Duma Key

Then there was Sandy Smith, the Realtor. On my answering machine, Elizabeth had said I must be one of those who believed in art for art's sake, or Duma Key would not have called me. What I wanted from Sandy was confirmation that the only thing calling me had been a glossy brochure, one that had probably been shown to potential renters with deep pockets all over the United States. Maybe all over the world.

The response I got wasn't what I had hoped for, but I'd be lying if I said I was completely surprised. That was my bad-memory year, after all. And then there's the desire to believe things happened a certain way; when it comes to the past we all stack the deck.

SmithRealty9505 to EFree19

2:17 PM

February 8

Dear Edgar: I am so glad you're enjoying the place. In answer to your question, the Salmon Point property wasn't the only brochure I sent you but one of nine detailing lease opportunities in Florida and Jamaica. As I recall, Salmon Point was the only one you expressed interest in. In fact, I remember you saying, "Don't dicker the deal, just do it." Hopethis helps.

Sandy

I read this message through twice, then murmured, "Just do the deal and let the deal do you, muchacha."

I couldn't remember the other brochures even now, but I remembered the one for Salmon Point. The folder it came in had been a bright pink. A big pink, you might say, and the words that caught my eye hadn't been Salmon Point but those below it, embossed in gold: YOUR SECRET GULFSIDE RETREAT. So maybe it had called me.

Maybe it had, after all.

iv

KamenDoc to EFree19

1:46 PM

February 10

Edgar: Long time no hear, as the deaf Indian said to the prodigal son (please forgive me; bad jokes are the only jokes I know). How goes the art? Concerning the MRI, I suggest you call the Center for Neurological Studies at Sarasota Memorial Hospital. The number is 941-555-5554.

Kamen

EFree19 to KamenDoc

2:19 PM

February 10

Kamen: Thanks for the referral. Center for Neurological Studies sounds pretty damned serious! But I will make the appointment very soon.

Edgar

KamenDoc to EFree19

4:55 PM

February 10

Soon should be soon enough. As long as you're not having seizures.

Kamen

He had punctuated "as long as you're not having seizures" with one of those handy e-mail emoticons, this one a round laughing face with a mouthful of teeth. Having seen Wireman doing a pogo in the shadowy back seat of the rented van with his eyes pointing in different directions, I didn't feel like laughing myself. But I knew that, short of chains and a tractor hitch, I wouldn't be getting Wireman examined much before March fifteenth, unless he pitched a grand mal bitch. And of course, Wireman wasn't Xander Kamen's problem. I wasn't either, strictly speaking, and I was touched that he was still bothering. On impulse I clicked the REPLY button and typed:

EFree19 to KamenDoc

5:05 PM

February 10

Kamen: No seizures. I'm fine. Painting up a storm. I took some of my stuff to a Sarasota gallery, and one of the guys who owns the place had a look at it. I think he might offer me a show. If he does, and if I agree, would you come? It would be good to see a familiar face from the land of ice snow.

Edgar

I was going to shut down the machine after that and make myself a sandwich, but the incoming-mail chime rang before I could.

KamenDoc to EFree19

5:09 PM

February 10

Name the date and I'm there.

I was smiling as I shut the computer down. And misting up a little, too.

v

A day later, I went to Nokomis with Wireman to pick up a new sink-trap for the folks at 17 (sports car; shitty country music) and some plastic fencing at the hardware store for the Mean Dogs. Wireman didn't need my help, and he certainly didn't need me limping around behind him in the Nokomis TruValue, but it was a crappy, rainy day, and I wanted to get off the island. We had lunch at Ophelia's and argued about rock and roll, which made it a cheerful outing. When I got back, the message light on my answering machine was blinking. It was Pam. "Call me," she said, and hung up.

I did, but first - this feels like a confession, and a cowardly one, at that - I went online, surfed to that day's Minneapolis StarTribune, and clicked on OBITUARIES. I scrolled through the names quickly and made sure Thomas Riley wasn't one of them, knowing it proved nothing; he might have offed himself too late to make the morning line.

Sometimes she muted the phone and napped in the afternoon, in which case I'd get the answering machine and a little reprieve. Not this afternoon. It was Pam herself, soft but not warm: "Hello."

"It's me, Pam. Returning your call."

"I suppose you were out sunning," she said. "It's snowing here. Snowing and as cold as a well-digger's belt-buckle."

I relaxed a little. Tom wasn't dead. If Tom had been dead, we wouldn't be settling in for a little impromptu bitcharee.

"Actually, it's cold and rainy where I am," I said.