The Art of Floating

by Kristin Bair O’Keeffe

  “Okay, how can I help you?” Sia wished Jackson were still home, but he’d left for work before sunrise.

  The Dogcatcher held up the sign higher. “You found this dog?”

  Sia looked up at the sign and nodded.

  “You hung this sign?”

  Sia nodded again.

  “And do you still have this dog?”

  Sia almost nodded a third time, but instead she said, “Why do you want to know? Have you lost this dog?”

  “Ah,” the Dogcatcher said, “ah.” There was a long pause. “I think I know this dog,” she finally said. “And I need to know if this is the dog you know.”

  What? Sia thought. Do I know this dog? What kind of a question is that? Did I find this dog? Yes. Do I still have this dog? Yes. But do I know this dog?

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Sia said. “You think you know this dog?”

  “Yes, yes, that is what I said, and yes, that is exactly what I mean.”

  Sia took a deep breath. “Well, is the dog yours?” She very much wanted to bring the conversation back to something that made sense.

  “I didn’t say that,” the Dogcatcher answered. “I said—”

  “I know what you said.”

  They stood there for a moment—the Dogcatcher shaking the sign and Sia wagging her head back and forth in disbelief.

  “Well,” the Dogcatcher finally said, “I don’t see the dog now. I smell him, but I don’t see him.” She lifted her nose and poked it as close to the entryway as Sia would allow. Then she sniffed three short, loud sniffs.

  “No,” Sia said, “you’re right. The dog was here, but he’s not now.” It was a lie, but not a total lie. Gumper was not right there.

  “Fine,” the Dogcatcher said, leaning close to Sia and sniffing again. “But if you see him, tell him I’m looking for him.” She handed Sia a business card with a dog’s pawprint stamped in black ink. Nothing else. “Give him this.”

  “Give him this?” Sia said. She looked at the card and then at the woman. Give Gumper a business card? “But there’s no name or phone number on this card,” she finally said.

  “He doesn’t need it. He is a dog, you know. The card will do. He’ll know well enough.” And the Dogcatcher turned and hurried across the porch and down the steps to the sidewalk. When she reached the street, she swung left, then right, and finally settling in the direction of town, scurried along the road and disappeared around the bend.

  • • •

  That night, when Sia told Jackson about the Dogcatcher and showed him the card, he laughed so hard he fell off his chair. “Hon, she’s just some crackpot. Harmless, I’m sure. Probably collects lost-dog signs and visits the finder families with her card as something to do. She’s lonely, isn’t she?” He reached over and rubbed Sia’s belly, where other people’s loneliness always took root.

  She nodded.

  “Harmless,” he said.

  Strangely, the woman’s visit confirmed to Jackson that Gumper was theirs to keep. From that moment on, Gumper was one of the family.

  • • •

  Shortly before they all went to bed, the Dogcatcher walked along Sia’s road watching Gumper happily galumph through the house. The lights were on and his big head was visible in the windows wherever he went. He was happy. Home. She heard Sia calling him, “Gumper! Gumper!” And the Dogcatcher said it in her head, “Gumper galumph. Gumper galumph.” She watched until the lights went out.

  CHAPTER 21

  From M’s perch in the tree:

  I MISS YOU

  LET ME IN. MY BUM IS SORE

  TEARS . . . DRIP, DRIP, DRIP

  • • •

  Then in the middle of the night, “Stuart?” M shook him. “Stuart?”

  “Mmmmmm.” He rolled onto his back.

  “Our girl . . .”

  Stuart sighed, turned, and wrapped his arms around his wife. “I know, darling. I feel it, too. But you have to believe.”

  “In what?”

  “Her. Remember Odysseus. He made it home.”

  “Odysseus,” M whispered. “You’re right, Stuart. Odysseus.” M sat up. “That’s it.” Then she leapt out of bed and raced to the attic.

  Barefoot, Stuart padded along after her. “M? M? What are you doing? It’s three A.M.”

