Florida Heatwave (38 page)

And that’s the way she lives—full bore, squeezing every drop out of every last moment—and did long before she found the watch.

—A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.

—I hope we never have a time of not embracing, I say.

—We won’t, she says with such certainty that I believe her.

—A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silent, and a time to speak. A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

—It’s always the time for love and peace, I say. And never the time for hate and war.

—I don’t know, she says, changing the station as the preacher begins to expound idiotically on the sublime words he’s obviously not understood.

I look over at her.

—There may be those times.

I think about it. That’s what she makes me do—think. It’s another thing I love about her. She’s never obvious, never predictable, this lovely, peace-loving, war-protesting, gentlest of gentle souls says there may be those times for hate and war.

—When? I ask.

—Huh?

—When would those times be?

—I’m just say—

She stops as the next press of the Scan button brings our song—Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight.”

She turns and looks at me, her eyes wide, her expression communicating what I know she’s thinking—that nothing short of the universe is conspiring to make it a magical evening.

—It’s official, she says. Best anniversary ever.

She leans in over the console toward me. I put my arm around her, and hold onto her like I’ve been doing since the moment I met her, and we listen to the unmistakable guitar and the simple, sweet lyrics.

When the song ends, she reaches up and turns off the radio and we sit in silence for a few moments.

Eventually, the first few intermittent raindrops begin to dot the windshield.

—Only one thing could make this evening more perfecter, she says.

I nod.

I don’t have to ask. I know what she means.

—I’ll see if I can find an open store.

She wants a half gallon of vanilla ice cream, two packs of Reese’s, two Kit Kats, and a bag of Oreos, and our only hope is a small convenience store in the middle of nowhere a couple of miles up the road.

If the store is open, and the items are in stock, she’ll dump out half of the ice cream and stir in the Kit Kats, all four Reece’s, and a third of the bag of Oreos, and eat something, as far as I know, only she does.

—They’ll be open, she says, and I believe her.

We ride in silence, following the short, narrow lead of the night and fog-diffused headlights down the dark road, Ansley snuggled beneath my arm.

By the rhythm and sound of her breathing, I can tell she’s getting sleepy. And it’s no wonder. Not only is it past her normal bedtime, but our anniversary celebration had included an entire bottle of wine and our lovemaking on the beach had been particularly vigorous.

—Sure you’re not too tired for ice cream and—

—Positive. ‘Sides I need it to rebuild my strength for the second helping of anniversary sex I’m gonna give you when we get home.

Sweet, lovely, generous girl. I’m the luckiest, happiest, most grateful man in the world.

The small store is a neon and halogen-lit burst of brightness surrounded by a sea of dark—a single star in a black hole.

Beyond a faded green canopy that hovers over the gas pumps, the crowded porch of the storefront hosts a large ice cooler, a locked mesh cage of propane tanks, newspaper boxes, trash cans, and two booth-style tables littered with Styrofoam coffee cups and overflowing ashtrays, their built-in seats cigarette-burn speckled.

The panel of plate glass windows above them running the width of the building are filled with neon Florida Lottery and beer signs—pink and green and gold—ATM and Open signs, posters for smokeless tobacco products, and various official looking stickers and notices.

An old pickup and a battered Accord are at the side, but the front lot is empty, and I pull up and park near the double glass doors.

—I’ll get it, Ansley says, sitting up.

—You save your energy, I say.

She smiles up at me as I get out, a sweet, sleepy, slightly wanton smile that elicits a variety of reactions in me. Love. Gratitude. Desire.

She lays her head back on the seat, continuing to gaze at me and smile in her dewy drowsiness as I close the door, and I’m fairly certain I’ll return with her ice cream and goodies to find her sound asleep.

The store is cold and smells of dust and deli—the thick, pungent odor of old grease hanging in the atmosphere.

The large, grimy man behind the counter is a mouth-breather with a camouflage baseball cap and a solid green T that doesn’t quite cover his enormous belly.

