“Not weird at all?”
She shook her head. “It was like a homecoming.” A homecoming where everyone suffered a peculiar amnesia about how they had parted. Was that what time could do, if you let it?
“Mitch is teaching literature in North Carolina … And this is cool: he has a biopic series he’s getting ready to make—”
“Of course he does.”
“It wasn’t like that at all,” Blue said. “It’s a great idea. Unfortunately, for him to have any real shot with it, he needs to film a lot sooner than he’d planned. So, I offered the use of our crew for this weekend.”
Marcy sat back and cocked her head, as if seeing Blue in a new light. “Now was that wise?”
Was it? She had no idea. Her habitual reticence was out of service. “No matter. He turned me down.”
Stephen said, “That’s what wasn’t wise. Is he clueless?”
Blue shrugged. “He seemed …” reluctant “committed to his existing plan. I told him the offer stands.” Call me if anything changes, she’d said, standing with him on the front porch, awaiting the cab. She’d noticed his scent, like Irish Spring soap and a touch of chlorine, not familiar but pleasant. I’m glad things turned out so well for you, he said. You seem happy. She’d felt happy, standing there. Comfortable, the way she’d always felt around him.
The waiter came with Blue’s wine, waited for her to taste it, and was clearly relieved when she said it was good. “You made his night,” Marcy said as he left. She rubbed her bare forearms. “Stephen, doll, would you mind running for my sweater? I’m feeling a little chilly.”
“You bet,” he said, getting up right away.
When he was gone Blue said, “That wasn’t obvious.”
“He’s had four martinis. He won’t notice. Now, I gotta say it: What are you thinking? Is this one of those ‘no hard feelings’ moves, or is it, dare I ask, the start of a ‘second-chance’ bid?”
“I told you, he’s here with his girlfriend.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Who is smart and attractive, and really nice.”
“I’m sure.”
Blue shrugged, but couldn’t hide a smile as she sipped her wine. “Okay,” she said. “It could be both. I don’t have any hard feelings, not really, and I can think of worse things than a second chance. He still looks good, he’s kind, he seems passionate about his work. I feel like … I don’t know …” Like she didn’t have to worry about being Blue. Like he could be counted on to value her for her. Like she could tell him the parts of her story she’d held back, earlier, and he would understand. He had a son. He’d be sympathetic.
She said, “One of the neighbors told me the girlfriend is brand-new, so it wouldn’t be like I was a home wrecker.”
“But just think of the free publicity we could get if you were.”
“Peter would birth a cow,” Blue said. “Anyway, I have no expectations. For all I know, he might elope with Brenda tomorrow.”
“But you hope not.”
“I honestly don’t know what I hope.” She gazed out at the black nighttime sky, the starry horizon that appeared to go on without end. Sirius was just visible, low among the glitter. In about a month, it would disappear from the northern hemisphere to bestow its power on yearners in the southern. Blue’s wish came to her in a word: Ease.
She looked back at Marcy. “He seemed to be glad our paths crossed.”
“Nice,” Marcy said, smiling. “So maybe I should call you ‘Stella.’”
Blue had to think about this. “What, because we’re at Hot Tin Roof? Stella wasn’t in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof; that was Williams’s Streetcar.” Either way, she couldn’t see the connection.
“No, not Williams. McMillan. Her Stella went down to the islands and ‘got her groove back.’”
Blue laughed. “Ah, now I get it. I never read the book—or saw the movie, either. Maybe I should try to find one or the other while we’re here. Take a lesson.”
“Looks to me like you’re doing all right just following your instincts.”
“We’ll see.”
Stephen was returning. Blue stood up with her glass in hand. “I’ll take this with me. You two have a lovely night, and I’ll catch up with you when you’re back from the dive class tomorrow afternoon.”
“Stay out of trouble,” Marcy said.
“I’m going straight to my suite, don’t worry about me.”
