Tampa Burn (26 page)

Normally, the idea would have been appealing. Not now. During times of personal calamity, even the most familiar of safe harbors can seem as foreign as a far planet. Emotional chaos has its own trajectory. Until the energy of that path dissipates, and we arc back into the customary orbit of our normal lives, nothing feels or appears quite as it should be.

Until I found Dewey—knew that she was safe and that we were on good terms again—my life, and these familiar islands, would not be the same.

Off Mango Court, I turned down the sand drive to her home. I felt even more pressured than on my last visit, but I drove slowly, watching for local pets, driving along the high ficus hedges, headlights glaring off security signs, and then I swung into her drive hoping once again to see the Lexus parked beneath the carport.

Once again, it wasn't.

There was activity at the house, though. The front door was open, lights on. A Dodge Ram pickup was parked out front, some kind of white compact, too, plus a smaller red pickup—all the vehicles seemed familiar—and there were people inside the house, moving across the lighted windows.

My first impression was that Dewey was having a little party of her own, and maybe her car was gone because she had had to run to the store to fetch more ice or mixer.

But then I recognized the bumper stickers on the Dodge. Knew it was Jeth Nichols, one of our marina fishing guides, and so I instantly knew the owners of the other cars, too.

This was no party, and the Lexus wasn't gone because Dewey was on a quick trip to the store.

I got out of the rental Ford in a rush and jogged toward the house, thinking,
Don't let them be here because she's sick, or hurt, or because someone broke in . . .

Those weren't the reasons.

As I got to the porch, I surprised Jeth, who was backing out the door carrying one end of Dewey's king-sized mattress. Lugging the other end was Javier Castillo, a fishing guide from Two Parrot Bight Marina, and one of Jeth's best friends.

When I saw the mattress, I knew. I knew why they were here. I also understood why Dewey's phones weren't working. This close to midnight, men load beds into pickups for only one reason. Not only that, but the back of the truck was nearly full of my girl's furniture.

But I asked anyway.

“
Jeth.
What are you guys doing here so late? Where's Dewey?”

Jeth looks like an all-state linebacker who never stopped taking good care of himself, a great-looking guy with the truest of hearts. His mild stutter is an endearing quirk, although it is seldom heard these days—unless he's upset or nervous.

The man was nervous now.

“Goddang, dah-dah-dah-Doc! You 'bout scared me to death sneakin' up-p-p-p like that.” He'd dropped the mattress and was holding a big hand to his chest. I got the feeling, though, I hadn't scared him that badly. He was trying to buy a little time; needed space to figure out what to say to me.

I said, “Javier—where is she? What's going on here?”

Javier is a lean black man, average height, thin lips but a broad African nose and short black hair. He floated over from Cuba years ago in an inner tube, worked sixteen-hour days to get a foothold. He now has a gorgeous family, the community's respect, and an equal amount of pride. But when I spoke to him, trying to hold his eyes, he just shook his head and looked away.

“Jeth, damn it,
answer
me. Where's Dewey? I'm not going to ask you a third time. Is she all right?”

I realized that my tone was threatening. Dominant and demanding—it was that, too. I instantly regretted the way I'd spoken to him.

So did Jeth. His voice sounded as pained as the expression on his face as he replied, “Oh, Dewey's fine, she's just fine, don't you worry about that. We're takin' some of her personal stuff to a storage place off-island 'cause . . . well, 'cause that's what she
asked
one of us to do. But I don't want to be the one ta have ta tah-tah-tell you about it, man. Dang it, Doc, why'd you have to show up here now?”

Jeth and I are close friends. Old friends. I didn't know the details of why he and Javier were helping Dewey move, but I resented that the two of us had been put in this situation. Friends should not be drawn into the middle of romantic troubles. Because of this, it would be a while before Jeth and I felt comfortable around each other again.

From inside, I heard a woman's voice call to them, “You guys quit gabbing, and get that mattress loaded. It's already late, and we're not even close to being done. Get going!”

It was a familiar voice, with a Midwestern civility built into her inflections, and so her bossiness seemed intentionally exaggerated, as if she were joking.

She wasn't.

As I made room for them to pass, Jeth said, “I'm sorry, Doc. I truly am.”

I said, “No, no, I'm the one who should apologize. I shouldn't've come on so hard.”

“Oh hell.” His tone said,
Forget it.
But there was also a little chill there. I'd offended him. “We'll grab us some beers.” Now Jeth was stepping up into the back of his truck, making it look easy. “Maybe tomorrow night if you got some time.”

I knew it'd be a lot longer than that, but said, “Sure. Tomorrow should be good.”

As they drove away, Javier smiled and called to me in Spanish, “In Cuba, we had a saying: If it wasn't for a woman's love, a man could go his entire life without hearing of his faults or being punished for them.”

I smiled and nodded. My friendship with Javier, at least, was unaffected.

He'd reminded me of an even more cynical Latin maxim: The real magic of love is that, for a short period of time, it blinds two people to the pain it will surely cause.

SEEING
Dewey's mattress bouncing away in the back of a pickup not only hurt, but it created in me a kind of emotional numbness. Her bed was such an intimate symbol of the time we'd spent alone in her house. That she had made the decision to move so impulsively—irrationally, it seemed to me—was a measure of the pain I'd inflicted.

I went to the open door and, stupidly, knocked before entering. I expected to see Janet Mueller, and there she was, dressed for sweat and hard labor in baggy shorts and a man's shirt, sleeves rolled up.

She stood in the center of a room full of boxes, and garbage bags, and stacks of Dewey's clothes still on hangers. Her mousy hair was piled under a ball cap, a couple of curls touched with gray hanging out. She's always been on the chubby side. In the last six months or so, though, she'd lost too much weight, and her face was gaunt. It'd aged her.

