The Last Cadillac (11 page)

I shouldn't, I told myself, and then I sat down on the end of his bed and opened up the damp pages.

I'm twelve years old and my name is Tick, because my grandfather named me that. He tells me that I have the intellect and personality of a twenty year old. He's not far off. I told him I was a grown up inside my body, and he believed me. I guess I'm different, considering the way I feel, think, act, and look at things.

Sometimes I think I'm abnormal. I catch myself philosophizing some out-of-whack mathematical problem, or how a machine works, or how it got its name. If you could explore my mind, you would find it a very complex unit. My father and grandfather say I'm special and gifted. They call me a Renaissance man because I like to work with so many things and express everything that my “advanced” mind concocts. That sounds pompous, but I hope not. That's the way it is and if you don't like it you can kiss my ass. Sorry.

I like to write stuff down about my personal experiences and interests, and I like to talk to other kids about theirs. Some kids have the gift of the pen, like Anne Frank. Now there's some story. I'd like to know this girl. I remember that she wrote about her pen and how great it was. She would probably feel the same way I do about this: I like to watch a sunset on the beach. (I've been blessed to see such beauty.) Look at it some time, and you will find its meaning. And if you are lucky enough, you will see a secret to life. You'll see the true beauty, not material beauty
(like a model in some magazine), but beauty that is overlooked many times and cannot be marred or measured. It will always be there, and that's one thing you can depend on, one of the few things in life. You can hardly depend on anything else. That's for sure.

The rain did let up, but barely. We were only into September, with the hurricane season still ahead, technically, until November 30. More reason to look forward to the holidays. I had the exterior of the cottage graded with crushed shell and coarse sand, plus extra drainage tiles, in hopes of averting more disaster. We had the assurance—on the best authorities of the forecasters at channels two, five, seven, and nine—that we were in for a quiet season and wouldn't be floating off into the Gulf anytime soon. Time would tell.

Meanwhile, we enjoyed The Adventure. The cottage was comfortable. It had taken many a hit through fifty years as part of the family, but it was sturdy and outfitted with all the basic needs. My mother, as much as she didn't particularly enjoy staying there, had made it cozy with practical, secondhand furniture and art posters by Gauguin and Lautrec—and my Uncle Louie had always kept the plumbing, air conditioning, and heating in good working order. The fixtures were pretty antiquated, tending mostly to the avocadoes and oranges of the '70s, but I couldn't help but smile when I leaned on that orange Formica bar that separated
the kitchen from the dining area. All the sunburned family and friends, and friends of friends, the kids coloring Easter eggs, the beer drinking until dawn—it all came back when I wiped down that counter, served the kids' sandwiches on it, sat there with a cup of coffee in the empty quiet of an early morning by myself. The Pinch, of course, was reserved for special occasions.

Dad was in great spirits and slept until ten every morning; the kids were adjusting well, too. They went off to school, the ice cream store, and baseball practice with their new friends. I could usually grab a few hours during the day to get the chores done and plan what we were going to do next. It wasn't all a fiesta on the beach. Jack and Julia called to nag me about the renters—to remind me that we had to be on our way. The renters were coming.

“No, they're not,” I said, during one terse conversation with Jack.

“Yes, they are,” he said. “The first group is due to arrive around Thanksgiving.”

“Jack, it's September 2nd.”

“So?”

Granted, I still needed to get a move on. Sometimes, I stopped in the middle of picking up clothes or washing a pan, and I panicked. But then I made myself think positively, and that wasn't difficult. I was in Florida. The delightful duty of adjusting to sunny days and lapping waves, and the happiness of newness put a smile on my face. In between the meals and household chores, I managed to sneak in a little beach time, too—to catch my breath, read the real estate section, and think about finding that “dream house.” Soon.

After my phone call with Jack, I made myself forget about his nagging, so I took my coffee and newspaper out to the
beach to sit in front of the cottage. The sun was hot, but the air was cooler near the water, especially before the beach sizzled around noon. The place was nearly deserted, except for the real natives—the pelicans and gulls, sea urchins and sand dollars, the occasional manatee and dolphin that appeared along the shoreline. The powder-sugar sand stretched for about fifty yards from the cottage to the Gulf, where the birds dove for fish and small-shelled creatures. A few elderly shell-seekers—gone by noon and back by four—meandered along the water with their re-used bread bags half full of shells.

