Duma Key

It seemed to me that the majority of the people in the gallery had gathered around to watch me open my present. Tom Riley had made it almost to Pam's shoulder. Bozie was next to him. From just behind them, Margaret Bozeman skated me a kiss from the heel of her palm. Next to her was Todd Jamieson, the doctor who had saved my life... two sets of aunts and uncles... Rudy Rudnick, my old secretary... Kamen, of course, he was impossible to miss... and Kathi by his side. They had all come, everyone but Wireman and Jack, and I was beginning to wonder if something had happened to keep them away. But for the moment that seemed secondary. I thought of waking up in my hospital bed, confused and separated from everything by unremitting pain, then I looked around at this and wondered how things could possibly have changed so completely. All these people had come back into my life for one night. I didn't want to cry, but I was pretty sure I was going to; I could feel myself starting to dissolve like a tissue in a cloudburst.

"Open it, Daddy!" Ilse said. I could smell her perfume, something sweet and fresh.

"Open it! Open it!" Good-natured voices from the packed circle watching us.

I opened the box. Pulled out some white tissue paper and uncovered what I had expected... although I had expected something jokey, and this was no joke. The beret Melinda and Ric had brought me from France was dark red velvet, and smooth as silk to the touch. It had not come cheap.

"This is too nice," I said.

"No, Daddy," Melinda said. "Not nice enough. We only hope it fits."

I took it out of the box and held it up. The audienced ohh-ed appreciatively. Melinda and Ric looked at each other happily, and Pam - who felt Lin somehow never got her proper share of affection or approval from me (and she was probably right) - gave me a look that was positively radiant. Then I put the beret on. It was a perfect fit. Melinda reached up, made one tiny adjustment, faced the watching audience, turned her palms outward to me, and said: "Voici mon p re, ce magnifique artiste!" They burst into applause and cries of Bravo! Ilse kissed me. She was crying and laughing. I remember the white vulnerability of her neck and the feel of her lips, just above my jaw.

I was the belle of the ball and I had my family around me. There was light and champagne and music. It happened four years ago, on the evening of April fifteenth, between seven forty-five and eight o'clock, while the shadows on Palm Avenue were just beginning to take on the first faint tinges of blue. This is a memory I keep.

ii

I toured them around, with Tom and Bozie and the rest of the Minnesota crowd tagging after. Many of those present might have been first-time gallery attendees, but they were polite enough to give us some space.

Melinda paused for a full minute in front of Sunset with Sophora, then turned to me, almost accusingly. "If you could do this all along, Dad, why in God's name did you waste thirty years of your life putting up County Extension buildings?"

"Melinda Jean!" Pam said, but absently. She was looking toward the center room, where the Girl and Ship paintings hung suspended.

"Well, it's true," Melinda said. "Isn't it?"

"Honey, I didn't know."

"How can you have something this big inside you and not know?" she demanded.

I didn't have an answer for that, but Alice Aucoin rescued me. "Edgar, Dario wondered if you could step into Jimmy's office for a few minutes? I'll be happy to escort your family into the main room and you can join them there."

"Okay... what do they want?"

"Don't worry, they're all smiling," she said, and smiled herself.

"Go on, Edgar," Pam said. And, to Alice: "I'm used to him being called away. When we were married, it was a way of life."

"Dad, what does this red circle on top of the frame mean?" Ilse asked.

"That it's sold, dear," Alice said.

I paused to look at Sunset with Sophora as I started away, and... sure enough, there was a little red circle on the upper right corner of the frame. That was a good thing - it was nice to know the crowd here was composed of more than just lookers drawn by the novelty of a one-armed dauber - but I still felt a pang, and wondered if it was normal to feel that way. I had no way of telling. I didn't know any other artists to ask.

iii

Dario and Jimmy Yoshida were in the office; so was a man I'd never met before. Dario introduced him to me as Jacob Rosenblatt, the accountant who kept the Scoto's books in trim. My heart sank a little as I shook his hand, turning my own to do it because he offered the wrong one, as so many people do. Ah, but it's a righties' world.

"Dario, are we in trouble here?" I asked.