Dragonfly

by Farris, John

  "What are you so afraid of, Charly?"

  "Him," she murmured, her eyes squeezing shut on tears.

  "Why?"

  "I can't tell you. Unless you promise to—take care of me. The fate you're talking about? The reason you came here? Well, maybe I'm the one, and not Pamela." Joe didn't say anything. She looked at him reluctantly, as if she expected a scolding.

  "But if it's nothing, if I'm nothing, just tell me."

  "Charly, you make me sad, and unhappy for you."

  She took a couple of deep breaths, ridding herself of a dense cloud of despair.

  "I guess that means—you like me, or you wouldn't feel anything. Just bored, or whatever."

  Joe nodded, and smiled. She hitched up her shoulders, lifted her head, looked at the Wayfarer with a romantic eye.

  "Luke would probably give her to me, if I asked. Sailing always made him a little nauseous. You know what? I didn't get a pre-nup. My mother was so furious. But Luke said; let me see if I can get this right, he said: 'Men of means who sign pre-nuptial agreements are like kidnappers agreeing to pay a ransom to their hostages.'" Charlene's mouth curled in bewilderment. "He's always coming up with something like that. You can't argue with him. That's why I get frustrated? Once I had him, you know, by the short hairs, I should have held out for a pre-nup. But I was scared to be alone. I guess that's always going to be my downfall: scared to be alone."

  By five o'clock that afternoon there wasn't much doubt that Frosty Clemons had disappeared in Walter Lee's old Chevy.

  Lucas Thomason spent much of the afternoon on the telephone, talking to the commander of the South Carolina State Patrol, the Chicora County sheriff and the chief of police in Nimrod's Chapel. Abby argued for private investigators. The police weren't going to work very hard, she said, until there was some evidence that Frosty had met with foul play.

  "Which I very much doubt," Thomason said. "True, she's gone off somewhere, and she ought to have been thoughtful enough to get in touch and let Walter Lee, let you, as her employer, know—"

  "She's also my best friend! And I think I'm her best friend. And this is not like Frosty."

  "Well, you know, there is that one person in her life who still has the most influence on her, whether anybody, including Frosty herself, cares to admit it. You know who I'm talking about. Her ex-husband."

  "Delmus? They're still married. She never went through with the divorce proceedings."

  "You knew him well, didn't you,Lillian?" Thomason said to the housekeeper, who, along with Joe, was taking supper with the family.

  "Yes, sir. My sister-in-law Bertie raise him from when he was four years old."

  "He was a devil with women, I've been told."

  "That's the truth."

  "Where's Delmus at now, Detroit? Do you think if he called, Frosty might drop everything and go back to him?"

  "Luke," Abby said, "Frosty has better sense than that! After all the abuse she took from that man…"

  Thomason was looking at Lillian, with his crimped, eager, pushed-out smile to encourage her opinion. The center of attention, Lillian put down her salad fork and picked up a napkin, touched it to her lips. She looked at Abby in a kindly manner, then glanced at Joe, seated next to Abby, and touched her lips again as if blotting out any excess of emotion.

  "I allow," she said, in a voice that was only a tone higher than inaudible, "it ain't a common-sense thing."

  "No, it's not," Charlene seconded not much louder than Lillian.

  "What are you all talking about?" Lizzie demanded. "Do you think Frosty went to Detroit and didn't tell anybody?"

  "Wouldn't have to be Detroit," Thomason said. "Delmus is a musician. Maybe he's on the road, and gave Frosty a call to meet him somewhere, up or down the coast."

  "Frosty is the mother of four-year-old twins," Abby objected. "She wouldn't just go off and leave them."

  "She left the girls in Walter Lee's care," Thomason pointed out. "She certainly wouldn't want to say anything to her daddy about Delmus, which would only serve to get Walter Lee riled up. And her sister's over there now. The twins are in good hands. Abby, it hasn't been twenty-four hours yet. I think as soon as Frosty gets her head back on straight, she'll be on the phone crying and full of apologies. So don't you be too hard on her when she does call."

  "No, of course I won't, but—I just can't help having bad feelings."

  "It's your creative bent, to dramatize these little inconsistencies of human nature. Cut Frosty some slack, and try to be understanding. Meanwhile the police are on the lookout, and they'll probably turn up the car in a motel parking lot, in Myrtle Beach or Hilton Head." He smiled around the table. "It'll all turn out for the best, you'll see. Lizzie, would you mind going to the kitchen to ask if the girls have any more hot biscuits back there?"

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Abby said she felt like driving, so they took the Suburban van equipped for paraplegics to the Clemons house on Awtry Avenue. It had been months since she was behind the wheel, and she made a few errors in handling on the lightly traveled roads of Chicora Island that had Joe gritting his teeth, but by the time they reached the causeway to Nimrod's Chapel she was more confident, working the hand controls smoothly while steering with her left hand.

  When she had parallel-parked without crumpling any fenders she let out her breath and said, "See, I told you I'd get us here."

  "The Lord be praised."

  "I'm glad to know you're not an atheist," she said tartly.

  "Allah be praised as well."

  "Are you sweating like that on purpose? I'm a good driver."

