Duma Key (4 page)

It was artless, unrehearsed, and sweet: a straight
shot to the heart. I think there was a moment when we were both close to bawling, like a couple of Sensitive Guys on
The Oprah Winfrey Show
.

That idea helped me get myself under control again. “I'm sorry, too,” I said, “but I'm getting along. Really. Now drink your damn beer before it goes flat.”

He laughed and poured the rest of his Grain Belt into the glass.

“I'm going to give you an offer to take back to her,” I said. “If she likes it, we can hammer out the details. Do-it-yourself deal. No lawyers needed.”

“Are you serious, Eddie?”

“I am. You do a comprehensive accounting so we have a bottom-line figure to work with. We divide the swag into four shares. She takes three—seventy-five per cent—for her and the girls. I take the rest. The divorce itself . . . hey, Minnesota's a no-fault state, after lunch we can go out to Borders and buy
Divorce for Dummies
.”

He looked dazed. “Is there such a book?”

“I haven't researched it, but if there isn't, I'll eat your shirts.”

“I think the saying's ‘eat my shorts.' ”

“Isn't that what I said?”

“Never mind. Eddie, that kind of deal is going to trash the estate.”

“Ask me if I give a shit. Or a shirt, for that matter. I still care about the company, and the company is fine, intact and being run by people who know what they're doing. As for the estate, all I'm proposing is that we dispense with the ego that usually allows the lawyers to swallow the cream. There's plenty for all of us, if we're reasonable.”

He finished his beer, never taking his eyes off me.
“Sometimes I wonder if you're the same man I used to work for,” he said.

“That man died in his pickup,” I said.

vii

Pam took the deal, and I think she might have taken me again instead of the deal if I'd offered—it was a look that came and went on her face like sunshine through clouds when we had our lunch to discuss the details—but I didn't offer. I had Florida on my mind, that refuge of the newly wed and the nearly dead. And I think in her heart of hearts, even Pam knew it was for the best—knew that the man who had been pulled out of his ruined Dodge Ram with his steel hardhat crushed around his ears like a crumpled pet-food can wasn't the same guy who'd gotten in. The life with Pam and the girls and the construction company was over; there were no other rooms in it to explore. There were, however, doors. The one marked SUICIDE was currently a bad option, as Dr. Kamen had pointed out. That left the one marked DUMA KEY.

One other thing occurred in my other life before I slipped through that door, though. It was what happened to Monica Goldstein's Jack Russell Terrier, Gandalf.

viii

If you've been picturing my convalescent retreat as a lakeside cottage standing in splendid isolation at the
end of a lonely dirt road in the north woods, you better think again—we're talking your basic suburbia. Our place by the lake stood at the end of Aster Lane, a paved street running from East Hoyt Avenue to the water. Our closest neighbors were the Goldsteins.

In the middle of October, I finally took Kathi Green's advice and began to walk. These were not the Great Beach Walks I took later, and I came back from even these short outings with my bad hip crying for mercy (and more than once with tears standing in my eyes), but they were steps in the right direction. I was returning from one of these walks when Mrs. Fevereau hit Monica's dog.

I was three-quarters of the way home when the Fevereau woman went past me in her ridiculous mustard-colored Hummer. As always, she had her cell phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other; as always she was going too fast. I barely noticed, and I certainly didn't see Gandalf dash into the street up ahead, concentrating only on Monica, coming down the other side of the street in Full Girl Scout. I was concentrating on my reconstructed hip. As always near the end of my short strolls, this so-called medical marvel felt packed with roughly ten thousand tiny points of broken glass.

Then tires yowled, and a little girl's scream joined them:
“GANDALF, NO!”

For a moment I had a clear and unearthly vision of the crane that had almost killed me, the world I'd always lived in suddenly eaten up by a yellow much brighter than Mrs. Fevereau's Hummer, and black letters floating in it, swelling, getting larger:
LINK-BELT
.

Then Gandalf began to scream, too, and the flashback
—what Dr. Kamen would have called
a recovered memory,
I suppose—was gone. Until that afternoon in October four years ago, I hadn't known dogs
could
scream.

