The Art of Floating (17 page)

Jilly (upon seeing the freshly laundered Toad):

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.”

Words used by the morning anchor on Coyote News to describe Toad:

debonair

suave

sophisticated

courteous

Channel 7 called him
the handsomest lost man in the world
.

Channel 11 compared him to Rock Hudson, JFK, and Gandhi.

“Gandhi?” Sia said.

Overnight and without uttering a single sound, Toad had been catapulted to international status in nearly all languages, including Portuguese, Finnish, Tagalog, Mandarin,
and
Cantonese (as well as a number of Chinese dialects), along with all of the more widely spoken Western languages: Spanish, English, French, and so on. One station even reported that Toad's photo had made its way to the Masai tribe in Africa and that Toad and the implications of his appearance on the beach were going to be discussed at an impromptu tribal meeting. (This later turned out to be an exaggeration of a very small truth.)

O-V-E-R-N-I-G-H-T.

They all called him the Silent Man. (In the same booming James-Earl-Jonesy voice.)

•  •  •

By 9:00
A.M.
, the
Today
show was reporting that Toad was the most blogged-about subject on the Internet.

“Everyone has something to say, some theory to put forth into the public forum,” Matt Lauer said. Then he read from a few blogs, including a post from a Francophile who insisted that “the finery of the Silent Man's suit highlighted in the extensive reportage” proved (without a shadow of a doubt) that he was a Frenchie and a statement from one astonishingly zealous blogger who suggested that Toad was the Second Coming of Christ.

“Christ?” Sia said to Toad. “You don't even make a noise when you sneeze.” But she kept watching.

Lauer confirmed that many bloggers were toying with the idea that Toad was from another planet. The more serious ones, he said, were speculating about from which extraterrestrial community he may have hailed and what, in fact, his mission might be. Sia was pleased to learn that few believed he'd come to Earth to slaughter humans and suck out their souls; instead, most had decided he was an ambassador of goodwill.

Ah, hope.

“It's likely,” one blogger wrote, “he can't speak yet because he is in the process of learning earthly languages. But soon . . . soon we will hear from him and we will learn of his plans.”

Sia looked at Toad and shook her head.

•  •  •

News vans found the house quickly. They crawled up the gravel lane.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
Then parked half on, half off the road.

•  •  •

The eyes of the cameras lined up on the far side of Sia's fence. The cameramen snapped what they could. Sia's front door. Honeysuckle bushes. Forsythia. A pair of shoes on the stoop. (Did they belong to the . . .
ba-ba-ba-baaaaam
 . . . SILENT MAN?)

•  •  •

“Listen to this,” Sia said to Toad, and then she read, “A romantic attachment seems to be developing between the Silent Man and Odyssia Dane, the woman who saved his life and who, only a year ago, lost her husband.” She looked up.

Toad didn't move.

“Doesn't this make you want to set things right? Tell us what's going on?”

Toad didn't move.

A photographer's head appeared in the window. Then a camera.

SNAP!

“Oh, for God's sake,” Sia said. She threw the paper in Toad's lap and marched into the other room. Gumper stood and followed her as far as the door.

“Oh, go away,” she hollered at him. “Go back to him.”

•  •  •

The Dogcatcher hovered behind the line of cameramen. Hidden by the parked vans. She craned her neck. “Click, click,” she said. “Click, click.”

•  •  •

Sia's mobile phone rang.

“Did you see it?” Jilly said.

“Yes,” Sia said.

“Is it true?” Jilly's voice was high and bright.

“That Toad is the Second Coming of Christ?”

“No. You know . . . the one about the romantic attachment. Have you fallen for Toad?”

“In the twelve hours since you last saw us?”

“Why not? Some of the best romances happen overnight.”

“I'm hanging up now.”

“Wait!”

“What?”

“What are you going to do next? With Toad, I mean?”

“I'm going to find his home,” Sia said. “I don't know how, but I'm going to get him home.”

T
oad lifted Sia's arm and turned it so the tender side of her wrist was exposed. He ran his fingers lightly from her palm to the inside of her elbow and back. Every gripped-tight muscle in her body relaxed and let go. She was water and sea. She was starfish, five points reaching out to all ends of the Earth.

When Sia woke, moonlight was pouring like quicksilver through the window, creating a small lake in the center of the bed. Toad was staring out at the sea.

“H
ow are you doing with the army of reporters camped outside your house?”

