Duma Key, Page 38

  "No," I said. "I was never more awake in my life, I just--"

  A man in a suit that had to've cost two grand stuck out his hand. "Henry Vestick, Mr. Freemantle, First Sarasota Bank and Trust. Private Accounts. These are just marvelous. I am stunned. I am amazed."

  "Thank you," I said, thinking he'd left out YOU MUST NOT STOP. "Very kind."

  A business card appeared between his fingers. It was like watching a street-busker do a magic trick. Or would have been, if street-buskers wore Armani suits. "If there's anything I can do . . . I've written my phone numbers on the back--home, cell, office."

  "Very kind," I repeated. I couldn't think of anything else to say, and really, what did Mr. Vestick think I was going to do? Call him at home and thank him again? Ask him for a loan and offer him a painting as collateral?

  "May I bring my wife over later and introduce her?" he asked, and I saw a look in his eyes. It wasn't exactly like the look that had been in Wireman's when he realized that I'd put the blocks to Candy Brown, but it was close. As if Vestick were a little afraid of me.

  "Of course," I said, and he slipped away.

  "You used to build branch banks for guys like that and then have to fight em when they didn't want to pay the overage," Angel said. He was in a blue off-the-rack suit and looked on the verge of bursting out of it in nine different directions, like The Incredible Hulk. "Back then he woulda thought you were just some moke tryin to mess up his day. Now he looks at you like you could shit gold belt-buckles."

  "Angel, you stop!" Helen Slobotnik cried, simultaneously throwing another elbow and grabbing for his glass of champagne. He held it serenely out of her reach.

  "Tell her it's the truth, boss!"

  "I think it sort of is," I said.

  And it wasn't only the banker I was getting that look from. The women . . . jeez. When my eyes met theirs, I caught a softening, a speculation, as if they were wondering how I might hold them with only the one arm. That was probably crazy, but--

  I was grabbed from behind, almost yanked off my feet. My own glass of champagne would have spilled, but Angel snatched it deftly. I turned, and there was Kathi Green, smiling at me. She'd left the Rehab Gestapo far behind, at least for tonight; she was wearing a short, shimmery green dress that clung to every well-maintained inch of her, and in her heels she stood almost to my forehead. Standing beside her, towering over her, was Kamen. His enormous eyes swam benevolently behind his horn-rimmed glasses.

  "Jesus, Kathi!" I cried. "What would you've done if you'd knocked me over?"

  "Made you give me fifty," she said, smiling more widely than ever. Her eyes were full of tears. "Toldja that on the phone. Look at your tan, you handsome boy." The tears spilled over and she hugged me.

  I hugged back, then shook hands with Kamen. His hand swallowed mine whole.

  "Your plane is the way for men my size to fly," he said, and people turned in his direction. He had one of those deep James Earl Jones voices that can make supermarket circulars sound like the Book of Isaiah. "I enjoyed myself to the max, Edgar."

  "It's not really mine, but thank you," I said. "Have either of you--"

  "Mr. Freemantle?"

  It was a lovely redhead whose generously freckled breasts were in danger of tumbling from the top of a fragile pink dress. She had big green eyes. She looked about my daughter Melinda's age. Before I could say anything, she reached out and gently grasped my fingers.

  "I just wanted to touch the hand that painted those pictures," she said. "Those wonderful, freaky pictures. God, you're amazing." She lifted my hand and kissed it. Then she pressed it to one of her breasts. I could feel the rough pebble of the nipple through a thin gauze of chiffon. Then she was gone into the crowd.

  "Does that happen often?" Kamen asked, and at the same moment Kathi asked, "So how's divorce treating you, Edgar?" They looked at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.

  I understood what they were laughing at--Edgar's Elvis moment--but to me it just seemed weird. The rooms of the Scoto began to look a little like chambers in an undersea grotto, and I realized I could paint it that way: undersea rooms with paintings on their walls, paintings that were being looked at by schooling peoplefish while Neptune's Trio burbled "Octopus's Garden."

  Far too weird. I wanted Wireman and Jack--also not here yet--but even more, I wanted my people. Illy most of all. If I had them, maybe this would start to feel like reality again. I glanced toward the door.

  "If you're looking for Pam and the girls, I expect they'll be right along," Kamen said. "Melinda had a problem with her dress and went up to change at the last minute."

