North of Havana

I thought: Goodbye, good riddance. "And you with a hangover," I said.

"The hangover from Planet Zoltare."

"Drinking that heavy before sailing the Florida Straits. You should have known better."

The groan again. "I'm really not in any mood for lectures right now. You hear what I'm saying? They're taking my money, they've taken my boat, so this little excursion, frankly, is beginning to lose its vacation feel. Besides, I didn't drink that much. Just a couple of beers. Six-pack maybe? So maybe it was food poisoning. Like some bad guacamole." Tomlinson paused, then sounded as serious as he can sound: "You want me to ask for it? I will. I need help, Doc. I need you to get down here with some money and spring me. That's what I'm asking."

I wanted to explain why I was so reluctant; why it would be so dangerous for me to return to Havana. Instead, I said, "Isn't there an American Embassy or something there? I could wire you the money."

"No embassy, just an American Interest Section. I already checked. A couple of people who work out of the Swiss Embassy; acted like they could care less. Said I ought to be arrested, an American breaking the law by coming to Cuba."

I had attended a reception once at the Swiss Embassy, out east of Havana near Miramar; could picture it: big colonial house with wrought-iron gates, banyan trees dropping red berries on the shaded sidewalks; part of Embassy Row.

I said, "I'll get the money to you, Tomlinson."

"When? When can you get here?"

Today was Friday. I did so little banking I wasn't certain if banks were open or not on Saturday. I said, "Soon as I can. Friday next week at the latest."

"Shit! That long?"

"I'll do my best-but I want you to answer this: Does the girl know where you keep your money?"

"Julia? Sure. We're staying in the same room. Not that she's around much. Every day she disappears, comes back late."

"Does she say where she goes?"

"Nope, and I'm not the type to press."

"Do me a favor and move your money. Don't tell her where."

"But why, man?"

I said, "Because I think it's the smart thing to do. Think back: Once you got to Cay Sal, did she begin to act strange; maybe a little distant?"

"Well… matter of fact, she did. Actually canceled bedroom privileges. Not that she'd given me bedroom privileges to begin with, man, but I had high hopes. I don't have to tell you that out there on the high seas, what a downer it is to have your crew tell you the nookie lamp is not gonna be lit. How'd you know?"

I repeated, "Move your money."

Tomlinson said, "Okay, okay-but you're not helping this damn paranoia I've been fighting." Then in a frailer voice, he said, "I mean it, Doc. I'm scared and I keep getting these absolutely killer headaches. Get down here 'cause I can't take much more."

I said, "I can tell."

Dewey said, "Did you hear what I said?"

I looked up and said, "Huh?"

She was sitting beside me on the armrest of the reading chair, arms folded, studying me. "For the last few minutes, it's like you were in a coma. Didn't hear a word I was saying."

"Yeah… well…"

"You want me to leave?"

I looked up again and said, "Huh?"

She put her hands on my shoulders, gave me a little shake and pressed her face nose-to-nose with mine: gray-blue eyes becoming huge. "What the hell's the problem? Tomlinson's in trouble, that's all you told me. What kind of trouble?"

I stood and went to the little ship's refrigerator; rummaged around until I found a beer. Popped it open and began to pace slowly around the room. Then I spent the next few minutes telling her what had happened, sorting it out in my own mind.

When I had finished, she said, "If he's that scared, why doesn't he leave his boat and fly home? What's the big deal?"

"It's his boat. The only home he's had for fifteen, maybe twenty years."

"But if he's that scared-"

"I know what you're saying. If Tomlinson were rational, yeah, maybe that's exactly what he'd do. Cut his losses.

But he's never been rational. And on the phone just now, he sounded… lost. Like some misguided teenager who's close to being out of control."

"You need to help him, Doc."

"I know. That's what I've been thinking about-how?"

"If it's the money you're worried about. I've made some pretty good investments-"

"No, I've got it. I'll have to wait until the bank opens."

"Why can't you send it down? Or have somebody take it for you?"

"We're not allowed to take or spend money there. Americans, I mean. We can go to Cuba-that's legal. But you have to go penniless and come back penniless. It's part of the embargo. Department of Treasury."

"You have any Canadian friends?"

"Yeah, but none who know how to deal with Tomlinson. If we pay the money and they still refuse to hand over his boat-that's a real possibility-then Tomlinson may well slip over the edge."

"It's got to be you, then."

"That's what I keep coming back to."

Dewey said, "So let's hop the next plane to Havana," giving it a let's-turn-it-into-an-adventure inflection. "My calendar's open, buddy."

"If I go, I'm going alone."

"Bullshit. My life's in what you'd call a transitional period. A little adventure is just what I need."

"No way, Dewey. You're very good at what you do, but going down there, carrying money to a place like that, it's serious. You don't know anything about it."

"You do? The hermit biologist talking. Like you're an expert."

I let it pass; said nothing.

She said, "What you're forgetting is that Tomlinson's a friend of mine, too. You book a seat, I'll book a seat on the same flight. I don't need your permission."

What I wanted to tell her I couldn't tell her. So I said, "I'm going to bed. I need to think about it."

5

By most definitions it was a nightmare, but to me it was simply a sleeping revisitation of a thing I had done, a thing that I loathed-accurate in terms of its sounds, its terror-but it had been so long since I had suffered the dream that I awoke sweating, fighting the urge to cry out, desperate to fling a nonexistent weapon from my hand…

Over too many nights past, before the dream began to fade with the weight of years, I'd learned to handle it more stoically.

Now it was two A.M. and I couldn't make my brain shut down.

I lay upon the foam-rubber mattress of the sleeper couch tossing and turning, aware that Dewey was just on the other side of the clothes locker, a few yards away, in my bed.

Tried to take my mind off the dream by replaying bits and pieces of our conversation, chastising myself for being so damn firm about it:

"You sleep there, Dewey, I'm sleeping here."

"What? There's something wrong with just holding each other?"

"There's more to it than that. Don't play games."

"I'm done playing games. That's what this is about."

"I know, I know, you're looking for a man to father your child. That's a lot to take for granted."

"Think back, buster. I never asked you."

"Fine. We can talk about it in the morning."

"Fine!"

Now I checked the phosphorescent numerals of my watch again. Only seven minutes since I'd last checked it…

Threw back the soft wool Navy blanket, pulled on a pair of running shorts, and tippy-toed out the door.

Blustery night with winter stars. Not quite cold enough for breath to condense, but cold enough to shock the skin and maybe help quiet my brain. I stood on the porch looking out across the bay. Watched mullet stir green arcs through the water; heard a night heron squawk. Listened to waves slap at the pilings of my house-a boat-hull sound without rhythm, without order.

Down shore, through the mangroves, the marina was still. I could see the bait tank illuminated by mercury lights… a wedge of yard with coconut palms… the broad window of the marina office and the silhouettes of boats. On the guardrails of one boat, Japanese lanterns were swinging in the wind. They painted the black harbor with yellow streaks. I could hear the fast metronome gonging of a halyard slapping against an aluminum mast. A hollow, hollow winter sound…