The envelope contained yet another passport, plus a letter. They confirmed his grandfather wasn’t a Jew.
Bern took the passport, and all the papers—screw Augie, screw Jason Goddard. Let the whole family know the truth. Spring it on them at the Appleton reunion and watch their faces. See how many would be surprised.
Bern’s guess: Zero.
T he next morning, Sunday, Bern went to church before kicking back to watch the Packers play Cleveland, mostly so Shirley wouldn’t call and have a reason to bitch at him, but also because he decided it wouldn’t hurt to try to change his life by being more positive.
This run of bad luck was getting scary. He’d awoken in the middle of the night, his heart pounding, feeling as if he was suffocating. His world was collapsing around him, so maybe thinking positive would help.
His football coaches had often said that: Think positive. Visualize. Surround yourself with positive people.
There. That was another possible cause for all this trouble. He was surrounded by negative people.
Moe, being an uneducated redneck, was not a positive thinker, even though he knew it was a role business types were supposed to play. Augie, his own nephew, had been stabbing him in the back all along. His grandfather? Whatever the opposite of positive was (negative wasn’t strong enough), he was that to the umpteenth degree.
Evil. That came closer.
Bern went to the Lutheran church in Cape Coral, the one on Chiquita, although he actually wanted to attend Temple Beth Shalom, which was closer, in fact, because it was off Del Prado.
Wanted to attend Temple despite finding out the truth about his grandfather: He not only wasn’t Jewish, he had been a card-carrying Nazi, one of the elite. A Nazi medical student and research assistant who, in 1944, saved his own skin by catching a Swiss freighter to Miami.
Finally, something that really did explain why the old man was such a world-class asshole.
Good to know. But also kind of disappointing.
The last few days, Bern had gotten into it—the idea of being Jewish. Reading the history, finding out they had some famous athletes—even an all-time great list that he, as a former All Big Ten lineman, might have had a shot at. So he thought, screw it, he’d go to Temple anyway, no one else knew the truth, plus it was yet another way to get back at his grandfather.
Temple Beth Shalom, however, was closed on Sundays, according to the nice Jewish ladies who were there setting up for a charity bake sale. Quite a surprise, but it made the religion even more attractive, Saturday being a more logical day to worship because Sunday, of course, was when the NFL played.
It was a positive start to the day.
All that week, Bern worked at it. Staying positive. Visualizing. He even wrote down a list of goals. The promissory notes—he had to get those. They were his only protection. Jason Goddard and the corporate directors could fire him, dissolve the land company, but it wouldn’t matter if Bern had the loan promissories in his possession.
Those old loan contracts were all the leverage he needed.
That meant several trips to Sanibel Island to check out the lady’s residence, Southwind. Which he did, and got his first look at Mildred Engle. Goddamn, she was better looking than he expected. A lot better looking.
Sanibel—that’s where the Viking was, too. Handy. More positive visualization: him on the Viking, water nice and calm, sailing off to an island where there wasn’t so much pressure he woke up at night, gagging for air, thinking he was having a heart attack.
Staying positive meant waiting patiently until the Sanibel lady had the papers in her possession—they were being shipped down from New York, according to Jason. It meant visiting Augie in the hospital, acting like he was sorry he’d busted the asshole’s jaw. Which he wasn’t, but it gave Bern an opportunity to inform Augie that if he squealed to Jason, he, Bern, would tell the family about Oswald and the sleeping arrangements at Augie’s condo.
Staying positive also meant keeping an eye on Moe. Not only was Moe a very negative person, even for a redneck, he was also a very weak person.
On Monday and Tuesday, cops showed up unexpectedly at the marina, saying they wanted to ask the Hoosier “just a few more questions.” Moe was so scared his hands shook when he tried to light a cigarette.
Moe left work early those days, Bern noted, probably so he could find a good parking spot at the Sandy Hook and start drinking early.
On Thursday, cops arrived at the marina once again, but this time didn’t ask to speak to Moe, who wasn’t around, anyway. Plainclothes cops. Bern watched them stroll around the marina property, pausing an uncomfortably long time near the hill where Bern had seeded grass after burying two fifty-gallon drums containing women who hadn’t been worth the little bit of fun he got out of them.
Shit.
Talk about scary.
On Saturday, Moe called and asked Bern, “Did you hear about the hurricane warning? I’m gonna stay home today and help the girlfriend board up her windows because of the storm. Trailers don’t do good in storms, and she’s nervous. It’s supposed to be here Monday night or Tuesday.”
Using his friendly voice, showing a smile, Bern had replied, “Your fiancée’s residence? You do whatever it takes to make sure that young lady’s safe. We want our administrative people happy, meaning you, mister.” But thinking that Moe was lying again. It had been storming nonstop for nearly ten days, so what was the big deal?
They call this place the Sunshine State?
All it ever did in Florida was rain and blow until about noon, which is when the ground heated up like a sauna bath.
Bern reminded Moe that commercial fishermen were saying the storm wasn’t going to be bad; that TV stations were full of baloney, telling people to evacuate when there was no reason.
Moe said he wanted to board windows, anyway—sounding more nervous than his trailer-trash girlfriend could have possibly been.
The Hoosier was telling the cops stuff, that’s what Bern was afraid of. Maybe the truth about the Cuban. Maybe the truth about what was to be found packed in oil if authorities dug in the right place.
Bern tried to stay positive, though. Went to church the next day, Sunday, second week in a row.
On Monday, the last week of September, Bern decided there was yet another positive step he should take. Something that might give him peace of mind. He’d get Moe alone and find out the truth.
37
27 September, Monday
Sunset 7:20 P.M.
Full Moon +1 rises 7:25 P.M.
Low tide 6:47 A.M.
Tropical storm headed our way, but weakening. Maximum winds, 40–50…
Chestra told me, “For the last week, I’ve had the feeling I’m being watched. Have you ever had that feeling, Doc?”
I said, “Yeah. When someone’s watching me.”
She laughed, sitting at the piano, and continued to play. We were settling into caricatured roles, as new friends do, our differences providing safe avenues of familiarity. I was the intractable realist, she was the urbane dame, expert at the social arts, but also an artist.
“I’m serious. It’s that eerie sort of feeling, like there are eyes floating around behind you in the darkness. I went for a walk on the beach last night and I would’ve sworn someone was watching me from the trees.” She was making light of it but serious. One of the maxims of recognizing danger is that, when instinct tells us something about a person or situation feels wrong, it is.