The Art of Floating (8 page)

“What do you mean, you found a man, Sia?”

“On the beach,” Sia whispered into the phone. She didn't want Toad to hear her. “This morning. A man. I found him.”

“It's not . . .” Sia's therapist let the space where Jackson's name would go hang between them.

“No,” Sia said, “it's not Jack. I don't know who it is.”

“Are you going to make it to your appointment this afternoon?”

“No, I brought him back to my house and don't want to leave him alone.”

“Sia, you brought this man back to your house?”

“It's fine. Don't worry. He's fine.”

“I'm not worried about him. I'm worried about you. What do you need right now, Sia?”

Good question.

“Sia?”

“I need this fish to stop flopping.”

“Fish? What fish?”

Sia rubbed her belly. Toad was in the other room . . . out of sight . . . and still she could feel his sadness.

“Nothing. I'm fine. I just need to take care of this. I'll be there for my appointment this week.”

“Sia, it sounds like you need to come in this afternoon.” Her therapist's voice dropped an octave; Sia hated that.

“Probably, but I can't make it. I'll see you Thursday.”

Click.

•  •  •

Twenty minutes later, Jilly. “A young Robert Redford.”

“Jil?”

“Yeah, it's me. I figured out who Toad looks like. Or at least who he'll look like once we get all that awful puffiness to go down.”

“This is what you're doing? I thought you were going to work.”

“I'm multitasking.”

“I gotta go, Jil.”

“Wait. Either a young Robert Redford or a non-druggy Robert Downey Jr. Which one?”

“Those two don't even look alike.”

“Yes, they do.”

“No, they don't.”

“Okay, what about Hugh Jackman?”

“I'm hanging up, Jil.”

“Wait . . .”

Click.

Eight months after
Bolt
rocked the reading world, Sia suffered a writerly crisis. She was hunkered down in a monthlong writing retreat in a cabin somewhere in the New Hampshire woods where the squirrels were making a heck of a lot of noise getting ready for winter and the other guest writers were making a heck of a lot of noise trying to figure out if Sia was brilliant, lucky, timely, and/or (considering the swaggle of that beautiful ass) easy.

“Richter scale?” Jackson whispered into the phone.

“Nine point one.”

“Oh, babe,” he said, “not good. You can do this. It's just a story. You're the grand dame of story.”

“But it's my sophomore novel. No one kicks ass on a sophomore novel.”

“You will.”

“I won't.”

“Call Jilly.”

“No, and you can't tell her I'm freaking out. She wants the final draft in her hands when I get home.”

“She'll wait.”

“The only thing that would make Jilly wait for this manuscript is a natural disaster.”

“Sweetie?”

“Yeah?”

“Just tell them you're easy.”

S
cavenger Hunt:

NOTE #1

Need

2 onions

oil

2 peppers (red or yellow)

Sia drove to Market Basket, rounded up the goods, and headed to the checkout line. With her change, the checkout girl handed Sia a second note.

NOTE #2

Go to Deer Island.

Once Sia had crossed the Chain Bridge, run down the slippy path, and dipped into the trees to the water's edge, another note:

NOTE #3

Catch two stripers.

Bring them to the fire pit.

Next to the note? Sia's fishing rod and tackle box, along with a box of worms.

She turned, looked into the trees for a glimpse of Jackson. Nothing.

She scanned the short, rocky river's edge. Just one guy in a bad fishing hat studying the current.

She looked up at the bridge, thinking Jack might be lingering to see how quickly she could bait the hook, but nope, not even his shadow.

She settled on her favorite rock and tossed a line. As always, the current was strong, but the Merrimack cooperated. Thirty minutes later, stripers in hand, Sia headed for the fire pit on the other side of the small island.

At the pit, another note . . . taped to a bottle of wine:

NOTE #4

Pour yourself a glass.

Watch the sun set.

And oh yeah, start the fire.

“No problem,” she said. It was one of the best sunsets she'd ever seen with a tremor of orange along the horizon, and by the time she was pouring a second glass, she saw Jackson walking toward her along the trail. He was grinning and toting a bag of goodies: skillet, spatula, knife, salt and pepper, plates, silverware, one more wineglass, and so on.

Later, after a tasty meal, one more note. This one taped to a small velvet box.

NOTE #5

Marry me?

•  •  •

“Did you know?” Sia asked Jilly later that night at the pub.

“Of course. Who do you think delivered your tackle box and rod to the island?”

Sia turned to Jackson. “How in the world did you convince our Jilly to touch a box of worms?”

