North of Havana df-5 Page 2

  Dewey was still talking: "… I wasn't absolutely certain that my Captiva house was going to be open in December, so by that time I-"

  "By that time, you decided to ignore the messages I left."

  "I know, I know. Dependable, punctual Ford."

  There was something wrong with that? If I was in the country, near a phone, I tried to call Dewey every Sunday night.

  Dewey said, "That's not the point. What I was telling you was, Bets did exhibition matches in Madrid and Lisbon, and I went along at the last minute. By then I figured, why not surprise him?"

  "Ah," I said, picturing Dewey and Bets together. "Oh."

  Dewey gave me an affectionate shake. "We're wasting time. I've got three whole weeks to do nothing but work out and lie in the sun. Then I'm off to Phoenix for the Amateur Classic." She was pulling me up the steps, toward the house; let me stop just long enough to fit the Styrofoam cover onto the tank. Said, "So the fun starts as of now. We run five, lift light, then we come back here and swim out to the island and back."

  I said, "In the bay?" My house is built over the water on stilts. The lower level is all dock. The upper level is wooden platform. Two small cottages sit at the center under one tin roof. The platform extends out on all sides, creating a broad porch. Standing on the porch by the screen door, I could feel the first gusting chill of the coming nor'wester. I said, "An hour from now, the bay might be a little cold for swimming."

  "Are you kidding? It's got to be, what? Eighty? Eighty-five degrees? Get your ass in gear, champ. Quit stalling. You're the one who told me whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

  She followed me into the cottage and futzed around with the stereo and shortwave radio while I changed. She chatted about her flight down. Told me a little bit about the crummy golf courses outside Lisbon. When I asked how Bets was doing, Dewey said, "Fine, fine. She's one busy lady," in a vague, evasive way that suggested that Bets wasn't fine and Dewey didn't want to discuss it. There was something on her mind; something she needed to talk about, and I wondered how long it would take for her to finally get around to it. There are false extroverts who use bluster to hide their shyness and sensitivity. Dewey is one of them. At the core, Dewey is an outsider: the gifted kid who never quite meshed with the crowd. She was different, was always different, and so the shy child within was never eroded away by conformity. The child hides in there, way down deep, and when you are a friend of the child-which is the only way you can be Dewey's friend-you can say any dumb thing you want, any egoless inanity, and the child never challenges or criticizes. But the acceptance must be reciprocal. And maybe that kind of acceptance is the core of all true friendship. When Dewey does let the screen drop, she is still funny. Still irreverent. But she is also without guile, and delicate, delicate. Now, for a moment, she let the screen drop. It was in her tone. "Doc?"

  "Yeah?"

  "It crossed my mind that it might be a tad awkward… hell, a lot awkward, if I breezed in here and you had a… you know, a houseguest. For Christmas. Someone staying with you."

  "You mean a woman?"

  "Sure, what else? Maybe it wouldn't have been such a good surprise."

  "I don't know why not."

  "I just thought that they, the woman, I mean, might get ticked off. You know, jealous."

  I finished tying my running shoes and stepped out from behind the bed screen. "Why would a woman be jealous of you?" The words were out of my mouth before I realized what a stupid and cruel thing it was to say.

  Some insist that the human eye cannot register emotion. Those who believe it have not met Dewey Nye. She was staring at me, a wry expression fixed in place to hide the wound. "Thanks, partner. You do wonders for my ego."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way."

  "Bullshit. That's exactly what you meant."

  No way out of it, so I said, "Besides, I don't have any women. Nothing sexual, anyway. Just a couple of friends around the island."

  Dewey said, "No kidding?," still pinning me with her gaze. She knew it wasn't true. In our frequent phone conversations, I didn't leave much out.

  I said, "Well, sometimes it's sexual. Sure. But nothing permanent. Occasionally I meet a tourist lady who seems interesting, who likes to talk about more than which brand of tanning oil is best. But they never stay for more than a day or two."

  "But you'd like them to stay. That's the kind of house-guest I meant. The kind you'd like to stay longer?"

