Duma Key(56)

Her surrealist phase began; first the birds flying upside-down, then the animals walking on water, then the Smiling Horses that brought her a small measure of renown. And that was when something changed. That was when something dark slipped in, using little Libbit as its channel.

She began to draw her doll, and when she did, her doll began to talk.

Noveen.

By then Adriana was back from Gay Paree, and to begin with, Noveen mostly spoke in Adie's high and happy lah-de-dah voice, asking Elizabeth if she could hinky-dinky-parley-voo and telling her to ferramay her bush. Sometimes Noveen sang her to sleep while pictures of the doll's face - large and round and all brown except for the red lips - scattered Elizabeth's counterpane.

Noveen sings Fr re Jacques, fr re Jacques, are you sleepun? Are you sleepun? Dormay-voo, dormay-voo?

Sometimes Noveen told her stories - mixed-up but wonderful - where Cinderella wore the red slippers from Oz and the Bobbsey Twins got lost in the Magic Forest and found a sweetie house with a roof made of peppermint candy.

But then Noveen's voice changed. It stopped being Adie's voice. It stopped being the voice of anyone Elizabeth knew, and it went right on talking even when Elizabeth told Noveen to ferramay her bush. At first, maybe that voice was pleasant. Maybe it was fun. Strange, but fun.

Then things changed, didn't they? Because art is magic, and not all magic is white.

Not even for little girls.

Chapter 7 Art for Art's Sake

i

There was a bottle of single-malt in the living room liquor cabinet. I wanted a shot and didn't take it. I wanted to wait, maybe eat one of my egg salad sandwiches and plan out what I was going to say to her, and I didn't do that, either. Sometimes the only way to do it is to do it. I took the cordless phone out into the Florida room. It was chilly even with the glass sliders shut, but in a way that was good. I thought the cool air might sharpen me up a little. And maybe the sight of the sun dropping toward the horizon and painting its golden track across the water would calm me down. Because I wasn't calm. My heart was pounding too hard, my cheeks felt hot, my hip hurt like a bastard, and I suddenly realized, with real horror, that my wife's name had slipped my mind. Every time I dipped for it, all I came up with was peligro, the Spanish word for danger.

I decided there was one thing I did need before calling Minnesota.

I left the phone on the overstuffed couch, limped to the bedroom (using my crutch now; I and my crutch were going to be inseparable until bedtime), and got Reba. One look into her blue eyes was enough to bring Pam's name back, and my heartbeat slowed. With my best girl clamped between my side and my stump, her boneless pink legs wagging, I made my way back to the Florida room and sat down again. Reba flopped onto my lap and I set her aside with a thump so she faced the westering sun.

"Stare at it too long, you'll go blind," I said. "Of course, that's where the fun is. Bruce Springsteen, 1973 or so, muchacha."

Reba did not reply.

"I should be upstairs, painting that," I told her, "Doing f**king art for f**king art's sake."

No reply. Reba's wide eyes suggested to the world in general that she was stuck with America's nastiest man.

I picked up the cordless and shook it in her face. "I can do this," I said.

Nothing from Reba, but I thought she looked doubtful. Beneath us, the shells continued their wind-driven argument: You did, I didn't, oh yes you did.

I wanted to go on discussing the matter with my Anger-Management Doll. Instead I punched in the number of what used to be my house. No problem at all remembering that. I was hoping to get Pam's answering machine. Instead I got the lady herself, sounding breathless. "Hey, Joanie, thank God you called back. I'm running late and was hoping our three-fifteen could be-"

"It's not Joanie," I said. I reached for Reba and drew her back onto my lap without even thinking about it. "It's Edgar. And you might have to cancel your three-fifteen. We've got something to talk about, and it's important."

"What's wrong?"

"With me? Nothing. I'm fine."

"Edgar, can we talk later? I need to get my hair done and I'm running late. I'll be back at six."

"It's about Tom Riley."

Silence from Pam's part of the world. It went on for maybe ten seconds. During those ten seconds, the golden track on the water darkened just a little. Elizabeth Eastlake knew her Emily Dickinson; I wondered if she also knew her Vachel Lindsay.

"What about Tom?" Pam asked at last. There was caution in her voice, deep caution. I was pretty sure that her hair appointment had left her mind.

"I have reason to believe he may be contemplating suicide." I crooked the phone against my shoulder and began stroking Reba's hair. "Know anything about that?"

"What do... What do I..." She sounded punched, breathless. "Why in God's name would I..." She began to gain a little strength, grasping for indignation. It's handy in such situations, I suppose. "You call out of a clear blue sky and expect me to tell you about Tom Riley's state of mind? I thought you were getting better, but I guess that was wishful th-"

"Fucking him should give you some insight." My hand wound into Reba's fake orange hair and clutched, as if to tear it out by the roots. "Or am I wrong?"

"That is insane!" she nearly screamed. "You need help, Edgar! Either call Dr. Kamen or get help down there, and soon!"