Kaman's geotherapy worked, but for the cure of my head, I think the Florida thing is just a coincidence.I've been there, it's true, but I've never really lived there.No, Kaman's geotherapy works because of Duma Island, and, of course, the Powder House.For me, those places are a world unto themselves.
On November 10, I left São Paulo with high hopes, but no real expectations.Rehab queen Cady Green came to see me off.She kissed me on the mouth, hugged me hard, and whispered, "Eddie, may all your dreams come true."
"Thank you, Cardi." In fact, in a dream I'll never forget, it's Reba, the life-size wrath-controlling doll, sitting in the moonlit living room of the home Pam and I spent years together.That dream doesn't have to come true.
"Remember to send me pictures when you get to Disneyland. I can't wait to see you again."
"I'll send it." That's what I said, but I never went to Disneyland.I have never been to Sea World, Bosch Park, Dayton Motor Speedway.
Flying out of São Paulo, sitting in a Learjet 555 jet (there is an advantage to retiring after success), the window is twenty-four degrees Fahrenheit in the middle of northern winter, and the first snowflakes have just fallen.By the time I landed in Sarasota, it was suddenly 85-degree sunshine.Even though I had to walk across the tarmac, I had to use red crutches to get to the private jet terminal, and I could hear my ass say, "Thanks for the help!"
Looking back on that moment, I have mixed emotions: love, longing, horror, horror, regret, and a deep sweetness that only someone who has been on the verge of death can understand.I think Adam and Eve must have felt the same way.Wouldn’t it be so emotional to look back at the Garden of Eden as they walked naked into the repressive political world of bullets and gunfire and satellite television that we now live in?Looking back at the kingdom of heaven guarded by angels holding blazing swords, the gate is now closed, don't you sigh?I believe that they will have the extravagant hope to see the grassy world again, the world they have lost has sweet spring water and compassionate animals.And of course, there are snakes.
Florida's west coast is a stunning string of islands as beautiful as a silver bracelet.If you put it on, you can take one step from Tall Ship Island to Lido Island, from Lido Island to Snooze Island, and from Snooze Island to Casey Island.The next step will take you to Dumas Island, nine miles long and half a mile at its widest point, between Casey Island and East Peter Island.Most of the island is uninhabited, with wild banyans, palms and bony pine flourishing in a haphazard manner, along with a bay of rough, dune-covered beaches that meander along the coastline.Waist-high clumps of coastal oat grass guard the sand. "Seagrass is natural," Wireman once told me, "but the rest of the shit can't live without water." There was no one else; only the godfather's bride, and me.
Sandy Smith is my realtor in St. Paul.I asked her to help me find a clean place, but the living facilities should be as complete as possible.I'm not sure if I used words like "solitary" or "remote", but it's possible.Thinking about Carman's suggestion, I said to Sandy, I want to rent it for a whole year, the price is not a problem, as long as I don't kill me bloody.Even when I'm so depressed and more or less in pain, I'm reluctant to let others take advantage of me.Sandy typed my request into the computer, and out came The Pink House.I really asked for a signature.
But I don't really believe it will work.Because, even the first ones I did seemed to be...how should I put it...without words.
There is some kind of subtext.
I didn't know anything about Dumas Island's history the day I drove up to the island in a rental car (driven by Jack Cantori, the guy Sandy had hired for me through the Sarasota Human Resources Center).All I know is that there is a drawbridge that can be opened and closed to get there from Casey Island, which is located in the separate sea area of average compensation.As soon as I crossed the bridge, I noticed that the vegetation in the northern corner of the island was wild, all in dense and vigorous growth.It's kind of a landscape (in Florida, landscape means palms and meadows that are almost constantly irrigated).I could see half a dozen houses here and there scattered along the shoreline, all the way to the south end, until the big house at the end looked like a sprawling elegant estate.
When I got off the suspension bridge and drove up to Duma Island, less than the length of a football field, I saw a pink house hanging over the bay.
"Is that the one?" I asked, thinking, God forbid, that's it, that's all I want. "Yeah, huh?"
"I don't know, Mr. Freemant," Jack replied. "I know Sarasota, but this is my first visit to the Dumas. Never had any reason to be here." He stopped in front of the mailbox, The letter box was marked "13" in big red letters.He glanced at the folders in the middle of our seats. "Here it is, yes. Salmon Point, No. 13. I hope you're not very superstitious."