  Even to Tomlinson I would have probably hedged, but Dewey's intuition is too good. You hedge, you lie, and her screens lock instantly into place. I braced myself against the west wall and began to stretch hamstrings and calves as I said, "Nope, I haven't met one yet who I wanted to stay longer. Not in a while, anyway."

  Actually, it had been just short of a year.

  Dewey's laughter was only slightly mocking. "Jesus Christ, I can see you're undecided."

  "I like women-as people. As roommates, it's another story. Same with men."

  "And you get so many offers. I noticed the line outside, all those girls with suitcases, waiting patiently."

  "Go ahead and joke, but I'm trying to explain something. The way it is with women these days. They begin by saying they don't want a serious relationship. They always do. They say they're not interested in marriage. They always are. They say they have no desire to impose on my solitude or my work. Inevitably, they impose on both. They leave hair in the sink. They wear my T-shirts. They get pissy when I do the cooking. And they always, always end up asking to borrow my boat-if I'll just take a few minutes and teach them how to run it. Nope, two days is plenty. Three, tops." I finished stretching and looked at her. "I sound cynical?"

  "You sound like a prissy old jerk."

  "Yeah, well… this place is too small for two people. On a full-time basis, I mean. Besides, I like my routine. My work keeps me busy enough. It may be contrary to all acceptable social behavior, but I like living alone."

  She still wore the bemused smile. "So let me summarize: No woman wants you, no woman will have you. You're lonely as hell, horny as a goat, and as full of shit as ever."

  I grabbed her and wrestled her around until we stood face-to-face. "If you're asking to borrow my boat, the answer's no."

  Dewey held me with her eyes, still amused, but then the intensity and focus seemed to change. Suddenly she hugged me hard, then pushed me toward the door. "You men," she said, nudging me along, "you bastards. It's always the same: First you steal our hearts, then you destroy our dreams."

  2

  A workout with Dewey is not a social occasion. When she runs she runs much too fast for conversation. For a guy of my size and of my construction, anyway. The lungs and capillaries of a 220-pound adult male can only distribute so much oxygen. Same when she lifts weights. God help the person who interrupts her concentration with idle chatter. Prior to her flying off to New York to live with Bets, Dewey had been my regular training partner. I dreaded those workouts because of her drill sergeant mentality, but also loved them because we pushed each other to the very edge each and every day… and that is the only way to return to the lighter-than-gravity, animal-quick, skin-ribs-and-muscle creature that lies within each and every one of us at the outer boundaries of personal fitness.

  Dewey had stripped down to orange Spandex running shorts and matching Spandex running bra. With her blue visor cap turned backwards, blond hair swinging, she might have been modeling high-tech running gear. As we jogged along the shell lane that leads from Dinkin's Bay Marina to Sanibel's main road, I said, "I'll try to keep track of how many cars honk at us. What's the old record-seven?"

  "Those bastards, I hate it when cars honk. Geeze-oh-Katy, it makes me jump every time."

  Geeze-oh-Katy-a new expression she was using. Sounded girlish and homey. I said, "So try wearing a baggy T-shirt and shorts."

  "It'll be a snowy day in hell before I start dressing to please assholes in passing cars." She glanced over at me. "You don't like the way I dress? What's wr
ong with the way I dress?"

  I said, "You look great. You always look great, Dewey."

  She was nodding, not buying it. "Flattery. What you'd better do is save your breath. You'll need it."

  The hour or more of hell I was about to endure required some psychological preparation. I tried my best… Felt the ache of old wounds and the familiar grating pain of damaged knees… and reminded myself that the pain would soon fade into numbness. Felt the thoracic burn that forewarns oxygen debt… and comforted myself with the knowledge that the human body can abide a hell of a lot more discomfort than the brain's little warning mechanisms would have us believe. Also reminded myself that this was Friday. Every Friday, all the marina regulars get together after work for a traditional weekend party. By the time Dewey and I finished our workout, Mack would have food out on platters beneath the sea grape tree and Igloo coolers packed tight with crushed ice and bottles of beer. It was a nice thing to imagine, a tough workout then all that ice and beer.

