Duma Key(145)

"Yes..." She understood, but didn't sound convinced.

"When you do get together, do it on neutral ground. And I don't mean to embarrass you, but it's still just the two of us, so I'm going to say this. Bed is not neutral ground."

She looked down at her swimming feet. I reached out and turned her face to mine.

"When the issues aren't resolved, bed is a battleground. I wouldn't even have dinner with the guy until you know where you stand with him. Meet in... I don't know... Boston. Sit on a park bench and work it out. Get it clear in your mind and make sure it's clear in his. Then have dinner. Do a Red Sox game. Or go to bed, if you think it's the right thing. Just because I don't want to think about your sex-life doesn't mean I don't think you should have one."

She relieved me considerably by laughing. At the sound, a waiter who still looked half-asleep came out to ask us if we wanted coffee. We said we did. When he went to get it, Ilse said: "All right, Daddy. Point taken. I was going to tell you that I'm going back this afternoon, anyway. I have an Anthro prelim at the end of the week, and there are a bunch of us who've formed a little study group. We call ourselves the Survivors' Club." She regarded me anxiously. "Would that be okay? I know you were planning on a couple of days, but now there's this thing with your friend-"

"No, honey, that's fine." I kissed the tip of her nose, thinking that if I was close up, she wouldn't see how pleased I was pleased that she'd come for the show, pleased that we'd had some time together this morning, pleased most of all that she would be a thousand miles north of Duma Key by the time the sun went down tonight. Assuming she could get a flight reservation, that was. "And as for Carson?"

She sat quiet for perhaps an entire minute, swinging her bare feet back and forth through the water. Then she stood up and took my arm, helping me to my feet. "I think you're right. I'll say that if he's serious about our relationship, he'll just have to put everything on hold until July 4th."

Now that her decision was made, her eyes were bright again.

"That'll get me to the end of the semester and a month of summer vacation besides. It'll get him through to his last show at the Cow Palace, plus plenty of time to figure out if he's as finished with Blondie as he thinks he is. Does it suit you, father dear?"

"Down to the ground."

"Here comes the coffee," she said. "Now the question is, how long until breakfast?"

ii

Wireman wasn't at the morning-after breakfast, but he had reserved the Bay Island Room from eight to ten. I presided over two dozen friends and family members, most from Minnesota. It was one of those events people remember and talk about for decades, partly because of encountering so many familiar faces in an exotic setting, partly because the emotional atmosphere was so volatile.

On the one hand, there was a very palpable sense of Home Town Boy Makes Good. They had sensed it at the show, and their judgment was confirmed in the morning papers. The reviews in the Sarasota Herald Tribune and the Venice Gondolier were great, but short. Mary Ire's piece in the Tampa Trib, on the other hand, took up nearly a whole page and was lyrical. She must have written most of it ahead of time. She called me "a major new American talent." My mother always a bit of a sourpuss would have said, Take that and a dime and you can wipe your ass in comfort. Of course that was her saying forty years ago, when a dime bought more than it does today.

Elizabeth, of course, was the other hand. There was no death-notice for her, but a boxed item had been added to the page of the Tampa paper carrying Mary's review: WELL-KNOWN ART PATRON STRICKEN AT FREEMANTLE SHOW. The story, just two paragraphs long, stated that Elizabeth Eastlake, a long-time fixture on the Sarasota art scene and resident of Duma Key, had suffered an apparent seizure not long after arriving at the Scoto Gallery and had been taken by ambulance to Sarasota Memorial Hospital. No word of her condition was available at press time.

My Minnesota people knew that on the night of my triumph, a good friend had died. There would be bursts of laughter and occasional raillery, then glances in my direction to see if I minded. By nine-thirty, the scrambled eggs I'd eaten were sitting like lead in my stomach, and I was getting one of my headaches the first in almost a month.

I excused myself to go upstairs. I'd left a small bag in the room I hadn't slept in. The shaving kit contained several foil packets of Zomig, a migraine medication. It wouldn't stop a full-blown Force 5, but it usually worked if I took a dose early enough. I swallowed one with a Coke from the bar fridge, started to leave, and saw the light on the phone flashing. I almost left it, then realized the message might be from Wireman.

It turned out there were half a dozen messages. The first four were more congratulations, which fell on my aching head like pellets of hail on a tin roof. By the time I got to Jimmy's he was the fourth I had begun punching the 6-button on the keypad, which hurried me on to the next message. I was in no mood to be stroked.

The fifth message was indeed from Jerome Wireman. He sounded tired and stunned. "Edgar, I know you've got a couple of days earmarked for family and friends, and I hate like hell to ask you this, but can we get together at your place this afternoon? We need to talk, and I mean really. Jack spent the night here with me at El Palacio he didn't want me to be alone, that's one helluva good kid and we were up early, hunting for that red basket she was on about, and... well, we found it. Better late than never, right? She wanted you to have it, so Jack took it over to Big Pink. The house was unlocked, and listen, Edgar... someone's been inside."