"That's what I'm asking," I said. "I get there, carrying all that money, what makes you think they won't try to keep me, too?"
Tomlinson said, what had happened was, he'd met a woman in Key West, the night of Fantasy Fest, and she'd talked him into taking her on an extended cruise.
"Julia DeGlorio," Tomlinson told me. "That's her name. I'd let you talk to her but she's up in the room right now. Very handsome woman; Cuban-American. Her family came over January second, 1959, and she was born nine, ten years later. In New Jersey. That was the day after Fidel came to power. January second, I mean."
I was thinking: Julia DeGlorio-a feminized Spanish version of July of Glory. It was in July 1953 that Fidel Castro and his followers made their failed attack on the Moncada Garrison in Santiago de Cuba, thus beginning the revolution. A very important month in Cuban history and a very, very strange name for the daughter of Cuban exiles.
Into the phone I said, "Nineteen fifty-nine? No kidding. It's really been that long?"
"Fidel, you mean? Yeah…" Said it like: "Who else?" Then he said, "So Julia's in her twenties. Pretty little young thing. The way I met her, I was sitting at a table at Louie's Backyard-I'm talking about Key West now-and I was talking to a bunch of people. Not the freaks like I was hanging out with but Key West straights. Sitting there thinking, 'How the hell did I end up with these people?' as I was telling them about myself. What my life was about, some of the places I'd…" Tomlinson's voice faded, became garbled. Then I heard him say, "You remember Jimmy Gardenas?"
"Jimmy? Sure-"
"Top Key West guide; an old buddy of yours. Now he runs Saltwater Anglers, the fly shop? Jimmy's there and he tells me, 'Tomlinson, you're too drunk to deal with human beings. You're going to wear yourself out trying. Go back to Duval Street. Better yet, go back to the boat. The strain's beginning to show.' "
"That sounds like Jimmy."
"Um-huh; pretty good advice. I mean I had seriously over-served myself. Rum and some really first-rate Jamaican Blue."
Drugs. Tomlinson was doing drugs again, not even attempting to pretend he wasn't. I could hear his doctor telling me, "Sometimes they regress; go back to the way they were when they were kids. Or teenagers. Sometimes they have to revisit what they were to re-establish who they are."
Into the phone, I said, "Really drunk, yeah. I'm with you," as Dewey, in bra and panties, caught my attention and mouthed the question, Tomlinson?
I nodded, covered the receiver, said: "He's in trouble."
Watched her expression change, becoming serious, and she began to dress, listening to me talk-playtime over.
Tomlinson said, "So there's this woman at the table and she leads me out. It's Julia. Says she was getting tired of that group, too, but she loved what I'd been saying."
I asked, "What was it you were saying?"
"How the hell am I supposed to remember, man? I was screwed-up; doing some serious vision-seeking. I remember telling them a bit of my life history… you know, most of the high points. Dual doctorate, divinity and sociology. My mail says The Reverend Sighurdhr Tomlinson for a reason, right? Asked if anyone at the table needed any spiritual guidance. That much I remember. Then the nuts 'n bolts stuff like being struck by lightning and raised from the dead. That the doctors wanted the respirator off, so God had to take things into His own hands. Waited for the third day and-ZAP!-turned on the juice. Nothing outrageous- not like I was knocking over chairs and offending people. I pretty much gave them the straight scoop: that I am an alien being who is in spiritual contact with distant galaxies, and that I was sent to earth on a mission I have yet to understand."
"You told the girl that?"
"Julia and the others at the table, yeah. What? You want me to lie?"
"No… no, I certainly wouldn't want you to lie. You mention anything about cutting cane in Cuba?"
"Goddamn, Doc, who cares? I'm talking about my boat."
"Or your support for the revolution? There's a reason I'm curious-"
Tomlinson said, "Christ, arguing with you is like arguing with the multiplication table."
"I'm trying to figure out how you ended up in Cuba, that's all."
