The Last Cadillac (12 page)

Cynthia continued to be a great help. I figured the world needed a couple of million enthusiastic Cynthias to straighten itself out. Part of the reason I'd put off buying a house was that I'd lose Cynthia after the deal went through. But she was patient, worked hard to look for houses for us,
and she became a friend. She understood our situation. She kept coming up with possibilities—ground-level houses with three-plus bedrooms—and I held out for that reasonably priced miracle house, because some day, maybe suddenly, Dad would not be there any more. I had to face that awful fact that he would just be plain gone, like Mom.

Dad had announced to the family before we left for Florida that he was going to be my “renter,” and that he wanted to help out with the costs of keeping house.

Jack wanted to know, exactly, what that meant.

“Renter?” he said, like he had something distasteful in his mouth. “How much rent is Dad going to pay you?”

“Jack, lighten up,” I said. “I don't have any idea how much rent he is going to pay me. It's his idea.”

When I was going through the divorce, Dad slipped me some “Grants” and “Franklins,” which helped me breathe a bit easier. At a dollar an inch, those feature stories weren't exactly padding my bank account. One time, Dad handed over the green and said, prophetically—“For your dream house. Goodbye chill house.” It didn't mean beans to Jack that Dad meant to pay me rent. If I was going to fit us all into that dream house, I needed the help.

Jack called to bug me about it again. I hung up on him—before he hung up on me. The conversations with my siblings were abrupt; we constantly bumped into each other, even with the miles between us. The only problem? We were leaving bruises that might take an awful long time to heal. I prepared, mentally, for many more bumps down the road.

I didn't know where we were going to live, or when. But Jack wanted to know now. Too bad. I wasn't about to tell Jack any of my tentative plans. I was too angry at him, as usual. I was going to buy my own house, and I was thrilled at the
prospect. I was also more than happy that Dad was with us. He seemed happy and content, and so were we.

Dad and I started out to the chairs under the windows in front of the cottage one late afternoon—my favorite time of day. The gulls were circling for their dinner before retirement for the evening. Dad picked up his feet carefully along the sand path next to the cottage. He was wearing his Irish hat and khaki jacket; he dug his cane into the sand and held my hand in a firm, bone-breaking grip, but I didn't care. That grip was love, and something I could hold on to.

We made our way slowly over the bumpy, sandy beach. He sat down and looked up at me. “Thanks, my little Sweetie,” he said. “This is fine, just fine.”

We sat together. The sun was lowering below the horizon in a fluorescent glow, a new one, more riveting and softening than the last. As the birds began circling, I dug my toes into the warm, white sand and held Dad's arm. The gulls frantically squawked and dipped, searching for a last snack. “Having their cocktail hour,” Dad said, bending his neck to study them. He took off his hat, and his white hair fluffed like a cloud, like his mother's. Riding in her Cadillac, out to the island, to find the cottage. It took me back, flying up through the hourglass with the sand. I had wanted to go back, and now, we were back. We were a long way from the patio at the dollhouse. We were another step away from bad memories and on the way to make some good ones. I hoped.

“Cynthia, it's me.”

“How are you, and the kids, and Dad?” she said. “I haven't talked to you in, well, days.”

“We're OK,” I said. “What's going on?”

“Well, a lot. I'm tellin' ya. Everything's going faster than I can list 'em. I had this little two-bedroom on Harkey's Canal, a darlin' fixer-upper, went for nothin' and I wish you coulda seen it, but it was a little small.…”

I loved the house talk. I thought of these places as having personalities, some on the seedy side, and others as quaint, possible friends. A lot of living had come and gone in those two-bedroom houses with yellow kitchens, terrazzo floors, and dusty old ruffled curtains on the windows that looked out on yards full of palm trees and twittering birds.

Cynthia told me about a couple more prospects, and then I broke in.

“Cynthia, you are a doll. You keep me going; you really do,” I said. “Fact is, we need to make the move, and soon.”

I heard the gears shifting at the other end of the line, and no one shifted gears faster than Cynthia.

