She waited; I remained silent.
"Mind if I call you Ford? It's a simple, no-bullshit name. Seems to fit."
I stared back; wasn't surprised when she refused to look away. Said, after a long silence, "You can call me anything you want." Then the stubborn set of her jaw, the cattish expression on her face somehow struck me as funny, and I began to laugh . . . then we were both laughing. Hers was a heavy, guileless guffaw, not at all like the bell note sounds she made when amused.
Wiping at her eyes, she said, "Truce? I'll put the knife away if you will."
"Only because I'm so outclassed."
"A gentleman about it. Damn!" She sat up straighter in the beanbag chair, getting serious. "See, the thing you don't know about that bastard Jimmy is—"
"Sorry I took so long." The bathroom door swung open, emitting a steamy effluvium. Tomlinson came out wearing a red T-shirt and green denim pants that were bunched tight at his waist with a leather belt, everything very baggy but a couple of sizes too short. His blond hair was fluffed and combed smooth, like a shampoo commercial. I'd never seen his hair so carefully arranged. Even had it parted in the middle. He said, "You live on a boat, man . . . shower out of a rubber bag, you come to appreciate the finer things in life."
Hannah was using her hand as a fan. "Whew, you smell like the perfume counter at Eckerd's."
"You've got a nice selection in there. Hope you don't mind."
"See? That's Jimmy's stuff I never got around to throwing out." To Tomlinson, she said, "Set yourself down. I was about to tell Ford about Jimmy Darroux."
Tomlinson's expression described compassion. "A terrible thing. Awful. He was a good spirit."
Hannah said, "Jimmy was an asshole."
Tomlinson shrugged. "The man had his problems. That much even I could tell."
Chapter 5
Hannah had moved to the rocker. The topic seemed to require the added dignity of elevation. First off, she wanted to know what Jimmy had said to us, why we'd run clear up the bay after sunset on a falling tide. Tomlinson talked, then I talked. Then Tomlinson talked some more. She had a good way of listening, the natural-born-executive's talent for nodding at the appropriate time, asking just the right question to lever more detail, letting you feel the full force of her attention as she followed along. She didn't want to be spared anything. She wanted it all.
When we had finished, she sat quietly for a while. In the big rocker, she was the portrait of an anachronism, the pioneer woman at peace. She looked solid. Maternal. But through the open bedroom door, I could see the emblems of a woman who had yet to abandon all adolescent interests: big poster of a country music star tacked to her wall; a banner from Disney World; lazy, whirling ceiling fan with some kind of corsage dangling from the middle. After a time, she said, "Jimmy said he could see Jesus?"
"That's right. He was in shock, I guess."
"Jimmy finally met up with Jesus—you'd have to know him to understand just how funny that is. Jimmy? If the medical examiner hadn't told me himself on the phone, I'd think somebody else burnt up. But they called me and I told em how to get the dental records. He'd gone for some fillings just last month. Dr. Gear."
One of Tomlinson's great gifts is his ability to empathize. "If you're feeling bitterness, it's understandable," he said. "Your husband left violently, without explanation. So it's natural. Don't feel guilty, just let it out."
"Guilty? I don't feel guilty one bit. Bitter, sure. But not guilty. You never knew the guy—"
"His last words were about you, Hannah. Looking out for your welfare. I was there, holding his hand. I mean—seriously—the guy obviously cared deeply."
She sat up a little straighter, spread her fingers wide to brush the hair out of her face. "That's another thing that doesn't make sense. Why would Jimmy say that? What'd he say? 'Take care of Hannah for me'? Is that what he said?"
"His exact words."
"See, that wasn't like him. Know what I think, Tomlinson? I think— this may sound crazy—but I think you and Ford were sent to me for a reason."
"Of course we were. Except for Doc, a person would have to be a dope to doubt it."
"No, that's not what I mean. Not just to comfort me, but something else. Bigger, you know? It's this feeling I've got."
"Could be, Hannah. Wouldn't be the first time in my life."
"You really believe it's possible. What I'm saying?"
"I'm just a tool. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff God's gotten me into."
Hannah leaned forward slightly, ready to share. "Then you'll understand this. What I think is, that was Jimmy's body there on the table, and it was Jimmy's voice you heard . . . but those weren't Jimmy's words. Couldn't have been."
"Yeah? You think so?"
"I really do. It's just an idea. No way to prove it—"
"He . . . was a bad person?"
"Yes, he was." Her voice dropped a note or two—a confessional tone—making her point. "Jimmy was selfish as a three-year-old. And lazy. Trust me, if it wasn't for his pecker, he'd've never even learned to drive. Mean, too. Just plain, downright mean. Jimmy didn't give a damn about me."
"There was a darkness in him. I even told Doc that."
"There you go. But do you see what I'm getting at?"
Tomlinson held his hands out, palms up. "No, but I love the concept."
Hannah said, "What it could be—I'm just thinking out loud—but it could be that something, some force, spoke through him. Wanted us three to meet. 'Take care of Hannah for me.' Jimmy wouldn't say that. The words just came through his mouth, see? When I first saw you on the doorstep, I gave you a hard time, but what I was feeling was—"
"You don't even have to say it." Tomlinson was nodding his head, way ahead of her. "Like I already knew you. That's the way I felt. Saw you standing in the door—"
"Exactly."
"That's just the way it happens. I knew this was your house."
"You took your clothes off, no questions asked!"
He was chuckling along with her, his hair showing a lot of sheen and bounce. "Yeah . . . well ... I've done that for strangers many a time. But, with you, I couldn't even talk. I mean, wham. Like, there you were."
"This doesn't sound weird to you?"
Tomlinson made a fluttering noise with his lips. "Let me give you some words to live by: Weirdness only seems weird if you fight it. Believe me, I know about these things."
I sat there listening, trying to make sense of it. . . then abandoned any hope of trying to reassemble their exchange into rational conversation. What puzzled me most of all, though, was this troubling reality: No matter what Hannah Smith said, no matter what ridiculous opinion she fronted, I still found myself inexorably attracted to her.
Tomlinson was saying, "As a phenomenon, it's not that uncommon. Some person, dead or alive, serves as the medium for a larger voice. The power speaks through them. Some spirit who has left this world and gone to another. Or some sentient consciousness that has no other means to verbalize .. . Hey . . . wait. . . a . . . minute! I'm getting something here—"
Hannah said, "A larger voice," pondering it.
"This morning, when Doc and I were using his telescope, I was expecting a sign. This deep meditation I've been into, I've made daily contact with a very powerful consciousness—"
She interrupted him. "That's just what I want to learn. Meditation. Can you teach me?"
"It would be an honor. But listen to what I'm saying. I've been locking onto these signals, these little islands of. . . divinity. I mean, I really knew I was going to receive some sign from them." He looked at me. "What did I tell you this morning, Doc? What did I say?"