  Melinda, I thought. Of course, it would be Mel--

  And that was when I saw them, threading their way through the crowd of artistic gawkers, looking very northern and out of place amid the tans. Tom Riley and William Bozeman III--the immortal Bozie--paced behind them in dark suits. They stopped to look at three of the early sketches, which Dario had set up near the door in a triptych. It was Ilse who saw me first. She cried "DADDY!" and then cut through the crowd like a PT boat with her sister just behind her. Lin was tugging a tall young man in her wake. Pam waved, and also started toward me.

  I left Kamen, Kathi, and the Slobotniks, Angel still holding my drink. Someone began, "Pardon me, Mr. Freemantle, I wonder if I could ask--" but I paid no attention. In that moment all I could see was Ilse's glowing face and joyous eyes.

  We met in front of the sign reading THE SCOTO GALLERY PRESENTS "THE VIEW FROM DUMA," PAINTINGS AND SKETCHES BY EDGAR FREEMANTLE. I was aware that she was wearing a powder-blue dress I had never seen before, and that with her hair up and what seemed like a swan's length of neck showing, she looked startlingly adult. I was aware of an immense, almost overpowering love for her, and gratitude that she felt the same for me--it was in her eyes. Then I was holding her.

  A moment later, Melinda was there with her young man standing behind her (and above her--he was one long, tall helicopter). I didn't have an arm for her and her sister both, but she had one for me; she grabbed me and kissed the side of my face. "Bonsoir, Dad, congratulations!"

  Then Pam was in front of me, the woman I had called a quitting birch not so long ago. She was wearing a dark blue pants suit, a light blue silk blouse, and a string of pearls. Sensible earrings. Sensible but good-looking low heels. Full Minnesota if ever I had seen it. She was obviously frightened to death by all the people and the strange environment, but there was a hopeful smile on her face just the same. Pam had been many things in the course of our marriage, but hopeless was never one of them.

  "Edgar?" Pam asked in a small voice. "Are we still friends?"

  "You better believe it," I said. I only kissed her briefly, but hugged her as thoroughly as a one-armed man can do it. Ilse was holding onto me on one side; Melinda had the other, squeezing hard enough to hurt my ribs, but I didn't care. As if from a great distance, I heard the room erupt in spontaneous applause.

  "You look good," Pam whispered in my ear. "No, you look wonderful. I'm not sure I would have known you on the street."

  I stepped back a little, looking at her. "You look pretty fine yourself."

  She laughed, blushing, a stranger with whom I had once spent my nights. "Make-up covers a multitude of sins."

  "Daddy, this is Ric Doussault," Melinda said.

  "Bonsoir and congratulations, Monsieur Freemantle," Ric said. He was holding a plain white box. He now held it out. "From Linnie and me. Un cadeau. The gift?"

  I knew what un cadeau was, of course; the real revelation was the exotic lilt his accent gave to my daughter's nickname. It made me understand in a way nothing else could that she was now more his than mine.

  It seemed to me that the majority of the people in the gallery had gathered around to watch me open my present. Tom Riley had made it almost to Pam's shoulder. Bozie was next to him. From just behind them, Margaret Bozeman skated me a kiss from the heel of her palm. Next to her was Todd Jamieson, the doctor who had saved my life . . . two se
ts of aunts and uncles . . . Rudy Rudnick, my old secretary . . . Kamen, of course, he was impossible to miss . . . and Kathi by his side. They had all come, everyone but Wireman and Jack, and I was beginning to wonder if something had happened to keep them away. But for the moment that seemed secondary. I thought of waking up in my hospital bed, confused and separated from everything by unremitting pain, then I looked around at this and wondered how things could possibly have changed so completely. All these people had come back into my life for one night. I didn't want to cry, but I was pretty sure I was going to; I could feel myself starting to dissolve like a tissue in a cloudburst.

  "Open it, Daddy!" Ilse said. I could smell her perfume, something sweet and fresh.

  "Open it! Open it!" Good-natured voices from the packed circle watching us.

  I opened the box. Pulled out some white tissue paper and uncovered what I had expected . . . although I had expected something jokey, and this was no joke. The beret Melinda and Ric had brought me from France was dark red velvet, and smooth as silk to the touch. It had not come cheap.

