Duma Key(54)

Her "television room" was dominated by a big flat-screen Samsung. At the other end of the room was a stack of expensive sound components. I hardly noticed either one. I was looking at the framed sketch on the wall above the shelves of CDs, and for a few seconds I forgot to breathe.

The sketch was just pencil, augmented by two scarlet threads, probably added with nothing more than a plain red ballpoint pen - the kind teachers use to grade papers. These not-quite-offhand scribbles had been laid along the horizon-line of the Gulf to indicate sunset. They were just right. They were genius writ small. It was my horizon, the one I saw from Little Pink. I knew that just as I knew the artist had been listening to the shells grind steadily beneath him as he turned blank white paper into what his eye saw and his mind translated. On the horizon was a ship, probably a tanker. It could have been the very one I'd drawn my first evening at Number 13 Duma Key Road. The style was nothing at all like mine, but the choice of subject-matter was damn near identical.

Scribbled almost carelessly at the bottom: Salv Dal .

iv

Miss Eastlake - Elizabeth - had her cigarette while Oprah questioned Kirstie Alley on the always fascinating subject of weight-loss. Wireman produced egg salad sandwiches, which were delicious. My eyes kept straying to the framed Dal sketch, and I kept thinking - of course - Hello, Dal . When Dr. Phil came on and began berating a couple of fat ladies in the audience who had apparently volunteered to be berated, I told Wireman and Elizabeth that I really ought to be getting back.

Elizabeth used the remote to silence Dr. Phil, then held out the book the remote had been sitting on. Her eyes looked both humble and hopeful. "Wireman says you'll come and read to me on some afternoons, Edmund, is that true?"

We're forced to make some decisions in a split second, and I made one then. I decided not to look at Wireman, who was sitting to Elizabeth's left. The acuity she'd exhibited at her play-table was fading, even I could see that, but I thought there was still quite a lot left. A glance in Wireman's direction would be enough to tell her that this was news to me, and she'd be embarrassed. I didn't want her to be embarrassed, partly because I liked her and partly because I suspected life would hold a great many embarrassments for her in the year or two ahead. It would soon be more than forgetting names.

"We've discussed it," I said.

"Perhaps you'd read me a poem this afternoon," she said. "Your choice. I miss them so. I could do without Oprah, but a life without books is a thirsty life, and one without poetry is..." She laughed. It was a bewildered sound that hurt my heart. "It's like a life without pictures, don't you think? Or don't you?"

The room was very quiet. Somewhere else a clock was ticking, but that was all. I thought Wireman would say something, but he didn't; she had rendered him temporarily speechless, no mean trick when it came to that hijo de madre.

"It can be your choice," she said again. "Or, if you've stayed too long, Edward-"

"No," I said. "No, that's all right, I'm fine."

The book was simply titled: Good Poems. The editor was Garrison Keillor, a man who could probably run for governor and be elected in the part of the world I came from. I opened at random and found a poem by someone named Frank O'Hara. It was short. That made it a good poem in my book, and I waded in.

"Have you forgotten what we were like then

when we were still first rate

and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth

"it's no use worrying about Time

but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves

and turned some sharp corners

"the whole pasture looked like our meal

we didn't need speedometers

we could manage cocktails out of ice and water..."

Something happened to me there. My voice wavered and the words doubled, as if the word water from my mouth had summoned some in my eyes. I looked up and said, "Pardon me." My voice was husky. Wireman looked concerned, but Elizabeth Eastlake was smiling at me with an expression of perfect understanding.

"That's all right, Edgar," she said. "Poetry sometimes does that to me, as well. Honest feeling is nothing to be ashamed of. Men do not sham convulsion."

"Nor simulate a throe," I added. My voice seemed to be coming from someone else.

She smiled brilliantly. "The man knows his Dickinson, Wireman!"

"Seems to," Wireman agreed. He was watching me closely.

"Will you finish, Edward?"

"Yes, ma'am.

"I wouldn't want to be faster

or greener than now if you were with me O you

were the best of all my days."

I closed the book. "That's the end."

She nodded. "What were the best of all your days, Edgar?"

"Maybe these," I said. "I'm hoping."

She nodded. "Then I'll hope, too. One is always allowed to hope. And Edgar?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Let me be Elizabeth to you. I can't stand being a ma'am at this end of my life. Do we understand each other?"

I nodded. "I think we do, Elizabeth."

She smiled, and the tears that had been in her own eyes fell. The cheeks they landed on were old and ruined with wrinkles, but the eyes were young. Young.

v