Heard a groan of exasperation. "Good grass and cheap rum, that's how. Times I've been in Key West, almost everything I ever did, the story always starts the same…"
The way Tomlinson got to Cuba was that Julia DeGlorio had moved aboard his boat and talked him into sailing for Cay Sal, a cluster of uninhabited islands about eighty miles east-southeast of Hawks Channel marker, and only about thirty miles off the northern shore of Cuba. She wanted to go to Cay Sal, Tomlinson said, because she had heard that no one else went there.
"Julia was sure right about that," he added.
Controlled by the Bahamian government, Cay Sal is a cluster of sandbanks with a lone shack built for the customs official who kept a watch on the islands and who, upon their arrival, refused to allow Tomlinson and his girl to land. "I asked him if it was because I was an American," Tomlinson told me, "and he said, 'No, mon, it 'cause you a damn hippie!' The man didn't even know me and he's passing judgment. Jeesh! And it wasn't like I was holding any drugs. All used up by then, I'm sorry to say."
So they had spent a week gunkholing around the islands-lots of drinking, lots of nude sunbathing-before setting sail back to Key West. "That's when the trouble started," Tomlinson said. "We left Cay Sal Bank about dusk. By then I knew Julia well enough to trust her to stand watch. Understand, we'd spent a couple weeks bumming around the Keys, then a couple more weeks on the boat before we headed for Cay Sal. The woman knew her way around No Mas and I felt comfortable leaving her at the wheel.
"So that evening I got us into deep water and set the autovane for 305 degrees-Key West, right? Then I went below to get some sleep because I was going to stand the twelve-to-two and the dog watch. Julia was going to handle it until midnight. Next thing I know, I wake up and my boat's dolphining in what feels like heavy sea and we're luffing. A norther's blown up and I go topside to find we're in some serious shit. Waves are crashing over a reef directly astern and there's a gunboat off our bow with people shouting at us in Spanish. It's pitch dark, near midnight, and I have the hangover from hell, but I'm still alert enough to realize that we have suffered a terrible navigational error. We're in fucking Cuba, man.
"The gunboat takes us in tow-gad! What a nightmare that was!-and they haul us into Havana Harbor where these Cuban bulls search my boat, steal some of my best equipment, then try to shake me down for a five-thousand-dollar towing fee. I don't have it. Hell, I'd just barely had time to get into my hidey-hole and sneak the two grand into my shorts. They search my boat again, then move us downtown to a hotel where they're charging me two hundred bucks a night for a room against the worth of my boat. That's why we're thinking about moving up the street to the Havana Libre. A little cheaper hotel-if they'll let us."
"Did you offer them a bribe?"
"Sure. Told them I had a couple hundred bucks they could have if they'd turn me loose, forget the whole thing. This Comandante guy-the crew chief; whatever he was- he tells me, yeah, it's a deal. Only he can't let me go until tomorrow. Like manana. Everything's manana down here. So I slip him the dough and that's the last we've seen of the comandante.
I had to keep reminding myself that the authorities might be listening. "Geeze," I said, "like some kind of deal out of the movies. So they question you or anything? Or did they believe your story right off?"
"Took me in a room and slapped me in the face a couple times-"
I winced, hearing that. Tomlinson's brain had been banged around too much already.
"-asked me if I knew anything about Alpha Sixty-Six or maybe Brothers to the Rescue. Like I was some kind of Cuban-American spook come back to help overthrow Fidel. You know, one of those right-wing Miami groups? I told them, talk to Fidel. Maybe he'd remember meeting me and my comrades back in seventy-one. Came down here in a gesture of solidarity; shook the man's hand and had our pictures taken. Huey Ne
wton, man! He was there. Now they're treating me like some kind of bourgeois stiff. I say, 'Ask Fidel,' and it really gets a big laugh. I'm telling you, Doc-the old days, they're gone forever!"
I thought: Goodbye, good riddance. "And you with a hangover," I said.
"The hangover from Planet Zoltare."
"Drinking that heavy before sailing the Florida Straits. You should have known better."
The groan again. "I'm really not in any mood for lectures right now. You hear what I'm saying? They're taking my money, they've taken my boat, so this little excursion, frankly, is beginning to lose its vacation feel. Besides, I didn't drink that much. Just a couple of beers. Six-pack maybe? So maybe it was food poisoning. Like some bad guacamole." Tomlinson paused, then sounded as serious as he can sound: "You want me to ask for it? I will. I need help, Doc. I need you to get down here with some money and spring me. That's what I'm asking."