I shook my head, still staring at the mailbox.I'm not worried about broken mirrors or black cats walking through or something, but I'm a big believer in the... ok, probably not love at first sight, Rhett and Scarlett, that's too romantic, but first sight intuition?Obviously believe it.That's how it felt the first time I saw Pam on a foursome (she was with another guy).I did the same when I first saw "The House of Strong Powder".
The foundations of the house were laid above the highest water mark, and the whole building jutted out.Beside the driveway, there's a "Do Not Cross This Line" sign crookedly nailed to an old gray stick, but I guess it's not for me. "You sign the lease and you have the right to use it for one year," Sandy told me. "Even if the house is sold, the landlord can't evict you until your lease is up."
Jack drove slowly to the back door...the only door that hung over the Gulf of Mexico. "I really didn't expect that they would allow someone to build a house in such a remote location," he said, "probably in the old days, their way of doing things was different from now." 1980s. "That's your car. I hope it works."
The car, parked in the square to the right of the porch with the cracks in it, looked like the usual stuff in a half-sized American rental car dealership.I hadn't driven the car since the day Mrs. Feverney ran over Gandalf, so I hardly looked at the car.I was even more interested in the pink behemoth I rented. "Isn't there a law saying you can't build a house next to the Gulf of Mexico?"
"Of course there is now, but it wasn't when this place was first built. From a realistic standpoint, it has something to do with beach erosion. I doubt that when the house was first built, it wouldn't have been so protruding."
No doubt he was right.I can see it myself that there are at least six feet of piles propped up under the screened porch in what is known as a "Florida room."Unless the pilings sank sixty feet into the bedrock below, the place would eventually sink into the Gulf of Mexico.It's just a matter of how long.
While I was thinking about it, Jack Cantori was talking too.Then he grinned, "Don't worry, though; I'm sure you'll find plenty of warning signs, and you'll hear it groan."
"Like in?" I said.
He is happier. "But maybe five years. Otherwise it would have been a death sentence."
"Don't be so sure," I said.Jack had turned the car around and pulled up to the driveway to unload the luggage.Not much, just three suitcases, a laundry bag, a metal case with a laptop, and a rucksack with a few simple drawing supplies—mostly sketchbooks and colored pencils.Saying goodbye to my previous life, I have to travel lightly.I figured that the things I needed more than anything in my new life were my checkbook and my Amex card.
"How do you say that?" he asked.
"Anyone who can afford to build a house here can probably handle a BC inspector."
"What is BC?"
For a moment, I couldn't answer him.I could see what I was saying: a man in a white shirt and tie, wearing a yellow plastic hard hat, holding a clipboard.I can even see the pens in their shirt breast pockets, and the ink-proof plastic cases that come with them.The devil is in the details, isn't it?But I can't remember what BC is an acronym for, although it used to hang on my lips from time to time, just like my own name.All of a sudden I was furious.Suddenly, it seemed enough to make me fist my left hand and swing it sideways at the defenseless Adam's apple of the young man sitting next to me, as if that was the most natural thing in the world.Almost irresistible, it was his question that made me put down the butcher knife.
"Mr. Freeman?"
"Wait a minute," I said, thinking: I can do it.
In the midst of my cranky thoughts, I suddenly remembered Don Field, who inspected at least half of the houses I built in the 1990s (seem to be).And suddenly realized that he was sitting upright as a nail, his fists clenched on his lap.I can see why the kid's tone of voice is a bit concerned.I looked like a patient suffering from acute gastritis, or about to have a heart attack.
"Sorry," I said, "I've been in a car accident. Bumped my head. Sometimes my mind just stumbles."
"Don't think about that," Jack said. "It's not a big deal."
"BC is short for Building Code Inspector. Simply put, those are the people who can tell if your building will fail."
"You mean bribery?" My young new friend looked sullen. "Well, I'm sure there will be bribes, especially here. Money talks."
"Don't be too cynical. Sometimes it's just friends, your builders, your contractors, your building code inspectors, and even your guys...they hang out at the same bar for a few drinks a lot , and all go to the same school." I laughed, "In some cases, it's a labor school."