  She flipped on the light and began rooting in boxes—tossing aside prom gowns and Halloween masks and Christmas decorations—until she came up with her old, dog-eared copy of Lattimore’s translation of The Odyssey. She held it over her head triumphantly. “Ta-da!”

  “Oh, no, not that again, M.” Stuart leaned his head against an exposed beam.

  “Oh, yes, Stuart. That.” She turned to Book 1. “Tell me, Muse . . .” she read out loud, and in that moment, her second obsession with Homer’s magnum opus began. This one even more passionate than the first.

  CHAPTER 22

  “What do we want?” Joe Laslow shouted into his megaphone.

  “Open beaches!” the crowd hollered.

  “When do we want them?” he shouted.

  “Now!”

  “What do we want?”

  “Open beaches!”

  “When do we want them?”

  “Now!”

  • • •

  The troupe stomped from end to end of Beach #3’s parking lot and back, realizing after seven laps that the march might have had more impact had they worn Doc Martens or military boots instead of rubbery flip-flops, but feeling pretty good despite the feeble flip-flop-slap because for the first time ever, they were going to have the last word. Every staunch plover lover was off searching for Jackson, and while all of the protesters—even Joe Laslow—would join the search soon enough, they’d chosen not to cancel the march . . . believing, like most everyone, that Jackson would show up soon enough.

  The crowd halted its forward momentum five feet past the “Closed” sign, and after forty-five minutes, a final shout rose up: “Man trumps plover! Man trumps plover! Man trumps plover!”

  CHAPTER 23

  As Sia shook sand from her shoes just outside the front door, Jillian zipped into the driveway in her lime green Mini Cooper. Perched on two pillows so she could see over the steering wheel, she waved and held up a newspaper.

  “I’ve got two of everything,” she hollered out the window.

  “Sssh,” Sia said, a finger to her lips. “He’s sleeping.”

  “Still?” Jilly answered in a shouted whisper.

  “I hope so. I just got back.”

  “From where?”

  “The beach. I wanted to see if I could find any evidence before the tide came in.”

  Jillian tumbled from the car with an armful of newspapers. “Evidence?” she said.

  “Yes, anything that Toad might have left behind that I missed.”

  “Thanks, Sia,” Jillian said. “You could have taken me.” She hugged the papers to her chest and trip-trapped up the sidewalk on a pair of red-heeled sandals.

  “It was a quick trip, Jil. Just a reconnaissance mission.”

  “Still . . .”

  “I’m sorry. I just figured I could do it faster by myself.”

  Her statement was only a little bit true, and they both knew it. Sure, Jilly would have blurred the focus, but if anything, she would have speeded up the journey, bouncing on her springy legs down the beach like a kangaroo, forcing Sia to keep up. But the bottom line? Sia hadn’t wanted company. This was hers. Toad, and whatever his appearance meant, was hers. Just like Jackson and his disappearance. Sharing wasn’t an option.

  “Did you find anything?” Jilly asked.

  “Nothing but our footprints.”

  • • •

  After confirming that Toad was still asleep, they settled in the sunroom with the newspapers. Sia was just repentant enough to let Jilly participat
e, and Jilly felt bad that she’d pushed too hard too fast. As usual. It was the familiar give-and-take of their friendship, one that they’d both accustomed themselves to throughout the years. To an outsider it might have seemed strange that they settled into anything friendly after such a skirmish, but this was how they were.

  “There’s got to be something about him in here,” Jilly said. “Someone has to be missing this guy. He’s too gorgeous for his absence not to be noticed.”

  “I’ll start with the Globe,” Sia said.

  Jilly grabbed the Daily Charter.

  “Don’t forget to look in the crime section,” Sia said.

  Jilly looked up. “Really? You think so?” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You think he might be a robber or a kidnapper or something like that?” She looked almost hopeful.

  “I hope not,” Sia said. “I’m not too keen on hosting a criminal.”

  “No, but it would be exciting if we got to turn him in on TV. And maybe get a reward.”

