Mosquitoland(37)

This is what I imagine.

But it never happens.

Just as Caleb reaches Albert’s chair, a blurred figure plummets on top of him, knocking him to the ground. Within seconds, Caleb is back on his feet, wielding the hunting knife at this new adversary. At first glance, the man seems too ridiculous to be real. He’s wearing a black strip of cloth around his forehead like a ninja, goggles, a long gold chain around his neck, a flowery wife-beater, and a pair of shockingly familiar cutoff jeans. Dripping wet from head to toe, he’s smiling like he’s having a ball.

Next to me, Walt claps, while Albert chuckles and sips his drink. “Fuck him up, Ahab.”

Never mind my epiglottis—my entire body flutters at this.

It’s him.

It’s them.

The fight doesn’t last more than a minute. In a roundhouse kick that would have made Jet Li proud, Arlene’s legendary nephew sends Caleb’s hunting knife sailing over the edge of the roof. With him disarmed, it’s hardly a fight at all. A couple of hook-kick combos and graceful strikes to the chest, arms, and head, and Ahab has a whimpering Caleb trapped in a half nelson on the gravel roof.

“Walt,” says Ahab, dripping wet, smiling from ear to ear. “Go downstairs, call the Independence police station. Ask for Randy, tell him to get his ass over here.”

Walt giggles, runs around to the trapdoor.

“You okay, honey?” Ahab looks up at Albert, leaving me to wonder at the sheer physics of their relationship.

“I’m all right,” grunts the Pale Whale. “Thanks to my knight in shimmering armor.”

“Shining,” I whisper, still gripping my war paint and trying to piece together the sequence of the last few minutes.

Ahab notices me, seemingly for the first time. “Who’re you?”

“That’s Ma’am,” says Albert, slurping the last of his daiquiri, then pulling a brand-new one out from under his chair.

I clear my throat. “It’s Mim,” I say, rapping my knuckles against the side of the tank. “What’s this?”

“We call it the Pequod,” says Ahab. “Perfect place for a little sun and relaxation.”

I raise my eyebrows. “What—inside?”

The Pale Whale chuckles and sips.

Ahab tightens his grip on Caleb. “It’s a pool, kid.”

Looking from Ahab to the tank, I can’t help but wonder what kind of people drink daiquiris and go swimming on top of a gas stations at eight a.m. on chilly fall mornings. But I’ll thank the gods of, you know, whatever, that they do. Because I’d be dead right now without these two.

Walt comes running around the tank. Pool. Whatever.

“Randy’s on his way,” he says.

“Good.” Ahab hoists Caleb to his feet. “You guys can hang downstairs till he gets here. He’s a dick of a dick, so he’ll probably wanna take you down to the station for questioning out of sheer boredom. Don’t say anything about the pool, okay? He’d find some city bylaw and have it removed.”

Walt gives him a thumbs-up, scurries down the rungs. I stand still for a moment, wondering if this is the right time. Certainly, it’s not how I pictured it happening.

“What’s up, Ma’am?”

I take a knee, unzip my JanSport, and produce Arlene’s wooden box.

For a second, no one says anything. Finally, Ahab says, “Where did you get that?”

His question is quiet, not accusatory.

“Arlene,” I whisper. “Your aunt—I was on the bus with her. The one that crashed.”

Albert sits up in his chair and takes off his aviators. There’s something in his eyes, some deep well of empathy.

“What’s wrong with everybody?” grunts Caleb, still in Ahab’s clenches. “It’s just a box.”

Without thinking twice, Ahab lifts Caleb up by his hoodie, and punches him once, twice, three times in the face. Blood splatters across the gravel roof, as well as a single tooth. The look in Ahab’s eyes isn’t murderous. It’s the look of a man who did what had to be done. Caleb drops to the ground unconscious. Considering the solemnity of the moment he interrupted, I’m thinking he got off pretty easy.

Ahab is in front of me now, looking at the box, then at me, and I suddenly can’t stop crying. It’s crazy, because Arlene was his aunt, not mine. I didn’t know her all that well, not really. I didn’t know her favorite color or movie, or what kind of music she liked, or if she preferred lakes to oceans. I didn’t even know her last name. But maybe those aren’t the things that channel love. Maybe the true conduit is more elusive than that. Maybe. And I think Ahab understands, because now his hand is on my shoulder, and he’s crying, too, and he doesn’t ask any questions, which I’m beyond grateful for. Handing the box over, I search for something memorable and eloquent to mark the occasion. Arlene was one of a kind, a true friend when I needed one, a grande dame from the old school. She was the sweetest of old ladies, and I will miss her dearly. All of these things are true, but the words I choose are far more profound.

“She smelled like cookies,” I whisper through tears.

Ahab laughs and so do I, and it occurs to me again how often laughter accompanies tears. Now Albert has joined us, and when I look up at him, the sun hits me squarely in the face. He slides his aviators into my hands, then pats me on the back.