Duma Key

But Illy: Say yes. For me. She knew I would, not because she was my favorite (Lin was the one who knew that, I think), but because she had always been satisfied with so little and so seldom asked for anything. And because when I listened to her message, I remembered how she'd started to cry that day she and Melinda had come out to Lake Phalen, leaning against me and asking why it couldn't be the way it was. Because things never are, I think I replied, but maybe for a couple of days they could be... or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Ilse was nineteen, probably too old for one last childhood Christmas, but surely not too old to deserve one more with the family she'd grown up with. And that went for Lin, too. Her survival skills were better, but she was flying home from France yet again, and that told me something.

All right, then. I'd go, I'd make nice, and I would be sure to pack Reba, just in case one of my rages swept over me. They were abating, but of course on Duma Key there was really nothing to rage against except for my periodic forgetfulness and shitty limp. I called the charter service I'd used for the last fifteen years and confirmed a Learjet, Sarasota to MSP International, leaving at nine o'clock AM on the twenty-fourth of December. I called Jack, who said he'd be happy to drive me to Dolphin Aviation and pick me up again on the twenty-eighth. And then, just when I had all of my ducks in a row, Pam called to tell me the whole thing was off.

vi

Pam's father was a retired Marine. He and his wife had relocated to Palm Desert, California, in the last year of the twentieth century, settling in one of those gated communities where there's one token African-American couple and four token Jewish couples. Children and vegetarians are not allowed. Residents must vote Republican and own small dogs with rhinestone collars, stupid eyes, and names that end in i. Taffi is good, Cassi is better, and something like Rififi is the total shit. Pam's father had been diagnosed with rectal cancer. It didn't surprise me. Put a bunch of white assholes together and you're going to find that going around.

I did not say this to my wife, who started off strong and then broke down in tears. "He's started the chemo, but Momma says it might already have metas... mesass... oh, whatever that fucking word is, I sound like you!" And then, still sniffing but sounding shocked and humbled: "I'm sorry, Eddie, that was terrible."

"No, it wasn't," I said. "It wasn't terrible at all. And the word is metastasized."

"Yes. Thank you. Anyway, they're doing the surgery to take out the main tumor tonight." She was starting to cry again. "I can't believe this is happening to my Dad."

"Take it easy," I said. "They do miracles these days. I'm Exhibit A."

Either she didn't consider me a miracle or didn't want to go there. "Anyway, Christmas here is off."

"Of course." And the truth? I was glad. Glad as hell.

"I'm flying out to Palm tomorrow. Ilse is coming Friday, Melinda on the twentieth. I'm assuming... considering the fact that you and my father never really saw eye to eye..."

Considering the fact that we had once almost come to blows after my father-in-law had referred to the Democrats as "the Commiecrats," I thought that was putting it mildly. I said, "If you're thinking I don't want to join you and the girls for Christmas in Palm Desert, you're correct. You'll be helping financially, and I hope your folks will understand that I had something to do with that-"

"I hardly think this is the time to drag your goddam checkbook into the discussion!"

And the anger was back, just like that. Jack, almost out of his stinking little box. I wanted to say Why don't you go fuck yourself, you loudmouth bitch. But I didn't. At least partly because it would have come out loudmouf birch or maybe broadmouth lurch. I somehow knew this.

Still, it was close.

"Eddie?" She sounded truculent, more than ready to get into it if I wanted to.

"I'm not dragging my checkbook into anything," I said, carefully listening to each word. They came out all right. That was a relief. "I'm just saying that my face at your father's bedside would not be likely to speed his recovery." For a moment the anger - the fury - almost added that I hadn't seen his face at mine, either. Once more I managed to stop the words, but by then I was sweating.

"All right. Point taken." She paused. "What will you do for Christmas, Eddie?"

Paint the sunset, I thought. Maybe get it right.

"I believe that if I'm a good boy, I may be invited to Christmas dinner with Jack Cantori and his family," I said, believing no such thing. "Jack's the young fellow who works for me."

"You sound better. Stronger. Are you still forgetting things?"

"I don't know, I can't remember," I said.

"That's very funny."

"Laughter's the best medicine. I read it in Reader's Digest."

"What about your arm? Are you still having phantom sensations?"

"Nope," I lied, "that's pretty well stopped."

"Good. Great." A pause. Then: "Eddie?"