Duma Key(27)

vi

Pam's father was a retired Marine. He and his wife had relocated to Palm Desert, California, in the last year of the twentieth century, settling in one of those gated communities where there's one token African-American couple and four token Jewish couples. Children and vegetarians are not allowed. Residents must vote Republican and own small dogs with rhinestone collars, stupid eyes, and names that end in i. Taffi is good, Cassi is better, and something like Rififi is the total shit. Pam's father had been diagnosed with rectal cancer. It didn't surprise me. Put a bunch of white ass**les together and you're going to find that going around.

I did not say this to my wife, who started off strong and then broke down in tears. "He's started the chemo, but Momma says it might already have metas... mesass... oh, whatever that f**king word is, I sound like you!" And then, still sniffing but sounding shocked and humbled: "I'm sorry, Eddie, that was terrible."

"No, it wasn't," I said. "It wasn't terrible at all. And the word is metastasized."

"Yes. Thank you. Anyway, they're doing the surgery to take out the main tumor tonight." She was starting to cry again. "I can't believe this is happening to my Dad."

"Take it easy," I said. "They do miracles these days. I'm Exhibit A."

Either she didn't consider me a miracle or didn't want to go there. "Anyway, Christmas here is off."

"Of course." And the truth? I was glad. Glad as hell.

"I'm flying out to Palm tomorrow. Ilse is coming Friday, Melinda on the twentieth. I'm assuming... considering the fact that you and my father never really saw eye to eye..."

Considering the fact that we had once almost come to blows after my father-in-law had referred to the Democrats as "the Commiecrats," I thought that was putting it mildly. I said, "If you're thinking I don't want to join you and the girls for Christmas in Palm Desert, you're correct. You'll be helping financially, and I hope your folks will understand that I had something to do with that-"

"I hardly think this is the time to drag your goddam checkbook into the discussion!"

And the anger was back, just like that. Jack, almost out of his stinking little box. I wanted to say Why don't you go f**k yourself, you loudmouth bitch. But I didn't. At least partly because it would have come out loudmouf birch or maybe broadmouth lurch. I somehow knew this.

Still, it was close.

"Eddie?" She sounded truculent, more than ready to get into it if I wanted to.

"I'm not dragging my checkbook into anything," I said, carefully listening to each word. They came out all right. That was a relief. "I'm just saying that my face at your father's bedside would not be likely to speed his recovery." For a moment the anger - the fury - almost added that I hadn't seen his face at mine, either. Once more I managed to stop the words, but by then I was sweating.

"All right. Point taken." She paused. "What will you do for Christmas, Eddie?"

Paint the sunset, I thought. Maybe get it right.

"I believe that if I'm a good boy, I may be invited to Christmas dinner with Jack Cantori and his family," I said, believing no such thing. "Jack's the young fellow who works for me."

"You sound better. Stronger. Are you still forgetting things?"

"I don't know, I can't remember," I said.

"That's very funny."

"Laughter's the best medicine. I read it in Reader's Digest."

"What about your arm? Are you still having phantom sensations?"

"Nope," I lied, "that's pretty well stopped."

"Good. Great." A pause. Then: "Eddie?"

"Still here," I said. And with dark red half-moons in the palms of my hands, from clenching my fists.

There was a long pause. The phone lines no longer hiss and crackle as they did when I was a kid, but I could hear all the miles sighing gently between us. It sounded like the Gulf when the tide is out. Then she said, "I'm sorry things turned out this way."

"I am, too," I said, and when she hung up, I picked up one of my bigger shells and came very close to heaving it through the screen of the TV. Instead, I limped across the room, opened the door, and chucked it across the deserted road. I didn't hate Pam - not really - but I seemed to still hate something. Maybe that other life.

Maybe only myself.

vii

ifsogirl88 to EFree19

9:05 AM

December 23

Dear Daddy, The docs aren't saying a lot but I'm not getting a real good vibe about Grampy's surgery. Of course that might only be Mom, she goes in to visit Grampa every day, takes Nana and tries to stay "upbeat" but you know how she is, not the silver lining type. I want to come down there and see you. I checked the flights and can get one to Sarasota on the 26th. It gets in at 6:15 PM your time. I could stay 2 or 3 days. Please say yes! Also I could bring my prezzies instead of mailing them. Love...

Ilse

P.S. I have some special news.

Did I think about it, or only consult the ticking of instinct? I can't remember. Maybe it was neither. Maybe the only thing that mattered was that I wanted to see her. In any case, I replied almost at once.

EFree19 to ifsogirl88

9:17 AM

December 23