Jackson laughed. “Joyful Jilly will do anything for you, the future Mrs. Odyssia Dane. Even handle a box of worms.”

“Unbelievable,” Sia said.

“You owe me,” Jilly said.

“Big-time,” Jack said.

De
finition of
Fledge

Pronunciation: /flej/ (rhymes with
ledge
and
hedge
)

Usage:
verb
(fledges, fledged, fledging)

[NO OBJECT]

(of a young bird)

1. to grow or acquire the feathers needed to fly
   
2. to leave the nest after growing or acquiring the feathers needed to fly (
   as in
   , fly the coop, say
   sayonara
   , cut loose, hightail it outta there, clear out, cut and run, skedaddle)
   

[WITH OBJECT]

1. to care for until ready for flight or independent activity (
   as in
   , rear, parent, nurture, raise, mother)
   
2. to decorate with feathers (
   for example
   , an arrow or headdress)
   

Used in a Sentence: Piping plover chicks
fledge
when they are three to four weeks old.

On the hard, poky branch of the tree, M once again consumed
The Odyssey
in great gulps. When she got lonely, she read aloud to the mosquitoes that buzzed in her ears and gnawed her ankles:

So seizing the fire-point-hardened-timber we twirled it
in his eye, and the blood boiled around the hot point, so that
the blast and scorch of the burning ball singed all his eyebrows
and eyelids, and the fire made the roots of his eye crackle.*

•  •  •

Inspired by Odysseus's drive—his single-minded determination—she wrote note after note to her daughter on the whiteboard.

NEVERTHELESS
WE SAIL ON . . .

And when she got to the part where Odysseus flagged—where it seemed he could take no more, go no further, stab no more Cyclops in the eye(s)—she pleaded.

Odyssia . . .

Then shouted.

ODYSSIA!

And when nothing worked, she—like Odysseus—appealed to Pallas Athene.

By late afternoon, Sia knew that Toad carried nothing that could identify him. No ID, no photos of children or a wife, no discount card to a grocery store, no credit cards, no driving license, no passport, no cell phone, no business card. He didn't even have a wallet. All of the items that normally define humans, the things they are so accustomed to keeping on their person and pulling out at a moment's notice, seemed to have been either removed or purposely taken from Toad. Even the tags on his clothes had been clipped off: sizes, washing instructions, brand names, everything.

“Even the tags?” Sia asked.

Richard nodded. “I checked everything.”

“Underwear?”

“Tag was clipped out.”

“Undershirt?”

“Tag was clipped out.”

“Pants?”

“Nothing.”

“This implies intention.”

“Seems so.”

“It's so strange,” Sia said. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

Richard nodded again. “His clothes are stiff as boards with salt. And the guy could really use a shower. He must be itchy as hell.”

“If he is, he doesn't show it. He's been as still as that chair over there since he got here.”

•  •  •

Sia thought of Richard as a lumbering king. He was tall and thick and had an unusual sense of nobility for a modern-day man. Unlike the rest of the officers in his station who jib-jawed to one another about cases and ran around half-assed like the yahoos in movies that spoofed police squads, Richard exuded a calm sense of propriety. Never ruffled. Never panicked. He was smart, too, in a quiet way that made Sia trust his choices.

Thankfully, he'd been the officer in charge when Jackson disappeared.

“What do you mean, Jackson has disappeared?” he'd asked slowly and evenly when Sia had called the station. The idea of it was so absurd that not even a logical man like him could wrap his head around it at first.

“He's gone,” Sia had said. “I don't know what I mean.”

He'd been the first to arrive at the house after Sia called and the last to leave once they'd completed their initial questioning.

•  •  •

“So tell me, Odyssia,” Richard said, “how did you find this guy?”

Sia liked that he used her full name. It always reminded her of M. “Good question,” she said.

“And don't leave anything out. Even the stuff you think I already know.”

Sia looked at him. Richard knew a lot about her. Way more than most people. He'd scoured her house for clues about Jack. Talked to her for sobbing hours about Jack. Eaten muffins in her kitchen while gathering information about Jack. He knew where Jack's junk drawer was, the color of the walls in their bedroom, how she looked after not sleeping for five days straight, and tons more.

“Pretend you don't know me,” he said. “I'm going to pretend I don't know you.”

“Okaaaay,” Sia said. “Here goes. Gumper and I were out for our morning walk. Every day around five
A.M.
—rain, snow, sleet, shine, whatever—the two of us walk to the old clam shack on the bay side, around to the ocean, and then home.”

“The clam shack?”

“Richard, you know the clam shack as well as I do.”

