then the Smiling Horses that brought her a small measure of renown. And that was when something changed. That was when something dark slipped in, using little Libbit as its channel.

  She began to draw her doll, and when she did, her doll began to talk.

  Noveen.

  By then Adriana was back from Gay Paree, and to begin with, Noveen mostly spoke in Adie’s high and happy lah-de-dah voice, asking Elizabeth if she could hinky-dinky-parley-voo and telling her to ferramay her bush. Sometimes Noveen sang her to sleep while pictures of the doll’s face—large and round and all brown except for the red lips—scattered Elizabeth’s counterpane.

  Noveen sings Frère Jacques, frère Jacques, are you sleepun? Are you sleepun? Dormayvoo, dormayvoo?

  Sometimes Noveen told her stories—mixed-up but wonderful—where Cinderella wore the red slippers from Oz and the Bobbsey Twins got lost in the Magic Forest and found a sweetie house with a roof made of peppermint candy.

  But then Noveen’s voice changed. It stopped being Adie’s voice. It stopped being the voice of anyone Elizabeth knew, and it went right on talking even when Elizabeth told Noveen to ferramay her bush. At first, maybe that voice was pleasant. Maybe it was fun. Strange, but fun.

  Then things changed, didn’t they? Because art is magic, and not all magic is white.

  Not even for little girls.

  7—Art for Art’s Sake

  i

  There was a bottle of single-malt in the living room liquor cabinet. I wanted a shot and didn’t take it. I wanted to wait, maybe eat one of my egg salad sandwiches and plan out what I was going to say to her, and I didn’t do that, either. Sometimes the only way to do it is to do it. I took the cordless phone out into the Florida room. It was chilly even with the glass sliders shut, but in a way that was good. I thought the cool air might sharpen me up a little. And maybe the sight of the sun dropping toward the horizon and painting its golden track across the water would calm me down. Because I wasn’t calm. My heart was pounding too hard, my cheeks felt hot, my hip hurt like a bastard, and I suddenly realized, with real horror, that my wife’s name had slipped my mind. Every time I dipped for it, all I came up with was peligro, the Spanish word for danger.

  I decided there was one thing I did need before calling Minnesota.

  I left the phone on the overstuffed couch, limped to the bedroom (using my crutch now; I and my crutch were going to be inseparable until bedtime), and got Reba. One look into her blue eyes was enough to bring Pam’s name back, and my heartbeat slowed. With my best girl clamped between my side and my stump, her boneless pink legs wagging, I made my way back to the Florida room and sat down again. Reba flopped onto my lap and I set her aside with a thump so she faced the westering sun.

  “Stare at it too long, you’ll go blind,” I said. “Of course, that’s where the fun is. Bruce Springsteen, 1973 or so, muchacha.”

  Reba did not reply.

  “I should be upstairs, painting that,” I told her, “Doing fucking art for fucking art’s sake.”

  No reply. Reba’s wide eyes suggested to the world in general that she was stuck with America’s nastiest man.

  I picked up the cordless and shook it in her face. “I can do this,” I said.

  Nothing from Reba, but I thought she looked doubtful. Beneath us, the shells continued their wind-driven argument: You did, I didn’t, oh yes you did.

  I wanted to go on discussing the matter with my Anger-Management Doll. Instead I punched in the number of what used to be my house. No problem at all remembering that. I was hoping to get Pam’s answering machine. Instead I got the lady herself, sounding breathless. “Hey, Joanie, thank God you called back. I’m running late and was hoping our three-fifteen could be—”

  “It’s not Joanie,” I said. I reached for Reba and drew her back onto my lap without even thinking about it. “It’s Edgar. And you might have to cancel your three-fifteen. We’ve got something to talk about, and it’s important.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “With me? Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Edgar, can we talk later? I need to get my hair done and I’m running late. I’ll be back at six.”

  “It’s about Tom Riley.”

  Silence from Pam’s part of the world. It went on for maybe ten seconds. During those ten seconds, the golden track on the water darkened just a little. Elizabeth Eastlake knew her Emily Dickinson; I wondered if she also knew her Vachel Lindsay.

  “What about Tom?” Pam asked at last. There was caution in her voice, deep caution. I was pretty sure that her hair appointment had left her mind.