He is working on the register when I walk in, studying it as if for the first time, and doesn’t look up, just nods and grunts.

As I scour the aisles for the items to satiate one of Ansley’s appetites, the clerk continues to punch buttons with his fat fingers and continues to receive electronic rebukes and rebuffs in the form of shrill beeps, each time responding with a litany of whispered angry profanities.

The air conditioner, mammoth cooler along the back wall, and box fans on each end of the building give the aural illusion of a wind tunnel, and make the small, overly lit store seem even more arctic than it is.

After finding what I can, I toss everything on the counter, and the man looks from the register over to it.

—Can’t make change, he says. Can’t get in the damn till.

—I may have it, I say. How much?

He eyes the items, squints, touches each one with his enormous mitts, then shrugs.

—Ten bucks? he says, returning his attention to the register.

I pull a ten from my wallet, drop it on the counter, gather up my things, and head toward the door.

—Thanks, I say. Have a good night.

—Flip that sign around for me, he says, looking up long enough to nod at the Open/Closed sign hanging on the door. I do.

The moment I’m outside, lights start going off—over the pumps, then the porch.

I look at my watch. Quarter til twelve.

It’s raining harder now, but it’s still nothing more than a late summer shower. Easing open the door, I try to keep from waking Ansley, but she stirs and sits up.

I climb in and begin passing over the rain-speckled stash.

—No bag?

—Service, I say. Not so much. Got everything but Kit Kat.

—Why?

—They were out.

—What about Nestle’s Crunch?

—What about it?

—It’s the substitute for Kit Kat in this recipe.

—I didn’t know that, I say and smile at her.

—I’ll be right back, she says, sliding over and opening her door.

—He just closed.

—Does he know it’s our anniversary?

—We didn’t get to that.

She closes the door and I watch through the rain-streaked windshield as she runs onto the porch, pauses a moment to straighten her hair, and continues inside, her water-muted figure blurred and wet textured.

For a moment, I just sit, taking in a deep breath and letting it out, feeling … what? Just so damn happy.

Ten years.

Ten years.

We’re still youngish, but we’re approaching a transition. Will we have something more traditional? Will we have kids? God, is that where we are? It is, isn’t it? We’re young but not young enough to live like kids, to live so carelessly, to fritter away our finite moments so frivolously.

There were moments through our decade together where I honestly didn’t think we’d make it—and certainly didn’t think I could ever feel this way again, this thoroughly and completely and utterly—well, happy. Downright giddy.

I reach up and twist the stem that turns on the windshield wipers and watch as the water rolls off in a wave, removing the opacity, restoring my view, the bright lights from within the store rushing in—and with them something that stops my heart.

Maybe I had been too distracted to notice before, or maybe the canopy and porch lights had created a reflective barrier. Whatever the cause, I had somehow missed it.

How could I have—it doesn’t matter now.

What am I gonna do?

First thing—I’ve got to get Ansley out of there. Now.

The wipers remove the buildup of water again, and I look to make sure I saw what I thought I did. I did.

Blood.

Body.

Murder.

Robbery.

In the large security mirror hanging in the back corner of the building,

I can see the distorted reflection of another mirror, and in it a dead, blood-covered body lying in a pool of blood behind the deli counter.

Jumping out of the car, I rush through the rain onto the porch and into the store.

Ansley is standing at the counter, two Crunch bars in front of her.

—I forgot to bring money, she says turning to me. Do you have—

—Yeah, sure, I say pulling out my wallet.

I toss three dollars onto the counter.

—Come on, I say. We’ve got to go.

—What is it?

The man looks up from where he’s still punching buttons on the register, and studies me.

—Work, I say, looking at him. Just got called in.

—Work?
Ansley says.

—Yeah.

—He tell you it’s our anniversary? she says to the man.

He doesn’t respond.

—Come on, I say. We’ve got to go.

—I can help you with that, she says, nodding toward the register. Worked in one of these during college. Here.

She begins to walk to the end of the counter.

