Shirts made by slave labor in Asia weren’t Stuckey’s style. His style was tee shirts from Grateful Dead concerts or dashikis made of hemp or flax. But with a vague sense of the future, he now jogged toward the guesthouse with the shirt.
Doing eighty on the Interstate had helped convince Schmidt he was wrong.
You didn’t leave like some kid who picked up his marbles and went home. But first he wanted to get rid of the Town Car. It embarrassed him. He would continue north to exit 21 and pick up something else at the airport.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?”
He passed the sign for exit 19 and put on his turn signal. Displacement was what Schmidt thought Brenda would call what he was doing. Or was it projection? She said Freudian terms helped you think you were in control, even when you weren’t. You did things like worry about what car you were driving, when the only thing on your mind was whether to turn away from the best thing in your life because she had spread her legs for someone else.
Schmidt angled into the right lane.
But it still pissed him off. Damn. Schmidt shook his head. He had seen her just ten days before, in Milwaukee. They were talking on the phone almost every day now. He’d never spoken that much to anyone in his life. Including his wife. At the start, he had consciously limited the calls, not wanting Brenda or himself to feel pressured. He believed she had done the same. But by December, Schmidt had forgotten about pressure, and maybe that was why she’d gotten cold feet.
He reached the crest of the exit ramp, slowed, and turned left. She was right, he thought. You should’ve stayed for the brats.
Except he couldn’t. Not then. But driving had calmed him, at least about the worst part. Schmidt still didn’t understand it. Yielding to an impulse that way wasn’t in him. Except, driving, Schmidt remembered the first time they’d had sex. It had happened after something like five or six hours spent together. Hardly longer than a plane trip to Florida. It meant he could not be so sure about himself.
He guided the big Lincoln down the entrance ramp and accelerated. Back on southbound 75, in seconds the needle was pointing at 85. Schmidt eased off. When the sun set here, it was dark immediately. He remembered it from the trips with his wife: bright sun followed by pitch blackness with stars. Then it turned cooler but stayed humid. You would get used to it, maybe even come to like it. But feeling clammy, he buzzed up the window and turned on the air conditioning.
Jutting above berms and privacy walls along the expressway were the roofs of gated developments. Spotlighted signs announced golf courses, followed by stretches of bone-white Melaleuca trees. He had read that the trees had been introduced from South America to soak up water in swampland.
Schmidt looked back to the road.
◆◆◆◆◆
“Who?”
“Krause is the owner. The guest is named Contay. On Paisley Court.”
“If your name isn’t on my list, I can’t let you in.” A different guard glanced up from his clipboard.
Schmidt reached in his hip pocket for his wallet. He took out his driver’s license, his Visa and Mastercard, and held them out. “Why don’t you hold onto these?” he said. “I understand the rules and what you have to do, but I need to see Miss Contay. I have a number you can call.”
The guard handed back the cards. He leaned inside, and the barrier rose. Schmidt nodded his thanks and drove in. Ahead, the lighted putting green sparkled with dew. He drove carefully, seeing dog walkers, couples holding hands. Ground fog hovered above the fairway.
He didn’t have to think about it. He would just go inside and let her see he was back. Maybe he would take a swim. It was what she’d said they should do, just jump in. Enter a new medium, a different reality. Anything to buy time and give her a chance.
At Paisley Court he pulled up, crossed quickly and knocked. He took a breath and let it out, heard a TV inside. Maybe she was watching the European figure skating championships. It’s what he’d be doing, to take his mind off it. Or he’d be down in the basement, working on the wainscoting panels. He had started the project before Christmas, refinishing nice walnut panels taken from the manager’s flat in one of his buildings. He had planned to install them in Brenda’s condo, for their “anniversary.”
The door opened. “Hello.” The neighbor swung the door wide. “She was right.”
Schmidt stepped in, unable to remember the woman’s name. “I’m afraid she’s not here.”
“Any idea when she’ll be back? I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”
“Rayette Peticore.” She put out her hand. “You and me never really met.”
They shook. “Charlie Schmidt.”
“I know,” she said. “Brenda’s going to be real glad to see you.”
He followed her inside, seeing ahead a TV screen reflected in the glass doorwall. A woman skater. When they reached the living room, the neighbor used the remote. “Let’s see,” she said. “She went to Sweeney’s to check one last time if he came back. If he didn’t, she was going to Immokalee to see someone named Rivera. She thinks this Rivera might know what happened to Pat. She has her phone. I would think she’ll call sometime soon.”
He remembered the way to Sweeney’s and said he would go there. Rayette walked him back to the front. “I hope I’m wrong, but I think he must be dead,” she said. “Brenda does, too. Did she tell you what we found there?”
“She took me to see it,” Schmidt said. “She told me about the wife and family.”
Rayette shook her head. “If someone ever had a reason to call it quits, it was Pat Sweeney.” She stared out the open front door. “It’s so horrible just
