The Art of Floating (30 page)

Subterf
uge.

A valiant, successful subterfuge.

A house inside the warehouse.

A real house.

A full-size house.

A house that like most other houses had a quaint porch, four windows, and a lion's-head brass knocker on the front door.

Subterfuge.

Sia couldn't believe it. She closed the door of the warehouse behind her and turned in circles. It was as if she'd been dropped into Oz.

A buoy-bell wind chime hung from the porch frame.

Six red geraniums sat in clay pots.

The Dogcatcher scratched and looked down at her feet.

“What is this place?” Sia said. “Is this yours?” She climbed the stairs to the porch and knocked.

“No need to knock,” the Dogcatcher said. “It's unlocked.”

“So it is yours?”

Sia opened the door and stepped into a living room. It was neat and orderly with pale blue walls, two blue-and-white checked couches, and a wooden coffee table in the center. There were vases with plastic daisies, a telephone on a table near the door, and three standing lamps. The wood floors were shiny, and a circular blue rug lay in the center. It looked like a regular house, but felt more like a showroom in a model house.

“Who lives here?” Sia asked. She wandered down a short hallway to a dining room. The Dogcatcher followed.

The dining room had a table with six chairs and a bone-white china closet in which white ceramic plates with cornflower-blue leaves etched on their rims were stacked. At one end of the room were six wooden filing cabinets. Fancy wooden ones with carved curlicue corners.

“Who lives here?” Sia repeated. “Do you live here?”

The Dogcatcher turned away and scratched.

Rain pounded on the roof of the warehouse.

The kitchen was red and white, and the curtains had red posies all over them. It was supposed to be a happy kitchen, but it wasn't. The knives were too shiny. The glasses too spotless. And the refrigerator? Empty. As clean and unused as one you would see at the appliance store.

“What is this place?” Sia asked.

There was nothing dark or dangerous about the house, but it was sad and empty, as if all the loneliness in the world were centered in this very spot. Sia's belly throbbed.

•  •  •

Sia walked to the large wooden filing cabinets. “What's in here?” she asked, reaching for a drawer.

“Don't touch that,” the Dogcatcher said.

“Why not?”

“They're lost.”

Sia leaned to read the word that was neatly printed on a label stuck to the front of the cabinet.

“Cat,” she read.

She moved to the second drawer.

Cat.

Then the third drawer.

Dog.

Cat.

Dog.

Cat.

Dog.

Cat.

Dog.

•  •  •

“What is this?” Sia asked. “Tell me.”

“A house of lost things,” the Dogcatcher said. “I'm sure I told you that.”

“When do
es she get here?” M asked.

“In the morning.”

“Does Toad know?”

“I told him I know who he is, but I didn't tell him his mother-in-law was coming.”

“Why not?”

“It might scare him.”

“Scare him away, you mean?”

“Maybe. I don't know what got him here in the first place.”

“I'm afraid it was a horrible tragedy and that maybe you won't be able to manage all the sorrow.”

“It could be.” Pause. “It probably is.” Silence chewed through the wire. “But I'm okay, Mom. Really. I didn't think I would be, but I am.”

“All right, sweetie. Just be careful.”

“I will.”

•  •  •

“When does she get here?”

“In the morning.”

“Does Toad know?”

“No. I told him I know who he is, but I didn't tell him his mother-in-law is coming.”

“Maybe it was her that scared him away, huh? Maybe she's a horrible wretch of a mother-in-law who tortured him in Italy.”

“Maybe, Jil, but I doubt it.”

“Why is his mother-in-law coming instead of his mother?”

“I don't know.”

“Can I be there?”

“Not right away. You can meet her later.”

“Okay. Guess he's not an alien after all, huh?”

“Are you disappointed?”

“Yeah, I liked the idea of him being from Mars.”

“And the idea of us being able to keep him forever?”

“Something like that.”

“Maybe you should go out with Richard again.”

“Maybe.”

“He's mad about you, you know.”

“You think?”

“You've got to be blind not to see it.”

Jilly covered her eyes with her hands.

•  •  •

“When does she arrive, Mrs. Dane?”

“In the morning.”

“And have you informed your”—Dr. Dillard paused to clear his throat—“guest that she's coming?”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“No.”

“I don't think that's wise, Mrs. Dane.”

“I don't care what you think, Dr. Dillard.”

“This is my professional opinion.”

“I take professional opinions from professionals.”

