The Last Cadillac (13 page)

“One time I got a birthday card that said, ‘May the bluebird of happiness shit on your birthday cake,'” he said.

“Dad, this is an entirely different kind of bluebird.”

“The kind that will stay the hell off my cake, I hope.”

The deal was settled at $218,000, with a down payment of almost $60,000. The broker insisted that I have a co-signer, because I was not “employed.” I was about to argue that I was a caretaker, part-time writer, and a mother, but the words stuck. That wouldn't translate in the real estate world of dollars and sense. So, Dad co-signed the loan, with life tenancy, meaning that when he passed on, the deed was mine. Paperwork seemed so black and white, so stark and in my face. It brought me back to reality and grounded me again. This was only temporary. And down life's path, there were sure to be more changes. Dad wouldn't live forever. The kids would grow and go. And I needed to seriously look ahead to that new career.

Even so, I concentrated on my immediate concern—getting the dream house in shape. I had about $8,000 to $10,000 to budget for repairs and decorating. The inspector said the house was in good condition—old, but good—so, I started looking for a contractor to brighten up the place. This was easier said than done. I coaxed a couple of them away from other jobs. But standing there in my Early American
brown living room, they just scratched their chins. They all acted like they were swimming through Jello, which seemed to be the normal island pace. Really, how complicated could it be to take all the old brown stuff out and put in the white? They all needed a good, healthy dose of Cynthia.

I searched the yellow pages and followed up on recommendations, but most were “busy right now.” Building new houses, it seemed, was easier and more lucrative than fixing up old ones.

I was running out of time, and all these guys did was puzzle over the nature of the brown plastic paneling on the porch.

“Now, ma'am, you just don't know what you'll find back o' dat,” said one contractor. He told me things that had nothing to do with what I wanted—and what the house needed.

“That mango tree there attracts rats. And that there elevation at the canal is an invitation to a flood. That barrel-tile roof, well, it's time is just about up.”

Irritated, I was on the verge of telling him I liked mangos and rats, and that in nearly forty years, the water had never come over the bank. Instead, I told him I was late for the library and I had to go, and so did he.

Another contractor told me I had to tear up the concrete floor, re-route pipe around the house, and tie it in to the main sewer at, say, ten dollars a foot for starters. This opinion took most of an afternoon to unfold and, in the end, proved to be entirely not the case.

Finally, Steve Kreider of Horizon Homes came to the rescue. He hired a plumber to hook up the washer and dryer in the garage, and Tick had his bedroom. When I mentioned my all-white decorating scheme to Steve, he offered me ninety-two shades of white from which to choose. Even
though it was slow going, he steered me in the right direction. Mermaid Foam for the floor tile. Angel Wing for the kitchen cabinets and counters. And plain old white ceiling fans. One choice was easy: Tomato Bisque for the new French door at the entry. All amazingly within my budget. I just prayed the heat pump didn't give out.

A month later, light streamed into my new, white house; it was truly beatific, a miracle. It was as clean and slick and dazzling as a new egg. A load of Dad's things was due to arrive in a few days. I had other things in storage, which I needed to retrieve, but I'd done this drill many times before—nineteen times in the army with Hubby and the kids.

This new old home—small and spare—was my last stop as far as I was concerned. A place to begin again. I looked out across the backyard. I realized with a stab of nostalgia that my new old Florida house wasn't much different from the very first house Hubby and I had bought together in Columbus, Georgia, many happy years ago. That three-bedroom ranch had small, high windows. It, too, had been dark inside, and was nestled in a stand of tall pine trees with a stream out back that ebbed and flowed with the rain.

There, the Ex gave Tick his first fishing pole. Tick was so small, but the Ex taught him to use the knife, and Tick learned to filet and fry the tiny fish, bones and all, in butter. They were hardly a bite, but Tick loved the catch and the flavor of being a fisherman.

Then, too, there was a life full of promise, and now, I was trying again. Other than that, nothing really was the same.