I wanted to explain why I was so reluctant; why it would be so dangerous for me to return to Havana. Instead, I said, "Isn't there an American Embassy or something there? I could wire you the money."
"No embassy, just an American Interest Section. I already checked. A couple of people who work out of the Swiss Embassy; acted like they could care less. Said I ought to be arrested, an American breaking the law by coming to Cuba."
I had attended a reception once at the Swiss Embassy, out east of Havana near Miramar; could picture it: big colonial house with wrought-iron gates, banyan trees dropping red berries on the shaded sidewalks; part of Embassy Row.
I said, "I'll get the money to you, Tomlinson."
"When? When can you get here?"
Today was Friday. I did so little banking I wasn't certain if banks were open or not on Saturday. I said, "Soon as I can. Friday next week at the latest."
"Shit! That long?"
"I'll do my best-but I want you to answer this: Does the girl know where you keep your money?"
"Julia? Sure. We're staying in the same room. Not that she's around much. Every day she disappears, comes back late."
"Does she say where she goes?"
"Nope, and I'm not the type to press."
"Do me a favor and move your money. Don't tell her where."
"But why, man?"
I said, "Because I think it's the smart thing to do. Think back: Once you got to Cay Sal, did she begin to act strange; maybe a little distant?"
"Well… matter of fact, she did. Actually canceled bedroom privileges. Not that she'd given me bedroom privileges to begin with, man, but I had high hopes. I don't have to tell you that out there on the high seas, what a downer it is to have your crew tell you the nookie lamp is not gonna be lit. How'd you know?"
I repeated, "Move your money."
Tomlinson said, "Okay, okay-but you're not helping this damn paranoia I've been fighting." Then in a frailer voice, he said, "I mean it, Doc. I'm scared and I keep getting these absolutely killer headaches. Get down here 'cause I can't take much more."
I said, "I can tell."
Dewey said, "Did you hear what I said?"
I looked up and said, "Huh?"
She was sitting beside me on the armrest of the reading chair, arms folded, studying me. "For the last few minutes, it's like you were in a coma. Didn't hear a word I was saying."
"Yeah… well…"
"You want me to leave?"
I looked up again and said, "Huh?"
She put her hands on my shoulders, gave me a little shake and pressed her face nose-to-nose with mine: gray-blue eyes becoming huge. "What the hell's the problem? Tomlinson's in trouble, that's all you told me. What kind of trouble?"
I stood and went to the little ship's refrigerator; rummaged around until I found a beer. Popped it open and began to pace slowly around the room. Then I spent the next few minutes telling her what had happened, sorting it out in my own mind.
When I had finished, she said, "If he's that scared, why doesn't he leave his boat and fly home? What's the big deal?"
"It's his boat. The only home he's had for fifteen, maybe twenty years."
"But if he's that scared-"
"I know what you're saying. If Tomlinson were rational, yeah, maybe that's exactly what he'd do. Cut his losses.
But he's never been rational. And on the phone just now, he sounded… lost. Like some misguided teenager who's close to being out of control."
"You need to help him, Doc."
"I know. That's what I've been thinking about-how?"
"If it's the money you're worried about. I've made some pretty good investments-"
"No, I've got it. I'll have to wait until the bank opens."
"Why can't you send it down? Or have somebody take it for you?"
"We're not allowed to take or spend money there. Americans, I mean. We can go to Cuba-that's legal. But you have to go penniless and come back penniless. It's part of the embargo. Department of Treasury."
"You have any Canadian friends?"
"Yeah, but none who know how to deal with Tomlinson. If we pay the money and they still refuse to hand over his boat-that's a real possibility-then Tomlinson may well slip over the edge."
"It's got to be you, then."
"That's what I keep coming back to."
Dewey said, "So let's hop the next plane to Havana," giving it a let's-turn-it-into-an-adventure inflection. "My calendar's open, buddy."
"If I go, I'm going alone."
"Bullshit. My life's in what you'd call a transitional period. A little adventure is just what I need."