“I'll run the list right this minute,” she said. I heard her clicking away on the computer, even as we spoke. “You, your dad, and the kids! How did this ever happen?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“Well, we'll just see what we can do about it. Something gracious, and spacious.”

“Something with enough bedrooms that I can afford.”

“Certainly not any of those boxes on sticks. Oh, no. No doubt about that.”

“Just something I can paint all white and has enough stretch for the four of us.”

The clicking stopped. “You know, I must show you what came up while we were talking. You're gonna love it. It has a barrel-tile roof and it's on a canal. Let me call you right back as soon as I get an appointment from the listing agent. Bye, now.”

I'd seen enough white stucco houses with tiled roofs and I was tired of looking, and I bet Cynthia was, too.

Cynthia picked me up and we headed toward Willow Avenue, not five blocks from the beach cottage. We turned off Gulf Drive that divided the island like a spine, with the Gulf of Mexico to the west and Tampa Bay on the east, and right away I liked what I saw. I hadn't been down this road before, and I wondered how I'd missed it, except that vines and fronds shot up so fast on the island that new small jungles seemed to grow up overnight and create their own kind of hideaways. Pine trees, mangos, palmettos, and sea grape made a thicket along the stretch of broken-shell road that ended in a cul-de-sac. It was quiet except for the call of birds and wind in the palms. The Gulf roared faintly in the distance, a reassuring, tumbling sound.

I closed my eyes. Let this be the house.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” Cynthia said. “Wake up and see what that wickedly wonderful old realtor has found for you.”

She adjusted her keys, windows, and locks, papers and purse, and rolled out of the car onto the driveway in a flutter of sweaty silk and Tabu. I looked up. A neat stucco house stood proudly about a quarter acre from the road with a tall, silver-sided palm next to the front door—the sort of house I'd seen a thousand times. A row of neatly trimmed hollies ran along the driveway to a one-car, attached carport. The place was quiet as a church.

“Isn't it great?” said Cynthia.

“I think so,” I said. “But what's all that?”

Huge shiny boulders—cobalt-blue rocks of glass in varying sizes—dotted the front yard, which was also completely devoid of any vegetation and covered with glittery, white pebbles. The jagged blue rocks looked like pieces of fallen sky on a bright, cloudless day. Some looked knife-sharp and lethal.

How odd, I thought.

“I'm not so sure about these rocks,” Cynthia said as she breezed around them, while producing the key in one easy motion. We were inside before I could make anymore comments about the yard from outer space.

There it was—the living room from 1960, and nothing appeared to have changed since the day the house was built. The dining room chairs and table were heavy glass and bamboo, the sort I'd seen in my grandparents' house in Florida years ago. Historical tapestry covered two Early American sofas facing each other, coordinating with the maple touches in all the corners. We walked to the left and
found a bedroom done up in gold chenille and red tassels, like Pauline and Ernest's Spanish bedroom in Key West. All I needed was one of Pauline's useless crystal chandeliers.

“Olé,” I said.

Beyond the living room, an enclosed porch with brown plastic paneling and dropped ceiling looked out over a deep, wide yard shaded with tall, overgrown oleanders and sabal palms. The thin line of water danced in the sunlit canal, the one bright spot. It cheered me. But throughout the house, sculptured brown carpeting covered every inch of flooring, and unfortunately, it looked almost new and certainly doomed for removal.

“Great house. You really don't need to do a thing to it,” Cynthia said. “Maybe a little paint and decorating is all.” She raised her arms in a sweeping gesture, taking in every square inch of the place, and then she slapped her hips lightly for emphasis.

I was about to tell her I needed an axe, but she darted off to the kitchen. She turned on the lights, and roaches scurried across the avocado green counter. She quickly turned on the faucet. “See?” she said. The water exploded in a whoosh of brown, which matched the peeling pink and brown linoleum floor.

“At least that works,” I said. The water finally calmed down to a nice, clear even flow. Cynthia and I stood there, contemplating the faucet, afraid to look elsewhere. The roaches and unknown creatures, surely, were hiding from us.