  When we reached the bike path that traces the interior of Sanibel, Dewey turned toward Captiva Island and lengthened her stride, running what, for her, was a comfortable six-minute-thirty-second-mile pace. She had a floating kind of stride. I huffed and puffed and thudded along beside. The wind had freshened-a chilled and gusting high-pressure wind-and we ran right into the teeth of it. It was like trying to run through cotton. Chilly or not, I was sweating before we finished the first mile.

  "How you feeling?"

  Her question surprised me. I had allowed consciousness to blur; was concentrating solely on putting one foot in front of the other. "Good," I gasped. "Pretty good."

  "Bullshit. I own golf balls with better color."

  "Nope. Feel fine."

  "You always say that. And you're always lying."

  After that, we ran in silence. Ran Captiva Road way past the elementary school, then cut inland through Ding Darling Sanctuary: a shell road that tunneled through mangroves and wove its way between brackish lakes. The mangroves were hunched up on their prop-root toes, showing the wind. Water in the lakes was the color of strong sassafras tea. White wading birds flushed before us. A bull gator lay wide-bodied on the mud, mouth open, soaking in the last of the fading heat. Biologists once believed that gators and crocs used their open mouths as a sort of thermostat, perhaps to facilitate digestion. Now they're not so sure. Where the shell road curved beneath the wind there were dense pockets of musk… iodine, ozone, and sulfur- the smell of primal life; the smell of backcountry Florida. When I crossed to the lee side of Dewey, hers was a more delicate odor but similarly primal: shampoo, miracle fabric, the acidic smell of woman-sweat.

  "You get tired, want to stop, just tell me."

  It wasn't easy for me to find oxygen enough to form words. "In all the times… we've run together… you've never asked how I felt… or told me it was okay to stop."

  She glanced over her shoulder at me. "So? I'm a year older. Maybe I'm a year nicer."

  I was shaking my head. "Um-huh. There's something on your mind. You want to talk, let's talk."

  "You always think you know so much. A guy your age, I'm just trying to be careful, that's all. Save the paramedics a trip. They've got better things to do."

  "I don't need any favors. I feel fine." I did, too. Well… I felt fair. I'd spent the last couple of months getting into pretty good shape. Running, swimming, a hundred pull-ups a day. No food after 8 P.M., beer only on the weekend.

  "It's just that I don't want you to blow a rod. Or have a stroke."

  Chuckling, I grabbed her elbow and pulled her to a stop. She looked at me; looked away. I touched my finger to her chin and turned her face, forcing eye contact. Her cheeks were flushed the color of strawberries. Ringlets of blond hair, saturated with sweat, were now a tumid brown. "What's the problem, Dewey?"

  "Problem? I don't know what you're talking about. There's no problem."

  "You sure?"

  "Look, I just told you… Hey, buddy, I just traveled thirteen hundred miles to give you one of the all-time great Christmas surprises, and you're already badgering me." There was a warning tone to her voice-she was kidding, but I'd better watch my step.

  Protocol said I should let it go. But there was something in her demeanor… a curiously intense reserve that made me want to push it. She reminded me of some troubled adolescent who, driven by self-consciousness, was fronting stratagems to deflect entrance into her private, unhappy world.

  I tapped her chin to emphasize my concern. "Let's have it. You come in here full of bluster, determined to make me believe that you're happy as hell, not a care in the world. But you've got raccoon eyes, and you don't get jet lag flying from New York to Florida. Plus your voice is a little shaky and your attention keeps wandering, and you're trying way, way too hard to imitate the Old Dewey. There's something troubling you and you want to talk about it, but maybe you figure the time's not right… or maybe we're not the buddies we both pretend to be… or maybe you just don't have the courage."

  I was looking into her gray eyes and I watched them gauge her deep softness, her pain, and then saw them glow with anger. She slapped my hand away from her chin and turned her back to me. "Knock it off. Sometimes, Doc, you push a little too hard. It's not funny and I don't appreciate it so… yeah, maybe you're not the friend I thought you were."

  I said, "Then let's finish our run and we can both go our separate ways. We'll each have our own very merry Christmas."