I said, “I can't believe she's done this. All in less than twenty-four hours?”

Janet finished taping a box closed and pushed it aside. “You've always said you like strong women. Dewey was never the indecisive type. I guess there has to be a downside to a man dating his equal.”

“I need to talk to her, Jan. For just a few minutes. It's important. Where is she?”

She started to reply, but then stopped, studying my face. Janet's a close friend, too. In ways, closer than Jeth. She knows me well, and so probably accurately diagnosed my coloring, or my expression.

“Are you O.K., Doc? You don't look good. Have a seat, take some deep breaths, and I'll get you something to drink. I haven't cleaned out the fridge yet.”

“Janet, please. Tell me how to contact her.”

“No. I can't do that. Please don't ask me again. Dewey's gone. She'll be in touch—she said to tell you that. She also said to tell you not to try and find her.”

I put my hands on her shoulders. “She's gone
where?
”

“Gone, that's all. She's moved to another place. That's all I'm going to say. So no more pressure. O.K.?”

She turned from beneath my hands and went to the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator open, then the carbonated signature of bottles being opened. After a moment, she poked her head out and said, “That doesn't mean I'm not your buddy anymore. I know it's a heck of a shock, so let's go talk. Just you and me, out there in the Florida room. But no more prying. You've got to promise.”

I followed her through the kitchen, out the sliding doors toward the lighted pool. It was a rectangular plunge pool floored with black tile, so the water appeared iceberg blue. The pool lights projected shimmering lines onto the area's high-screened paneling, illuminating the deck, showing potted plants, barbecue grill, weight machine, wet bar. On the other side of the screen were silhouetted trees, and stars.

I accepted the beer. She went back to the kitchen, returned with chunks of cheddar, chorizo sausage, a bottle of hot sauce, and crackers. She took a seat beside me in a deck chair while I tried not to look at the water, because I could see Dewey floating naked after a tough workout, or late at night, just the two of us, after making love.

I said, “We were together here just last night. I talked to her. She didn't mention doing anything this drastic.”

Janet sipped, swallowed, chewed, nodded. “I know.”

“She told you?”

“Not the details. Just that something happened between you two. That it was serious. And that she needed to get off the islands for a while to think clearly. I can understand that. Sanibel and Captiva are like luxury liners with palms and a beach. Leave your cabin, and you can't help but run into the same old fun-loving crew. There are times, though, when you need a little distance.”

I said, “If I write her a letter, can you see that she gets it?”

“Yes. I can do that.”

“I really screwed up, Jan. No one's ever called me talkative, so why is it my mouth that always gets me in trouble with the women I care about? I think she may be gone for good.”

Janet stirred beside me, and I felt her hand pat my arm then come to rest atop my hand. “Do you know why women like quiet men? Because it's easier for us to believe they're really listening. Relationships are a pain in the ass, Dr. Ford.”

I said, “Yes, they are, Dr. Mueller,” laughing softly with her, and realizing that she'd already helped dissipate some of the emotional trauma, which is exactly what she was trying to do.

“After the last time I got dumped, I swore I'd never get any closer to a permanent relationship, or marriage, than going to a sex store and telling the sales clerk ‘I do' when she asked if I wanted to buy a vibrator.”

I was laughing harder as she added, “But nothing shocks me anymore when it comes to relationships.
Nothing.
”

She gave it so much emphasis, I knew she was referencing something recent and personal. Which meant she had things in her own love life she wanted to talk about, too.

 

 

AS much as anyone I know, Janet reminds me why I like women as people. She is also my secret reminder that, for women who are not born with great looks, or who are past a certain age, the world is an unfair place.

Men can compensate for their genetic bad luck by being successful in business or politics. The same is not true for women. Inequity becomes a fact of life. Some of the very best of them end up settling for guys who are not their intellectual or emotional equals, and lead lives that never offer them much challenge or reward. These are the private ones, the undiscovered treasures whose gifts are forever concealed by an oversized body, or a facial conformation that's a few centimeters off the current Hollywood ideal.

As we sat and talked, and had another beer, I thought about this good person and all that she'd endured. Maybe she hoped that's what I'd do. It certainly reduced my feeling of being overwhelmed.

Most people stop maturing long before they stop aging, but not this lady. Whatever her own rocky life had demanded, she'd evolved and grown in whatever way it took to compensate. I admired that. Same with everyone at Dinkin's Bay.

Janet had arrived at the marina a few years back with lots of emotional baggage, after losing her husband in a car wreck, then their unborn child to a miscarriage. Many people move to Florida hoping to save themselves or to reinvent themselves. Janet's one of the few resilient enough to have succeeded at both.

While she healed, she worked regularly in my lab and lived aboard her little blue houseboat. After a split-up with Jeth, her on-again-off-again love, she'd moved her vessel to Twin Palms, but continued to work for me and remained a part of the Dinkin's Bay community.

Janet was always the quiet girl with glasses, the sisterly type who was there when you needed her, but was never glib or showy. She was the one with the frazzled hair and heavy hips, but a cute face; the one who liked to laugh and socialize. If you were a man, you wanted to protect her, just as women, on first meeting, knew immediately they could trust Janet and confide in her.

She was nice, but lacked confidence. She could be outgoing, but never assertive.

That changed.

Not so long ago, Janet, along with friends, had been set adrift in the open sea after a boating accident, only to be picked up by the worst sort of people.

Once again, she'd endured. Then she'd prevailed.

I remembered what Merlin Starkey had said about his life being scarred by his failures. Janet has too much character and courage to allow herself to use such a transparent excuse.

The woman who sat next to me now was a very different Janet Mueller from the soft-spoken lady who'd come shy-eyed into the marina years back. There was no shortage of self-confidence, she had no problem being assertive—but my friend had also lost something during the process.

There's always a price.