  “Jillian, focus. I’m pretty sure Toad’s not dangerous. I’m just saying we need to make sure.”

  But Jilly was already off on one of her riffs. Wrapped up in possibility, she forgot the sting of Sia’s snub and any split-second decision she’d made to better protect herself from Sia’s wildly complicated emotional boundaries. She was excited and began to dream out loud. “Yeah, we could split the money or if you want, we could pool it and travel all over the world together for a year. We could go to Italy and South Africa and Paris. Oh, my God, Sia, we could shop in Paris!”

  “Or you could kill me first.”

  “Oh, I’ve got it. I’ve got it! We could buy matching sports cars—red ones—and take a driving vacation through the mountains. . . .”

  “Jilly.”

  Jilly stopped. “What?”

  “Enough. Toad’s not dangerous. We’re not turning him in on TV. We’re not getting a reward. And we are definitely not buying matching red sports cars and taking a driving vacation through the mountains. I’d rather lie down in a crate of crabs.”

  Jilly stuck out her tongue. “Okay, okay, so he’s probably not dangerous. Even I have to acknowledge the fact that Gumper has taken the guy under his great furry wing. He doesn’t do that unless he trusts someone.”

  Sia nodded. She was depending on Gumper for this one.

  “So . . . why exactly do you think he trusts Toad so much?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  • • •

  For the next hour, they pored over every page of every newspaper, searching for anything that might give them a clue about an accident, a missing man, a boating incident, a family falling-out . . . anything that might explain Toad’s sudden appearance on the beach.

  Every once in a while one of them looked up and said, “Anything yet?” and the other shook her head no.

  • • •

  When Toad appeared in the doorway an hour later, the sun was directly overhead. Sia and Jillian had made their way through four newspapers.

  “Hi,” Sia said when she noticed him. Toad’s hair hung down like stiff, wrinkly ropes around his head; it was brittle and hard. His clothes were wrinkled, and the salt water had dried in his suit, leaving behind white chalky streaks. Gumper stood beside him.

  “Come on in, Toad,” Jilly said. “Make yourself at home.”

  Gumper moved first. He walked to Sia and buried his head in her lap. She folded back his ear, leaned so close her lips touched the pink part, and whispered, “My big giant lovebug. So good, Gump. So good.” He preened and cooed as if she’d given him a T-bone drenched with beef stew.

  “Oh, come on,” Jilly said, tiring of the lovefest. “Let the reeking mutt lie down.”

  Gumper walked over to Jilly, set a paw on her knee, and jabbed at her until she reached out and rubbed him. He never let her get away with anything.

  Finally they all turned to see where Toad was going to sit.

  They waited.

  And waited.

  When they figured out he wasn’t going to move, Sia got up and guided him to the chair by the window. He sat, leaned back, and set his hands on his knees.

  “He walks like he’s been hitting the hooch,” Jilly said, and then after staring at him for an embarrassingly long minute, blurted out, “Okay, that’s it, Sia, killer or not, we need to keep this guy. Look at him. He’s bloody gorgeous.”

  “Careful, Jil. You’re drooling on the newspaper.”

  “Oh, come on. Even if he is a criminal, we can reform him. Love changes everybody, right?”

  Gumper lay down on Toad’s feet and sighed.

  “Jil, stop. Please. We can’t keep this guy. You know that. I can’t keep this guy.”

  Jillian paused and looked at Sia. She sensed a door opening and tiptoed through. “Sia, don’t you think it’s a little weird that you of all people found this guy?”

  “Yes, Jil, I do. It doesn’t seem possible.”

  “But it is. He’s right here.”

  “Well, I think it’s about time I called someone to help. The police, I guess.”

  “Can’t we wait until tomorrow? Wouldn’t it be fun to keep him for the night? Just one night?”

