The Art of Floating (9 page)

Richard, as most expect from the older brother, stayed closer to home, but his sincere, poised demeanor got him voted most popular student at a nearby state college, where he studied criminology and sociology. After that, law enforcement made sense, and he went directly into the police academy from which he, too, graduated with honors. It wasn't long after that he accepted a job just across the border from his hometown.

Thankfully that was ten years before Jackson disappeared and eleven years before Toad appeared, so Richard had had plenty of time to gain experience with the strange comings and goings of people, and even though he had been unable to unravel Jackson's trail and bring him home, he'd tried like the devil to make it happen.

For Jilly's twenty-fifth birthday, Sia made her a list of all the “firsts” they'd shared throughout the years:

1st . . .

periods

death (Jillian's mom: breast cancer)

blow jobs

nips of vodka (Stuart's liquor cabinet)

sex

failed class in college

car wreck (Jilly driving, Sia in the passenger seat)

love

lost job

date with Jackson

“You forgot first best friend,” Jilly said after she'd read the list. “Of course.”

“Turn it over,” Sia said.

Jilly turned the paper.
First (and only) best friend
was written on the back. She grinned.

“
Do you like maps?” Jack said.

“I love maps.”

Sia unwrapped the world map from the shiny blue paper and unfolded it on the bed.

“Happy anniversary,” Jack said. Then he pinned the map on the wall behind them and they crawled into bed with a guidebook to China.

“I want to go to Tibet,” Sia said.

They turned the pages slowly.

“Ooh, and Xian to see the terra-cotta warriors. And Shanghai and Beijing. Here, listen to this . . .”

“Sssshhhh,” Jack said, burrowing under the sheets. “I'm going to follow the treasure map right now.” He pulled Sia's panties down her thighs.

She giggled.

As Jack burrowed deeper, his muffled voice just barely made it to the surface.

“What did you say?” Sia asked, lifting the sheets.

“Do you like maps?”

“Oh, I loovvve maps.” She giggled again.

“Me, too,” Jack said.

•  •  •

In the morning, they stuck pins in all the places they wanted to visit in China. And the next night they bedded down with a guidebook to Peru.

Then Italy.

And Bali.

And Ireland.

Vietnam.

Russia.

South Africa.

India.

Egypt.

“S
o what now?” Sia moved toward the sunroom where Toad was still planted in the same chair.

“I'd like to take him in,” Richard said.

“To the station?”

Richard nodded.

“How come?”

“We've got a psychologist who will want to talk to him. And my superiors probably will want a go at getting some information. He had to have come from somewhere.”

“Yeah, I know, but the station, Richard? Come on. He doesn't have to spend the night in jail, does he?”

“No, I don't think that's where we are in this. As far as we know, the man hasn't done anything wrong. But I don't know where else to put him right now.” He checked his watch.

While he leaned on a table to take a few notes, Sia looked from the ceiling to the floor to the ceiling again. The fish was pirouetting, and all kinds of crazy things were whirling in her head. The one that felt closest and most right was the feeling that it was her mission to return this man to his family.

My mission?
she thought.
What mission?

And then before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Richard, Toad can stay with me tonight.”

Once the words were out there, the fish settled and there was this pause . . . this long, charged pause . . . that seemed to last forever.

Richard stood, tucked his notebook in his pocket, cocked his head to one side, and looked at her. “Sia, do you think that's a good idea? I mean . . .” Clearly the noble king didn't want to bring up the obvious. He was trying, as usual, to be respectful and discreet, and unlike Jilly, he was trying like hell not to say,
THIS IS CRAZY. YOUR HUSBAND DISAPPEARED LAST YEAR
. After a few moments of silent deliberation, he settled on, “That's a big responsibility, you know.”

Sia laughed. “Nicely done,” she said, “but I can't bear the thought of Toad spending the night at the station. He's not guilty of anything.”

“He could be. We know nothing about this man.”

“It will be okay. Besides, I don't want to disappoint Gumper.”

Through the doorway, she could see Gumper still lying in the sunroom at Toad's feet. He'd rolled onto his back and was pressing his paws against Toad's legs.

“Look at him, Richard. Taking Toad away right now would be like taking away his favorite rawhide.”

Richard poked his head into the sunroom. “I see what you mean. Okay, tell you what. The day is getting on, and it's too late to get things moving now. He can stay here tonight, and I'll be back in the morning to fetch him. After that, I don't know what we'll do. Deal?”

“Deal,” Sia said. She moved farther into the doorway and looked at Toad. He was sitting exactly as they'd left him—folded in a chair, hands on his knees, looking out the window.