When she’d navigated the labyrinth of hallways and was back in the suite, she left the lights off and opened the patio doors. The ocean, turquoise in daylight, was as black as the sky and dotted with its own stars, the colored lights of boats. Earlier tonight, Kira had told of a nighttime dive out at the reef. An hour-long sail to some remote spot, then into the water with masks, fins, and tanks, and only handheld spotlights to orient themselves. Kira had found the experience of following a tiny corridor of light while sea creatures swam out of sight all around her fascinating; Blue thought it terrifying. This was how she liked to appreciate the ocean: from a balcony, with a glass of wine in hand.
She pulled the elastic band from her hair and stood at the rail taking stock. A house. An unintended reunion. And maybe, maybe a second-chance
long shot that, if it paid out, might right a lot of wrongs in her life. Not all of them, but some. Right some wrongs, and make the future something to look forward to. She had no idea how she really felt about Mitch—too soon for that—nor could she say whether he felt anything at all about her. She did know that she liked the prospect of feeling really good about him, and that was enough for tonight.
Part 2
If I am not for myself who will be for me?
And when I am for myself what am I?
And if not now, when?
RABBI HILLEL THE ELDER
13
hen his phone rang, Julian was assisting in the clinic tent, which this time meant letting a malnourished boy getting shrapnel removed from his legs play with an old point-and-shoot digital camera.
“Go ahead, take it,” Brandy said. “I’ve got this under control.”
He knew she did. He asked anyway, “You sure?”
“Yeah, go.” Her smile was impersonal, distracted. Already the separating had begun, even though he wouldn’t pack out for another week. That was the way of it, and he wasn’t sorry, not really. Only sorry he hadn’t connected better when they’d had the time.
He took the call. “Julian here.”
“Hi, J, it’s Dad.”
His father’s voice sounded odd. “Is Daniel all right?” he asked, walking toward the supply lockers where it was relatively quiet. Not another stroke. Or worse.
“Yes—everyone’s fine. It’s just that, well, there’s been a turn of events regarding Lions. Possibly. It’s like this …”
Julian listened. This was an unexpected opportunity—no, not just unexpected, remarkable. A lightning strike of good fortune, or almost. If his father could get his script in order right away. If the city would grant permission—which Blue was certain they would. If after they finished, the editing could be done quickly. “She’s offered us the use of her production lab to do it. We’ll have a much better chance of success this spring, so I’m thinking, let’s accept—if you think you can get here by this weekend.”
“Whoa—this weekend?”
“I know it’s short notice. Your grandmother said you’re leaving soon anyway, so I just thought—”
“Hold on. Blue Reynolds says this spring is ideal, but what does she know about it? She hosts a talk show.”
“She does a lot more than that, J. And English used to be her favorite subject.”
Like that made all the difference. “All right, say she does know. There’s always next spring. We’ll have most of the series done by—”
“Interest is at its height,” his father said. “Producers are looking for ways to capitalize on it right now. And while she hasn’t said it outright, you understand, there’s reason to think her production company may ev
en have interest.”
“In literature.”
“In a smart, fresh biopic series. They’d have a lot of clout with PBS—or possibly one of the cable networks.”
“So you’d sell out?”
His father sighed. “Not at all. It wouldn’t hurt us to think a little bigger, though. She offered the use of her crew, their gear, everything.”
“Is this really how you want this gig to go? A rush job?”
“It’s worth a try. Time’s of the essence.”
Julian watched the activity in the room in front of him. A dozen doctors and nurses, a sea of dusty, grungy, dark-haired people whose eyes beseeched and accused, depending. Wasn’t it always?
“So I’d have to be there by Saturday?”
“Where are you, exactly? Is it difficult to alter your travel plans?”
Julian rubbed his chin, which he’d shaved clean this morning. “I’m at a refugee camp outside Gereshk. It’s in Helmand.” Silence. “South-central Afghanistan.”
“I’m trying to place it. Has it been in the news?”
“Not likely. The camps aren’t exactly a hot topic.” One more reason for Julian to be here. Most of his work would go into a website and book project meant to raise money, and consciousness.
“In any event, I’d reimburse your plane ticket change fees. I have to be back to work the following Monday, but like I say, Blue offered to let you do the editing at her studio in Chicago. I expect you’ll be eager to get home.”