"No way, Dewey. You're very good at what you do, but going down there, carrying money to a place like that, it's serious. You don't know anything about it."
"You do? The hermit biologist talking. Like you're an expert."
I let it pass; said nothing.
She said, "What you're forgetting is that Tomlinson's a friend of mine, too. You book a seat, I'll book a seat on the same flight. I don't need your permission."
What I wanted to tell her I couldn't tell her. So I said, "I'm going to bed. I need to think about it."
5
By most definitions it was a nightmare, but to me it was simply a sleeping revisitation of a thing I had done, a thing that I loathed-accurate in terms of its sounds, its terror-but it had been so long since I had suffered the dream that I awoke sweating, fighting the urge to cry out, desperate to fling a nonexistent weapon from my hand…
Over too many nights past, before the dream began to fade with the weight of years, I'd learned to handle it more stoically.
Now it was two A.M. and I couldn't make my brain shut down.
I lay upon the foam-rubber mattress of the sleeper couch tossing and turning, aware that Dewey was just on the other side of the clothes locker, a few yards away, in my bed.
Tried to take my mind off the dream by replaying bits and pieces of our conversation, chastising myself for being so damn firm about it:
"You sleep there, Dewey, I'm sleeping here."
"What? There's something wrong with just holding each other?"
"There's more to it than that. Don't play games."
"I'm done playing games. That's what this is about."
"I know, I know, you're looking for a man to father your child. That's a lot to take for granted."
"Think back, buster. I never asked you."
"Fine. We can talk about it in the morning."
"Fine!"
Now I checked the phosphorescent numerals of my watch again. Only seven minutes since I'd last checked it…
Threw back the soft wool Navy blanket, pulled on a pair of running shorts, and tippy-toed out the door.
Blustery night with winter stars. Not quite cold enough for breath to condense, but cold enough to shock the skin and maybe help quiet my brain. I stood on the porch looking out across the bay. Watched mullet stir green arcs through the water; heard a night heron squawk. Listened to waves slap at the pilings of my house-a boat-hull sound without rhythm, without order.
Down sho
re, through the mangroves, the marina was still. I could see the bait tank illuminated by mercury lights… a wedge of yard with coconut palms… the broad window of the marina office and the silhouettes of boats. On the guardrails of one boat, Japanese lanterns were swinging in the wind. They painted the black harbor with yellow streaks. I could hear the fast metronome gonging of a halyard slapping against an aluminum mast. A hollow, hollow winter sound…
Something about the rhythm of that sound-the cadence of careful gunshots?-brought to my mind's eye the Ko-dalith vision of a person's head materializing through a rain forest gloom, the head becoming larger, more distinct, as I hunted quietly through the trees, moving nearer; my right hand raising, coming up into firing position when I was close enough… then of the head vanishing in a cloud of iridescent mist-
The damn dream again…
I had to get my mind on other things, so I forced my thoughts to consider Tomlinson and his situation.
Southward beyond the marina, beyond the high palms and rolling surf, lay Cuba. I wondered if Tomlinson was awake, standing out on the balcony of the Hotel Nacional, looking up at the same sky, the same stars, too worried to sleep.
I checked my watch again and reconsidered calling Jimmy Gardenas despite the hour. No… Even retired Key West fishing guides are the early-to-bed types.
I'd call Jimmy at his shop in the morning. Try to catch him first thing.
But I couldn't sleep. No way. So I stood there looking at the sky, thinking about what I would ask Jimmy.
There were elements of Tomlinson's story about Julia DeGlorio that troubled me. A twenty-something-year-old woman-good-looking, by Tomlinson's description-picks him up at a restaurant and talks him into taking her to Cay Sal. She, the daughter of Cuban exiles with a very, very unusual name.
Tomlinson has his charms; women love the man, there was no arguing that. Women of all sizes and ages and of varying sensibilities were drawn to him and trusted him- with good reason. Tomlinson exudes a kind of serene and nonjudgmental acceptance that women treasure. It is not an exaggeration to say that if Tomlinson said yes to all the women who wanted to mother him and coddle him and also share his bed, the man would never have to spend a night alone aboard his boat.
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