Clearly Toad didn’t give a hoot. Or it didn’t register. (Or he didn’t understand English. Or he couldn’t hear. Or . . .)
The reason didn’t matter. The ringing phone changed nothing. The attention from reporters from all over the world changed nothing.
Toad sat.
Toad stared.
Toad sat.
Toad stared.
Toad sat.
Toad stared.
When Sia could no longer stand the ringing phone, she yanked him up out of his chair and said the words Gumper spent his life waiting for (besides “Time to eat”): “To the beach.”
Once free, Gumper performed his usual antics. He leapt, bowed, barked, and bellowed. Every few minutes, he dropped a worm-worn log at Sia’s feet. “Throw it! Throw it!” he hollered in dog-speak. And she did. Though not as far as she could have because of that one time when Jackson had thrown a log . . . far . . . really far . . . so far it was immediately swallowed up by the water.
Even so, Gumper had plowed in, determined to find the log, unable to let go of the memory of it. As the rain lashed down, he’d swum and swum, diving into waves, biting at the water. Jackson and Sia had cuddled together on the shore and watched him grow smaller and smaller, proud until the moment they realized he’d gone too far. One moment, they saw the top of his head. The next, he was gone. Within seconds, Jackson had stripped down to his boxers, left his coat, a pile of clothes, and his shoes on the sand, and dived headlong into the waves. Horrified, Sia barely breathed until the sea dumped both Jackson and Gumper onto the sand like clams from a bucket.
• • •
“Good God,” Sia said, “it’s as bad out here as it was back home.”
The beach was littered with families, and every single person, except for the kids entranced by their sand castles, stared at Sia and Toad like they were either Hollywood stars or freaks in a circus show. Men and women stood on their towels and shielded their eyes with hands and hats as they struggled to get a good look at Toad in the bright sun.
“Only the sand is saving us,” Sia said. “These folks are all afraid to leave their private terry cloth islands in case it’s too hot to get back. Just smile and wave.”
Toad did not. He continued along a few steps behind, paying no attention to Sia or the voyeurs.
The folks Sia knew from yoga class or the library called hello, and out of respect, Sia called back, but she moved Toad as quickly as possible through the throngs of frolickers, steering him when necessary by his elbow.
When they reached the spot where the hungover college girls lay like tortured corpses in tiny bikinis on bright orange towels, Sia thought they would have a few quiet moments. These girls were knocked out, heavy with last night’s liquor and postmidnight pizza. It would be hours before even the hardiest of them would rumble out of sleep, take a few swigs of iced tea from the cooler, and begin in a rough, throaty voice to recount the night’s adventures. But Gumper broke the spell. As he leapt onto their towels, jarring them into consciousness, he bleated his joyful noise like a disobedient mule. When the girl in the polka-dot bikini lifted her throbbing head and spotted Toad and Sia, she flew into a sitting position so fast she forgot to retie the strings of the top around her neck and for a second her plump, perky tits wagged at the world.
“Hey, you guys,” the girl said. She slapped the thighs of the girls to her right and left. “Look, it’s the Silent Man.”
Sia heard that voice again . . . the deep, godlike, James-Earl-Jonesy voice: THE SILENT MAN.
All the girls shot up into sitting positions, put on their sunglasses, and looked in the direction of Polka Dot’s pointing finger.
“The Silent Man?”
“Really?”
“Yep, that’s him. The hot guy they talked about on the news yesterday.”
“How do you know it’s him?”
“That’s Odyssia Dane with him.”
“Who is Odyssia Dane?” one girl asked.
“You know,” Polka Dot said, “the woman who lost her husband last year and never found him.”
The girls giggled. At this age, they couldn’t even imagine having a husband, let alone losing him.
“But she found this guy instead?”
“That’s what Melissa Cho said on last night’s news,” a girl in blue-and-white stripes said. “She said she found him out here on the beach somewhere.”
“He’s gorgeous,” Polka Dot said. “He looks like a movie star. Look at that hair.”
“Yeah,” a girl in pink breathed as she poked her breasts out a little more and ran a hand down her belly.
As the girls fantasized about finding a man on the beach, they tied up the strings to their tops and brushed sand from their towels. Only one noticed anything more about Toad than his heart-throbbing good looks. Caroline Faye. She was the quietest of the group, part of the gang more because she’d been around since kindergarten than the fact that she still fit in. She was tall, gangly, and thoughtful, better liked by the other girls’ mothers than by the girls themselves.
“I think he looks sad,” she said.
Polka Dot took a swig from a water bottle and spat it at her. “You would. How could you think that guy looks sad? What could a guy who looks like that be sad about?”
“I know he’s gorgeous,” Caroline said. “I have eyes. But there’s something else about him that’s bigger than that.”
Sia and Toad crossed in front of the girls. “I just think,” she said, “that he needs help. I hope that woman helps him find his way home.”