Jack said, "When the erosion accelerated, they announced the decommissioning of two houses on the north end of Casey Island. One of them actually fell into the sea."
"Well, as you say, I'll probably hear the house groan, but it looks safe for now. Let's move our bags in."
I opened the car door, got out of the car, and I couldn't walk steadily when my hip hurt.If I hadn't supported my crutches in time, I would have prostrated myself at the foot of the stone steps of the thick powder room and made a welcome salute.
"I'll carry the luggage," said Jack. "You'd better go in and sit down a while, Mr. Freemant. A cold drink won't get in your way. You look really tired."
I'm not just tired, I'm worn out from the long journey.By the time I've settled myself in the living room armchair (leaning to the left, as usual, with the right leg as straight as possible), I'm willing to be honest with myself: I'm exhausted.
But not home, at least not yet.Jack went back and forth several times, putting my bags and bags in the larger of the two bedrooms and putting the laptop on the desk in the smaller one, all the while keeping my eyes on the living room The west wall, a whole row of glass walls.And Florida House in the back, and the Gulf of Mexico in the back.On that hot November afternoon, it was really like a vast blue planet, stretching out flat, and even with the glass sliding window wall still closed, I could already hear the gentle, gentle sigh of the planet.It has no memory, I thought.It's an odd idea, but also oddly optimistic.When it comes to memories—and anger—I still have issues to work through.
Jack came back from the guest room and sat on the arm of the sofa--I think, leaning on it, because it was a young man who wanted to get out of here, after all. "Basically all the groceries," he said, "and quick salads, burgers, and a bag of vacuum-packed chicken, the ready-to-eat kind—we call that space chicken. I hope you don't strangeness."
"pretty good."
"Low-fat milk—"
"It's also very good."
"—and margarine. Next time I can bring you some real natural cream, if you want."
"Do you want to plug my remaining artery too?"
He laughed. "There's also a little pantry full of canned junk... food. Cable tv hooked up, pc cable up - I got you a wireless one for a little extra, but that's cool — If you want satellite TV, I can install it for you, too."
I shake my head, he's a nice guy, but I just want to hear the Bay whisper to me, in words that don't take a minute to remember.I want to listen to the house too, to see if it has something to say too.I think, it should have.
"The keys are in an envelope on the kitchen counter - the car keys are there - and there's a phone number sticky on the refrigerator door, you might need one. I went to Florida State University in Sarasota , there are classes every day except Monday, but I always have my phone with me, and I will come every Tuesday and Friday at 5 pm, unless we have other arrangements. Is that okay?"
"Okay." I reached into my pocket and took out my change clip. "I wanted to give you some extra bonus. You did a great job."
He waved his hand and said, "Come on. It's a good job, Mr. Freemant. It pays a lot and takes a little time. I'll feel like a greedy mangy dog for your tips."
This amused me, and I put the money back in my pocket. "okay then."
"You probably want to take a nap." He said, standing up.
"Probably." It felt weird being treated like a grandpa, but I figured I'd better get used to it. "What happened to the other house on the north end of Casey Island?"
"Ok?"
"You said one fell into the sea. What about the other?"
"It's still there, as far as I know. But if there's a Hurricane Charley storm or something that hits the north end of the Cape, it's guaranteed to be a loser: there's nothing left." He came up to me, held out his hand, "Anyway, Mr. Freemant, you are welcome to Florida. I hope everything here will treat you well."
I shook his hand, "Thank you..." I hesitated, maybe he wouldn't notice such a short pause, and my anger didn't come out.In any case, did not get mad at him. "Thank you for everything."
"It's okay." When he walked out, he gave me a puzzled expression, the least noticeable bit of doubt, that is to say, he noticed it.Maybe he paid attention, to me.I don't mind, I'm alone after all.As he started the car and drove away, I heard shells and gravel crunching under the tires and the sound of the engine dying away.Getting lighter, barely audible, and completely gone.Now there is only the sigh of the gentle bay.And my heartbeat, soft and low.No clocks, no bells, no bells, not even a tick.I took a deep breath, smelling the brick smell and slight humidity of a house that has not been used for many years but is regularly ventilated every week or two.I think I can still smell sea salt and subtropical herbs, but I haven't come up with their names yet.