“May I be there when she arrives?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Please, Mrs. Dane. You may need professional intervention. Things could go wildly wrong.”

Click.

•  •  •

“When does she get here, Sia?”

“In the morning.”

“Oh, boy. How do you feel about her coming?”

“I'm okay.”

“Really?”

“Well, I'm bummed my sex life is going to end again.”

“You're sure he'll go home with her?”

“What else would he do?”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I'm going to miss him.”

“And Gumper? How's he going to handle the loss?”

“I'm going to start bringing him for therapy.”

“How about the fish?”

Sia put a hand on her belly. “Bloody awful.”

Sleek Sophia.

Sophisticated Sophia.

Stylish Sophia.

She arrived on time. Dark hair. Sunglasses tipped back on her head. A black bag with gold doodads. Skinny jeans and a black T-shirt with a pair of gold flip-flops.

Stunning silky sensuous Sophia.

“Odyssia Dane?” she asked in perfectly executed English.

No makeup. Just lipstick.

Sublime Sophia.

“Yes. Sophia?”

“Yes.”

Sophia held open her arms and Sia stepped into them, resting her head on Sophia's shoulder.

Sympathetic soft oh-so-subtle Sophia.

•  •  •

“His name is Tomasso. Everyone calls him Tomas. My daughter—his wife—called him Tomato.”

•  •  •

“His wife and daughter were murdered. How do you say?” Sophia waved her hand while she searched for a word. “Brutally.” She paused, slipped off her flip-flops, and crossed her legs under her on the chair. “Yes, brutally. Very, very brutally.”

Sia closed her eyes.

PLOVER REPORT

AUGUST 2012

N
ESTING
P
AIRS:
12 (refuge); 4 (Sandy Point Reservation)

P
AIRS
S
TILL
S
ITTING ON
N
EST:
0 (refuge); 0 (Sandy Point Reservation)

C
HICKS
H
ATCHED:
23 (refuge); 6 (Sandy Point Reservation)

C
HICKS
F
LEDGED:
20 (refuge); 5 (Sandy Point Reservation)

B
EACHES:
All beaches now open to humans.

L
OST:
1 mature plover (female); 2 plover eggs

•  •  •

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Joe Laslow pulled on his favorite T-shirt, the one he saved just for this day every year. On the front:

“The Natural Food Chain”

On the back:

A sketch of a man with a piping plover on a plate.

“Dogs 2001.”

Sia picked out a folder.

“A”

Airedales

Akitas

Alaskan Malamutes

Alsatians

. . . and more.

•  •  •

“P”

Papillons

Pekinese

Pointers

Poodles

. . . and so on.

•  •  •

“S”

Samoyeds

Schnauzers

Shih-Tzus

. . . 

•  •  •

“Whose house is this?” Sia asked.

“Mine,” the Dogcatcher said.

“Do you live here?”

“No.”

“But it's yours?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Sia said, “you keep it very nice. It's very neat.”

The Dogcatcher nodded and pulled out a drawer in the armoire behind her. “These are all of the lost spoons.”

Clank. Clank. Clank. Clankety-clank.

The drawer was stuffed with spoons. Some were shiny and new; others looked as if they'd spent one hundred years in a dirt pile.

Sia nodded. “What about this?” she asked, pointing to the objects on the shelves in the corner.

The Dogcatcher closed the drawer. “There are many lost things in the world.”

•  •  •

Then, under a chair . . . sneakers.

Sneakers exactly like the pair Jackson had been wearing on the day he disappeared.

Jackson's sneakers.

Throb, throb, throb.

The sound of Sia's heart in her ears.

She pointed to the sneakers. “Where did you get these?”

“Ah,” the Dogcatcher said, “you know these sneakers?”

Oh, for God's sake.

“Yes,” Sia said, “I know these sneakers.” She moved the chair out of the way and knelt down in front of the shoes.

“I thought you might know these sneakers.”

Sia nodded. They were Jack's favorite pair. A stinky, tattered, dirty-white pair of Converse low-tops with a hole on the far side of each where his baby toe had worked through. That goddamn curved-out baby toe.

“May I?” Sia said.

The Dogcatcher nodded.

Sia reached down and put her hand on the canvas tops.

Jackson.

She picked them up and pulled their beautiful, glorious stinkiness to her chest. She put her nose into one. She sniffed long and loud.

Jackson.

“There's more, you know,” the Dogcatcher said.