Of course, Tick could fish in the canal. Maybe get a small boat. The beach was only two blocks away where Little Sunshine and I could walk to look for sand dollars. The backyard was perfect for enjoying birds and the rain, and
Dad could sit on the patio and ruminate. Feed the herons. Watch Puny chase the gulls. Yes, Puny made it, special delivery with a friend who drove down to Florida.

I walked from room to room, my sandals slapping the new tile. I drew a grid of the house and doodled away. I didn't think past the hazy, October afternoon, except to wonder about yellow walls for the breakfast room, geraniums outside—and inside—year round! Or would it be too hot? What a wonderful dilemma. That afternoon, wandering from one white shell of a room to the next, I knew I needed just a little more time to get the place ready. The moving van wasn't due to arrive for a few days.

That's what I needed—time. There was never enough lately. I walked out to the canal where the sun hovered over the palm trees like an orange balloon. We would move into the house in the next week or two—maybe three, if those kitchen cabinets didn't arrive. Fortunately, we were on schedule to get out of the cottage before the renters descended for the winter.

It would be perfect. But, I had no way of knowing that I had very little time. Not three weeks. Not even two. The move would be upon us before the weekend.

We did have some warning. But not much.

Soon enough, Josephine hurled herself across the Atlantic and beat a path toward the southern tip of Florida, which was against all predictions. Such is the inexact science of hurricane forecasting. As it was, she was bearing down on Florida with a vengeance.

As Josephine made her way north, my sister Lucy planned to head south for a visit. The renters weren't due until after Thanksgiving, so Lucy wanted to celebrate her birthday at the cottage.

“I'm coming hell or high water,” she said. I told her that is exactly what she probably would get for a birthday present. She had already shed her managerial blue suit and packed her black bathing suit, and she was bringing a bunch of friends with her.

I stood on the beach in front of the cottage and looked out at the edge of Josephine in the southwestern sky. The horizon gleamed with a thin layer of silver under towering black
clouds. The Gulf beneath was a milky, choppy green. But due north, the sun shone over a bright blue-green expanse of water. Florida weather, like my life, was a mix of lazy, hot and cool, jasmine-filled contrasts. Some stormy days and some smooth days that could likely change with lightning speed. It's what I loved about living there, and also feared.

I ran back to the living room where the kids were glued to the television screen watching the newscasts break into programming with fresh updates. I told them to sit tight and not even think of moving from that spot. Two pairs of eyes stared up at me from the floor in front of the television. My kids were afraid, I could see that. But I would have to trust them to handle The Adventure—again—and to weather this new storm.

“It's all right,” I said, hoping they didn't catch the waver in my voice. The two heads turned back to the screen; Tick nodded, his shoulders hunched. Little Sunshine scootched closer to him.

Dad was asleep—he would sleep through a hurricane. The sounds of birds and the waves had done wonders for his mental attitude and sleep pattern. But he had to get up. We had to be ready. And now, in the middle of all this, Lucy was due to arrive. Along with Josephine, who was gathering speed. So far, though, she was only a Category One hurricane, clocking winds of less than eighty miles per hour.

I decided Dad could sleep a bit more. I dashed out to the beach where the wind whipped up the sand into small ghosts, needling my legs. The hurricane was still safely offshore, well to the south, and it was highly unlikely that it would land directly on the island, but the possible outcomes were frightening. Fast-moving hurricanes, packed with high winds, often tore a path straight up the Gulf, blasting
into the Panhandle. They didn't normally stop and take an abrupt right turn into the western coast of Florida. Even so, the combination of a passing storm and high tide promised to bring a surge of water onto the shore, especially into the flood zone where the cottage stood. It could be—would be—the perfect storm, when all the parts of nature collide to create havoc.

The water was quickly rising in giant waves. It brought me back to the March 1993 Storm of the Century, when, out of nowhere, the wind ripped off the roof, dumped it in a palm tree down the street, and water flooded five feet deep all around the cottage. That storm cut a narrow swath of destruction, with neatly trimmed edges, directly across Florida, wrecking everything in its path. And March isn't even hurricane season.