•  •  •

Richard stuck his head back in after closing the screen door behind him. “Odyssia?”

“Mm.”

“I hate to have to ask this . . .”

“She didn't see anything.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mrs. Windwill? That's what you want to know, right? Did Mrs. Windwill see Toad appear on the beach this morning?”

Richard propped open the screen door with his foot and looked at the ground. Two flies grabbed their opportunity and zipped inside. “Well, yes. Of course, I'll go talk to her. . . .”

“No need, Richard. She didn't see a thing.”

“You talked to her?”

“I called her.”

“When?”

“Just after I called you.”

“And?”

“She slept in. Had a headache. Took a sleeping pill. And slept in.”

“Really?”

“It doesn't seem possible, does it?”

Richard shook his head.

“She's useless,” Sia said. “A fake. A fraud. A charlatan.”

•  •  •

The Dogcatcher watched Richard climb into the black-and-white cruiser. He was kind. He sometimes gave her a new coat or coupons for hamburgers at McDonald's. In the winter when it got bitter cold, he always came to her spot under the bridge, sat next to her in her cleverly built lean-to, and talked up and down about weather and traffic and his brother until he finally got around to asking if she'd come to the shelter for a good night's rest out of the wind. Usually she said no, but even then, he always returned with an extra blanket, a hat, a thermos of hot tea, and a couple of sandwiches to help her through the night. A couple of times he even brought a hot water bottle that steamed in the crisp air.

Post-Jackson Word Association

Instructions: Answer as quickly as possible with the first word that occurs in your mind.

THERAPIST:
head

SIA:
pussy

THERAPIST:
narrow

SIA:
passage

THERAPIST:
stem

SIA:
originate

THERAPIST:
green

SIA:
moss

THERAPIST:
hunger

SIA:
bear

THERAPIST:
to marry

SIA:
to lose

THERAPIST:
foolish

SIA:
me

THERAPIST:
to sin

SIA:
to love

. . .

Sia's house was one of the many in town that came with a historic society shingle:

Historic House

Built by Alex Johnson

Shipwright

1840

“What's a shipwright?” M had asked when Sia and Jackson had first fallen for the house.

“A shipbuilder,” Sia said.

“The soul of a ship,” Jackson said as he looked out to sea.

M smiled. “That's why we all love you so, Jackson Dane,” she said.

•  •  •

“Should we buy it?” Jack asked.

Sia nodded. “As long as we can paint it.”

It was yellow.

“Blue?” Jackson asked.

“Yep. Can we afford it?”

“Sure. We can even put in a new kitchen as soon as you sell that third novel of yours.”

Sia smacked his arm. “No pressure, huh?”

Jack kissed her. “Just saying . . .”

Sia lay down on the floor of the guest room and stuck her head under the bed. As she did, a herd of dust mice woke and raced in frantic circles. She reached through them and pulled out a plastic bin marked “J's Pajamas.” She stood and opened it on the bed. There were three sets: the threadbare dancing bears, the fancy silk, and a plain blue cotton set Jackson had never worn. She had dust mice stuck to her hair and one eyebrow.

•  •  •

After the late-night news, Sia got up to go to bed. She stood next to Toad for a few moments trying to figure how to wake him. She coughed and cleared her throat loudly, but it was as if he'd fallen into a coma. His breathing was rhythmic and steady, slow, and like everything else about him, silent. His head lolled to the right and behind his left ear, she saw the small star-shaped wound. The skin was puckered and bright pink with a narrow slit through its middle. Bigger than a freckle but smaller than a mole.

•  •  •

Camouflaged by dark and shadow, the Dogcatcher stood on an upturned bucket. She gripped the window ledge and pressed her nose against the glass. When Gumper-Lady reached out and touched the man in the black suit behind the ear, she slipped away.

•  •  •

Toad woke the second time Sia touched him. This time on his shoulder. And when he opened his eyes, she almost leaned down to kiss him. He looked so forlorn and sad, all she could think was,
Is this how I've looked over the past year?

But she didn't kiss him. Instead she gestured for him to follow her, and a few minutes later, they made their way up the staircase, Gumper thumping along between them. When they reached the guest room, Sia paused. The door was open, and Jackson's blue pajamas lay folded on the bed. The open window looked out over the sea. A breeze raised the white curtains.