“More? More what?”

“More of him.” The Dogcatcher pointed to the shoes.

•  •  •

With the sneakers tight against her chest, Sia followed. Like everything else in the house, the stairs were spotless. There was no muck in the corners, no stray balls of hair, no dust. “You clean a lot,” she said.

The upstairs was one very large room, like a finished attic, with a brass bed and seven dressers, all exactly alike—that horrid children's white French colonial style with gold accent paint around the handles.

“There are so many dressers.”

“There are so many lost things.”

“May I?” Sia asked. She pointed to the first dresser on her left.

“Put everything back where you find it.”

Sia opened the top drawer. It was full of buttons. Black buttons. Blue buttons. Pearly white buttons. Cracked buttons. Small dress-shirt buttons and large winter coat buttons. Some were covered in fabric. Others were made of metal. Thousands of buttons.

Sia closed the drawer and opened the next one down. Rings. Everything from bubble gum rings to platinum wedding bands. Sia picked up one, held it to the light, and read the inscription:
To my dearest Sadie. Forever.

The Dogcatcher smiled. “Manchester-by-the-Sea,” she said.

“What?” Sia said.

“Manchester-by-the-Sea. That's where I found that ring. On October 7, 1995.”

“How do you know?”

“I remember.”

“You remember the exact date?”

“Of course.”

She reached into the drawer and held up a gold engagement ring with a small emerald on each side of the diamond. “What about this one?”

“June 11, 1993. Refuge beach. On a small dune near a plover's nest.”

“How do you know?”

“I remember.”

Sia put the ring back, closed the drawer, and moved on to others. One drawer was filled with baseball caps. Another with sunglasses.

“Where do you get all this stuff?”

“These have all been lost. Everything here . . . lost. I find lost things. I keep them safe.”

“And this is your house?” Sia asked. She moved from dresser to dresser, opening every drawer.

“Yes, my father gave it to me.”

•  •  •

Sia looked under a desk.

The Dogcatcher scratched.

Sia lifted a curtain.

The Dogcatcher scratched.

Sia opened a drawer.

The Dogcatcher scratched.

•  •  •

Then cell phones. Hundreds of cell phones.

“These were all lost?” Sia asked.

“Oh, yes. Everyone loses phones.”

Sia lifted the phones out one by one, then by handfuls, and when the drawer was light enough to lift, she pulled it out and dumped all the phones on the floor.

“What are you doing?” the Dogcatcher asked.

“Looking.”

“For what?”

Sia didn't answer. She looked at every phone. Nokia phones. Sony phones. Really old phones the size of her hand. New tiny ones. Sleek phones. Pink phones. Hello Kitty phones.

“Where is it?” Sia said quietly. Jackson's phone had to be here.

She found a phone that was the exact model he'd had. A Samsung 300. Her heart froze for a moment, but when she turned it over, she saw the name
Vicki
scratched into the black surface.

“Damn,” she said, and threw the phone back into the pile.

The Dogcatcher leaned down. “Are you looking for his phone?”

Sia looked at her. “Of course I'm looking for his phone. Of course I'm looking for HIS phone. Where is his goddamn phone?”

“Right there,” the Dogcatcher said, pointing to a drawer in the next dresser. She began to put the phones Sia had dumped out back into the correct drawer, and as she did, she recited the dates of discovery. “July 3, 1999. October 21, 1997. Christmas Day 1987.”

Sia yanked out the drawer in the next dresser, but it was so full, it jammed, like the utensil drawer in a kitchen when the spatula gets stuck against the drawer above it. She yanked. Then she heard Jackson's voice in her head. “Hey, hon, slow down. It's all right.”

She took a deep breath, reached in, unclogged the phones, and pulled gently. Then, using her shirt like a sack, she dumped a bunch of phones into it, carried them to the bed, and sat down.

She found it in the third batch. Jackson's silly blue Samsung that played the Mexican Hat Dance, just like hers. The 7 button was poking out at a weird angle. The phone was dented and scratched. Old and worn. Just the way Jackson liked everything. Comfortable. Easy.

“This is it,” Sia said. “This is it.” She stood, pressed the phone to her cheek, and swayed. “This is Jack's phone.”

The Dogcatcher watched her from the floor. “You know this phone?” she asked.

Sia rolled her eyes and kissed the Dogcatcher on her very knobby head. “Oh, yes, oh, yes, I know this phone. Oh, yes, I know this phone.”