I turned back and looked at the low, flat roof, the line of windows behind a dune about thirty yards from the advancing water line. The cottage had withstood decades of storms, but this one promised to be one of the worst. We had to get off the beach.

A bolt of fear shot through me. Lucy and her friends Marque, Ellie, and Bruce were due to arrive later that afternoon.

“I don't give a hoot about the hurricane,” she told me the day before, far away in her snug, glass-box Chicago high rise. “What's a little water?”

Swirling around me and riffling through my hair, the ghosts whispered, Water is everything.

When Lucy arrived, she peeked in at Dad, who was stirring, and kissed the kids, who hadn't moved from in front
of the television. She shrugged at the forecast. Lucy was well dressed for a hurricane in a fine, merino wool V-neck dress in melon (Saks, no doubt), and polished nails to match.

I was glad to see her, but apprehensive and anxious. First things first, we poured ourselves a quick chardonnay. We both took huge swigs. Then we walked out onto the porch and stared at the Gulf. In the few minutes it took to pour the wine, the waves had pounded closer with alarming speed. A heaving expanse of water, no longer friendly green but menacing grey, rolled toward us. There was still some beach, but it was disappearing. Fast. I took another swig of wine.

Before long, a wave hit the wooden slats under the windows. It was nothing more than a tease, just a gentle splash between the cedar boards.

“Josephine has arrived,” I said.

“Who's Josephine?” said Lucy.

I pursed my lips. Lucy's ability to ignore the occasional inconvenience of the world around her astonished me. “Josephine is the hurricane, the devil, the storm. I told you, before you came down here.”

“Oh, that,” she said. And then she laughed.

I looked at Lucy with alarm.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Oh, remember when we were little and we slept under the windows, and the water did the same thing then? You scared the hell out of me, said we were all going to float away to the Shell World or some such thing. Remember?”

Yes, I remembered. We were seven and eight, and I loved the water slapping the cottage and the dark mysterious storm all around us. Now I was old and afraid.

“You were freaked out. And now you're not?” I said.

“Oh well, people change. Don't they?”

“Yes,” I said. Somehow my sister and I had traded places. “I'm freaked out. We have to get out of here, Lucy.”

“Why? It's only a little water. Look at that,” she said, pointing toward the window with an empty wine glass. “A little trickle.”

“But look out there. The beach is disappearing.”

“Oh, it'll blow over.”

“That's what I'm afraid of. It's going to blow like hell.”

As the water began to splash through the cracks with an insistent, unnerving rhythm, we both backed away into the cottage. Now, in place of the wide, glistening white beach, a horrific grey veil of water swayed back and forth outside the windows of the cottage. Wind hissed and whistled in a long melancholy chant. Then something, not so far away cracked. A timber or a branch hit the wall of the cottage behind us. The palm trees at the side door near the Cadillac swooned and bent double in the wind. They could do that. They had amazing agility—so they were at home dancing around in Florida hurricanes. Not so malleable were the non-native Australian pines with shallow roots that towered over the shoreline. Enormous branches crashed into roofs and cars and people.

I stood rooted to the cedar planks of the cottage porch and wracked my brain. We really had to get out of there.

The weather finally created a climate change in Lucy's expression.

She called the Blue Dolphin Motel and started grabbing her things. She was able to catch her friends, who had somehow landed at the airport in the mess of weather and headed them off to dry land on the mainland in Bradenton.

“Are you coming?” Lucy said.

Tick yelled, “MOM, DO YOU SEE HOW CLOSE
THE WAVES ARE GETTING?” He was madly clicking the television remote, scanning the news for fresh reports of disaster. “THEY ARE SAYING WE'RE IN FOR A BIG ONE!” He jumped up and pulled Little Sunshine to her feet. She gripped the back of her brother's T-shirt, her eyes darting from her brother back to me. They both stared at me. “Where's the Gampers? Is he still sleeping?” Tick said. His voice was controlled, his eyes reflected terror, all the while he took his sister's hand. “We better move it,” he said.