Though the other girls were already losing interest in a man who was completely ignoring their buoyant young breasts and were turning over to roast their bottoms, Sia heard Caroline’s words. The little fish that had been resting quietly, perhaps happy to be close to the water, flopped hard. Sia grabbed her middle and looked at Toad. It was tough to imagine how someone could hold such emptiness for so long. Even in the middle of her yearlong mourning, she sometimes laughed at Gumper’s antics or Jillian’s fumbling attempts at humor. She’d even smiled once in a while when she dreamed of Jackson. Toad was far deeper than she’d ever gone.
• • •
They turned for home when Sia caught sight of six reporters and their cameramen chugging down the beach. The lenses of the cameras were long and large, and Sia knew that even though there was still a good bit of distance between them, they were snapping photos and footage that would look as close as if they’d been shaking hands. She pulled her sun hat lower on her head and grabbed Toad’s arm.
“Let’s go,” she said. “They’ve got us.”
CHAPTER 87
The next morning: “Toad, are you going to talk to me today?”
Silence.
Sia leaned close, pushed Gumper out of the way. “Toad?”
Nothing.
“Please talk to me today.”
• • •
Jilly: “Can you say media sensation?”
CHAPTER 88
“Maybe he melted.”
“Excuse me?”
“Jackson. Maybe he melted. It was so hot that day. Maybe he just melted into the pavement.”
Sia’s therapist leaned back. “Okay. Let’s go with that. What else could have happened to him?”
“We’ve been through this.”
“Let’s go through it again.”
“Okay.” Sia took a deep breath and then, as fast as she could, said, “Hecouldhavebeenkidnappedmurderedrunawaydrownedstillbealivewithamnesia.”
“Anything else?”
Sia cheesed a grin at her. “He could have been snatched by aliens. If Jillian is to be believed, he’s been traded for Toad. An intergalactic exchange for educational purposes.”
“Really?”
“Yep, and actually it makes pretty good sense if you believe in aliens.”
&nbs
p; “You don’t?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“No proof.”
“You told me that one of the things Jackson loved most about you is that you believed in lots of invisible things.”
Sia blew out a puff of air. “Yeah, look where that’s got me.”
CHAPTER 89
In the morning paper:
While an unidentified plover warden slept, a fox made off with a full-grown female plover from Beach #3. Tracks seen to and from the beach reveal that the culprit is a larger-than-average fox, probably male. The warden woke to the plaintive cries of the small bird and a ruddy flash disappearing over a dune. It is assumed that the plover’s two eggs will not survive and hatch without her.
The unidentified warden is on mandatory leave. A candlelight vigil for the lost plover(s) will be held on Sunday in the parking lot of Beach #3. The service will begin at dusk.
• • •
“Like bear paws,” Mrs. Wysong told the folks at Starbucks about the fox tracks in the sand as she dabbed tears from her eyes. “Thank God it wasn’t me.”
CHAPTER 90
“Peppers?”
“Habañeros,” Jackson said. “Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!” He loved the hot stuff.
“Yum.” Sia kissed his lips. “Ooh, I can feel the heat,” she said.
Jackson sliced the last pepper, dumped it into the pan with the onions, then washed the cutting board, the knife, and his hands. “The steaks need six more minutes,” he said, and wrapped his hands around Sia’s waist.
“Mmmm, perfect.”
He lifted her skirt, lowered her tights, slipped one hand onto her bum and the other between her legs.
And then . . .
“Oh, my God,” she yelped, bent over double, and kneed him.
“What? What’s the matter?”
“Oh, God! Help, Jackson, help.” She grabbed at her crotch. “The peppers! The peppers!”
“What?”
“It burns.”
“Why? I washed my hands.”
“Not enough. It burns. Oh, my God, it burns so bad.” She stripped down, ran to the bathroom, straddled the toilet, and lowered herself into the bowl until the cool water met her crotch.
“Milk,” she hollered. “Milk!”
Jackson grabbed the gallon jug and raced after her.
“Fill the sink,” she said. “Fill it!”
He poured, and when the sink was full, Sia lowered herself into it. Tears poured down her face.
Jackson put his hand on her arm.
“Jack, don’t touch me! It burns.”
“Here?”
“Yes, there. Everywhere. Get the yogurt. Yogurt. Hurry!”
CHAPTER 91
“Move!” Sia snapped. “Move!”
Toad didn’t move. He sat in his chair—how did it become his chair?—with Gumper guarding his feet.
“For God’s sake, you’re worse than a couch.”
Silence.
“Can you at least pick up your feet?”
Obviously not.
She vacuumed around him.
• • •
And then from Hilversum, Holland . . . terse and staccato . . .
Dear Mrs. Dane: This is to inform you that I saw your Silent Man here in Holland not more than a month ago. He was leaning against a wall near my office building. I don’t know why he stood out among the many people leaning against that same wall, but I imagine since you’ve met him, you will understand. Everything was as I’ve read in the papers. He stared. He stood still. He was in a black suit and white shirt. I looked out my window during lunch and he was there. An hour later, he was gone.