  "This is too nice," I said.

  "No, Daddy," Melinda said. "Not nice enough. We only hope it fits."

  I took it out of the box and held it up. The audienced ohh-ed appreciatively. Melinda and Ric looked at each other happily, and Pam--who felt Lin somehow never got her proper share of affection or approval from me (and she was probably right)--gave me a look that was positively radiant. Then I put the beret on. It was a perfect fit. Melinda reached up, made one tiny adjustment, faced the watching audience, turned her palms outward to me, and said: "Voici mon pere, ce magnifique artiste!" They burst into applause and cries of Bravo! Ilse kissed me. She was crying and laughing. I remember the white vulnerability of her neck and the feel of her lips, just above my jaw.

  I was the belle of the ball and I had my family around me. There was light and champagne and music. It happened four years ago, on the evening of April fifteenth, between seven forty-five and eight o'clock, while the shadows on Palm Avenue were just beginning to take on the first faint tinges of blue. This is a memory I keep.

  ii

  I toured them around, with Tom and Bozie and the rest of the Minnesota crowd tagging after. Many of those present might have been first-time gallery attendees, but they were polite enough to give us some space.

  Melinda paused for a full minute in front of Sunset with Sophora, then turned to me, almost accusingly. "If you could do this all along, Dad, why in God's name did you waste thirty years of your life putting up County Extension buildings?"

  "Melinda Jean!" Pam said, but absently. She was looking toward the center room, where the Girl and Ship paintings hung suspended.

  "Well, it's true," Melinda said. "Isn't it?"

  "Honey, I didn't know."

  "How can you have something this big inside you and not know?" she demanded.

  I didn't have an answer for that, but Alice Aucoin rescued me. "Edgar, Dario wondered if you could step into Jimmy's office for a few minutes? I'll be happy to escort your family into the main room and you can join them there."

  "Okay . . . what do they want?"

  "Don't worry, they're all smiling," she said, and smiled herself.

  "Go on, Edgar," Pam said. And, to Alice: "I'm used to him being called away. When we were married, it was a way of life."

  "Dad, what does this red circle on top of the frame mean?" Ilse asked.

  "That it's sold, dear," Alice said.

  I paused to look at Sunset with Sophora as I started away, and . . . sure enough, there was a little red circle on the upper right corner of the frame. That was a good thing--it was nice to know the crowd here was composed of more than just lookers drawn by the novelty of a one-armed dauber--but I still felt a pang, and wondered if it was normal to feel that way. I had no way of telling. I didn't know any other artists to ask.

  iii

  Dario and Jimmy Yoshida were in the office; so was a man I'd never met before. Dario introduced him to me as Jacob Rosenblatt, the accountant who kept the Scoto's books in trim. My heart sank a little as I shook his hand, turning my own to do it because he offered the wrong one, as so many people do. Ah, but it's a righties' world.

  "Dario, are we in trouble here?" I asked.

  Dario placed a silver champagne bucket on Jimmy's desk. In it, reclining on a bed of crushed ice, was a bottle of Perrier-Jouet. The stuff they were serving in the gallery was good, but not this good. The cork had been recently drawn; there was still faint breath drifting from the bottle's green mouth. "Does this look like trouble?" he asked. "I would have had Alice ask your family in, as well, but the office is too freaking small. Two people who should be here right now are Wireman and Jack Cantori. Where the hell are they? I thought they were coming together."

  "So did I. Did you try Elizabeth Eastlake's house? Heron's Roost?"

  "Of course," Dario said. "Got nothing but the answering machine."

  "Not even Elizabeth's nurse? Annmarie?"

  He shook his head. "Just the answering machine."

  I started having visions of Sarasota Memorial. "I don't like the sound of that."

  "Perhaps the three of them are on their way here right now," Rosenblatt said.

  "I think that's unlikely. She's gotten very frail and short of breath. Can't even use her walker anymore."

  "I'm sure the situation will resolve itself," Jimmy said. "Meanwhile, we should raise a glass."

  "Must raise a glass, Edgar," Dario added.

  "Thanks, you guys, that's very kind, and I'd be happy to have a drink with you, but my family's outside and I want to walk around with them while they look at the rest of my pictures, if that's all right."