I almost always listened to the long sigh of the waves, like the slow breathing of some huge sleeping creature, and I kept looking out through the glass wall erected in front of the sea.Because the powder room is so high and the armchair is deep in the living room, I can't see the beach at all from my seat, but it's possible to see some huge tanker, greasy from Venezuela all the way to Galway Stone away.A layer of twilight quietly floated into the sky, and the sparkling light on the water became weaker.On the left, three palm trees stand tall, silhouetted against the sky, their broad leaves swaying slightly and rustling: that was the subject of my first sketch after the car accident.Not quite like Minnesota, plain love, Tom Reilly said so.
Looking at them makes me want to paint again—it's like a strong hunger, but it doesn't happen in the stomach, which makes my heart itch.And, oddly enough, seemed to itch the stump too. "Not now," I said, "later. I'm too tired."
I tried once, no, tried again, and propped myself up out of the armchair, I'm glad the lad wasn't here now, didn't see my first stupid slump back into the chair, couldn't hear I yell childishly (“Son of a bitch!”) when I’m annoyed.After standing up, the body swayed on the stiff waist and hips for a while, surprised at how tired I was.Usually, "I'm so tired" is just your colloquialism, but back then it was a vivid description of me.
I didn't expect to fall on my back on my first day here, so I shuffled slowly into the master bedroom.The bed was so big that I had nothing to do but walk over it, sit on it, and sweep the stupid, purely decorative throw pillows onto the floor, (one of which—seemed to have two prancing cocker spaniels painted on it, and Big startling tagline: Dogs are good people at their best, possible!) Then lie down and sleep for two hours, maybe three.But I still stopped in front of the bench at the foot of the bed—still cautiously and slowly, knowing that I was so tired that if I stumbled on my legs, I would knock myself down.The lad stowed two of my three suitcases here.What I want, of course, is the box below.Pushing the top one down without hesitation, I unzipped the front pocket.
The blue glass eyeball reveals an insatiable, fussing expression: Oh, you disgusting dead man!I have been here!Lifeless tangerine hair spilled from the pores.Reba, a wrath control doll, in a basket skirt and black Mary Janes.
I clamped her to the severed limbs and chest and laid her down on the bed.After scraping enough room in the decorative throw pillows for me to lie on (most wanting to throw the prancing cockerel on the floor), I let her lie down next to me.
"I forgot his name," I said. "I remember how I got here all the way, but I forgot his name." Reba stared up at the ceiling, the ceiling fan blades still, motionless.I forgot to turn on the fan.Reba didn't care that my new part-time guy was called Ike or Mike or whatever.It's all the same to her, she's just a rag stuffed into a little pink body made by some unhappy child laborer in Cambodia or damn Uruguay maybe.
"What's wrong?" I asked her.As exhausted as I was, I could still feel the old panic-frustration show falling into place again.Depressing anger, same old.Fear that this emotion will accompany me to the end of my life.Perhaps, worse than that!Yes, it is possible!That would take me back to rehab, the center of hell in the bright coats.
Reba didn't answer, boneless little bitch.
"I can do it," I said, though I didn't believe it myself.But I'm thinking: Jerry, no.It's Jeff, and then: You're thinking of Jerry Jeff Walker, asshole.Is it Jason?Gerald?Great King Jehosha?
Consciousness begins to slacken.Even though the anger and panic were still there, he gradually succumbed to sleepiness.Tune the channel and position yourself in the soft undulating breath of the bay.
I can do it, I thought.You have to go around, like remembering what BC means.
It occurred to me that the boy had said that they had announced that the two houses at the north end of Casey Island were to be closed, and that there seemed to be something else in his words.My stump itches to death, crazy bastards break stakes.Pretend it's someone else's broken arm in another universe, I still have to track down the clues of that name, broken thread, broken bone, all connections are...
— drifting away —
If a Hurricane Charlie storm or something hits the North Head of the Cape—
Ah, remember!
Charlie is a hurricane, and when the hurricane hits, I glance at the weather reports on the TV, and like the rest of the US, their Hurricane Kid is...
