Duma Key(29)

Then, without a pause, I dropped the black, picked up orange, and added workboots. The orange was too bright, it made the boots look new when they weren't, but the idea was right.

I scratched at my right arm, scratched through my right arm, and got my ribs instead. I muttered "Fuck" under my breath. Beneath me, the shells seemed to grate a name. Was it Connor? No. And something was wrong here. I didn't know where that sense of wrongness was coming from, but all at once the phantom itch in my right arm became a cold ache.

I tossed back the top sheet on the pad and sketched again, this time using just the red pencil. Red, red, it was RED! The pencil raced, spilling out a human figure like blood from a cut. It was back-to, dressed in a red robe with a kind of scalloped collar. I colored the hair red, too, because it looked like blood and this person felt like blood. Like danger. Not for me but -

"For Ilse," I muttered. "Danger for Ilse. Is it the guy? The special-news guy?"

There was something not right about the special-news guy, but I didn't think that was what was creeping me out. For one thing, the figure in the red robe didn't look like a guy. It was hard to tell for sure, but yes - I thought... female. So maybe not a robe at all. Maybe a dress? A long red dress?

I flipped back to the first figure and looked at the book the special-news guy was holding. I threw my red pencil on the floor and colored the book black. Then I looked at the guy again, and suddenly printed

HUMMINGBIRDS

in scripty-looking letters above him. Then I threw my black pencil on the floor. I raised my shaking hands and covered my face with them. I called out my daughter's name, the way you'd call out if you saw someone too close to a steep drop or busy street.

Maybe I was just crazy. Probably I was crazy.

Eventually I became aware that there was - of course - only one hand over my eyes. The phantom ache and itching had departed. The idea that I might be going crazy - hell, that I might have already gone - remained. One thing was beyond doubt: I was hungry. Ravenous.

ix

Ilse's plane arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule. She was radiant in faded jeans and a Brown University tee-shirt, and I didn't see how Jack could keep from falling in love with her right there in Terminal B. She threw herself into my arms, covered my face with kisses, then laughed and grabbed me when I started listing to port on my crutch. I introduced her to Jack and pretended not to see the small diamond (purchased at Zales, I had no doubt) flashing on the third finger of her left hand when they shook.

"You look wonderful, Daddy," she said as we stepped out into the balmy December evening. "You've got a tan. First time since you built that rec center in Lilydale Park. And you've put on weight. At least ten pounds. Don't you think so, Jack?"

"You'd be the best judge of that," Jack said, smiling. "I'll go get the car. You okay to stand, boss? This may take awhile."

"I'm good."

We waited on the curb with her two carry-ons and her computer. She was smiling into my eyes.

"You saw it, didn't you?" she asked. "Don't pretend you didn't."

"If you mean the ring, I saw. Unless you won it in one of those quarter drop-the-claw games, I'd say congratulations are in order. Does Lin know?"

"Yep."

"Your mother?"

"What do you think, Daddy? Best guess."

"My best guess is... not. Because she's so concerned about Grampy right now."

"Grampy wasn't the only reason I kept the ring in my purse the whole time I was in California - except to show Lin, that is. Mostly I just wanted to tell you first. Is that evil?"

"No, honey. I'm touched."

I was, too. But I was also afraid for her, and not just because she wouldn't be twenty for another three months.

"His name's Carson Jones, and he's a divinity student, of all things - do you believe it? I love him, Daddy, I just love him so much."

"That's great, honey," I said, but I could feel dread climbing my legs. Just don't love him too much, I was thinking. Not too much. Because -

She was looking at me closely, her smile fading. "What? What's wrong?"

I'd forgotten how quick she was, and how well she read me. Love conveys its own psychic powers, doesn't it?

"Nothing, hon. Well... my hip's hurting a little."

"Have you had your pain pills?"

"Actually... I'm stepping down on those a little more. Plan on getting off them entirely in January. That's my New Year's resolution."

"Daddy, that's wonderful!"

"Although New Year's resolutions are made to be broken."

"Not you. You do what you say you're going to do." Ilse frowned. "That's one of the things Mom never liked about you. I think it makes her jealous."

"Hon, the divorce is just something that happened. Don't go picking sides, okay?"

"Well, I'll tell you something else that's happening," Ilse said. Her lips had thinned down. "Since she's been out in Palm Desert, she's seeing an awful lot of this guy down the street. She says it's just coffee and sympathy - because Max lost his father last year, and Max really likes Grampy, and blah-blah-blah - but I see the way she looks at him and I... don't... care for it!" Now her lips were almost gone, and I thought she looked eerily like her mother. The thought that came with this was oddly comforting: I think she'll be all right. I think if this holy Jones boy jilts her, she'll still be okay.