  The streetlights had come on against the dark green of magnolia trees and the evening sky, which still helda faint blush of pink. Some shirtless boys were playing basketball at the end of Awtty Avenue, scuffling and trash-talking. Abby locked Rolling Thunder down at the foot of the steps to the porch, and a young assistant pastor from the AME church set his paper-plate chicken dinner aside to fetch Walter Lee. He came from inside the house, which teemed with relatives and friends, with his suspenders dangling. He wore a clean white T-shirt with a gold cross on a chain centered overhis breastbone. His gray hair looked teased and he seemed preternaturally awake, as if he had just walked through a thunderbolt. He started to sob as soon as he saw Abby.

  "Walter Lee, I want you to stop that," she said, lifting up her arms to him. He hobbled down four steps and knelt beside the wheelchair.

  "I can't help it. I just can't help myself. I know it's something bad. Why she be gone all this time without a word to anybody? Oh, sweet Jesus, I know it's something bad!"

  "Have faith in the g-goodness of the Lord, brother Walter," the assistant -pastor said, stripping a leg bone with his teeth.

  Abby held Walter Lee's galled head against her breast, glancing at the yellow minivan in the carport. "When did you see her last, Walter Lee?"

  "About a quarter to nine last night. She ask to borrow my car, said she had to meet with that Reggie fella she sing with sometimes at the Sea Turtle Café."

  "Reggie? Have you tried to get hold of him?"

  "The police. They talk to him, up in Murrell's Inlet. Say he didn't see her, last night or this morning neither. It's something bad. Nobody can tell me different." He sobbed again, tearlessly; he had cried himself

  "We're not going to think those thoughts, Walter Lee. Frosty will come home. Can you tell me if she was seeing anybody, you know, from the church?"

  "Oh, no, she didn't have no man. There wasn't no man for her, after Delmus."

  "Speaking of Delmus—"

  Walter Lee sat back on the first step, hands locked between his knees, head downcast and swaying slightly. "I don't know how to get in touch with him."

  "Walter Lee, I'm hiring the best detective agency in Detroit to locate Delmus, and find out what he knows about this. Frosty might have been talking to him again."

  "All right. All right. I hope it's Delmus. No-account that he be. I hope that's who she gone to."

 
"You have to be brave, Walter Lee. Frosty knows how to take care of herself."

  "Oh, Lorrrddd," he moaned.

  "How are the girls?" Abby asked, wanting to distract him.

  He reacted slowly to her question, as the light and human warmth their presence provided reached his half-petrified heart.

  "Jus' fine. They ain't too worried; but they don't understand why their mama ain't home yet." He wiped his haggard face with a handkerchief, looking first at Abby, then at Joe. "This the worst thing that's everhappened to me. I'm so scared. Look how I'm shaking. I just don't know what to do next." He recoiled from the possibility that nothing could be done, and blinked at her. "Miss Abby. This is so thoughtless of me. Can't I get you a cold drink of something while you sittin' out here?"

  "I could do with a Coke," Joe said promptly. "Abby?"

  "I guess so," she replied, frowning at him.

  "I need to use the bathroom, too, if you don't mind. Walter Lee, could you show me the way?"

  "Surely," he said, getting painfully to his feet. "Come in, Doctor."

  There were a dozen people, Walter Lee's support group, in the small living room, most of them watching TV while they ate Church's chicken from take-out boxes. A satellite picture of Hurricane Honey was onthe tube: swirling rings of color from yellow to the dangerous red of the strongest winds near the center. Honey occupied a very large area of the South Atlantic.According to the TV weatherman, the storm had momentarily paused, as if considering a change of direction while gobbling more energy from the tropic sea.The outer ring of clouds extended nearly to the northernmost Bahama islands. Joe knew there would be winds of at least thirty-five knots, on the fringe of Honey, with gusts to fifty knots. At sea winds of that velocity produced fifty-foot waves, with the top eight or nine feet blowing off.

  Walter Lee led him down a short hallway past the children's room. They were in their pajamas, watching a Disney animated movie on the VCR, with two older girls baby-sitting. One of the twins began jumping up and down on her bed when she saw her grandfather, calling him.

  "This is my room," Walter Lee said, "and cross the hall is Frosty's room. Looks like somebody using the bath right now."

  "That's okay. I wanted to talk to you privately."

  Walter Lee looked around at him in alarm. "Why?"

  Joe hesitated, wanting to be very careful about what he said to Walter Lee.

  "I need to talk to Reggie. He may call you. If he does, will you get me a phone number where I can reach him?"

  "Why?"

  "All I can say is, it's very important."

  "Is this—doctor business?"

  "Yes, it is."

  "And Frosty—Frosty have anything to do with your doctor business?"

  "Walter Lee, I saw Frosty yesterday afternoon. I don't know where she is now, or what might have happened to her."

  Walter Lee said, with utmost suspicion, a dangerous look in his eyes, "But she does have something to do with your doctor business."

  "She took an ampule of medication from Dr. Thomason's drug safe and gave it to Reggie for safekeeping. She wanted him to have it analyzed when he goes into the hospital for treatment later this week. I can't wait that long. For Abby's sake, I have to know what that drug is, and right away."

