Duma Key(168)

"Where I could look... look at it... but then when I camed back... hnn..."

"Are you going to sleep? Don't go to sleep on me, Miss Cookie."

"Not sleeping..." But her voice was fading.

"Ilse! Wake up! Wake the f**k up! "

"Daddy!" Sounding shocked. But also fully awake again.

"What happened to the picture? What was different about it when you came back?"

"It was in the bed'oom. I guess I must have moved it myself it's even stuck on the same red Pushpin but I don't remember doing it. I guess I wanted it closer to me. Isn't that funny?"

No, I didn't think it was funny.

"I wouldn't want to live if you were dead, Daddy," she said. "I'd want to be dead, too. As dead as... as... as dead as a marble!" And she laughed. I thought of Wireman's daughter and did not.

"Listen to me carefully, Ilse. It's important that you do as I say. Will you do that?"

"Yes, Daddy. As long as it doesn't take too long. I'm..." The sound of a yawn. "... tired. I might be able to sleep, now that I know you're all right."

Yes, she'd be able to sleep. Right under The End of the Game, hanging from its red Pushpin. And she'd wake up thinking that the dream had been this conversation, the reality her father's suicide on Duma Key.

Perse had done this. That hag. That bitch.

The rage was back, just like that. As if it had never been away. But I couldn't let it f**k up my thinking; couldn't even let it show in my voice, or Ilse might think it was aimed at her. I clamped the phone between my ear and shoulder. Then I reached out and grasped the slim chrome neck of the sink faucet. I closed my fist around it.

"This won't take long, hon. But you have to do it. Then you can go to sleep."

Wireman sat perfectly still at the table, watching me. Outside, the surf hammered.

"What kind of stove do you have, Miss Cookie?"

"Gas. Gas stove." She laughed again.

"Good. Get the picture and throw it in the oven. Then close the door and turn the oven on. High as it will go. Burn that thing."

"No, Daddy!" Wide awake again, as shocked as when I'd said f**k, if not more so. "I love that picture!"

"I know, honey, but it's the picture that's making you feel the way you do." I started to say something else, then stopped. If it was the sketch and it was, of course it was then I wouldn't need to hammer it home. She'd know as well as I did. Instead of speaking I throttled the faucet back and forth, wishing with all my heart it was the bitch-hag's throat.

"Daddy! Do you really think-"

"I don't think, I know. Get the picture, Ilse. I'm going to hold the phone. Get it and stick it in the oven and burn it. Do it right now."

"I... okay. Hold on."

There was a clunk as the phone went down.

Wireman said, "Is she doing it?"

Before I could reply, there was a snap. It was followed by a spout of cold water that drenched me to the elbow. I looked at the faucet in my hand, then at the ragged place where it had broken off. I dropped it in the sink. Water was spouting from the stump.

"I think she is," I said. And then: "Sorry."

" De nada. " He dropped to his knees, opened the cupboard beneath the sink, reached in past the wastebasket and the stash of garbage bags. He turned something, and the gusher spouting from the broken faucet started to die. "You don't know your own strength, muchacho. Or maybe you do."

"Sorry," I said again. But I wasn't. My palm was bleeding from a shallow cut, but I felt better. Clearer. It occurred to me that once upon a time, that faucet could have been my wife's neck. No wonder she had divorced me.

We sat in the kitchen and waited. The second hand on the clock above the stove made one very slow trip around the dial, started another. The water coming from the broken faucet was down to a bare rivulet. Then, very faintly, I heard Ilse, calling: "I'm back... I've got it... I-" Then she screamed. I couldn't tell if it was surprise, pain, or both.

"Ilse!" I shouted. "Ilse!"

Wireman stood up fast, bumping his hip against the side of the sink. He raised his open hands to me. I shook my head Don't know. Now I could feel sweat running down my cheeks, although the kitchen wasn't particularly warm.

I was wondering what to do next who to call when Ilse came back on the phone. She sounded exhausted. She also sounded like herself. Finally like herself. "Jesus Christ in the morning," she said.

"What happened?" I had to restrain myself from shouting. "Illy, what happened? "

"It's gone. It caught fire and burned. I watched it through the window. It's nothing but ashes. I have to get a Band-Aid on the back of my hand, Dad. You were right. There was something really, really wrong with it." She laughed shakily. "Damn thing didn't want to go in. It folded itself over and..." That shaky laugh again. "I'd call it a paper-cut, but it doesn't look like a paper-cut, and it didn't feel like one. It feels like a bite. I think it bit me."

viii

The important thing for me was that she was all right. The important thing for her was that I was. We were fine. Or so the foolish artist thought. I told her I'd call tomorrow.

"Illy? One more thing."