I broke into a lurching, crabwise run, pounding the sidewalk with my red crutch. I'm sure it would have appeared ludicrous to an onlooker, but no one was paying any attention to me. Monica Goldstein was kneeling in the middle of the street beside her dog, which lay in front of the Hummer's high, boxy grille. Her face was white above her forest-green uniform, from which a sash of badges and medals hung. The end of this sash was soaking in a spreading pool of Gandalf's blood.

Mrs. Fevereau half-jumped and half-fell from the Hummer's ridiculously high driver's seat. Ava Goldstein came running from the front door of the Goldstein house, crying her daughter's name. Mrs. Goldstein's blouse was half-buttoned. Her feet were bare.

“Don't touch him, honey, don't touch him,” Mrs. Fevereau said. She was still holding her cigarette and she puffed nervously at it.

Monica paid no attention. She stroked Gandalf's side. The dog screamed again when she did—it
was
a scream—and Monica covered her eyes with the heels of her hands. She began to shake her head. I didn't blame her.

Mrs. Fevereau reached out for the girl, but changed her mind. She took two steps back, leaned against the high side of her Hummer, and looked up at the sky.

Mrs. Goldstein knelt beside her daughter. “Honey, oh honey please don't.”

Gandalf lay in the street, in a pool of his spreading blood, howling. And now I could also remember the
sound the crane had made. Not the
meep-meep-meep
it was supposed to make (its backup warning had been broken), but the juddering stutter of its diesel engine and the sound of its treads eating up the earth.

“Get her inside, Ava,” I said. “Get her in the house.”

Mrs. Goldstein got an arm around her daughter's shoulders and urged her up. “Come on, honey. Come inside.”

“Not without
Gandalf
!” Monica was eleven, and mature for her age, but in those moments she had regressed to three. “Not without my
doggy
!” Her sash, the last three inches now sodden with blood,
thwapped
against the side of her skirt and a long line of blood spattered down her calf.

“Monica, go in and call the vet,” I told her. “Say Gandalf's been hit by a car. Say he has to come right away. I'll stay with your dog while you do.”

Monica looked at me with eyes that were more than grief-stricken, more than shocked. They were crazy. I knew that look well. I'd seen it often in my own mirror. “Do you promise? Big swear? Mother's name?”

“Big swear, mother's name. Go on.”

She went with her mother, casting one more look back over her shoulder and uttering one more bereft wail before starting up the steps to her house. I knelt beside Gandalf, holding onto the Hummer's fender and going down as I always did, painfully and listing severely to the left, trying to keep my right knee from bending any more than it absolutely had to. Still, I voiced my own little cry of pain, and I wondered if I'd be able to get up again without help. It might not be forthcoming from Mrs. Fevereau; she walked over to the lefthand side of the street with her legs stiff and wide apart, then bent at the waist
as if bowing to royalty, and vomited in the gutter. She held the hand with the cigarette in it off to one side as she did it.

I turned my attention to Gandalf. He had been struck in the hindquarters. His spine was crushed. Blood and shit oozed sluggishly from between his broken rear legs. His eyes turned up to me and in them I saw a horrible expression of hope. His tongue crept out and licked my inner left wrist. His tongue was dry as carpet, and cold. Gandalf was going to die, but maybe not soon enough. Monica would come out again soon, and I didn't want him alive to lick her wrist when she did.

I understood what I had to do. There was no one to see me do it. Monica and her mother were inside. Mrs. Fevereau's back was still turned. If others on this little stub of street had come to their windows (or out on their lawns), the Hummer blocked their view of me sitting beside the dog with my bad right leg awkwardly outstretched. I had a few moments, but only a few, and if I stopped to think about what I was doing, my chance would be lost.

