The Art of Floating (28 page)

A
nd the jump-jump-jump-ropers went like this:

Sexy, sassy Sia Dane

wrote good books

and found much fame.

Sexy, sassy Sia Dane

lost her husband

what a shame.

(boo hoo!)

Sexy, sassy Sia Dane

closed her house up

down the lane.

The grass grew high.

The grass grew thick.

Couldn't part it with a stick.

When a single shingle blew,

the house cracked open.

Would Sia too?

Sexy, sassy Sia Dane

found a man

perhaps a swain?

(
sshhh, shhhh!
)

Is he an alien?

Is he a fish?

Is he just a prick from Ipswich?

Sexy, sassy Sia Dane

how many days

until she's sane?

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

. . .

“R
ichard?”

“Odyssia. What can I do for you?”

“It's about Jackson.”

“Okay.”

“During the search, did you and the team search the water off the refuge beaches?”

“Of course. As you know, we focused our search on the public side of things, but we didn't neglect the refuge beaches.”

“Did you search the refuge side as thoroughly as you did the public side?”

Richard paused. “What's this about, Odyssia?”

“Can you just answer my question? Please.”

“Of course I can. We were thorough in all waters.”

Sia sighed. “Okay.”

“Odyssia, you do remember that the refuge beaches were closed for plover season when Jackson disappeared and that you insisted he would never have gone there.”

“I know. I did, didn't I?”

“Are you okay, Odyssia?”

“Fine. I'll talk to you later.”

It
wasn't as hard as they thought. Sia and Jilly parked on the road outside the entrance to the hospital. They sneaked through the trees. Sprinted across the road. Slunk behind the guard's booth. Shimmied up the hill on their bellies just out of range of the bright lamps. And got to Toad's building just after midnight.

Blondie was waiting for them behind a tree. She'd had enough of Dr. Dillard's very round, smoothly rolling pomposity.

“Toad shouldn't be here,” she'd said when Sia had approached her. “I'll do whatever I can.”

She unlocked the door, led them to Toad's room, and unlocked that one as well.

Manna from heaven.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed in the new, stiff khakis and white shirt. Looking at the wall.

Jilly moaned with pleasure when she saw him.

Blondie laughed. “I'm going to miss him,” she whispered.

They put him into a long black trench coat and, despite the heat, pulled a black woolly cap onto his head. Before they knew it, they were driving up I-95 with the windows rolled down.

“Could we get arrested for this?” Jilly asked.

“Dillard wouldn't dare. The world would go nuts. Absolutely nuts.”

•  •  •

“Does it hurt?” Jilly asked as they drove.

“Floating?”

“Yeah.”

“No. It's weird and takes some getting used to. But no, no pain.”

“Can you make yourself float?”

“No. It happens on its own. Usually when I'm freaking out about . . .”

“About?” Jilly believed Sia should say his name out loud as often as possible.

“Jack.”

“Would you make yourself if you could?” Jilly asked.

“It's probably better that I can't.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, knowing me, I'd spend too much time buzzing around up there and not enough down here.”

“Do you see me?”

Sia thought about watching Jilly dance in her office. “No,” she said.

“Are you like God up there? All-seeing?”

“Depends on what you believe about God. I see a lot but not everything, and I have no power at all.”

“What's the use then?”

“I don't know.”

•  •  •

Despite Sia's warning, Jilly called Richard when they reached the split with 93. “I know it's three
A.M.
, Richard, but we've got him! We've got him!”

“Jillian? Is that you? What time is it?”

“Yes, it's me. It's three in the morning. We've got him!”

“You've got who, Jillian?”

“Who? What do you mean who? Toad. That's who. The Silent Man.”

“You have Toad?”

“Yes, we sneaked him out of McLean. He's in the backseat of Sia's car right now.”

“Where are you?”

“In the front seat.”

“Let me talk to Odyssia.”

“Sia, Richard wants to talk to you.”

“I'm driving, Jilly. Tell him I'll talk to him tomorrow.”

“She doesn't want to talk to you, Richard.”

“Are you okay, Jillian? Both of you?”

“Yeah, yeah, we're okay. We're great. We've never stolen a man before. It's exciting.”

“You're really okay, Jillian?”

“Yes, I'm fine.”

“Okay, I'll call you as soon as my alarm goes off.”

“Great. Have a good sleep, Richard.”

•  •  •

“He likes you.”

“I know.”

“You like him, too.”

“I know.”

•  •  •

On the sign at the Unitarian Church:

You must be the change you want to see in the world.
(Mahatma Gandhi)

Jilly: “Not sure this is what he meant, Sia.”

•  •  •

From the herd of reporters snoozing on the fence:

“Whoo-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

The
gangly geek coined the next day's award-winning headline:

VICTORIOUS VIGILANTES!

•  •  •

“You did what?” Sia's therapist said.

“Took Toad back.”

“From the mental hospital?”

Sia laughed. “Yep.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Yep.”

“With Jilly?”

“Yep.”

“That's illegal, Sia.”

“I know.”

“Good for you.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

Sia smiled.

“Have you floated this week?”

“Not yet.”

“Hmmmm.”

Out o
f the stacks of letters on a Thursday, one was actually addressed to and intended for Sia.

“Well?” Jilly said.

“It's an invitation.”

“To what?”

“To speak at an awards dinner for writers in New York.”

“Cool.”

Sia flapped the invitation against her thigh. “All invitations come through you. Why didn't this one?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Jilly said.

“Liar.”

“What? You think I set this up?”

Sia raised her eyebrows.

“I didn't have anything to do with it.”

•  •  •

“Sooooo . . . are you going to do it?”

“Maybe.”

“Speed
bump,” Sia said when she tripped over Toad for the third time. Gumper grumbled happily and she bent to rub his head.

