“God bless you,” said Brother Boyd, liking very much the way it sounded. “God bless all of you.”
Honey Santana said, “Don’t die on me, you big bonehead.”
“Slow it down.” Perry was laid out and breathing hard in the bottom of the skiff. She’d given him Louis Piejack’s last Vicodin but he was still in monstrous pain.
He said, “You’re gonna hit an oyster bar, and this ain’t my boat.”
“Is Fry asleep?”
“Can’t you hear him? He snores worse than you.”
“Not nice.”
“Slower, Honey. I promise I’m not gonna die.”
She eased off the throttle. “Me and my two sick boys,” she said. “You with your hip shot away, and him with a concussion. Knuckleheads!”
“See the channel markers?” Perry asked.
“Sure do.”
“Remember, stay left of the red ones and right of the greens.”
“I heard you the first time, Captain Ahab. You’re still bleeding, aren’t you?”
“I got a pint or two left. Is your jaw broke?”
“It looks worse than it feels.”
“I doubt that. Was it Piejack?”
Honey nodded. “My own dumb fault. I tried to be Wonder Woman.”
“Tell me what the hell you were doin’ out here-and no more bullshit about an ‘ecotour.’”
So she told him everything, beginning with Boyd Shreave’s sales call from Texas. He didn’t interrupt her once.
After finishing, she said, “Perry, this is all my fault and I’m sorry.”
“It ain’t exactly normal. You know that.”
“I’ll go back to the doctor. I’ll try the pills again.”
“Won’t work, Honey. This is how you are. It’s how you’ll always be.”
“Please don’t talk like that.” But she knew he was right. “Can I ask you something-was that the first time you ever killed somebody?”
“It’s been a week or two, at least.”
“I’m serious, Perry! I never saw a man die before-have you?”
“Not like that,” Skinner said. “Not killed by a damn guitar.”
“But Fry didn’t see it, right? The Indian was on top of him.”
“I’m pretty sure he didn’t see a thing.”
Honey said, “You’ve got no idea how sorry I am-”
“Just watch where you’re goin’.”
The pass opened into a broad expanse of water, and she spotted a twinkle of lights-Everglades City. It had to be.
Perry lifted his head. “Good work, babe. We’re almost home.”
Chokoloskee Bay. She remembered the first time she’d been there at night. Perry had brought her out in a crab boat to see the sunset. They drank some champagne, made love-the water glassy at dusk and the sky like grenadine. He’d asked if she was sure about staying with him. Said he’d understand completely if she changed her mind and went home to Miami.
This was two days before they got married.
It’s the middle of nowhere, not everybody can handle it, Perry had said. Especially the skeeters.
Honey had told him she’d never seen anyplace so peaceful, which remained a true statement nearly twenty-two years later. When she’d told him that she wanted to visit all ten thousand islands, he’d promised to show her every one. Build a fire and make out on the beach. What woman could have said no?
Fry stirred in his father’s arms. Honey was chilled to think that she’d almost gotten both of them killed.
“Perry, I’m gonna dock at the Rod and Gun, okay?” She was in a hurry because of all the blood.
“Hey, Perry?”
The channel was well marked, so she goosed the engine and planed off the skiff.
“Perry, you awake?”
She sped up the mouth of the Barron River, eased back the throttle and-as if she’d done it a thousand times-kissed the bow against the pilings of the old Rod and Gun Club.
“Perry!”
Nothing.
Fry sat up, rubbing his neck. He said, “I got the worst headache in the history of the human race.”
“Can you run?”
“What for, Mom?”
“Just answer me. Are you good to run?”
“Sure. I guess.”
“Then go get help.” Honey boosted him to the dock.
Fry looked down at his father lying in the boat. “Dad? Hey, man, wake up!”
“Just go,” his mother told him. “Fast as you can.”
One day not long after Fry was born, Perry Skinner had brought home a CD by the Eagles, a group that he claimed was more country than rock. He’d told Honey there was a song on the record that reminded him of her, and she’d picked it out immediately: “Learn to Be Still.”
At first her feelings were hurt because it was the story of a restless woman who heard voices; a woman who wouldn’t slow down long enough to let happiness find her. But the more Honey had listened to the lyrics, the better she’d understood that Perry wasn’t being mean; he was trying to let her know that he was afraid of what was happening.
But if I hit the brakes now, she remembered thinking, I’ll skid for ten years.
The funny thing was, Honey secretly liked the song. It made her feel that she wasn’t the only one struggling with that particular demon. One afternoon, Perry had come home early from the docks and caught her playing the CD, but she’d insisted it was only because she had the hots for Don Henley.
Although Honey couldn’t carry a tune-Fry forbade her from singing in the car; said she sounded like a wildcat riding a jackhammer-she knelt down, gathered Perry Skinner close and sang to him. As always she switched the words to first person.
“Just another day in paradise…”
Listening to his choppy breaths.
Squeezing one of his wrists, counting the heartbeats.
“As I stumble to my bed…”
Feeling the sticky warmth of his blood on her bare leg.
Thinking that he’d promised her he wouldn’t die, and he’d always kept his word, for better or worse.
“Give anything to silence…”
She shifted him slightly in her arms so that she could watch his face in the lights from the dock.
“These voices ringin’ in my head…”
“Have mercy,” Perry said weakly.
Honey giggled with relief. “Ha! You want me to stop?”
“No offense.”
“’Member those letters I wrote you in prison? Did you read ’em all?”
“Except for the ones that started ‘Dear Shithead.’ Where’s Fry?”
Honey said, “It’s so perfect out here. Look at the sky.”
“Better than church.”
“Oh, so much better.”
Perry coughed. “Damn. I’m all run-down.”
“How come you filed first? Don’t you dare go to sleep on me! Let’s discuss this stupid divorce.”
He said, “The stars are burnin’ out one by one. I’m tired, babe.”
Honey shook him. “Nuh-ughh, buster. We’re not done yet.”
She heard a siren. She prayed it was real.
“Oh no you don’t,” she said. “Wake up, Skinner.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“You are too.”
He said, “Hush now. Doesn’t it hurt to talk?”
“Wake up or I’ll start singin’ again. Honest to God.”
He smiled but didn’t open his eyes.
“You hear that?” she asked. “That’s the ambulance.”
“I don’t hear a damn thing.”
“Yes you do!” she said. Please tell me you do.
Twenty-six
On the thirteenth day of January, overcast and crisp, Lily Shreave sat before the bedroom television and replayed for the fourth time a VHS cassette that had arrived that morning by courier.
The tape was only six minutes long, and after it ended she made a phone call.
“You lied to me,” she told the man on the other end.
“Not completely. I said I got penetration, which is true.”
“But it’s not Boyd!” Lily snapped.
“Obviously. Nothing was happening between him and the girlfriend, so I had to wing it.”
“Oh please, Mr. Dealey.”
“This was the best I could do.”
“Lizards? Two lizards humping?”
“I was on an island, Mrs. Shreave. Lost in the goddamn Everglades.”
“And you’d still be stranded there if it weren’t for me,” Lily said. She clicked the remote to rewind the tape. “I hope you’re not expecting twenty-five thousand dollars for this spectacle.”