Sia glared at her therapist. “How do you think I'm doing?”

“I asked you first.”

“It sucks.”

“A little more, please?”

“It sucks balls.”

“Sia?”

Sigh. “Fine. Have you ever gone out to the island at the height of winter birding season?”

“No.”

“You should. It's hilarious. Fifty birders huddle in a tight knot as close to the pond as they dare. They get there before dawn to compete for the most strategic spots. Each has a gigantic telescope, but all turn their scopes on the same exact cormorant or grebe at the same exact time. Then one birder narrates that bird's activities.”

“I don't understand.”

“One birder is the narrator. Like this: ‘He's standing on one leg. He's lifting his wing. He's scratching, look, everyone, he's scratching with his left foot. He's lowering his wing. He's closing one eye. He's opening it again. He's lifting his right foot.'”

“
He
is the bird?”

“Yep.”

“The narrator says all this?”

“Yep.”

“To the people who are watching the same bird?”

“Yep.”

“Why do they need a narrator if they can see it themselves?”

“My point exactly.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Makes you want to psychologize a birder, doesn't it?”

Pause.

“How does this relate back to the reporters hanging out on your stoop?”

“They do the same thing. They're just like the birders.”

“How so?”

“They all keep their cameras aimed at my house, but they've got a narrator who narrates all of my and Toad's movements. Like this: ‘Odyssia is opening the door. Odyssia is coming out onto the stoop. The Silent Man is behind her. The Silent Man is wearing a new pair of shorts. The shorts are blue. Yesterday the Silent Man was wearing gray shorts.' Here they sometimes pause to ask a question: ‘Do you think the shorts belong to Odyssia's lost husband or did she buy them at the store?'”

“All this goes on every day, Sia?”

“Every day.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Surprised I haven't gone ballistic, aren't you?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to.”

“I was just thinking that that's a lot of pressure on you right now. And I'm glad you called me for an extra session.”

“Like I said earlier, it sucks balls.”

•  •  •

“Jil? What are you doing?”

Jilly looked up. Guilty. “Building something.”

Sia picked up the box of tinfoil from the sand. It was empty. “I see that. What is it?”

Jilly looked back at her project. A waist-high cone covered in tinfoil. Wires poking from the top. A few lightbulbs jutting out here and there. A small radio-control box next to the contraption on the sand. “It's an alien beacon. For Toad.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“No. I want to help him find his way home as much as you do.”

Sia plucked the paper from Jilly's hands and read out loud, “How to Build an Alien Beacon.”

•  •  •

The sign at the Unitarian Church read:

Common sense is the knack for seeing things
as they are, and doing things as they ought to be done.
(Harriet Beecher Stowe)

The
first question Jackson ever asked was, “Do you like frogs?” But before Sia could answer, he asked, “What about snakes? Do you like snakes?”

“Yes,” she said, even though she'd only been introduced to two: the garter snake her father had shown her when she was young and the giant boa constrictor she'd gotten to pet at the library as a prize for winning first place in the summer readathon when she was ten.

“How do pictures of war make you feel?” she said.

“They make me want to stand in front of the tanks and yell ‘Stop,'” Jackson said.

“They make me cry,” Sia said.

Jackson smiled. “Do you like cities or towns?”

“Towns. When did you start wearing glasses?”

“In fifth grade. Do you have a bicycle?”

“Two. What kind of pie do you like?”

“Black raspberry. And apple. How do you sleep?”

“On my belly. How many siblings do you have?”

“Seven. You?”

“None. Can you swim?”

“With my hands tied behind my back. Can you dance?”

“Only with my eyes closed. You're a Curious George.”

Jackson smiled. “You're curiouser.”

“I'm a writer,” Sia said.

“I'm a scientist.”

“I name things.”

“I save things.”

“I feel things.”

“I say things.”

They smiled. Every time they met, they asked questions. At first, they sat across from one another in restaurants, lobbing inquiries back and forth across the table and sharing French fries, but within weeks they took seats next to one another. They held hands and buttered each other's bread. Sia poured wine and Jackson ordered dessert. By their tenth date, they were leaning against one another as they asked questions and they forgot to look at the menu. When the waiter arrived to take their order, they didn't know what they wanted.

Jackson whispered in Sia's ear. “What do you want?”

“You,” she said.

The waiter brought their usual order: French fries and steamers.

Within a few weeks, they moved on to favorites.

Favorite color?

Him, burgundy.

Her, peach.

