Until the Day I Die(95)

Dad





TWO AND A HALF YEARS LATER





Epilogue

ARCH

Some days when I wake up, I can’t remember where I am. I don’t know if it’s a function of aging or that, after six decades in the same town, I’m living someplace new. Eventually, though, much like the persistent, unchanging tide, everything comes back to me.

Ah, yes . . . exile.

I did this to myself.

Made my bed. Sealed my fate. Nailed the coffin closed.

I live in a shack made of woven bamboo that sits just beyond a strip of white sand at the edge of a bay on a private island called Nosy Ankao. The island lies off the coast of Madagascar, at the edge of the deep, blue Indian Ocean.

There is close to a quarter of a million dollars stashed under the floorboards of my shack, which will last me until I die. My wife used to say I looked like Cary Grant, but I am beyond the age that even Cary Grant looked like Cary Grant, so I’m confident that the money will be more than enough to get me to the finish line. And anyway, I spend practically nothing here. They look after me at a so-exclusive-it’s-nearly-always-deserted resort on the other side of the island, and in exchange, I eat most of my meals there.

Occasionally also, I sleep with one of the guests, wringing out every last drop of that Cary Grant advantage. I always try for the ones in their thirties, but invariably it winds up being a woman in her fifties or sixties, halfway around the world from her home, celebrating the conclusion of a nasty divorce. Even though I always give them some story about the source of my vast wealth—my imaginary homes in London, Milan, and Punta del Este—I can tell I’m not what they had in mind in terms of a rebound dalliance. But I couldn’t care less. When I’m with them, I’m thousands of miles away.

I am with Sabine. My Hermes.

I gave up everything for her—for that glorious, amber-limbed vision of female perfection I first saw standing in my living room thirty years ago. Her otherworldly beauty—her fantastic power, Nabokov called it—set its hook in me the instant I beheld her. Later, the way she looked at me with that attitude of worship—an acolyte—that was what sealed me to her forever. I lived for her attention, dedicated myself to her only. Even though, as she grew and matured through the years, she changed.

I saw her wanting more. Saw the sociopathic streak emerge and watched her stray from our commitment. But I forgave her. I forgave her everything.

I remained married to a woman I didn’t love because she insisted it was the best way, the only way, to continue our affair. Then, years later, when she finally said she had a plan for us to be together, I believed her. I trusted her when she said Perry was a problem and something must be done about him. What she intended, I never expected. And I’ll admit, after he died, I convinced myself it was only a coincidence, that she hadn’t been involved. But I knew I was lying to myself. The woman I loved had murdered my son.

So that is the truth I must live with. Some days I’m philosophical and tell myself we all die. But I know a father shouldn’t cause his son’s death, and so I’m filled with disgust for the man I have become. But then I dream about her, and I am restored.

This particular Nosy Ankao sunset has a slight green tinge to the usual lavender and pink, which gives me a melancholy feeling. I’m missing Sabine more than ever tonight. The curve of her cheekbones, the pout of her lips, the way her stomach sloped to the V between her legs. I’m desperate to see her again, but devoid of hope. I read it in the news. She disappeared over two years ago—skipped her bail and vanished, just like me. And even though I’m at the edge of the world, I think if she really wanted to, she could find me. She’s that resourceful. But there’s been no word.

I don’t like to be alone so I’ve hiked over to the resort, parked myself at the bar beyond the pool, and started on the Glenfiddich. I’m dressed in a rumpled linen suit, a white shirt, and a pair of cobalt-blue Hermès suede moccasins I found under a chaise by the pool a couple of months ago. I knew whoever left them could afford another pair. The thing is, I treasure these loafers almost more than the quarter million under my floorboards. When I found them and discovered they were a perfect fit, I knew it was a sign. A portent that I would see Sabine again. That we would be together again one day.

I am holding on to that promise tonight.

There is more than the usual smattering of guests here this week, and the pool area is nearly full. The bartender is new, a rakishly handsome young guy with dark hair and pale skin. He must’ve talked to the manager because he slides me drink after drink without mentioning a tab. The whiskey eases my mood, and we talk for a while, casually, about the turtles and an algae farm he heard about on the western side of the island. Then he asks if I recognize him.

I chuckle. “What are you, a washed-up rock star or something? I’m afraid I don’t get to many concerts these days.”

The bartender just laughs. “You used to?”

“Oh yeah. My wife and I were always out and about. Concerts, art shows, charity dinners. In another lifetime.” I laugh. I don’t know why. The memories bring a sour taste to my mouth.

“You mean, before everything collapsed . . .”

A low thrum of warning switches on inside me.

He continues. “Before you personally guaranteed your mortgage on your last shopping center in Texas, but then it all went to shit and the bank came a-calling.”