  “No, we can’t wait until tomorrow. That’s what they always do in the movies, and no matter how hard you wish, this is not a movie.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a reason they do it in the movies. A good reason. That way the sexy leading lady gets a chance to bond with the mysterious man. They spend a quiet evening in front of the fireplace. They share a bottle of wine. They look longingly into each other’s eyes and recognize each other’s souls from a past life or a brief rendezvous in Rome. Then they leap into bed and have awesome sex. This could be you, Sia. Tonight. Right here.” She patted the couch cushion.

  Sia rolled her eyes. “You should be the writer, Jil.”

  “You should listen to me for once.”

  “Jil, this isn’t a movie. It’s my life. And Toad’s, whoever the hell he is. For all we know, there’s some woman or child out there desperately looking for him.”

  And that was the statement that finally shut Jilly up . . . the flashing neon sign that read:

  WHAT IF THIS WERE JACKSON?

  And with all the bounce and light gone out of her voice, Jilly said, “Okay, Sia, I’m sorry. I’m going back to work. Go call the police.”

  • • •

  While she waited for an officer to arrive, Sia tore a sheet of plain white paper from a roll in her office. It was large, as wide as the door and as high as Gumper’s head, and with duct tape, she hung it on the wall. Then she picked up a black marker and, for the first time since Jackson disappeared, made a list. The pen felt like a log in her hand, heavy and dense, and when she was done, she barely recognized her own handwriting. It had been that long. But there it was. In black and white. She’d done it. Eleven questions about Toad.

  Did he crawl from the sea?

  Is he human?

  Could Jillian be right? Could he be an alien?

  Can he hear?

  Do his vocal cords work?

  Does he speak English?

  How did he get here?

  Where did he come from?

  Why did he come here?

  Why did I have to find him?

  Does this have anything to do with Jackson?

  She didn’t know the answer to any of the questions, but it was the first thing she’d written in over a year.

  CHAPTER 24

  Like any woman who refuses to take anti-depressants or drink heavily after her husband disappears, Sia began to float.

  “You’re not floating,” her therapist told her again and again. “You’re disengaging from reality, a coping mechanism that often follows a traumatic event. You imagine your higher self is separating from your body so you don
’t have to feel the pain around the loss.”

  “Bullshit,” Sia said. “I’m floating.”

  • • •

  Two months after Jackson disappeared . . . two months after she’d taken to her bed . . . Sia dragged herself to the couch. Her ass was sore from lying on her back, and her muscles ached. For a moment, the couch felt like heaven. Firm. Supportive. Stalwart.

  But then Jilly and her heartfelt blah-blah-blahing. And then zhzhzip . . . Sia was up somewhere close to the ceiling, feeling lighter than a speck of dust floating through a streak of light. Except that unlike the speck of dust, she wasn’t graceful or fluid. She was clumsy and awkward. She was a terrible, awful, uncoordinated floater.

  This is Jilly’s fault, she thought, as she grabbed at the air around her, trying and failing to find something to hold on to. No matter how hard she tried to stay upright, she just rolled forward into a crooked, unimpressive somersault.

  This isn’t even a somersault, she thought. It’s a flop.

  When she wasn’t flopping forward, she was flopping backward, which quickly led to a few moments of being completely upside down.

  • • •

  Jilly and her big mouth. She’d been so excited that morning to find Sia out of bed and sitting, actually sitting, in the sunroom—though it was still as dark as an underground cave—she’d launched into her normal repartee, which she hadn’t gotten to do since Sia had taken to her bed.

  “. . . and in yesterday’s yoga class,” she chattered, “Mrs. Wysong got stuck in pigeon pose again. And although at first Raj thought she was just teasing and didn’t pay any attention to her whimpering in the corner, when she yelped like a stuck pig, he rushed over to help. And, believe me, by then the woman was stuck. Everything but her eyelids had cramped up. . . .”

  At first it felt good to listen to Jilly ramble on in such a normal, everyday manner as if no terrible tragedy had crashed into their lives, but then Jilly got brave—or as Sia would tell it—stupid.

  “But after class, I had to run like hell because there are only two things anyone wants to talk to me about: you and Jackson’s disappearance.”