Favorite food?

Him, steamers.

Her, lobster.

Favorite smell?

Him, pine.

Her, lavender.

Favorite place?

Him, woods.

Her, beach.

Favorite person?

Him, her.

Her, him.

Because they were so giddy with each other, they saved least favorites for a day when rain thundered down. And then, curled in a dark corner of an Italian restaurant, Sia admitted little patience for beef stew and lying. Jackson confessed intolerance for liver and prejudice. They agreed that war was wrong and that all children deserved a good home.

When Sia said, “I'm allergic to strawberries, but sometimes I eat them anyway. I can't resist,” Jackson laughed. “It's not a deadly allergy, I hope.”

“Not yet.”

“Roller coasters make me puke,” he said.

“I'll ride with my mom,” Sia promised.

And then, when they'd decided upon each other, privately.

“Dogs?”

“Absolutely.”

“Children?”

“More absolutely.”

“How many?” Sia asked.

“Eight.”

“How about four?”

“Let's start with four and see how we feel.”

•  •  •

When they got married a year later on the beach, not far from where Sia had been born, instead of reciting vows, they asked each other questions. When the minister finished his responsibilities, Jackson looked into Sia's eyes and asked, “Do you like frogs?”

“I like frogs,” Sia said. “And snakes. How does the war make you feel?”

“It makes me want to stand in front of the tanks and yell ‘Stop.' Which side of the bed do you want to sleep on?”

“The side you're on. Hot or cold at night?”

“Hot. Socks in bed?”

“Always. Pepperoni or sausage?”

“Pepperoni. Favorite person?”

“You. Favorite person?”

“You. Children?”

“Absolutely. How many?”

“Four.”

“Let's start with eight and see how we feel.”

Released wo
rldwide:

MAN FOUND ON PLUM ISLAND BEACH

DETAILS:

• The found man is described as 6'2", 210 lbs, blondish hair, hazel eyes with wounds behind ears and scars on hands and feet.
  
• The found man appeared on the beach on June 20, 2012, at dawn.
  
• The found man was wearing a suit.
  
• The found man had no identification.
  
• The found man is mute.
  

If you have any information about this man, contact the hotline at . . .

•  •  •

“He's not a found man,” Sia said. “He's a lost man.”

M and Stuart t
iptoed past a sleeping Sia curled on the couch.

“Where is he?” Stuart said, poking his head around the corner to peek into the kitchen.

“I don't know. He's got to be here somewhere. Jilly said so.”

“Well, where's Gumper? He's always at the door when we get here.”

“I know as much as you do. Keep looking.”

They tiptoed into the sunroom and stopped. Toad was in his chair looking out the window, and Gumper was curled at his feet. Toad didn't turn when they walked in, but Gumper yelped with joy and ran across the room to greet them.

“Gump!” Stuart said. “Good to see you, bud.”

Gumper grumbled happily.

“What's all the ruckus?” Sia said, walking in and rubbing her eyes. She was sweaty and her hair was stuck to the side of her head.

M smiled.

“Oh, it's you two,” Sia said. “I knew you'd show up.” She leaned over and hugged M. “Well, don't just stand there. Come over and meet the man of the hour.”

They shifted to Toad's side of the room, and though Toad didn't look up, Stuart said hello and smiled.

M's mouth dropped open. “Holy cow, Odyssia. Jillian isn't exaggerating, is she?”

Sia shook her head. “Nope, he's pretty good looking.”

“And he's going to be here how long?” M said.

“Sshh, Mom. Not here. In the kitchen.”

“I'll take Gump for a walk,” Stuart said.

“He won't leave Toad, Dad, but if you want, you can take them both.”

“Really?” Stuart said.

“Really.”

•  •  •

It was Saturday night, and every Saturday night since Jackson's disappearance and the reopening of Sia's house, M and Stuart had appeared—uninvited—for dinner.

“But I don't like to cook anymore,” Sia told them again and again.

“We know,” M always said, “but we had takeout last night.”

It was a lie, and Sia knew it. Every week they brought a new fib:

we were in the neighborhood

we needed to drop off your ________ (baking dish, sweater, seeds, etc.)

we heard you were under the weather

we're so hungry we can't wait until we get home

and so on

But really, they just needed to see her, touch her, make sure she was whole.

•  •  •

Sia followed M into the kitchen.

“Are you okay, Odyssia?” M asked.

“I think so.”

“Is he . . . ?”