I picked up Reba and, half asleep, she seemed to have gained at least twenty pounds. "Kid Hurricane's name is Jimmy Cantori. My little helper's name is Jack Cantori. The case's fucking closed." I dropped my hand hard and put her down again and closed my eyes.I probably listened to the soft breath of the bay for another ten or fifteen seconds, then fell asleep.
Sleep until the sun goes down.That was the deepest and most sound sleep I had in eight months.
I only had a few bites of snacks on the plane, and as you can imagine, I woke up with my chest on my back hungry.Normally, I should do twenty-five times of bending my legs and loosening my hips, but I only did twelve times. I hurried to the bathroom, and then stumbled to the kitchen, leaning on my crutches. Long enough, the force in the hand is lighter than I expected.I'm going to make myself a sandwich, or two.Would have liked to find sliced salami, but there was only lunch meat in the freezer, so that wouldn't be bad.After I finish my sandwich, I'm going to call Esther and say she's okay.You can expect her to email everyone who still cares about Edgar Freemant.Then I'll take tonight's painkillers and take a look around my new home.The whole second floor is waiting for me.
The variable that my plan did not take into account was the change of scenery to the west.
The sun had gone down, but there was still a bright orange band on the horizon, broken only at one point by the silhouette of a large ship.The silhouette looked like a first grader's drawing.The cables run from the bow to what I assume to be high above the radio towers, and the lights on the cables form a triangle.Where the light shines, the orange red of the sunset fades into the blue green in Maxfield Paris's paintings, even though I have never seen his paintings with my own eyes... But I clearly experience a kind of phantom memory, deja vu, as if in my I saw it in my dream.Perhaps, we all see such a blue sky in our dreams, but even with all the colors in the world, we can never try to reproduce that beauty under our waking will.
High in the sky, in that deepening blackness, the first stars appeared.
I don't feel hungry anymore, and I don't feel like calling Esther.I just want to draw everything I see.I know I can't capture it all, but I don't care - that's part of the beauty.I don't care one iota.
My new hire (whose name suddenly went blank again, and I thought about the weather report, then Jack, and the case was fucking closed) had left the rucksack with his painting supplies in the secondary bedroom.I walked up to the Florida house with the bag, clumsily holding it and trying to use my cane.A playful breeze ruffled the ends of my hair, and at the same moment, in the same world, there was a breeze here, and São Paulo was snowing, and the idea seemed absurd to me—literally science fiction.
I put my knapsack on the long, rough wooden table, thinking I'd have to fetch a lamp, then dismissed the idea.I want to paint, and I don't give up until I can't see it, and I can't paint it. Tonight's task is considered complete.After sitting still ugly and awkward, I opened the bag and took out the drawing book.The cover reads: Craftsmen.According to my current level, that kind of title is like a joke.I reached deep into the bag again and took out a box of colored pencils.
I draw very quickly, sketching, and coloring, barely looking at what I'm drawing.Start coloring on an arbitrary ground plane, side to side, scribbling wildly with my Venus yellow pen, occasionally scurrying into the hull (the first ever, I guess. Tanker with jaundice), I don't care about it, and when I have drawn the sunset light band almost dark-now the light is changing rapidly, and it is rapidly darkening-I grab the orange pen and put some shadows, Go deeper.Immediately after I returned to the boat, I drew a set of angular black lines on the paper without much thought.That's what I see.
By the time the painting was finished, it was almost completely black.
The three palm trees on the left rattled.
The Gulf of Mexico sighed out of sight below me—the tide was back and it didn't sound too far away now, like it had been a long day and there was still a lot to do.
Overhead, there are thousands of stars now, and even as I look up, more stars pop up.
It's always been here, I thought, and I recall what Melinda used to say when she heard a favorite song on the radio: First hello, I'm yours.Under my scribbled tanker, I scrawled "Hello" in small print.For as long as I can remember (and my memory is much better now), this is the first time in my life that I have named a painting.Now that the names are all chosen, this is a good painting, isn't it?Despite the damage that followed, I still thought it was an excellent name to paint for someone who would do anything just to stop being sad and just to remember what it was like to be happy.
finished.I put the pencil down, and that's when the House of Strong Powder spoke to me for the first time.Its voice was softer than the breath of the bay, but I could hear it just as clearly.
I've been waiting for you, it said.