So I took Gandalf's upper body in my arms and without a pause I'm back at the Sutton Avenue site, where The Freemantle Company is getting ready to build a forty-story bank building. I'm in my pickup truck. Reba McEntire's on the radio, singing “Fancy.” I suddenly realize the crane's too loud even though I haven't heard any backup beeper and when I look to my right the part of the world that should be in that window is gone. The world on that side has been replaced by yellow. Black letters float there:
LINK-BELT
. They're swelling. I spin the Ram's wheel to the left, all the way to the stop, knowing I'm too
late. The scream of crumpling metal starts, drowning out the radio and shrinking the inside of the cab right to left because the crane's invading my space,
stealing
my space, and the pickup is tipping. I'm trying for the driver's-side door, but it's no good. I should have done that right away but it got too late real early. The world in front of me disappears as the windshield turns to frozen milk shot through with a million cracks. Then the building site is back and still turning on an axle as the windshield pops out. Pops out? It
flies
out bent in the middle like a playing-card, and I'm laying on the horn with the points of both elbows, my right arm doing its last job. I can barely hear the horn over the crane's engine.
LINK-BELT
is still moving in, pushing the passenger door, closing the passenger-side footwell, splintering the dashboard in tectonic chunks of plastic. The shit from the glove-compartment floats around, the radio goes dead, my lunchbucket is tanging against my clipboard, and here comes
LINK-BELT. LINK-BELT
is right on top of me, I could stick out my tongue and lick the fucking hyphen. I start screaming because that's when the pressure starts. The pressure is my right arm first pushing against my side, then spreading, then splitting open. Blood douses my lap like a bucket of hot water and I hear something breaking. Probably my ribs. It sounds like chickenbones under a bootheel.

I held Gandalf against me and thought,
Bring the friend, sit in the friend, sit in the fucking PAL, you dump bitch!

And now I'm sitting in the chum, sitting in the fucking
pal,
it's at home but home doesn't feel like home with all the clocks of Europe ringing inside my cracked head and I can't remember the name of
the doll Kamen gave me, all I can remember is boy names: Randall, Russell, Rudolph, River-fucking-Phoenix. I tell her to leave me alone when she comes in with the fruit and the fucking college cheese, I tell her I need five minutes.
I can do this,
I say, because it's the phrase Kamen gave me, it's the out, it's the
meep-meep-meep
that says watch it, Pammy, Edgar's backing up. But instead of leaving she takes the napkin from the tray to wipe the fret off my forehead and while she's doing that I grab her by the throat because in that moment it seems to me it's her fault I can't remember my doll's name,
everything
is her fault, including
LINK-BELT
. I grab her with my good left hand. For a few seconds I want to kill her, and who knows, maybe I try. What I do know is I'd rather remember all the accidents in this round world than the look in her eyes as she struggles in my grip. Then I think,
It was RED!
and let her go.

I held Gandalf against my chest as I had once held my infant daughters and thought,
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
I felt Gandalf's blood soak through my pants like hot water and thought,
Go on, you sad fuck, get out of Dodge.

I held Gandalf and thought of how it felt to be crushed alive as the cab of your truck eats the air around you and the breath leaves your body and the blood blows out of your nose and those snapping sounds as consciousness flees, those are the bones breaking inside your own body: your ribs, your arm, your hip, your leg, your cheek, your fucking skull.

I held Monica's dog and thought, in a kind of miserable triumph:
It was RED!

For a moment I was in a darkness shot with that red; then I opened my eyes. I was clutching Gandalf
to my chest with my left arm, and his eyes were staring up at my face—

No, past it. And past the sky.

“Mr. Freemantle?” It was John Hastings, the old guy who lived two houses up from the Goldsteins. In his English tweed cap and sleeveless sweater, he looked ready for a hike on the Scottish moors. Except, that was, for the expression of dismay on his face. “Edgar? You can let him go now. That dog is dead.”

“Yes,” I said, relaxing my grip on Gandalf. “Would you help me get up?”

“I'm not sure I can,” John said. “I'd be more apt to pull us both down.”

“Then go in and see if the Goldsteins are okay,” I said.

“It is her dog,” he said. “I was hoping . . .” He shook his head.

“It's hers,” I said. “And I don't want her to come out and see him like this.”