Yet somehow, I was already thinking about what I could do with the place, which would be to rip everything out and start over with the shell. After a cursory look at the electric and plumbing, the bare bones of the place appeared to be in pretty good shape. But, best of all, I loved the floor plan.
The front door opened to a living room, and the enclosed porch ran along the back width of the house. Beyond, a real backyard with a view of the canal and hibiscus around a patio thrived.

I walked out to the porch, and surprisingly, found a doorway to an added wing in the back with a bedroom. It was new, all white, with a tile floor, its own bathroom, and fresh paint. At least, I wouldn't have to deal with one room. Sliding glass doors led out to the yard where bougainvillea and oleander adorned the wooden fences. A mango tree as big as a circus tent grew next to the covered patio.

I liked everything I saw. So I looked some more. I opened the door off the porch. I could practically hear the grass growing and the fish jumping in the canal. As if for emphasis, a mango fell from the tree and clunked the corrugated roof of the patio. I could really love this place. Orange and grapefruit trees bunched up at the far end of the yard on either side of the stone path that cut through the grass to the canal. Avocado and kumquat dotted the yard, and suddenly I could see us living in this place. I wanted to sit and listen to the squirrels rustle up the palms, watch the egrets land in the yard, and gulls swoop over the water.

There were two bedrooms and two bathrooms in the main part of the house, but we were still short one bedroom. That stopped me, but for the moment, I put reality aside and enjoyed the view. It might not be big enough, and the plumbing and heating systems were serviceable, which were of minor concern, I decided. The house was solid. And the peace surrounding this place was what I wanted. What I needed. At that very moment, the house was mine.

And what about all those blue rocks? What was all that about? What kind of crazy person puts blue rocks all over the
front yard? Maybe the neighborhood was full of goofballs who did stranger things than that. But I didn't care.

“Well, what do you think?” said Cynthia. “I can see that smile on your face.”

“I like it, yes, and I'm thinking. It's definitely worth a think or two.” We were short one bedroom. I wondered what I'd do with Tick. Later, we talked.

“Tick, sweetie, I'd have to put you in the laundry room.”

“Cool. Das cool,” he said. “With the washing machine.”

“No, not really.… Tick, are you listening to me? Please take that headset off for a minute.”

Robert Johnson was entertaining him, and he had no time to talk about the laundry room. He was teaching himself to play blues on the guitar. I could hardly get him to put the music down and get up off the side of his bed and eat, much less talk about moving the washing machine. He finally turned his beautiful hazels on me.

“Wassup?”

“Your room,” I said. “I was thinking, we could move the washing machine and dryer into the garage and turn the laundry into a bedroom for you. Put in some built-ins for a desk and drawers. What I mean is, you would have a very small bedroom. What do you think of that?”

“Mom. Dude. I said, das cool! It's less for me to clean up.”

“Very practical. And don't call me ‘dude.' For someone in an honors English program, you sure talk funny.”

“Sorry, Mother Dear. It will be very cool in there, chillin' and livin' large in the laundry room. Really, Mom.”

“I'm proud of you.”

My Island Boy.

“Cynthia, did you find out what's up with all those blue rocks?”

“Oh, you won't believe it.”

“Try me.”

“He invented the Bluebird of Happiness.”

“Who?”

“The seller. He lives in Arkansas and he makes those darling little blue glass birds you see everywhere, and he makes them out of the very rocks you have all over your very own front yard. Yes! Your very own yard!” she said. “Isn't that something? Isn't that some kind of sign?”

Yes, it had to be a sign. I needed a sign.

I drove over to Willow Avenue, just to have another look, to the end of the cul-de-sac on the canal, past the majo trees and sea grape. I imagined those Bluebirds of Happiness nestled inside of rough jagged rocks, and it struck me as a good omen. If this was the home of the Bluebird of Happiness, I was a fool not to build my nest there.

I drove Dad over to “our prospect” so he could take a look. We sat in the car, pondering the yard.

“The Bluebirds of Happiness,” I said. “They come right out of those rocks.”

He didn't say anything for a full minute, and then he nodded.