Richard shook his head innocently. “No, I'm sorry. I don't.”

“Yes, you . . .” Sia began. Then she caught on. He was serious about pretending not to know anything. “Oh, I get it.”

Richard smiled.

“It's the old one no one uses anymore,” she said. “Broken windows. Worn red paint.”

“Ah, the one just before the bend?”

“Yep, that's the one.”

“That's a good walk from here.”

“One mile down, one mile back,” Sia said.

Richard pulled a tiny digital recorder from his shirt pocket, clicked it on, and set it on the ottoman between them. It was a tiny thing, smaller even than Sia's cell phone, and for a while, she couldn't take her eyes off it.

“It's okay,” he said, “go on. Just ignore this thing.”

“We always start off on the inlet side, heading east so that we get the sun rising to our backs once we turn and hit the ocean side. Best of both worlds, you know. It's often still a bit dark when we start off so we don't have too long to look into the sun.”

“And you walk or run?”

“Gumper runs. I walk. He does circles around me and jumps into the water.”

“Gumper swims?”

“He loves it.”

“Isn't it unusual for a dog like him to enjoy the water?”

“Like him?” Sia said.

“You don't often see dogs as big and hairy as Gumper frolicking in the water. They're usually parked under a big, shady tree.”

“He's special.”

“Clearly,” Richard said. “Keep going.”

“Well, the beach is usually empty that early in the morning. It picks up around six or so, but until then, it's usually just us.”

“So when you're walking, are you aware of what's going on around you?” Richard said. “Or do you space out like most people?”

“Both,” she said. “But even when I'm spaced out, I'm hyperaware. It's how my head works. For instance, I always count the number of boats I see on the horizon and the number of fly fishermen out in their kayaks.”

“And this morning?” Richard leaned forward.

“Two kayaks, one sailboat.”

“Did you recognize them?”

“Yep, I know most everyone out on the water that early. Yancie Stockton was fishing from his kayak and so was Bill . . . Bill . . . oh, what's his last name? The guy who owns a hundred kayaks and a hundred fly rods . . . he's famous for it.”

“Bill Yeckels?”

“Yeah, you know him?”

“Not well, but well enough.”

“Yeah, so those two and then the
Nancy Jane
.”

“The sailboat?”

“Yep. Ted and Nancy Saunders own it. I don't know which of them was sailing it this morning, but I'm sure you can find out.”

“Anyone else walking on the beach besides you and Gumper?” Richard asked.

“No, but that's not unusual. Like I said, it's pretty quiet there until six or so, and by then, Gumper and I are almost home.”

“Did you notice anything unusual this morning?”

“Like what?”

“Tire tracks in the sand, objects on the beach, illegal fire pits, that sort of thing.”

Sia thought for a minute. “It's not necessarily unusual, but there was a dead otter on the road in front of the house.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Gumper must have smelled him because as soon as I opened the door to let him out, he ran from the patio to the road.”

“Big otter?”

“Nope, little guy, probably hit by a car. His injuries must have been internal because there was no blood. He was just lying there like he was sleeping. Gumper wanted to play with him, but I cleared him off the carcass and then moved it off the road. The otter was still warm, so he must have been hit not long before I arrived.”

“Did you see any cars pass the house? Any headlights before you got out of bed?”

“No, but I wouldn't. Our bedroom faces the ocean, not the road.”

“Okay, so after you moved the carcass, you went to the back of the house again and started your walk on the beach.”

“That's right.”

“Anything else?”

“No,” Sia said. “The beach was the beach. No tire tracks in the sand. No strange objects. No sounds out of the ordinary.”

“And what happened next?”

“There's not much more to tell. Gumper and I were almost to the clam shack. You know that big swath of marsh grass there, right before the bend?”

“I know it.”

“Well, I'd been watching it for a while. The green of it was pretty astounding this morning in the light and I couldn't take my eyes off it.”

“And there wasn't anybody else around?”

“Nope, I am one hundred percent sure there was no one else on that stretch of beach as we approached.”

“You're sure?”

“To the best of my knowledge.”

“And then?”

“And then we got close to the marsh grass. Well, I got close. Gumper was behind me looking for shells or something. I turned to check on him and when I looked again at the marsh grass, the guy who is now sitting in my kitchen was standing there.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. I looked up and there he was at the edge of the water. Completely saturated. Looking like he'd just swum in from Tahiti.”

“Hair wet, too?”

“Plastered to his head.”

“Was he breathing hard?”

“Breathing hard?”

“Panting. As if he'd been swimming for a while.”

