Duma Key(143)

"Come on, Eddie, you're tired. Come to bed."

She led me into the bedroom. The window in here was smaller, the moonlight thinner, but the window was open and I could hear the constant sigh of the water.

"Are you sure-"

"Hush."

I'm sure I've been told your name but it escapes me, so much does now.

"I never meant to hurt you. I'm so sorry-"

She put two fingers against my lips. "I don't want your sorry."

We sat side by side on the bed in the shadows. "What do you want?"

She showed me with a kiss. Her breath was warm and tasted of champagne. For a little while I forgot about Elizabeth and Wireman, picnic baskets, and Duma Key. For a little while there was just she and I, like the old days. The two-armed days. For a little while after that I slept until the first light came creeping. The loss of memory isn't always the problem; sometimes maybe even often it's the solution.

How to Draw a Picture (VIII)

Be brave. Don't be afraid to draw the secret things. No one said art was always a zephyr; sometimes it's a hurricane. Even then you must not hesitate or change course. Because if you tell yourself the great lie of bad art that you are in charge your chance at the truth will be lost. The truth isn't always pretty. Sometimes the truth is the big boy.

The little ones say It's Libbit's frog. A frog with teef.

And sometimes it's something even worse. Something like Charley in his bright blue breeches.

Or HER.

Here is a picture of little Libbit with her finger to her lips. She says Shhhh. She says If you talk she'll hear, so shhhh. She says Bad things can happen, and upside-down talking birds are just the first and least, so shhhh. If you try to run, something awful may come out of the cypress and gumbo limbo and catch you on the road. There are even worse things in the water down at Shade Beach worse than the big boy, worse than Charley who moves so quick. They're in the water, waiting to drown you. And not even drowning is the end, no, not even drowning. So shhhh.

But for the true artist, the truth will insist. Libbit Eastlake can hush her mouth, but not her paints and pencils.

There's only one person she dares talk to, and only one place she can do it only one place at Heron's Roost where HER hold seems to fail. She makes Nan Melda go there with her. And tries to explain how this happened, how the talent demanded the truth and the truth slithered out of her grasp. She tries to explain how the drawings have taken over her life and how she has come to hate the little china doll Daddy found with the rest of the treasure the little china woman who was Libbit's fair salvage. She tries to explain her deepest fear: if they don't do something, the twins may not be the only ones to die, only the first ones. And the deaths may not end on Duma Key.

She gathers all her courage (and for a child who is little more than a baby, she must have had a great lot of it) and tells the whole truth, mad as it is. First about how she made the hurricane, but that it wasn't her idea it was HER idea.

I think Nan Melda believes it. Because she's seen the big boy? Because she's seen Charley?

I think she saw both.

The truth has to come out, that's the basis of art. But that's not to say the world must see it.

Nan Melda says Where yo new doll now? The china doll?

Libbit says In my special treasure-box. My heart-box.

Nan Melda says And what her name?

Libbit says Her name is Perse.

Nan Melda says Percy a boy's name.

And Libbit says I can't help it. Her name is Perse. That's the truth. And she says Perse has a ship. It looks nice but it's not nice. It's bad. What are we going to do, Nanny?

Nan Melda thinks about it as they stand there in the one safe place. And I believe she knew what needed to be done. She might not have been an art critic no Mary Ire but I think she knew. The bravery is in the doing, not in the showing. The truth can be hidden away again, if it's too terrible for the world to look at. And it happens. I'm sure it happens all the time.

I think every artist worth a damn has a red picnic basket.

Chapter 14 The Red Basket

i

"Share your pool, mister?"

It was Ilse, in green shorts and matching halter. Her feet were bare, her face without make-up and puffy with sleep. Her hair was yanked back in a ponytail, the way she'd worn it when she was eleven, and if not for the fullness of her br**sts, she could have passed for that eleven-year-old.

"Any time," I said.

She sat beside me on the tiled lip of the pool. We were about halfway down, my butt on 5 and hers on FT.

"You're up early," I said, but this didn't surprise me. Illy had always been our restless one.

"I was worried about you. Especially when Mr. Wireman called Jack to say that nice old woman died. It was Jack who told us. We were still at dinner."

"I know."

"I'm so sorry." She put her head on my shoulder. "And on your special night, too."

I put my arm around her.

"Anyway, I only slept a couple of hours, and then got up because it was light. And when I looked out, who should I see sitting beside the pool but my father, all by himself?"

"Couldn't sleep anymore. I just hope I didn't wake your m-" I stopped, aware of Ilse's large, round eyes. "Don't go getting any ideas, Miss Cookie. It was strictly comfort."