High summer was a slow time on the island, but the world of Anna Maria Island changed in winter, at which time Michigan, Canada, and New York moved in, the restaurants clogged up, and residents grudgingly (snowbirds brought cash) looked forward to Easter when they all went back home. I used to be one of those snowbirds clogging up the place, but things were going to be different, as Tick would say.

I pushed my coffee cup into the sand beside my chair and thought of waking up Dad. Plus, I needed to go to the laundromat and then check out some places for sale on the streets around Gladiola Drive. But the water sparkled and the morning still held a fresh breeze, so I sat, did lots of staring and thinking, and very little reading of the real estate section crumpled in my lap. I thought of my grandmother and how she found this spot, and I said,
Thank you
.

There was time. We'd only been at the cottage a couple of weeks, and with two more months of hurricane season, there wasn't a big rush. Even so, the tourists would come soon, looking for rentals, and the cottage was in demand. It
belonged to the family, and we needed the rental income to cover the taxes and the roof. I couldn't put off finding our own place any longer. I knew it, and I didn't need Jack's reminders. I dreaded hearing from him or any of them—their negativity dragged me down. I often feigned emergencies in the kitchen so I could hang up. Thankfully, Dad was available, and able to add a bit of humor and equanimity, and end the conversation.

I had to find a house, something with four bedrooms within the budget. Florida had been a dream. Now I had to make it a reality. Prices on the island were beginning to climb. I went to open houses; drove around, and walked over scorched lots with palms and hedges, shell and sand, into cottages, stucco ranches, and birdhouses on stilts. I inspected appliances, sized up floor plans, flushed toilets, and poked into a variety of machinery and infrastructure, like I knew what I was looking for.

I liked the newer houses, but by law, they were on pilings with the living areas commencing at fourteen feet off the ground. Dad couldn't handle that. The more I looked around, the more I decided to stick with the idea of finding an adaptable ranch. I could make the adjustments to suit us, if I found the right one.

I drained my cup of coffee and stood up. Dad needed frosty flakes, the kids needed clean underwear, and we all needed a house. Thank goodness the beach would always be there, waiting. Something I could count on.

That afternoon, I drove down Pelican Avenue and found the perfect house with a promising yard full of crotons and palms, and neat, new windows set in freshly painted stucco.
I called the realtor for a showing, and once inside, I found a decorating scheme straight out of the Adams Family. Dark, furry bedroom walls and a black-and-brown bathroom, like a dungeon, and black lacquered tables and headboards, complete with gilt Japanese trees and teensy figures in kimonos. The owner had carefully matched all the furniture to the wallpaper. The kitchen, bathrooms, and laundry had never been updated; the garage door creaked like the House of Usher; and the windows were so layered with tapestries and sheers and thermals, I couldn't see in or out. If we moved into such a place, I would need an axe and a large Dumpster, to start.

In the following days, I visited many decorating nightmares with possibilities. At night, I went to bed and slept with the floor plans dancing in my head, and by the time I got up next morning, the nightmares had slipped away. Something was always wrong: not only the furry wallpaper and the black bathroom fixtures, but the wiring and other code problems that hadn't been touched in decades. In the light of morning, I faced the facts. I couldn't touch this one or that for all the expensive updating.

I didn't have enough savings to cope. I estimated a budget of $60,000 for a down payment, with some left over for decorating. The Ex's lawyer had reminded me how lucky I was to walk away with such a nice chunk. I reminded him, that, in fact, the sum amounted to approximately $3,043.48 a year after twenty-odd years of marriage.

I kept after the real estate agents, and they were getting to know me well. It was a small island, with just so much inventory. The agents were chatty and friendly, but soon enough I earned a reputation as a shopper, not a buyer, and they began to tire of me. One realtor I ran into at Tick's baseball game
leaned on the fence and said, “You'll never buy a house on the island. You just like to look, and time's running out. Prices are going sky high. But there is that nice little place over on Coconut.” His tone was clipped, and irritating, like a dripping faucet or the sound of a bird pecking me out of a pleasant dream.

