“It’s just so strange to see you out of the hospital. Like two worlds colliding or something.”
“You look great,” he said. “Like a Tahitian princess. Like that French artist, what’s his name.”
“Gauguin.”
“Yeah. Gauguin.”
“So how is everyone at Willowridge?”
“Well, the MHs are the same. There’s this new guy, Colin, from England, who’s into Gestalt and makes everyone play these games where you have to say stuff like: I am this Coke bottle and I feel empty. Everyone in our group is gone except for old Doug.”
“What’s up with him?”
“They want to discharge him, but he obviously can’t live with his mom, and his father won’t take him. And you know how he feels about halfway houses.”
“So what’s going to happen?”
“I have no idea. He’s going to have trouble finding a job, that’s for sure, with the way he looks now.”
“How about Rachel?”
“Her parents packed her off to some spa in Germany.”
“I can see it. She’ll probably meet a rich Italian count there and live happily ever after. What about Lillith? Has anyone heard from Lillith?”
“Didn’t you get the postcard?”
“What postcard?”
“She sent you a p.c. at Willowridge, I thought they’d forwarded it. She’s out, honey, back at that place she was living before.”
“That’s good, I suppose.”
“I thought about stopping by on my way down here, but I wanted to make good time. I guess I’ll go see how she’s doing when I get back.”
We parked in the lot across from the Don Ce Sar. I’d asked Aunty Mabel which beach we had gone to the time we came down to visit as kids, and she told me that it had been turned into a resort on Gulf Boulevard. Private, for guests only. A couple of days ago I’d cased it out for myself. The main building was huge, sprawling, and pink, in a kind of faux-mission style, like something out of Disneyland. I’d parked on the street and peeked into the glass doors of the lobby. It had seemed almost deserted.
“You better lose those earrings,” Mel said to me, so I took them off and put them in the glove compartment. I’d already changed into my Montgomery Ward bathing suit back at the house. When we strolled through the air-conditioned lobby in our ratty outfits, we got looks from the personnel, but I didn’t care because I was with Mel. Somehow he inspired me to bend the rules. Out back, we took off our shoes and strolled along the water, digging our toes into the talcum white sand I remembered. Seagulls, smaller and scruffier and darker than their northern counterparts, stalked along the waves as we passed.
I could have walked all afternoon, but Mel had the sailing bug. We found a concession stand with boats for hire. He bargained with the guy. A Sunfish was too small, but it was late in the day, how about a Hobie Cat for half price? We would stay in sight, the guy didn’t have to worry. The boat Mel picked was fancy with a striped sail—blue, red, yellow—and as we dragged it over the sand to the water he explained to me that what looked like skis on it were pontoons, for speed.
“How fast are we going to go, anyway?”
“Live a little, Sal. This isn’t the real ocean, anyway, no one’s going to be racing.”
We cast off on a little foamy wave, and there was so much to do, Mel yelling orders and me trying not to get creamed by the boom, that by the time I looked back to shore the red and white umbrellas in front of the resort were the size of mushrooms. I could barely make out the people sitting sipping their drinks. The sea sped by us on both sides with a rushing noise. Mel peeled off his T-shirt and tied it around his waist, and I did the same, since there was nowhere to put anything, no little hooks or holes. He was right, this was a boat built for speed and nothing else, like the greyhounds with their stylized proportions.
“Isn’t this fun?” Mel yelled.
“Are you going to be able to steer us back to shore?”
“What do you think this is?” He had his hand on the rudder. “C’mon, take the helm for a while.” He pointed out the telltale flag, showed me how to gauge wind direction. I steered watching the tip of the mainsail, and he said, “No, no, keep an eye on the coast. That’s the only way to really tell how you’re doing. Wanna see something cool?” He handed me his sunglasses and then clambered over to the prow. I watched him ease himself over the right pontoon and, leading with his chest, grip onto it with both arms and then both legs, making himself an extension of the boat. The catamaran listed violently and I instinctively leaned back hard, to correct it. The waves washed over Mel’s head, drenching his hair, and he blinked saltwater at me, grinning. The drops made his lashes starry. “Now you try it,” he called.
“Are you crazy?”
“C’mon, darling.”
“No way.”
“I saw those biceps, honey. I know you’re strong enough. I dare you.”
He wriggled back onto the body of the boat and made his way back to the tiller. I gulped a deep breath and went forward and tried to do exactly as he had done. Once I got my arms in the water I was nearly swept away by the force of it, and then and only then did I realize how fast we were actually going. I kept on, sliding inch by inch over the slick surface. I could see the headline in the St. Pete Times: “Ex-Crazy-House Inmate Drowns in Freak Gulf Accident.” There was spray in my mouth, in my eyes. The muscles on the insides of my thighs, my forearms, had a life of their own, they were in a state of permanent contraction.
“You look like a figurehead.”
“I don’t give a shit what I look like.” My Derby Lane cap spun off my head and was lost forever, and then I could feel the knot of hair at my nape loosening. I was damned if I’d let go to do anything about it. “Can you slow this thing down so I can get off?”
I heard him laughing, as if that were the funniest thing I had said so far. “Okay, now one arm and one leg.”
“I’d like to live, if that’s okay with you.”
“Oh, Sal,” he said, still laughing. “Oh, honey.”
The boat guy reneged and charged us the price of a full afternoon.
“What the fuck?” Mel asked him.
“It’s the stannard rate,” the boat guy said, not looking at us. He was chewing gum, a kid, about the same height as Mel but thinner.
“We had an agreement,” Mel said reasonably, but with a trace of threat, a tone I’d noticed that men used often and women almost never.
“You took out a Hobie Cat. That’s thirty-five.”
“You said eighteen, you little prick.”
I was digging in the pocket of my shorts. “Just pay him,” I whispered. “He’s a jerk, but what can we do? We’re not even supposed to be on this beach anyway.” I passed him a ten and at first I thought he was going to bat it away but then, with an effort it seemed, he opened up his fist.
“Thanks, honey.”
The boat guy smirked. Mel threw the money at him.
“You’re still seven dollars short.”
“So sue me.”
As we walked away toward the Don Ce Sar I could hear the boat guy swearing at us and I had to exert pressure on Mel’s arm so he wouldn’t run back and pummel the punk’s head into the sand.
Before we hit the road we stopped at a Dairy Queen and bought synthetic-looking sundaes in plastic cups. I offered Mel a taste of mine, which was chocolate on chocolate. He took a bite from my spoon and winced. “Jesus, that’s sweet.”
“Something I think you might need,” I said. He was still mad at the boat guy.
“I hate that you had to pay.”
“You don’t have to be so macho. You paid for the ice cream.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, sounding crabby, but when I looked at him he was grinning.
It turned out he was staying at a friend of his mother’s, who was away visiting her family up north. Her place was more than an hour away—actually closer to Ft. Myers than to St. Pete. Mel kept punching the radio buttons impatiently. “Christ. What do people listen to here? Isn’t there a college station or something?” Finally we settled on classicaclass="underline" Aaron Copland, Appalachian Spring, which suited me fine. In fact, I was so warm and relaxed I slept most of the way.