  Jimmy said, "Understandable, but--"

  Dario interrupted, speaking quietly. "Edgar, the show's a sell."

  I looked at him. "Beg your pardon?"

  "We didn't think you'd had a chance to get around and see all the red dots," Jimmy said. He was smiling, his color so high he might have been blushing. "Every painting and sketch that was for sale has been sold."

  Jacob Rosenblatt, the accountant, said: "Thirty paintings and fourteen sketches. It's unheard-of."

  "But . . ." My lips felt numb. I watched as Dario turned and this time took a tray of glasses from the shelf behind the desk. They were in the same floral pattern as the Perrier-Jouet bottle. "But the price you put on Girl and Ship No. 7 was forty thousand dollars!"

  From the pocket of his plain black suit, Rosenblatt took a curl of paper that had to have come from an adding machine. "The paintings fetched four hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars, the sketches an additional nineteen. The total comes to a little over half a million dollars. It's the greatest sum the Scoto has ever taken in during the exhibition of a single artist's work. An amazing coup. Congratulations."

  "All of them?" I said in a voice so tiny I could hardly hear it myself. I looked at Dario as he put a champagne glass in my hand.

  He nodded. "If you had decided to sell Girl and Ship No. 8, I believe that one alone would have fetched a hundred thousand dollars."

  "Twice that," Jimmy said.

  "To Edgar Freemantle, at the start of his brilliant career!" Rosenblatt said, and raised his glass. We raised our glasses and drank, not knowing that my brilliant career was, for all practical purposes, at an end.

  We caught a break there, muchacho.

  iv

  Tom Riley fell in beside me as I moved back through the crowd toward my family, smiling and shaking conversational gambits as fast as I could. "Boss, these are incredible," he said, "but they're a little spooky, too."

  "I guess that's a compliment," I said. The truth was, talking to Tom felt spooky, knowing what I did about him.

  "It's definitely a compliment," he said. "Listen, you're headed for your family. I'll take a hike." And he started to do just that, but I grabbed him by the elbow.

  "Stick with me," I said. "Together we can repel all boarders. On my own, I may not get to Pam and the girl
s until nine o'clock."

  He laughed. Old Tommy looked good. He'd added some pounds since that day at Lake Phalen, but I'd read that antidepressants sometimes do that, especially to men. On him, a little more weight was okay. The hollows under his eyes had filled in.

  "How've you been, Tom?"

  "Well . . . in truth . . . depressed." He lifted one hand in the air, as if to wave off a commiseration I hadn't offered. "It's a chemical imbalance thing, and it's a bitch getting used to the pills. They muddy up your thinking at first--they did mine, anyway. I went off them awhile, but I'm back on now and life's looking better. It's either the fake endorphins kicking in or the effect of springtime in The Land of a Billion Lakes."

  "And The Freemantle Company?"

  "The books are in the black, but it's not the same without you. I came down here thinking I might pitch you on coming back. Then I got a look at what you're doing and realized your days in the building biz are probably done."

  "I think so, yeah."

  He gestured toward the canvases in the main room. "What are they, really? I mean, no bullshit. Because--I wouldn't say this to very many people--they remind me of the way life was inside my head when I wasn't taking my pills."

  "They're just make-believe," I said. "Shadows."

  "I know about shadows," he said. "You just want to be careful they don't grow teeth. Because they can. Then, sometimes when you reach for the light-switch to make them go away, you discover the power's out."

  "But you're better now."

  "Yes," he said. "Pam had a lot to do with that. Can I tell you something about her you might already know?"

  "Sure," I said, only hoping he wasn't going to share the fact that she sometimes laughed way down in her throat when she came.

  "She has great insight but little kindness," Tom said. "It's a weirdly cruel mix."

  I said nothing . . . but not necessarily because I thought he was wrong.

  "She gave me a brisk talking-to about taking care of myself not so long ago, and it hit home."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. And from the look of her, you might be in for a talking-to yourself, Edgar. I think I might find your friend Kamen and engage him in a bit of a discourse. Excuse me."

  The girls and Ric were staring up at Wireman Looks West and chattering animatedly. Pam, however, was positioned about halfway down the line of Girl and Ship paintings, which hung like movie posters, and she looked disturbed. Not angry, exactly, just disturbed. Confused. She beckoned me over, and once I was there, she didn't waste time.