Sincerely,
Maarten Visser
• • •
Sia pulled the world map from her desk drawer. She kept her eyes closed as she unfolded the continents. She hadn’t looked at it since she’d taken it down when she closed the house.
Folded it neatly.
Tucked it away.
Out of sight.
Now she held it to the light so that she could see the pinholes she and Jackson had made. Taos. Shanghai. Sydney. A beach in Costa Rica. Prague.
“Do you like maps?”
She heard his voice so clearly she turned to look behind her.
“I like maps,” she whispered.
She taped it to the wall behind her desk, located Hilversum, Holland, and pressed a red pin into it.
“Holland,” Sia said. “What the hell were you doing in Holland?”
Then she pushed a red pin into her town as well.
CHAPTER 92
Sia asked people about the Dogcatcher:
“She’s one of the three homeless people in town. Harmless, really. Does her own thing. Keeps to herself. Never causes trouble,” Richard said.
“I know who you’re talking about,” M said. “Strange bird.”
“Who?” said Jilly.
“Never comes in here,” Slow-Pour Sally said.
The arm-pumping, beach-walking women? They just lowered their heads and eyes and toddled on by.
• • •
Curiosity eclipsed trepidation, so the next time Floating Sia lifted off like a hot-air balloon, she drifted right past the pink house, not even pausing to watch Mrs. Windwill scrub bird poop from her gatepost or peer down the street for any kind of nefarious goings-on.
Instead she zipped and zizzled about, dodging blackbirds and sparrows, until she spotted the Dogcatcher heading west with a dingy canvas bag slung over her shoulder. Then Sia followed her along Wales Road to an industrial district on the edge of town . . . a cluster of warehouses and construction sites that Sia didn’t recognize. And although she didn’t know if getting lost while floating was possible, she continued on after the Dogcatcher down a long, winding road that cut into a dense grove of oak trees, which after what seemed to be an unnaturally long time—though she also didn’t know how floating time compared with real time—came to an abrupt end.
There, on the right-hand side of the road, was a single, shockingly white warehouse. Immaculate. Freshly scrubbed. There was no signage. Nothing at all to indicate that it was used for shipping widgets or storing road salt for the winter months. There was a small parking lot on one side, but no cars, and a mailbox on a post near the road, but no name or street number. The door to the warehouse faced the forest, not the lot, and there weren’t any windows.
Within minutes, the Dogcatcher settled herself in a stretch of grass between the building and the trees. She looked much calmer than Sia had ever seen her. She didn’t scratch or jerk or wave lost-dog signs in the air. She just sat there holding the bag on her lap.
Where are we? Sia thought. And just what the heck do you have in that bag?
But the Dogcatcher didn’t open it, and after a while she leaned against the building in the shade and dozed off.
With nothing else to do, Sia imagined this was a place where Jackson could have disappeared. The trees were so close together that from above she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began . . . leaves all knitted together.
She thought of the things she would have said to him if she’d been able to talk to him before he vanished.
I love you.
Don’t go.
Gumper needs you.
If you have to go, please come home and kiss me first.
He could have easily discovered this little forest and wandered in without knowing where he was going.
But that was just silly. The next town over couldn’t be more than a half a mile on the other side of the trees. If Jackson had walked in on this side, he would have walked out the other in less than thirty minutes. Surely, it had been searched like the rest of the town.
Suddenly the Dogcatcher sat bolt upright and looked up at the sky as if she’d heard
a noise. Maybe a crow’s caw or a clap of thunder, even though there was no sign of rain. She scanned the area, gripping the bag to her chest. A few minutes later, she bounced up and moved to the edge of the trees. She was scratching again, her neck and behind her knees. Then she raced to the door of the warehouse and put her hand on the knob.
Was this her warehouse?
But instead of opening the door, she ran off into the woods and was swallowed up in seconds.
Alone, Sia did what she always did. Looked for signs of Jackson. His bones. A swatch of his T-shirt. A sneaker. A sock. A shoelace. A memory.
If she could have, she would have dropped into the soft grass, pressed her ear to the ground, and listened for his footsteps. But she couldn’t. Floating didn’t work that way. She hovered above the trees, wondering where the hell the Dogcatcher was heading. She tried to press forward. To follow. But because of whatever bizarre rules existed in the world of floating, that was as far as she could go.
• • •
“Pluvver like lover? Or plohver like over?” M said.
“I’m not sure,” Stuart said. “I always pronounce it pluvver.”
“Jack used to say plohver.”
“Yep, and Odyssia used to make fun of him.”
“Pluvver. Plohver. Lover. Over. Pluvver. Plohver. Lover. Over.”
CHAPTER 93
“Richard?”
“Mrs. Windwill?”
“Yes.”
“What is it? Did you remember something?”
“Yes.”
“I’m listening.”
“The otter.”
“Mm-hm.”
“The one Sia found dead on the road just before discovering Toad.”
“Yes, I know the one.”
“There was a car.”
“There was?”
“Yes. I heard it. The brakes. They woke me.”
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