soaring at forty-one thousand feet; a long way to this rental car;
which was a Crown Victoria-what the goodfellas in the gangster
movies invariably called a Crown Vic heading for ten days in a
place where the tab would probably be... well, she didn't even want
to think about it.
Floyd?... Ohshit.
'Carol? What is it now?'
'Nothing,' she said. Up ahead by the road was a little pink
bungalow, the porch flanked by palms - seeing those trees with
their fringy heads lifted against the blue sky made her think of
Japanese Zeros coming in low; their underwing machine guns
firing, such an association clearly the result of a youth misspent in
front of the TV - and as they passed a black woman would come
out. She would be drying her hands on a piece of pink towelling
and would watch them expressionlessly as they passed, rich folks
in a Crown Vic headed for Captiva, and she'd have no idea that
Carol Shelton once lay awake in a ninety-dollar-a-month
apartment, listening to the records and the drug deals upstairs,
feeling something alive inside her, something that made her think
of a cigarette that had fallen down behind the drapes at a party,
small and unseen but smoldering away next to the fabric.
'Hon?'
'Nothing, I said.' They passed the house. There was no woman.
An old man - white, not black-sat in a rocking chair, watching
them pass. There were rimless glasses on his nose and a piece of
ragged pink towelling, the same shade as the house, across his lap.
'I'm fine now. Just anxious to get there and change into some
shorts.'
His hand touched her hip where he had so often touched her during
those first days - and then crept a little farther inland. She thought
about stopping him (Roman hands and Russian fingers, they used
to say) and didn't. They were, after all, on their second
honeymoon. Also, it would make that expression go away.
'Maybe,' he said, 'we could take a pause. You know, after the
dress comes off and before the shorts go on.
'I think that's a lovely idea,' she said, and put her hand over his,
pressed both more tightly against her. Ahead was a sign that would
read 'Palm House 3 Mi. on Left' when they got close enough to
see it.
The sign actually read 'Palm House 2 Mi. on Left.' Beyond it was
another sign, Mother Mary again, with her hands outstretched and
that little electric shimmy that wasn't quite a halo around her head.
This version read 'Mother of Mercy Charities Help the Florida
Sick - Won't You Help Us?'
Bill said, 'The next one ought to say 'Burma Shave.''
She didn't understand what he meant, but it was clearly a joke and
so she smiled. The next one would say 'Mother of Mercy Charities
Help the Florida Hungry;' but she couldn't tell him that. Dear Bill.
Dear in spite of his sometimes stupid expressions and his
sometimes unclear allusions. He'll most likely leave you, and you
