Margaret shook her head and put the back of her fist in her mouth.
Then Valerian spoke for the first time since she had come screaming into the room. “Margaret, this is not the Met. It’s a simple house on a simple island. Michael’s not even here yet…”
But she was screaming again and Jadine had to shout, “Tell me! Tell me!”
“In my things!” said Margaret. “In all my things!”
“What’s she saying?”
“Go look in her closet.”
“Take the gun, Sydney.” Ondine was the ranking officer, barking instructions.
“Right!” he answered, and ran back through the door to the kitchen.
“And be careful!” Ondine shouted after him.
“Hadn’t I better call the harbor, Valerian?” asked Jadine.
“Don’t leave me!” shrieked Margaret.
“All right. All right. Nanadine, give her some of that wine.”
“Maybe she’s had enough of that.”
“No. She drank hardly anything.”
“I heard her slam up the stairs in the middle of my dinner,” said Ondine. “Between then and now she could have killed a quart.” Ondine spoke without moving her lips hoping it was enough to keep Valerian from hearing.
“He’s in my things, Jade.” Margaret was crying softly.
“Okay, okay.”
“You have to believe me.”
“I don’t smell anything on her breath; maybe she just flipped.” Ondine was mumbling again.
“Can’t you get her to a chair?” asked Valerian. He hated seeing her bent over like that on the floor.
“Come on, honey. Let’s sit here,” said Jadine.
“What are you doing?” Margaret was screaming again and trying to stand. “Why are you acting like this? He’s there. I saw him. Valerian, please. Somebody better…go, call the harbor!”
“Let’s wait for Sydney before we call the police,” said Ondine.
“She’s drunk,” said Valerian with the wisdom of the drunk, “and nobody’s paid her any attention for a whole hour.”
“Why don’t you believe me?” She looked around at them all. They looked back at her, each thinking why, indeed, he didn’t; and then they heard the footsteps of Sydney plus one. Into the light of the sixty-four-bulb chandelier came Sydney pointing a .32 caliber pistol at the shoulder blades of a black man with dreadlock hair.
“It’s him!” Margaret screamed.
“Have mercy,” said Ondine.
“You can call the harbor now, Mr. Street,” said Sydney.
“I’ll do it,” said Ondine.
Jadine said nothing. She did not dare.
Valerian’s mouth was open and he closed it before saying, in a voice made stentorian by port, “Good evening, sir. Would you care for a drink?”
The black man looked at Valerian and it seemed to Jadine that there was a lot of space around his eyes.
4
BEES have no sting on Isle des Chevaliers, nor honey. They are fat and lazy, curious about nothing. Especially at noon. At noon parrots sleep and diamondbacks work down the trees toward the cooler undergrowth. At noon the water in the mouths of orchids left there by the breakfast rain is warm. Children stick their fingers in them and scream as though scalded. People in town go inside because the sky weighs too much at noon. They wait for hot food with lots of pepper so the day will feel cooler by comparison. They drink sweet drinks and swallow bitter coffee to distract their insides from the heat and weight of the sky. But the eaves of the house on Isle des Chevaliers were deep—the curtains light and light-filtering. So the sky did not require the occupants to distract themselves. They were free to concentrate on whichever of their personal problems they wished: the wrapped and shelved ones—the ones they always meant to take down and open one day—or the ones they caressed every hour. Just as on beaches, in summer homes, in watering places, tourists the world over lay under the breeze behind their anti- sunglasses wondering and mulling. So mulled the occupants of L’Arbe de la Croix that noon the day after a man with living hair stayed for dinner. Outwardly everything looked the same. Only the emperor butterflies appeared excited about something. Such vigorous flapping in blazing heat was uncommon for them. They hovered near the bedroom windows but the shutters had remained closed all morning and none of them could see a thing. They knew, however, that the woman was in there. Her blue-if-it’s-a-boy blue eyes red-rimmed with longing for a trailer softened by columbine and for her Ma. Leonora, the daily communicant; Leonora, whose head was covered at mass with lace older than Maine itself, who at sixty folded away her stockings and from then on wore white socks with her black Cuban-heeled oxfords. Sweet, darling socks out of which grew strong, wide legs that had never been crossed at the knees.
I have come full circle, Ma, thought Margaret. Now that the breakfast rain was over and cleaned light filtered through the shutters she was amazed to discover how much like the trailer it was. Full circle, she thought, I have come full circle. The trailer had been like this room. All economy and parallel lines. All secret storage and