“Better than the police station, don't you think?” she said. Toad followed her into the room and stood in the center like a totem pole. He stared out the window as she busied herself with the pillows. She handed him the pajamas, then pointed to the bathroom. “You can shower there,” she said, “and you can wear these.” She patted the pajamas. “They were . . . well, it doesn't really matter whose they were. I'm saying that you can wear them, so you can wear them. They'll probably be a little short for you, but that doesn't matter much, does it? They'll definitely feel better than that suit.” She was rambling. While Toad stood holding the pajamas, she folded down the sheet. When she was done, she moved to the door.

“Gump,” she said, “time to go,” but he had already jumped up on the bed and was settled in near the bottom.

“What? You're sleeping here?” She didn't know whether to be hurt by the snub or impressed by his immense sensitivity.

Gumper licked his lips and looked at her.

“Okay, okay,” she said, and then, “Good night, Toad.” It was the first time she'd said his name out loud to him and it felt strange on her tongue . . . even though it felt so natural in her head. He was still looking out the window and didn't turn when she spoke. She closed the door behind her.

•  •  •

That night, like many nights since Jackson's disappearance, Sia couldn't sleep. She turned like a rotisserie chicken:

¼ turn. ½ turn. ¾ turn. Flip.

Left side. Back. Right side. Stomach.

¼ turn. ½ turn. ¾ turn. Flip.

•  •  •

In the middle of the night, she fell asleep and dreamed she was standing at the window looking out at the sea. Toad was standing behind her holding her breasts, his thumbs rubbing hard across her nipples. He was wearing Jackson's pajama bottoms and his bare chest pressed up against her. His hands were large and strong, and her breasts were balls of fire. Somewhere between sleep and consciousness, she rolled onto her stomach, pressed her fingers against herself, and rubbed hard until she came. An orgasm rolled through her like a wave and she cried out into her pillow. Afterward, she breathed her way back to sleep.

“The first ti
me you got lost,” M said, “you were three years old.”

This story always began the same way, and although Sia didn't remember the incident, she'd heard the story so many times she could see it almost as clearly as M.

“Where were we?” Sia asked.

“You were doodling about in the backyard sandbox, digging for potato bugs. Daddy was at work. I was talking to Mrs. Dixon near the laundry post.”

Sia remembered the laundry post near the cherry tree and the cherry tree behind the pussy willow tree. The sandbox, she knew, was on the other side of the yard.

“I only looked away for a second,” M said. “Truly, Odyssia, only a second.” Her words brimmed with so much guilt that no amount of forgiveness from Sia or the universe would ever rid her of it. For M, it had been a symbol, a sign, like everything else in her life, and from that moment on, she'd known that eventually her darling, golden Odyssia would be lost again. It was just a matter of time.

“When I turned back to the sandbox, you were gone. Your sweet pink shovel and yellow bucket were still sitting right there on the big pile of sand, and your collection of potato bugs was making its escape, but you, my sweet Odyssia? You were gone.”

If the lovely, nutty, muumuu-wearing, best-next-door-neighbor-in-the-world Mrs. Dixon was around when M was telling this story, she always leapt in at this point: “When your mom realized you weren't in the sandbox, she spun ten times in a mad frenzy trying to catch a glimpse of your bright red shirt in the yard.” Then she'd bend deeply at the knees and spin in wild circles just like M had way back when, her muumuu blossoming around her.

As the realization of Sia's disappearance deepened, the search became frantic. M and Mrs. Dixon ran around yelling for Sia. “We hollered,” M always explained, “until every mother in the neighborhood ran from her house to help.”

Fear led them to the likely places: the giant sewer pipe at the bottom of the hill where water ran and pooled in places deep enough to drown a fallen three-year-old, the monkey bars in the neighbor's yard that Sia had learned to scale but not yet descend, and the tangle of forsythia bushes where an angry, scraggly, possibly rabid raccoon had taken refuge just the week before but had so far eluded capture.

Not unexpectedly, Sia hadn't chosen the likely places. M didn't even find footprints in the mud near the mouth of the sewer drain.

“It was as if you had evaporated,” M said, “and right then, my whole world collapsed.”

Just as Mrs. Dixon was racing inside to call the police, a woman from three neighborhoods away crossed the Winchells' yard carrying Sia in her arms.

“Your bright red shirt,” M always said, “gleamed like a peony in the afternoon sun.” Tears would roll down her face as she spoke. “As this woman, my savior, passed you into my arms, my world expanded again. I grabbed you ferociously. Like a mama bear pulling her cub out of danger.”

“She growled and spit, too,” Mrs. Dixon liked to add. “By the time she was done, you were slick as a newborn kitten.”

•  •  •

Before Jackson's disappearance, Sia used to laugh whenever her mother showed such passion. Her panic seemed ridiculous. Over the top. But ever since, she just closed her eyes and cried.