I can tell she intends to go behind it to help the man, which would cause her to see the blood if not the body.

—We don’t have time, I say, reaching for her arm.

—Ouch. Okay.

—Take the time, the man says, reaching beneath the counter and coming up with a large revolver.

—What? she says, confused, starting to laugh, but then realizing it’s not a joke.

—Open this goddam thing for me. You, he says to me. Let me see your hands.

I raise my hands.

Ansley begins to head toward the back of the counter, but I grab her arm again.

—Do it from here, I say. Just lean over the—

Thunder cracks outside and Ansley and I both jump.

When we’ve recovered, she slowly steps toward the register. Her self-conscious, stilted actions make it appear that any sudden movement will trigger an explosion.

Reaching over the counter with trembling fingers, she leans in so she can see, careful to stay as far away from the big man as she can, and begins to press a series of keys.

Her hands shake so violently, her first attempts result in as many protests from the machine as the robber’s had.

After a few seconds, the beeps stop. A moment later, the drawer springs open.

—Thanks, the man says in a fat-thick, airy, mouth-breather voice.

He then shoots her in the head. No big dramatic gesture. Just squeezes the trigger nonchalantly.

The explosion is as jarring as it is deafening.

I’m stunned.

Shocked.

Disoriented.

As she falls back, I reach for her, finding her wrist, her watch, which comes off in my hand as she continues to fall.

I turn to the man, holding her small watch up in one of my outstretched hands that form the ultimate question for the random, chaotic, suddenly violent universe, and see that he now has the gun leveled at me.

I spin around and dive toward Ansley—not out of fear, not out of some misguided attempt at avoiding the bullet with my name on it, but because I want to be with her, to be touching her, want us to be together when
ultima forsan
becomes
ultima Thule.

BY CAROLYN HAINES

The silver surface
of Lake Eloise ripped and tore in the wake of the huge speedboat powered by three Johnson outboard motors. Kit McCallum gripped the ski rope, blinked the wind-driven tears from her eyes, and took a deep breath as she waited for the signal. The vivid colors of the botanical garden—reds and yellows, greens and purples—bled past like melting stained glass as she climbed onto Amy Guiseppi’s and Carla Bainer’s shoulders and completed the third tier of the human ski pyramid.

Along the shore, the crowd jumped to its feet and applauded. The announcer’s voice was a blur of long vowels as Kit held the wooden handle of the ski line with one hand and raised her right arm in victory.

The boat turned closer to the shore and pulled the formation past tourists dressed in plaid shorts, white shirts, sundresses, and sandals. Kit didn’t associate with the spectators but she knew them—solid middle-class people who brought their kids to Cypress Gardens for good, clean fun and a bit of education on the natural beauty of the Florida chain of lakes. They modeled themselves from photos in
Life Magazine.
Perhaps in their world, father did know best, but that was something Kit would never know. She’d once dreamed of such a family, but that was when she was still a kid.

She gave the spectators the signature wave she’d rehearsed all spring. The ski team, which was the biggest attraction at the gardens, had worked hard to perfect the pyramid routine. Cypress Gardens had been the first to add the third tier. It was a coup, and Kit was proud to crown the top. She reveled in the attention.

Without warning, Amy’s shoulder fell away. For a long moment, Kit wavered, trying to rebalance, but it was useless. Amy was falling. Thinking how she’d kill Amy as soon as possible, Kit threw her ski line forward and flipped backwards. To fall in front of the pyramid—sixteen bodies, sixteen ski lines, and nine pairs of potentially deadly skis—was suicidal. Kit had seen enough accidents to heed the dangers. If she had to fall, she wanted to be behind the other skiers.

Her body cut the water in a clean dive, and she took satisfaction in the applause of the spectators. Even though the pyramid had collapsed, she’d given the crowd a bit of flash and dazzle. Kenny, their coach, might be mad at the skiers for screwing up the show, but he’d praise her for her innovation and skill. Yet again, she’d come out smelling like one of the exotic blooms in the plantation rose gardens.