That year was a year of talking to myself, asking and answering myself.Sometimes other voices would answer my questions, but that night it was just me, me and myself.
"Houston Houston, I'm Freeman, Houston?" He stuck his head into the refrigerator.Thought: Lord Christ, if this is just an everyday item, I really don't want to know what it's going to be like if the kid decides to make a grand entrance - I'll be fine waiting for World War III.
"Ha, got it, Freeman, we hear you."
"Huh, Houston, we've got dachshund, we've got a lot of dachshund, you hear that?"
"Got it, Freeman, we heard it perfectly. How's your mayonna going?"
We also have plenty of mayonnaise.I made two salami sandwiches on white bread — where I grew up, children were taught that mayonnaise, salami, and white bread were God’s food — and ate them all standing at the counter.Found another bunch of "table talk pies" in the pantry, both apple and blueberry.I started wondering if I should change my will to include Jack Cantori.
After almost walking around, I slogged back to the living room, turned on all the lights, and watched "Hello."It's not very well drawn, but it's interesting.The sunset glow painted by quick hands has a feeling of depression and burning like a fire, which is very surprising.The boat wasn't the boat I saw, but mine looked like a ghostly ghost, which was interesting.It is as rough and leafy as a scarecrow, and the overlapping of yellow and orange makes it more like a ghost ship, as if a special sunset penetrated it.
I posted this picture on the TV to block the "Reminder for Homeowner: Please do not smoke inside the house" sign.I looked at it for a while longer, thinking I'd have to draw something in the foreground—a small boat, perhaps, just to enhance the sense of space and give a little perspective to the distant ship—but I didn't want to draw any more.Besides, adding something new might destroy what little charm there is.So, I turned to the phone instead, and if the call didn't work, I would use my mobile phone to talk to Esther, but unexpectedly, Jack also connected the phone.
I figured it was probably the answering machine—college girls are busy—but the phone rang once and she picked it up. "Dad?" The voice startled me. I couldn't speak at first, but she asked again, "Dad?"
"It's me," I said, "how do you know?"
"The call back shows 941 area code. The area where Duma Island is. I checked."
"Modern technology, I can't keep up with Tangerluo. How are you, kid?"
"Okay. This question is for you. How are you?"
"I'm fine. Better than fine, actually."
"The guy you hired—"
"He's got it all done. The bed is made and the fridge is full. I got here and took a five-hour nap."
There was a pause, and when she spoke again, she sounded more worried than before. "You're not taking more of those painkillers, are you? Because co-hydroxycodone is theoretically like a Trojan horse. It's not that I'm talking to you, I know you know it."
"Didn't take much, I took exactly what my doctor told me to do. In fact—" I stopped.
"What, Dad? What?" Now, it sounded like she was on the verge of grabbing a taxi and hijacking a plane.
"I just realized it's time for Vicodin at five o'clock..." I looked at my watch. "Also, it's eight o'clock for Oxycodone. I'm miserable."
"How painful is it?"
"Just a few Tylenol, it doesn't hurt much. At least until midnight."
"Climate change probably," she said, "and naps."
I don't doubt that these two points have the effect of suppressing pain, but I think it is more than these.Crazy maybe, but it occurred to me that drawing can also be useful.In fact, I'm pretty much sure.
We chatted for a while, and noticed that the worry in her voice gradually disappeared, replaced by unhappiness.I can guess that she has been accepting the fact that her parents are really going their separate ways. This is not just talk, and it will not disappear after a night of sleep.But she promised to call Pam for me and email Melinda to let them know I was alive and well.
"Can't you send email there, Dad?"
"Okay, but you're my email tonight, cutie."
She laughed, sniffed, and laughed again.I wanted to ask her if she was crying, but on second thought, it might be better not to ask.
"Esther? You should go about your business, sweetheart. I'll take a shower and go to bed."
"Okay, but..." pauses, then spits out, "I hate having to think about you all the way to Florida and you're all alone! You might fall in the shower! That's not right!"
"Honey, I'm fine. Really. That guy—his name is..." Hurricane, I think, the weather reports, "his name is Jimmy Cantori." Not right, wrong seat in the right church. "Jack. I mean, Jack."
"It's not the same thing, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Do you want me to go there?"
