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“On the clitoral scale, barometric pressure’s been seesawing like a teaser pony in heat. That’s why every woman on these islands looks flushed, nervous. You’ve noticed? They’re all static charged from that storm. Every single one. And they’ll all need grounding very soon. Safely grounded. Or they could blow up like the damn Hindenburg.”

I rolled my eyes as I interrupted, “I hope you’re not referring to Mildred Engle; trying to give me a subliminal suggestion for some reason—”

“No, of course not. But you never know, Doc. A woman with Chessie’s aura?”

Yes, I told him, sometimes I did know.

He’d come to use the shower again, Friday night being traditional party night at the marina. In the first weeks after the storm, I was among the few to have a generator; also had my own water, the big wooden cistern full and clean. I’d gotten used to locals stopping by to cook something or wash, but Tomlinson has always been a regular.

“I’m talking about women in general,” he continued. “That’s why you can’t miss the party. Women are counting on all of us. They’ve been sending unmistakable vibes. And don’t think for a minute you’re not expected to contribute something to the cause.”

I nodded, playing along. “Yeoman’s work. Probably a couple dozen females will be here tonight.”

He was pulling clothing from his ditty bag—tie-dyed shirts, a sarong. “Yes, and most of them over forty. Older women are the world’s best lovers, as you possibly know. It is because they go at it like they may never get another chance. However, they also sap more energy. Caloric output, in medical terms. So you need to be back from Chessie’s in time for a little nap and a few vitamins before the party really gets going.”

It was obvious but I asked, anyway. “What time did you start drinking this afternoon?”

The question offended him. “Why? Because I’m cheerful? I’m almost always cheerful. The fact that I occasionally have a few breakfast beers has nothing to do with it.”

“Cheerful, yeah. But you seem damn near giddy. Or maybe you’ve been smoking already—”

His head began to bob, interrupting me to demonstrate that he felt no shame. “Just a couple of tokes with my morning tea. Opening the brain receptors, telling the gods I’m still down here, awaiting instructions. But giddy?” He was mulling it over. “Hmm…you could be right. I purchased some amazing weed off a Key West chum. Grown somewhere off Marathon. Really great shit.”

I said, “Apparently.”

“They call the stuff Seven Mile Bridge, because it’s about as close as you can get to walking on water. Plus, it gets you over the hump.” His tone changed, taking a chance. “You want to try some? You’ve got the green aura thing going, which mean’s you’re open to new experiences.”

I never smoke. Ever. But heard myself say, “Maybe. Let me think it over.”

Someone had told me marijuana mitigated chronic headaches. The words were out before I’d even thought about it.

Tomlinson’s reaction was a combination of surprise and concern. But it pleased him, too.

“Sure, man! Maybe tonight after the party. Hang out, pass the pipe, and get weird. I’ve always wanted to see you stoned. Find out what my buddy’s like without all the shields in place. All the redundancy defense systems, weapons locked and loaded.”

“Don’t get carried away,” I told him. “It’s just an idea. Something I haven’t tried.”

I was separating more man-made objects from the cable. I now had two trays of sodium hydroxide going, artifacts in each. I told him, “Go take your shower.”

16

Arlis came up the stairs, bent and slow, at the pace of an old man in a rest home. But became momentarily younger when he said, “I probably don’t have to tell you there’s a naked woman out back’a your place washing her hair. If she’s your girl, I apologize for lookin’ but I couldn’t hardly not look. She’s standing out there naked for anyone to see.”

He shuffled through the door, into the lab, adding, “I didn’t stare, though. I averted my eyes. But even a quick look at something like that makes me wish I was twenty years younger.”

Arlis stopped, rested a hand on the lab station’s marble counter. He was wearing coveralls, rubber boots, a Bing Crosby hat over his thick glasses, his eyes moving around the room. Taking in details—the pine beams, the thick walls—appreciating the craftsmanship, before he asked, “Where’s your hippie friend?”

I said, “That was him. Tomlinson.”

“What?”

The person showering. It’s not a woman; it’s Tomlinson.”

Arlis’s rheumy gray eyes stared at me, letting the words register. Then he made a face as if he’d just stepped in something nasty. “That’s a man out there?”

“By all reports, he’s a man. Yes.”

Arlis shuddered. He thought about it a moment longer, then shuddered again. “Gad! I was havin’… thoughts.” He asked it again, not wanting to believe. “The naked woman out there’s really a man?”

“Um-huh. You must of seen him from the back,” I said. “Otherwise, it’s obvious. At least, that’s what the ladies say.”

Arlis groaned and shook himself. “God Aw’mighty, I’ve just about had it with this getting old shit. One minute, I’m damn happy my body’s showin’ it’s still got some perk. Next minute, I got the heebie-jeebies ’cause these worthless eyes a’ mine got me lusting after some dope-smoking hippie, thinking he’s got a good ass.”

The old man hacked as if to spit. “You got anything to drink around here, Doc?”

“Beer,” I said. “All I’ve got’s beer.”

Arlis said beer would do.

T wenty minutes later, keeping some distance between himself and Tomlinson, who was toweling his hair, Arlis said, “It’s some kinda Kraut badge. A fancy one. That eagle, too, with the square head. They both come from WW II. When we whupped the Nazis.”

In his nasal, Cracker accent, he said the letters—double-u double-u two—and pronounced Nazis Knot-says.

Arlis was leaning over the tray of sodium hydroxide, inspecting the medals, telling us what we might not know because his generation had done it, not ours. He looked like he wanted to reach and touch the things. The space of all those years now separated only by a few inches of clear water.

“They operated around Florida, you know. Nazi subs—U-boats, we called ’em. They sunk a lot of our freighters.” He looked to confirm that we were interested. “Sanibel, Captiva, and the barrier islands off Sarasota. We had coastal patrols, by boat and on foot. Coast Watchers, they called themselves, all volunteers. I did a few of them beach walks myself before the Army finally let me enlist at sixteen.

“People who lived near the Gulf couldn’t burn lights at night for fear they’d silhouette merchant vessels, and U-boats would sink ’em. So we had to black out our windows or the Coast Guard would come along and shoot the damn things out.”

It was a relief for him to be talking history now, something he was strong and sure about because, only a few minutes before, he’d nearly broken down when he told us how ashamed he was to have ever worked for a snake like Bern Heller, and he was glad they’d fired him yesterday after what happened to Javier.

“Getting old and dumber is about the most surprising thing that ever happened to me,” he said. “I was a strong man for so long, it takes some getting used to, being weak.”

This was the way Arlis was dealing with it: getting in his boat, burning energy by taking his apology from island to island, meeting friends.

Being on the water would help.

A rlis said he’d been in my house once before, long ago, just after the war, when it was still being used to store ice and fish, and to house fishermen.

“It smells the same, a good smell,” he said. “Pine lumber and creosote. I can smell the bay coming through the floor. Same as I remember when I come back from the Army.”

The war—that was something the old man was comfortable talking about. The war, and how it had changed