“One million eight hundred and forty-five thousand dollars! Who the FUCK are these people?'
“Hey,” The woman screamed at him. “Watch your language in there, that's ENOUGH!” She scared him and he flinched at her voice, which was louder than his. “You're not with Dana in some bar now. This is your home.'
“Sorry, I just read these things and...” He trailed off.
She put the stack of bills aside and came in the living room. “What are you reading? You shouldn't read this ... your blood pressure. Where did you get this? What is this? Who sent you this?” She had the habit of asking the same question about eleven different ways as she spoke, and she leaned over and read, “'Oscar de la Renta's opulent version makes this one of Palm Beach's favorite ... Oh, what a lovely stole. Where did you get this? Who sent you a paper from Palm Beach? Who do we know in Palm Beach, FLORIDA?” For a second she couldn't remember what state Palm Beach was in, California or Florida? She'd never been to either place.
“Beats me. I got it in the mail. Look,” he said, turning the page, “Mediterranean elegance. This beautiful home is designed around an inner courtyard complete with fountain. Formal dining room, sixty-foot living area, spectacular paneled library of seven thousand leatherbound books in sets, five bedrooms including two master suites, servants’ wing, four car garage, wine cellar, silver vault—
“Don't read any more,” she said, taking the paper from his shaking hands. “Who sent this anyway? Who do we know in Palm Beach? Do we know somebody down there? Jeff, maybe? Would he have sent it?” She didn't care about the real estate in Palm Beach; her only interest was in who might have sent her husband the foreign newspaper.
“Mmmmmm,” he said, mm-ing “I dunno,” giving the words a three-syllable count of grunted sound in the familiar articulated shrug.
“I wonder who sent this.” The paper was an alien artifact to her and she looked at it in awe. Something that had dropped off a passing spaceship. The
“Guys buying their wives Bob Mackie muffs you be lucky you get a CLOTH coat every five years.” He shook his head.
“You hear me complaining?” She stood in back of him looking down at her husband of nearly twenty years.
People living like goddamn kings on the ocean, we got to figure out how to pay the credit-card charges. You shoulda married some rich joker and not some schlemazel cop don't got fifty cents in his pocket.'
“You hear me complaining?” she asked him again. “Come on, get up, I gotta vacuum. Outta my feet.” She had a unique speech pattern and frequently left English words out of a sentence. “Outta my feet” translated as “Get out from under my feet.” He got up.
“We got a card from Jeff. Dawn loved those little stick-on earrings you seat her. She wore ‘em to her tenth birthday party.'
“Guys be giving little ten-year-olds diamond earrings. I give stick-ons,” he muttered as he went out into the yard.
He went outside and tried to decide where to sit. He looked at their shabby lawn furniture with the cracked pink-and-gray arms and went over and sat on the wooden bench he'd made. The sparrows roosted in the tree above it and they had left droppings all over the bench, but he decided it wouldn't bum him out as badly as sitting on that cracked plastic.
The white bird droppings didn't bother him but here and there, where a sparrow had ingested some berries, a disgusting streak of red or purple-colored excreta decorated the bench.
He sat gingerly and put his arm across the back of the bench, propping the part of the paper his wife had failed to confiscate across his arm and read “Tradewinds luxury: sumptuous estate on .75 acres with tennis court, pool, maid's quarters, 5 bdr, 6 bth, guest house, private security fence with electric eye gate, sunken loggia, $2,900,000.” He let tile paper slip from his hand and flutter to the ground.
It was then he realized for the first time that he had his arm resting in some birdshit.
It was very cold down there on the bottom of Lake Michigan with the rest of the singing killer whales. But he fought the strong urge to wake up from whatever it was he was in—this state of grace that allowed him to enjoy the rare and treasured privilege of studying their mysterious, melancholy mode of communication in this way. It was so restful, reassuring, restoring, to wait here in this dark, cold, untroubled place.
He would like to wait here until all humanity passed by, wait until their systems had relaxed, wait as he listened to the interplay of the great whales, experimenting, as always, reaching out with his unusual mind, hoping to find the level that would allow him to eavesdrop and manipulate their subaqueous thoughts as he enjoyed their sad songs, and then he would float back up to the surface, coming up under the carefree people he hated so passionately—how easily he could kill them then—and he smiled as he let himself match his strong pulse to the distinctive, throbbing theme music of the movie shark. And this was a unique thought for the killer, as he thought, Ta-dum, ta-dum, in his mind, thinking the notes in tempo with the heartbeat music of the white shark, because it was one of the only times he had ever told himself a joke. And the smile on his bandaged and blood-encrusted face was as wide as the wrapping of taped rags would allow, and he came to fully for the first time and pulled himself up saying, “Get food,” and the old woman nearby almost had a heart attack at the sound of the deep voice in back of her.
“
He thought how easily he could pinch that ugly face in his strong paw and snap that withered neck. He could kill her, even in his current state, as most people could swat a fly. “
“Yes, sir,” she said, and began fumbling with a can opener and something he could not see. He was having trouble getting his eyes to focus. He felt intermittent waves of dizziness, but he sensed they would soon pass. He must have nourishment. While the old lady opened a can of something he dragged the huge duffel bag over and rummaged around in it until he found several things he wanted. He took out some money from a secret hiding place and unfolded a ten-dollar bill, then a twenty, then larger bills, which he hid again. Then he took the small metal mirror and looked at himself for the first time. He was a thing that could not be shocked, but he was almost shocked at what he saw. He began peeling the mound of bloody rag from his head.
“Don't do that, Big—'
“SHUT UP,” he roared at her, and she looked away. He removed the filthy rags. The thread or whatever she'd used had made the wounds in the side of his face look like something out of a horror movie. “Give me clean water,” he commanded, and the old woman handed him a small pop bottle with cloudy water in it. He began to clean off his wounds and then studied her handiwork. It would suffice to hold the skin closed for now. He put a battle dressing on and gave her some money. She drew back her hand, but when she saw he wasn't going to hurt her, she reached out and took the money.
“I'll tell you what I need. You go get it and bring it here. Then I'll give you this.” He showed her a fifty-dollar bill.
“Okay,” she said brightly, and he immediately sensed she was quite deranged and that the lure of money would not be what would pull her back. He told her what to get him but he could see she would not be able to carry it out.
“How long have'—he chose his words with care—'you and I been here.” She smiled at him. “How many days?” He thought he might kill her then if she refused to answer him.
“Pippy will count up,” she said, and turned away from him. He felt nausea and dizzy waves that shook his body. He picked up the cold can of tuna fish and began eating out of the can, devouring great hunks of the food and then washing it down with the rest of the cloudy water that was in the bottle. “Sixteen days,” she said proudly. “Oh, look! Big Boy ate all his dinner like a good boy. Pretty Pipper will give him a nice dessert now.'
She reached for something and held it in her hands where she alone could see it, and made a show of peering