Home. He made it sound so … common.
This altered plan was not an impossible one; he did have the time, the flexibility. Still, he said, “I don’t know. Doesn’t sound like they need me.” Like his father needed him, to be more accurate.
“Maybe they don’t, but I do. I know this changes things a bit, but I thought it would still be nice to work together.”
Would it? Julian was as unsure about that as he’d been after he’d agreed to do it. It might be nice. It might be a new sort of hassle that would put another tense decade between them. They had never teamed up for anything, not even a last-minute homework assignment.
When Julian didn’t reply right away, his father continued, “I’m willing to stick to our original plan if you prefer.”
Would he stick to it? Would he, just on Julian’s say-so? The possibility made Julian weirdly uncomfortable, pleased and angry at once. Where had this understanding been, this generosity, when he’d wanted it so badly?
“I appreciate that,” he said. “It’s really your call, though, to do a rush job or not. I’m not even sure I can make the logistics work. Let me check into things and I’ll get back to you, all right?”
“Yes, absolutely. That sounds good. Let me know—as soon as possible, obviously.”
“Will do.”
“Great, okay. And … well, take care.” They hung up.
The child who had his camera was crying now. There was only so much that distraction could accomplish.
Pretending to still be occupied, Julian held his BlackBerry and acted as if he was engaged with it, pressing buttons, scrolling. What he saw on the small screen, however, was the reflection of fluorescent lights suspended overhead and, when he angled the screen, a pair of dark, conflicted eyes, the eyes of a fourteen-year-old boy whose mother was about to check into a psychiatric hospital. The eyes of an eighteen-year-old young man whose father refused to accept his passion for photography. The eyes of a weary thirty-two-year-old who had seen more than his share of conflict and wanted to finally resolve his own.
The idea of leaving here for Key West appealed like the prospect of a whisky shot sometimes did, something quick to steady the nerves. Neither Chicago in very early spring nor his mother at any time of year held great appeal. The islands, though? The islands had captured a piece of his soul in the four years he’d lived there. Every return since then was a reunion.
He sat down on a footstool. Island life in the Keys. It wasn’t quite what the tourists saw. Or rather, it was that, but it was that and so much more. Yes, sand and sunshine, coconut palms and gentle turquoise waves. Women in skimpy sundresses. Impetuous tattoos of rainbows or hibiscus or the skull and crossbones. Sunburned scalp as seen through cornrows. Drunken sex with strangers—even for him, once.
Excepting that mistake, for him Keys life was a less hedonistic morning paddle among the mangroves, where he might find a snowy white heron standing in sea grass, plucking breakfast out of the shallows. It was wahoo or tarpon or bonefish filleted under the watchful eyes of pelicans. It was a dive to a reef teeming with ocean life, or a visit with Christ of the Abyss, who refused to answer the questions Julian brought to the barnacle-encrusted shrine.
He knew you had to stay longer than a few days or a week in order to see past the glossy brochures about swimming with dolphins, to go deeper than the gay PrideFest celebration, nightlife on Duval Street and the sights from the Conch Tour Train. You had to stand on a painted wooden porch watching tropical storms roll across the Atlantic from West Africa, feeling the wind-lashed rain. To really know Keys life, you had to be on a first-name basis with the weaver who sat, every evening, at the intersection of Caroline and Whitehead. You had to inhabit the rhythms of tides and sun and storms, and listen to the ghosts whispering from behind the banyan trees.
Who was this Blue Reynolds, that she thought she could stop by his grandparents’ house and upend everyone’s plans with her insider advice? Was her standard—and by extension the standards of all the TV-show production types—so low that she really thought they had a better chance with a quickie effort now, as opposed to a quality product later? If so, he shouldn’t be surprised. Reality TV shows were his answer incarnate.