  She swung around, fists on hips. "What the hell's with you? Being articulate doesn't give you license to act like a pious dick! All I want to do is run! Just fucking run and you're turning it into some kind of shrink session. Do I pry into your private life?"

  "Yeah. All the time. You're one of the very few people I discuss my private life with."

  "As if you've told me everything. Don't give me that crap, buster!"

  "Never said I did."

  She was folded over, stretching her hamstrings, letting me know I was wasting her time; standing there talking, muscles getting tight when we should be running. "Gee, tell me everything, Doc. Make my life complete."

  "No need. You're already so happy, why risk being honest?"

  "To say that to me… it's just so damn offensive-"

  "Honesty is offensive?"

  She was standing upright again, fists clenched. "Quit it! I'm serious-stop it right now! Nobody pries into my private life. You hear me? Nobody!"

  Because she shouted the last of it, the silence that followed resonated. Wind in mangroves made a riverine sound like a distant reach of white water. High aloft, an osprey drifted, whistling frantic, ascending notes. Looking into her face, I waited several beats before saying, "Then run, Dewey. Just keep on running. Sorry I tried to interfere." I turned and jogged away; left her standing. Had run several hundred yards and was beginning to wonder if I had levered too hard; was already condemning myself for being unnecessarily pointed when I heard her deer-light stride behind me, getting closer, coming fast… entertained the unpleasant possibility that she might slug me in the back of the head as she ran past. I'd never seen Dewey so mad.

  But instead I felt her grab my elbow and I let her swing me around. "Goddamn you!" she said. "Goddamn it… what right do you have to speak to me that way?" She was crying. It was the first time that I had ever seen jock-hard, tour-tested Dewey Nye cry. "I don't need to be interrogated and I don't need that kind of cruelty. I don't need that in my life right now!"

  I made an effort to say something sharp and clever in reply… but found myself taking her into my arms, holding her, feeling her ribs spasm beneath my fingers, feeling her face hot and wet against my cheek as she sobbed, squeezing her tightly to me as if that were the way to both protect her and to apologize.

  "I was a jerk," I whispered. "It's the new me. Lately… more and more… I've been acting like a jerk."

  "No, you were a prick. There's a difference."

  "It's been a rough year."

  Dewey was nodding, her chin
hard on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry about what happened, Doc. Losing that girl. How many nights did we talk and you hardly mentioned it? But I could tell. "

  Holding Dewey, I suffered a brief cerebral replay of once holding a woman of the same comfortable size and shape, but who had Navaho hair and Cracker sensibilities. I would never hold that woman again. I whispered, "Old news. Water under the bridge."

  "It really gets to be like that? The hurt goes away?"

  "If you need to know… maybe there's a reason."

  "There is."

  "Someone died?"

  "Not that bad."

  Anticipating what had happened, I cupped my hand to the back of her head and patted softly. "Maybe worse, huh? In ways, probably worse. I'm sorry."

  Dewey pushed herself away from me, wiping her face. "I lied to you. I didn't come down here just for something to do over Christmas."

  "No kidding?" I said dryly. "You were so convincing.

  So… are we going to run, or are we going to talk?"

  She managed a smile before jogging off-but now at a much slower pace. "What an asshole," she said. "We'll do both."

  What happened was, Dewey hadn't flown to Spain with her lover, Bets Bzantovski. She'd flown over on the red-eye a couple of days later as a last-minute birthday gift to Bets. Dewey had charmed the desk clerk at Madrid's Hotel Barcelona out of a key to Bets's room and carried her own luggage up. Her arrival was a surprise and Dewey didn't want a bellboy around when she flicked on the lights and saw Bets's face.

  But the surprise was on Dewey. She opened the door to hear muffled laughter, then an eerie silence. Then she hit the lights… and there was Bets, naked, in bed with a woman named Elaine Wengo, one of the young French stars on the circuit. The next part was harder for me to picture because I know Bets and like her very much. "I just stood there like a dope," Dewey said. "It was like one of those god-awful nightmares where something's chasing you but you can't make your legs move. I had a big duffel bag in my hand and I didn't even put it down, and the whole time she's screaming at me to get the hell out, that she hadn't invited me, and what right did I have to walk in on her like that."