"Unless you want your mother to flay us both," I said, "I just want you to stay where you are now, honey. I'll keep in touch with you."
"Okay, but you have to take care of yourself and don't do stupid things."
"Don't do anything stupid. Orders received, Houston."
"what?"
"It's okay."
"I still want your promise, Dad."
For one terrifying, grotesque moment, I saw Esther, eleven, in her Girl Scout uniform, looking at me with Monica Gerstein's horrified eyes.Before I could shut my mouth, I said it in one breath: "I promise, swear to God, in Mom's name."
She giggled. "Never heard you say that."
"There are still many things you don't know about me. My city is deep."
"You decide," paused, and then, "Love you."
"I love you too."
I gently put the phone back on the dock and stared at it for a long time.
Instead of taking a shower, I walked down the beach to the sea.I immediately realized that crutches were useless in the sand, in fact, they were a nuisance, but when I reached the corner of the house, I found that the sea was only ten steps away.If I walk slowly I'll be fine.The waves were gentle and the head surf was only a few inches high.It is really hard to imagine that such sea water will set off turbulent waves and even destructive violent hurricanes.In fact, you can't even think of it.Later, Wireman would tell me that God will always punish us for things we can't even imagine.
That was the more profound sentence of his good words.
I turned back to the house, took a few steps and stopped.The moonlight was not bright enough to see a thick layer of shells—drift shells—beneath the bulging Florida house.It dawned on me that at high tide, my new abode was almost like the foredeck of a ship.I remember Jack saying that if the Gulf of Mexico decides to swallow this place, I'll get a lot of warning signs first, I'll hear it moan.He might be right...but back at the construction site, I deserved enough warning when the gigantic machine backed up.
I—limped over to the cane leaning against the outer wall, then walked a short distance across the plank floor to the door.I wanted to shower, but I took a bath, carefully climbed in and out of the bathtub in the pommel horse position that Cady Green taught me. The broken meat leg chopped up by the butcher.Today, the abattoir is a thing of the past and my body is working miraculously.Scars last a lifetime, but even scars fade, fade away.
After drying off and brushing my teeth, I walked to the master bedroom on crutches and slapped the big bed inside and out. Now, the decorative pillows can be discarded. "Houston," I said, "we've got a bed."
"Got it, Freeman," I replied, "you go to bed."
Of course, why not?After such a solid nap, I probably won't be able to sleep again, but it's good to lie down for a while.虽然历经了下水远征，我的腿依然感觉良好，但后背下方和脖颈各有一处郁结。我躺下来。没戏了，睡着是不可能了，但我还是关掉了台灯。只为了让眼睛休息。我要躺到后背和脖颈都舒服点，然后从箱子底挖出一本平装本小说来读。
就躺—会儿，然后……
我只想到这里，然后又沉睡去。没有梦。
午夜时分，我似乎又恢复了意识，右臂很痒，右手剌痛，不知身在何处，只知在我的下方有什么巨大的东西在磨啊磨啊磨。一开始，我以为是机器，但那声音时高时低、时快时慢，不像是机器发出的。不知怎的，那感觉是活物发出的声音。接着，我想到了牙齿，但没什么东西有如此巨大的牙齿。至少，在我们这个世界里没有。
呼吸，我想到了，似乎是，但什么样的动物吸气时会发出如此巨大的碾磨声？还有，痒得快把我逼疯啦，上帝啊，从上臂到肘窝一直在痒。我去抓，伸出左手越过前胸，当然，没有肘窝，没有前臂，我什么也没抓到，只在挠床单。
想到这里，我彻底醒了，一下子坐起来。尽管屋里还很黑，却有充沛的星光从西向玻璃窗照进来，足以让我看到床脚，一只行李箱搁在长椅上。那让我幡然醒悟。我在杜马岛，佛罗里达西海岸——新婚人和将亡人的家。我所在的房子是我已认定的浓粉屋，而那碾磨的声音——
“是贝壳，”我喃喃自语，再次躺倒，“房子下面的贝壳。涨潮了。”
我打一开始就爱听那声音，当我醒来，在深黑夜色里听，当我不知身在何处、我是谁或哪些肢体还健在时也在听。那是我的。
第一声Hello，我就是它的了。
Notes:
Notes: