"Pop, hey," said Joey, "it's—"
"It's a good thing, what ya got me ta do," the old man said. He dabbed his full lips on a napkin; his dark eyes twinkled in their deep nests of brows and wrinkles. "Ya know, it's a crazy thing: ya can be an old fart, ancient, and there's still so many things, you're like a kid, a virgin, ya just don't know how they're gonna feel. Like talking. I mean really talking, lettin' things out."
Joey broke a soggy saltine; it didn't snap, it folded. He managed only a distracted nod.
Vincente looked out across the water, at the distant mangrove islands that seemed to float a few inches in the air. "But there's somethin' I don't understand," he said.
"Whassat, Pop?"
"Writers. Ya hear about 'em, they're supposed ta be unhappy. They drink too much, they blow their brains out. ... I don't get it. I think they oughta be the happiest guys on eart'. Somethin' bothers 'em, they write it down. Someone fucks wit' 'em, they make 'im the bad guy, they make 'im an asshole. Ya know, they spit stuff out, get rid of it. They don't gotta carry shit around for forty—"
The old man broke off abruptly. Some flatness in the air made him realize, not with anger but with a slight embarrassment, that he wasn't being listened to.
"Somethin' on your mind, Joey? Somethin' botherin' ya?"
The younger man looked up from his chowder and met his father's eyes. The old man could not be lied to, lies wilted under that gaze like lettuces in August—but still, in the name of compassion, the truth could sometimes be deferred. "Yeah, Pop," Joey said. "Somethin' is. But it isn't somethin' I can go inta right now."
Vincente nodded, swallowed. He was a parent, it wounded him to be shut out from his child's pain. But Joey was a grownup, a husband, an expert in real estate; he'd earned the right to deal with things his own way. The old man reached out and put a hand on the young man's wrist. "OK," he said. "I unnerstand. But Joey, I'm your father, you can talk to me. You know dat, right?'
———
Around two o'clock Debbi woke up from her nap.
It took her a moment to remember where she was, and then she was seized by an infinite and nameless gratitude, a gratitude like waking up in the hospital, comfortable and cared for, after thinking one would die. The clean sheets felt delicious against her skin; smells of sand and jasmine filtered through the guest bedroom window. She nestled her head against the pillow and luxuriated awhile in the pure, supreme delight of safety.
After a time she got up and dressed. She found herself wanting to touch things. She ran her fingers across the weave of the wicker bureau, traced out the grooves in the paneled walls. Everything about this airy house seemed a pleasure and a solace; it seemed a house where a person could be happy.
She left her room, went to look for Sandra, and found her sitting on the patio, the low metal table now a makeshift desk littered with ledger books and yellow pads. Sandra wore big square glasses as she did accounts; the lenses smeared her eyes when she looked up at her guest. "Good morning. Coffee?"
Debbi gave a sleepy smile. "I can make it. Bring you some too?"
They took their mugs and sat on lounges near the pool. The afternoon sun had lost most of its bite; its heat was not searing but cozy. The breeze picked up a hint of coolness from the surface of the water and tickled ankles as it skittered by. "Feeling better?" Sandra asked. Debbi nodded, her lips against her cup. "I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't—"
The other woman shushed her with a wave of her hand, and for some moments the two of them sat in silence. Then Sandra said, "Debbi, I hate to ask you to go through this again—"
"No, I understand," said Debbi, and she reviewed her awful sojourn in Miami. But there was no more she could explain. Gino never told her anything; he didn't believe she could keep a secret.
He said he had to see a guy, that's all. He said he'd be back in an hour, hour and a half.
Sandra looked down along her legs to the shimmer in the pool. She said softly, "He might be dead, you know."
Debbi held her coffee mug in both her hands. It made her look very young. She only nodded.
After a moment Sandra said, "Debbi, can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"In your own mind, you were finished with him, weren't you?"
The other woman hesitated, glanced at the flickering tops of the aralia hedge. "I think I was. I hope I was."
"Stick to that," said Sandra. "Dead, alive—don't remember him as better than he was, more than he was to you. Don't do that to yourself."
Overhead, a flight of ibis went past. They seemed to be scudding lazily but their tiny shadows on the apron of the patio went by very fast.