Sia was quiet. She hadn't thought about that before. “No,” she finally said. “He wasn't out of breath at all.”

Richard nodded.

“This is kind of weird, huh?” she said.

“Possibly yes. Possibly no. I'm sure you've already considered why it's so strange that you, of all people, found this man. But honestly, beyond that, I don't know enough yet. Keep talking.”

“Gumper greeted the guy in his usual exuberant way, and after the shock of seeing him there wore off a little, I greeted him, too.”

“So Gumper wasn't hesitant?”

“Nope, acted like he'd known the guy all his life.”

“Is that unusual?”

“No, Gumper loves everyone, but usually when he greets someone on the beach, he's off a second later to investigate something or someone else. The unusual thing was that he stayed by Toad's side. And has ever since.”

“Toad?”

Sia looked at Richard out of the corner of her eye. “Yes. Toad. That's what I've started to call him.”

“Toad it is,” he said without breaking rhythm. “Back to Gumper, has he ever done that before? Stuck to someone so . . . so . . . passionately?”

“No, just me. And before, Jackson.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I'm not sure yet. Clearly he senses the guy needs help right now.”

“Okay,” Richard said, “so then you greeted Toad, too?”

“Yeah, I said hi a couple times, asked him how he was doing. The normal stuff.”

“And he didn't answer?”

“Not a word. He's been completely silent since I found him.”

“He hasn't said a word? Not one?”

“Nope, he hasn't even made a sound. And believe me, Jillian tried hard to get something out of him.”

Richard laughed. He knew Jillian, too. They'd gone on a couple of dates a few years back. “Well,” he said, “if Jillian Weaver failed to make the man talk, I don't know what will. He just may be silent forever.”

“That's what I thought.”

Richard leaned back in his chair. “So what do you make of this?”

“Me? God, Richard, I haven't a clue. His sudden appearance on the beach shocked the hell out of me. It was like a magic trick.”

“You don't get shocked by much, Odyssia.”

“I know. That's what makes this so weird.”

“And you're sure—sure, sure, sure—he wasn't on the beach before that moment you saw him?” He leaned forward and looked at her hard.

“Yes, I'm sure. I am one of the most observant people I know, Richard. I couldn't have missed him.”

For a few moments, they sat in silence. Richard tapped his thumb along the top edge of his coffee cup, and Sia watched a few ants powwow on the windowsill.

“Have there been any missing-person reports filed in the last few days?” she finally asked.

“Not locally,” Richard said. “I checked after we talked on the phone.”

“Statewide?”

“Not sure yet. I've got an officer working on that now.”

“Any escaped criminals?” She didn't want to ask that one, but had to.

Richard looked up from his notes. “No, none. Are you worried about that?”

“Not much. Gumper would have sniffed that out immediately.”

“I could be wrong, of course, but I don't get the feeling this man is a criminal.”

“No, I don't either, but I'd like to be sure.”

“Understandable. We'll run a check on that, too.” He stood, turned off the tape recorder, and handed his coffee mug to Sia.

•  •  •

Dozens of times since Richard and Jilly's failed series of dates, Sia and Jilly had argued about Richard's worth as a potential mate. Jilly wrote him off as boring, but Sia insisted she was wrong. Richard wasn't boring; he was just one of those guys you could depend on, the one who always said kind things, who called his girl
dearest
, who didn't make a move until the fifth or sixth date and even then nothing more than a peck. He was one of the good ones . . . not like the bozos Jilly hooked up with.

“Noble,” Sia said over and over again.

“B-O-R-I-N-G,” Jilly answered every time.

“But he's so in love with you, Jil.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

“If he is, why don't I know it?”

“He's subtle. And a little shy.”

“Screw subtle. If some guy is walking around with a hard-on for me, I want to know it.” She paused. “And feel it.” Then she cracked up laughing and fell into a chair.

“Come on, Jil,” Sia said, “he's cute. You have to admit he's cute.”

“Yeah, he's cute,” Jilly said. “I admit it. But cute alone doesn't cut it.”

•  •  •

Richard's success in life was a case of nature over nurture. Everyone in town knew that his parents had pretty much left him and his little brother to raise themselves. Sure, they'd kept the fridge stocked and took the boys for new clothes when necessary, but beyond that, parent-child interaction was minimal.

Surprisingly, both boys turned out well. William grew an impressively brilliant brain that took him not only to Stanford for his undergraduate degree on a full scholarship, but also to Harvard where he earned his medical degree, an equally brilliant wife, kudos for his successes, and eventually a paycheck that would one day allow him to choose whether to support his aging, needy parents.