  “I have reason to believe he may be contemplating suicide.” I crooked the phone against my shoulder and began stroking Reba’s hair. “Know anything about that?”

  “What do … What do I …” She sounded punched, breathless. “Why in God’s name would I …” She began to gain a little strength, grasping for indignation. It’s handy in such situations, I suppose. “You call out of a clear blue sky and expect me to tell you about Tom Riley’s state of mind? I thought you were getting better, but I guess that was wishful th—”

  “Fucking him should give you some insight.” My hand wound into Reba’s fake orange hair and clutched, as if to tear it out by the roots. “Or am I wrong?”

  “That is insane!” she nearly screamed. “You need help, Edgar! Either call Dr. Kamen or get help down there, and soon!”

  The anger—and the accompanying certainty that I would begin to lose my words—suddenly disappeared. I relaxed my hold on Reba’s hair.

  “Calm down, Pam. This isn’t about you. Or me. It’s about Tom. Have you seen signs of depression? You must have.”

  No answer. But no hang-up click, either. And I could hear her breathing.

  At last she said, “Okay. Okay, right. I know where you got this idea. Little Miss Drama Queen, correct? I suppose Ilse also told you about Max Stanton, out in Palm Desert. Oh, Edgar, you know how she is!”

  At that the rage threatened to return. My hand reached out and grasped Reba by her soft middle. I can do this, I thought. It’s not about Ilse, either. And Pam? Pam’s only scared, because this came at her out of left field. She’s scared and angry, but I can do this. I have to do this.

  Never mind that for a few moments I wanted to kill her. Or that, if she’d been there in the Florida room with me, I might have tried.

  “Ilse didn’t tell me.”

  “Enough lunacy, I’m hanging up now—”

  “The only thing I don’t know is which one of them talked you into getting the tattoo on your breast. The little rose.”

  She cried out. Just one soft cry, but that was enough. There was another moment of silence. It pulsed like black felt. Then she burst out: “That bitch! She saw it and told you! It’s the only way you could know! Well it means nothing! It proves nothing!”

  “This isn’t court, Pam,” I said.

  She made no reply, but I could hear her breathing.

  “Ilse did have her suspicions about this guy Max, but she doesn’t have a clue about Tom. If you tell her, you’ll break her heart.” I paused. “And that’ll break mine.”

  She was crying. “Fuck your heart. And fuck you. I wish you were dead, you know it? You lying, prying bastard, I wish you were dead.”

  At least I no longer felt that way
about her. Thank God.

  The track on the water had darkened to burnished copper. Now the orange would begin to creep in.

  “What do you know about Tom’s state of mind?”

  “Nothing. And for your information I’m not having an affair with him. If I did have one, it lasted for all of three weeks. It’s over. I made that clear to him when I came back from Palm Desert. There are all sorts of reasons, but basically he’s too …” Abruptly she jumped back. “She must have told you. Melinda wouldn’t’ve, even if she’d known.” And, absurdly spiteful: “She knows what I’ve been through with you!”

  It was surprising, really, how little interest I had in going down that road with her. I was interested in something else. “He’s too what?”

  “Who’s too what?” she cried. “Jesus, I hate this! This interrogation!”

  Like I was loving it. “Tom. You said ‘Basically he’s too,’ then stopped.”

  “Too moody. He’s an emotional grab-bag. One day up, one day down, one day both, especially if he doesn’t take—”

  She ceased abruptly.

  “If he doesn’t take his pills,” I finished for her.

  “Yeah, well, I’m not his psychiatrist,” she said, and that wasn’t tinny petulance in her voice; I was pretty sure it was blue steel. Jesus. The woman I’d been married to could be tough when the situation called for it, but I thought that unforgiving blue steel was a new thing: her part of my accident. I thought it was Pam’s limp.

  “I got enough of that shrinky-dink shit with you, Edgar. Just once I’d like to meet a man who was a man and not a pill-popping Magic 8-Ball. ‘Cannot say now, ask later when I’m not feeling so upset.’ “

  She sniffed in my ear, and I waited for the follow-up honk. It came. She cried the same way as always; some things apparently didn’t change.