blonde too young to remember the Clairol slogan that went 'If I
have only one life to live,' etc., etc. But there were other feelings.
There was love, for instance. Still love. A kind that girls in
Catholic-school uniforms didn't suspect, a weedy species too tough
to die.
Besides, it wasn't just love that held people together. Secrets held
them, and common history, and the price you paid.
'Carol?' he asked her. 'Babe? All right?'
She thought about telling him no, she wasn't all right, she was
drowning, but then she managed to smile and said, 'It's the heat,
that's all. I feel a little groggy - Get me in the car and crank up the
air-conditioning. I'll be fine.'
Bill took her by the elbow (Bet you're not checking out my legs,
though, Carol thought. You know where they go, don't you?) and
led her toward the Crown Vic as if she were a very old lady. By the
time the door was closed and cool air was pumping over her face,
she actually had started to feel a little better.
If the feeling comes back, I'll tell him, Carol thought. I'll have to.
It's just too strong Not normal
Well, deja vu was never normal, she supposed - it was something
that was part dream, part chemistry, and (she was sure she'd read
this, maybe in a doctor's office somewhere while waiting for her
gynecologist to go prospecting up her fifty-two-year-old twat) part
the result of an electrical misfire in the brain, causing new
experience to be identified as old data. A temporary hole in the
pipes, hot water and cold water mingling. She closed her eyes and
prayed for it to go away.
Oh, Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to
thee.
Please ('Oh puh-lease,' they used to say), not back to parochial
school. This was supposed to be a vacation, not - Floyd - what's
that over there? Oh shit!
Oh SHIT!
Who was Floyd? The only Floyd Bill knew was Floyd Doming (or
maybe it was Darling), the kid he'd run the snack bar with, the one
who'd run off to New York with his girlfriend. Carol couldn't
remember when Bill had told her about that kid, but she knew he
had.
Jast quit it, girl. There's nothing here for you. Slam the door on the
whole train of thought.
And that worked. There was a final whisper - what's the story and
then she was just Carol Shelton, on her way to Captiva Island, on
her way to Palin House with her husband the renowned software
designer, on their way to the beaches and those rum drinks with the
little paper umbrellas sticking out of them.
They passed a Publix market. They passed an old black man
minding a roadside fruit stand - he made her think of actors from
the thirties and movies you saw on the American Movie Channel,
an old yassuh-boss type of guy wearing bib overalls and a straw
hat with a round crown. Bill made small talk, and she made it right