“Mom, I told you. Yes,” Sia said. “Toad is fine. Very safe to have around. No need to hide the knives.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Richard has entrusted him to me, and you know Richard wouldn't do a thing like that if he thought there would be any trouble.”

“Entrusted him to you?” M said. She looked out the window at the trio making its way down the beach, followed by a few photographers. “For how long?”

“I don't know, Mom. I guess until we can get him home.”

M nodded. “Any idea where home is yet?”

Sia shook her head.

“Okay, sweetie. Just be careful and take care. That heart of yours is pretty tender.”

“No kidding.” As Sia watched Toad with Stuart and Gumper, the little fish swam laps in her middle.

“What about those reporters?” M moved to the other side of the house and peeked out a window. “Your dad had to jimmy a spot with his elbows in order to get us through your gate.” When the curtain moved, the gangly geek from Channel 7 shouted and the entire gaggle jumped to attention . . . cameras raised . . . boom mikes poised. Walloping waves of energy emanated from them . . . the prayer . . . the plea . . . that Sia would step out of her house and talk to them.

“They're making me crazy,” Sia said.

M returned to the kitchen. “Why aren't more of them on the beach? Seems like a missed opportunity.”

“I heard murmurings of sand in the equipment and tide charts. Wusses. If they don't get out of here soon, I'm going to buy a BB gun and start target practice.”

“Oh, you would never do such a thing. Maybe you should try making friends.”

“Don't start, Mom.”

“I'm just suggesting it might be helpful to get them on your side.”

“No.”

“What harm can it do if they're going to be out there anyway?”

“No.”

“Okay, okay,” M said. “Right now I propose we feed your guest one of our most excellent tuna casseroles.”

•  •  •

An hour later, Stuart set four places at the table and M made four salads. During dinner, they spoke to Toad directly but didn't wait for answers or grimace when none came. Stuart rolled on the floor with Gumper like he always did.

“Have you written anything, baby?” M asked. Her voice was always tender when she asked this, but insistent. She would not let Sia go down. She would not let her sink. Even though she had to serve as both buoy and ocean for a while, she'd do whatever it took to keep Sia afloat.

Sia looked at the lump of macaroni and tuna, speckled with peas, on her plate. Then she looked at Toad. “Actually I did. I wrote a list.”

M looked at Stuart. “You did?”

“Yes, a list about Toad.”

M smiled and closed her eyes.

“Good for you, sweetie,” Stuart said.

Between salad, tuna casserole, and bowls of chocolate ice cream, Sia told them everything, even though they'd already heard most of it from Jilly.

“Any leads?” Stuart said.

“Nope.”

“Any ideas at all?”

“None.”

•  •  •

After dinner, Toad dozed off in his chair, and as always, Gumper lay down by his side.

“Gump really likes this guy,” Stuart said.

“It's more than that, Dad,” Sia said. “It's as if he has a mission with Toad. A mandate from some higher power to look out for him. He's been this way since the first moment we found Toad.”

“And you?” M said. “Maybe you have a mission, too?”

Sia shrugged.

“Well, he sure is a deep sleeper, isn't he?” M asked.

Toad's head fell to one side.

“Only when he's sitting up. At night in bed he has horrible nightmares.”

“But no words?”

“Not even any sounds.”

M stood and leaned close to study him. “Oh, what's that?” she asked, pointing at the star-shaped wound behind his ear.

Stuart leaned in, too.

“I'm not sure,” Sia said. She felt embarrassed for Toad and wanted to cover him up. “It's been there since he arrived.”

“It looks like a gill,” M said. She reached out to touch it.

“Mom, don't.”

Stuart took M's hand.

“I won't touch it,” M said, “but it looks like a gill.”

“It can't be a gill, Mom. He's a man.”

“A man you found in the sea.”

“By the sea, and let's not argue logistics.” Sia pulled them away from Toad. “I've got enough trouble with Jilly spouting theories about him being from outer space.”

“Yes, we heard,” Stuart said. “She stopped by this morning to talk it through. She's even studying the constellations to see if there's a planet that feels like a good fit.”

“Dad, she built a beacon on the beach.”

“She told us that, too. Any luck with it?” M said.

“Oh, for God's sake, Mom. For the last time, Toad is not an alien.”

M hugged Sia. “Whatever you say, sweetie. But don't be surprised if he turns out to be a fish because that”—she pointed at the wound on his neck—“looks like a gill.”