So many people in such a hurry over things that mattered so little …
Julian saw one of the translators coming toward him, and slipped the BlackBerry back into its customary pocket. He’d go to Key West next weekend, he’d make it work. If Lions morphed into a broad collaboration, God knew when—or whether—he would have another opportunity to spend time with his father. He’d shoot the pilot and show Blue Reynolds how things should be done. His father would see that he was equally capable of making a Darfur documentary or a bit of literary infotainment about an author who, like so many of the people Julian had known in the Keys, really just wanted a good drink and to be left more or less alone.
riday afternoon in Key West was the middle of Friday night by Julian’s internal clock. He longed to be horizontal. The sunlight trickling through the palms overhead felt soft but somehow unreal, unreal as the scene before him.
He understood organized chaos, but usually the people milling about him (in this case, on the sidewalk in front of Hemingway’s house) were not dressed in expensive cruisewear, in name-brand flip-flops, in golf shirts that cost more than some Afghans earned in a year. They did not usually have bright smiles and wide-brimmed hats, three-hundred-dollar sunglasses, careless sunburn, careless lives. They did not often speak English and take pictures of celebrities with cameras that rivaled some of his—all of which were locked away in his grandparents’ car for the moment. He missed the customary weight of having one hanging from his neck.
Somewhere nearby, frangipani was blooming; he breathed deeply and got, too, the scent of warm coconut. Someone had been sensible enough to put on sunscreen.
The rugged brick wall enclosing the compound was too tall for most people to see over. A dozen or so resourceful tourists had brought milk crates or folding chairs or bicycles—propped against the wall—to stand on. A pack of others pressed together at the wall’s entrance. Lynn was there now, talking to a big man who stood behind a makeshift metal gate. Her straw hat was as wide as her shoulders and banded by a sleek satin ribbon of deep violet. She certainly didn’t lack presence.
His grandfather spotted a friend who watched the commotion from across the street. “There’s Carlos—you remember, we play chess on Tuesdays? I’ll be right back.”
“Sure thing,” Julian said, waving
to Carlos. He went to a middle-aged woman who stood on a folding chair. The backs of her legs were painfully red. “Can I take a quick look?” he asked. “Just for a minute, I swear. My dad’s in there.”
She stepped down and Julian took her place, looking where the rest of the crowd did: at the front of the two-story tan box of a house, where lime-green shutters and a black wrought-iron balcony made a backdrop for his father, who stood before the cameras talking animatedly about the house’s history. Blue Reynolds, in a rose and white floral dress and crocheted white cardigan that begged to be photographed—it was the texture, the lightly tanned skin in the gaps—watched his father with rapt attention.
And snagged his own.
Seeing her in the flesh, in three living, breathing dimensions, he understood why his father had wanted to alter his plan. Even from fifty feet away, she was magnetic. What was it? Her trim curves, wavy hair, broad smile, intelligent eyes—they were intelligent, he had to admit—were not traits she alone owned. She was built like many women he knew; some he’d known very well, in fact. And yet there was something more going on with her … Something he felt in his belly, and lower. Something he knew already he would need to ignore. Even if she weren’t older (eight years? nine?), even if she hadn’t once dated his father, she was no prospect for a guy like him. Her reach extended far outside their bit of shared history and in-common hometown—where, of course, she was revered as though she were Chicago’s own Olympic goddess. Watching her, he could smell her influence like a scent overlaying the coconut and frangipani.
“Wait another minute or two, they’re about to take a break,” Lynn was whispering from near his elbow, “and then you can go say hello.”
She and Daniel—or he should say Ken, for the moment at least—had brought him here to The Blue Reynolds Show on Location in Key West! directly from the airport. Ken wasn’t sympathetic to his lack of sleep or the six flights in his recent history, six, not all of them smooth, that got him here to this last inhabited island in the string of Keys. Astronauts, Ken said, had to do a lot more on a lot less. “Take Apollo 13, for one vivid and personal example,” he said, and proceeded to recount how long he and Lovell and the rest had gone without sleep so that they could save not just the lives of three excellent men but also NASA’s reputation and its congressional allowance. “Aw, quit yer whining,” is what Ken said, with an affectionate slap on the back.
Reunion Page 13