The pac
kage from China was different than all the others—bigger, but also weightier in its intention. Sia could feel that when she held it in her hands. The box was wrapped in cream-colored parchment, and it was addressed—in a beautiful handwritten script—to
The Keeper of the Lost Man
.

“Odyssia Dane,” Jilly said in a sultry voice, “The Keeper of the Lost Man.” When she said “Lost Man,” she fluttered her eyelashes and turned her head coyly.

“Oh, shut up,” Sia said. “I think it's a good title for me.”

“I can think of better titles.”

Sia ignored her. When she opened the package, a flutter of dry pink petals fell out onto the table. “Wow, this person went to some trouble.” She gathered up the petals and put them in a glass bowl. Inside the package were two bound parcels.

The first was a bundle of pages bound with a red velvet ribbon tied neatly into a flat bow. The second was a similar bundle of pages bound in green ribbon. Sia opened a drawer and slid both packages into it.

“What? You're not going to read them now?” Jilly asked.

“No, I'm going to save them for later.”

“Why? I want to read them, too.”

“I don't know why. I just want to. You can read them tomorrow.”

“You know, Sia, Toad is not a necklace you get to keep to yourself and wear around your neck when you want to look pretty.”

“Oh, shut up.”

•  •  •

Sia and Toad sat out the storm on the porch. Water dripped down the morning glory vines, settling into small puddles in the dirt below. The sky was black and lightning bounced around them. Sia felt submerged and quiet. She loved storms, and afterward, she walked down the road in the sweet sunshiny post-storm light, clean green leaves gleaming and crimson flower petals glistening wet. She felt like a girl then, a before-Jackson-disappeared girl. Maybe even a before-Jackson-was-in-her-life girl.

•  •  •

Afterward, she left Toad in the garden with Gumper, pulled the two packages from China from the drawer, and settled into the cushy chair in the living room. When she untied the red ribbon on the first package, she discovered there were nine pages—all covered with Chinese characters. The characters—exquisitely drawn in black ink—wriggled on the page, contorting into spiders and people and the nod of a head and a roof. She couldn't for the life of her imagine what each represented, but even so, she could feel the depth of the story. She traced the characters with her finger, wondering how long it had taken the author to write the letter.

After studying each page, she retied the pages into a bundle and set them in the drawer. She peeked at the second bundle. English. The translation was there, ready to be read, but she saved it for later. She needed something to look forward to, something to wonder about, not in the panicked way in which she'd wondered about the possibility of the juggler, but in a comfortable way.

Then she took Toad out for burgers and fries. Without paying any attention to the stares they got, the photographs that were snapped, or the murmuring around them, she walked him right into her favorite greasy spoon.

“Quit staring,” she said to the waitress. “He eats and drinks, just like you and me. He even pisses.”

•  •  •

The restaurant's manager called Richard to clear off the crowd, but before he could get there, he was summoned to Starbucks.

“Mrs. Wysong and Joe Laslow?” he said, checking the date on his watch.

“Yep,” Maude said.

It was that time of year again. They were like clockwork. Two beaches had opened; Joe wanted them all.

•  •  •

When Richard walked in, Mrs. Wysong was already on a chair and Joe was jittering from table to table, quite obviously trying (and failing) to imitate the stuttered, frantic run of the piping plover. He was simply too big and clunky to even come close.

“You bird-killing bastard,” Mrs. Wysong spit at Joe, waving her warden cap. “You big, fat, selfish, bird-killing bastard.” Even on the chair, she was still a few inches shorter than Joe, but her screeching accusations made her taller. She knew it. On the rare occasions that she fought with her husband—a six-footer—she climbed on the closest piece of furniture and ramped up the squawk.

“Enough, you two,” Richard said, stepping between them and offering a hand to Mrs. Wysong. “There is enough space for all of us on the island—including the plovers. Joe—get going.” He pointed to the door. “And Mrs. Wysong, aren't you late for your shift at the beach?”

“You should arrest him, Richard,” she said, tamping her cap into place. “He's a murderer.”

“You just let them have a party around the beacon?”

“I didn't let them, Jilly. I woke up and discovered them.”

“Drinking and singing ‘I'm Running Over a Piping Plover'?”

“Drinking and singing ‘I'm Running Over a Piping Plover.'”

Jilly picked up another beer can and dropped it into the garbage bag. Budweiser. “Imbeciles with bad taste,” she said.

“I broke it up as soon as I saw them.”

“Yeah, but you didn't clean up the crap.”

“It was two o'clock in the morning.”

“What if the aluminum cans interrupted the signal? What if Toad's people can't find him because you dillydallied?”

Sia sighed and added three more cans to the bag. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“You should have,” Jilly said.

“You're right. I should have.”

“Dead end,” Richard said.

“Was it Seth?” Mrs. Windwill asked.

“His son. He stole the car that night and went out to the beach with his girlfriend.”

“The older boy?”

“No, the younger one.”

“Is he old enough to drive?”

“No, he's fourteen.”

“Uh-oh. How did Seth take it?”

“Not well.”

“Did the boy see anything? Sia? Toad? Anything?”

“No, he was pretty wrapped up in the thrill and fear of driving around with his girlfriend in the middle of the night. He remembers a thump when he hit the otter, but he didn't stop or slow down. Said he figured it was a bump in the road.”

“Hmmm. End of that, I guess.”

“Afraid so.”

•  •  •

“Where do the plovers go in the winter?”

Stuart looked up from his paper. “I don't know, darling. Someplace warmer than here, I imagine.”

“You think Florida?”

“Maybe.”

“Wish we could call Jackson. He'd know.”

“Course he would. But since he's not here, why don't we Google it?”