The kids agreed. It was probably true I wouldn't make the leap. We would have to go on living in the cottage on the beach until we got kicked out—or drowned, Tick suggested.

“Mom, you like shopping,” he said. “I don't think you want to give up your hobby.”

That's when I met Cynthia. She bubbled over with sales persona. She would get the job done. She was a tigress, but she didn't pounce, and she was the only realtor who called me back more than once. I met her at an open house one Sunday, and after that day, she kept me posted with flyers, prices, and square footages, and indulged my love of poking through various “prospects.”

One of her favorite sayings was: “You aren't looking for a ‘house'. That's so cold. You are looking at ‘Prospects for Progress'.”

We became prospectors, Cynthia and I. She picked me up and we drove around to our appointments, and she kept me updated almost daily. If we weren't out on the road together, I saw her at least weekly at church where she stood at the altar and read the epistle. Her short, red-gold hair, depending on the light, gave her a peculiar halo, and when she passed out communion, she smelled of Tabu. I had a healthy mistrust of most salespeople, but Cynthia, despite all, gave off a positive aura.

She was my realtor. She stayed with me, and I decided,
without even thinking about it, that I would be loyal to Cynthia. She was going to collect the commission.

Lucy said that was stupid: “Go with the one who finds you a house, for god sakes.”

She had taken to swearing at me on a regular basis now, and thankfully, it was long distance, so I could hang up on her for any number of made-up reasons.

I loved house shopping with Cynthia. She was plump and joyful, looking at me sideways with a glint in her eye like she had a secret, which was usually “the perfect prospect” with my name on it. Before she picked me up for a showing, she made up her eyelashes and pink cheeks and got decked out in a pastel pantsuit, decorated with pins that declared Realtor of the Year, Realtor of the Month, Best Realtor, most popular Realtor, and Chamber of Commerce and Rotary Club member. She drove me around in her large, immaculate white Lincoln, and we lapsed in and out of chitchat. She talked in a low voice, which prefaced serious talk, or in a screeching pitch, which meant she had a good piece of gossip to share. The latest bits were often tame but always interesting: On one trip I heard that Betsy Tibbens, formerly of Marietta, had a son who continually upset the geranium pots at Sun Landscaping. He was on his way to juvie. It made me shudder; where was Tick? This incident surely would appear in the police reports of
The Island Bystander
, but apparently there was more to the story, and Cynthia would fill me in later.

Cynthia, a fountain of knowledge about resources, helped me learn about heat pumps and termites, mold and flood insurance, taxes and code enforcement and overgrown landscaping, which were the priorities of island ownership. It was nothing like living in Indiana. But she had confidence in me, and exuded the optimism that all things were possible, even
the prospect of me finding a suitable house.

She didn't know it (I wasn't too aware of it myself), but she became a sort of therapist to whom I sounded out my plans. The plans were always met with endless enthusiasm.

“Just look at you,” she said. “You could do anything, you could go back to news writing, or be a teacher, a public relations consultant, heck, you could have your own private business, maybe in the den of that cute little bungalow I showed you on Tuna.”

She rounded off the conversation, as usual, at the bottom line, which meant, it would be difficult to find me a mortgage if I were not gainfully employed. This was a concern, and Cynthia delivered it with all due respect. This was our business at hand, and I'd already worked that one out. Dad was going to co-sign the loan, I was putting my own money down, and Dad was going to be my renter. I would meet the payments with my “renter,” my savings, the child support, and “maintenance” I'd receive from my Ex—and the sporadic pieces I was able to send to the
Calumet Times
, and magazines and journals. Eventually, though, I would have to think of steady employment. I'd already looked into teaching English as a Second Language at the local vocational school. That would be my next career leap—into the realm of deciphering the English language for the growing population of Haitians, Latin Americans, and the occasional German and Korean visitor. But for now, I had another agenda. I had to find us a place to live.