  Walter Lee had been shocked into silence. His expression was hell scraped raw as he gripped Joe by the shoulder, almost sending him to his knees.

  "Let go, Walter Lee!"

  "How do you know what Frosty did?"

  "She told me. She trusted me. You have to trust me too, Walter Lee."

  Walter Lee pressed him against the wall. "Dr. Luke—he knows Frosty stole from him?"

  "No. I don't think so."

  "You didn't tell him yourself?"

  Joe's right arm was going numb from the pressure of Walter Lee's fingers.

  "No. He's a bad doctor. I wouldn't let him bandage a cut finger, let alone try to take care of a paraplegic. Frosty knows it. She did what she did for Abby's sake. Ease up, God, before you break something."

  The big man's fingers suddenly had no strength. His hand slipped away. He seemed near to collapsing.

  "I warned that girl. I told her, 'Frosty, you will bring down misery and suffering on our heads if you don't mind your own business.'" He clawed at the side of his face with worn-down nails, as if the prophesied misery had taken hold there like a skin cancer. He stared at Joe in fear and dismay. "Who are you? What did you come here for?"

  Joe rubbed his shoulder, staring into Walter Lee's eyes. "I need for you to help me find Reggie."

  "Try the Sea Turtle."

  "He's only there Thursday through Saturday nights."

  "The police found him okay. Ask them."

  "I can't do that. I can't go to the police."

  Walter Lee passed a hand across his mouth; suspicion burned in his eyes again.

  Before he could say anything, the assistant pastor of the AME church, who had stayed outside with Abby, found them and said with an excited stutter, "C-come quick. Something's nih-wrong with the lady."

  Abby was sitting bolt-upright in her wheelchair when Joe ran out to the porch. She had a white-knuckled grip on the arms of her chair. She was gasping for breath. She turned frightened eyes on Joe.

  "I'm—all right. Now. Yeah. All right."

  "Abby, what happened?"

  She had begun to breathe easier in the moments since he came outside.

  "Damnedest thing. I was talking to Reverend Moseby. Then. It was like I. Forgot how to breathe."

  "What do you mean?" he said, holding her cold hand.

  She started to laugh, perplexed and frightened. "Joe, I mean—I could not draw breath! As if a computer suddenly shut down and wouldn't obey my commands." She continued to breathe hard, blinking; she might have been counting each precious draught of air, taking in too much, just in case.

  "That computer is in the brain stem, Abby." It scared him to say it.

  "But I'm okay now." She looked up at Walter Lee. "Sorry to be such a bother." She began to cry, but protested, "It's okay. I'm not going to lose it, mon. I'm just a little nervous."

  "I'm taking you home," Joe said, keeping a lock on his his own case of nerves. He also looked at Walter Lee, who appeared to be stunned by Abby's distress. He clenched and unclenched his callused hands, then nodded abruptly, the meaning clear to both of them. Whatever doubts he still had about Joe, he would try to find Reggie.

  "Well," she said, as Joe was driving them back to the Barony. "That's life with Abby. I can promise you, it won't be dull. As long as it lasts."

  "You're going to be just fine, Abby. My personal guarantee."

  "Joe, you look so grim. Smile for me. That's better. Now, listen. We aren't going to tell Luke about this."

  "All right."

  "It might not happen again. Maybe I psyched myself out in some way."

  "Sure."

  "You don't have to agree with me; just lie a little more convincingly. Joe, I don't want to go home tonight. The bathroom on the first floor of the beach house was done over for me. I won't be any more trouble, I promise. But I want to be with you."

  "That's good. Because I'm never going to be very far away from you, from now on."

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  By midnight Joe was nodding off as they played another hand of rummy in the beach house. He'd lost the last six hands, and more before that.

  "Want to quit?" Abby asked him.

  "No, I'm okay. Maybe I'll have another cup of Twinings. Cards just don't seem to be coming my way. I'm usually a better player than this."

  "You can't beat my luck," she explained, without lording it over him. "It's not a streak. I'm lucky all the time. Did I tell you I won eight out of ten NFL bets Sunday? I ignore the point spread and the weather and who has the best arm and bet my hunches. My bookie owes me four big ones. Luke says if he's governor he'll never approve of a state lottery because I'd win that every week."

  Joe yawned. "Sometimes you lose. You still owe me ten for
the bet we made about one of your characters."

  "Thats right, I do, and I always pay my debts. But I never carry any money. Frosty'll give it to you out of petty—" She looked away, her smile changing to a grimace. After a few moments she said, "Do you think I should call again?"

  "Getting late, Abby. Walter Lee has the number here."

  "Joe, c'mere?"

  He stretched, back muscles a little sore from the hours he'd put in on the Wayfarer.

  "Do you want me to move you?" he asked, facingAbby, his hands on the padded arms of Rolling Thunder.

  "Yes. Not just yet. Look me in the eye, now. Joe, you're half out of it and there is no way you can outlast an insomniac, particularly one who has her mind made up that she better not ever go to sleep again."

  "Abby, listen to me. It's only a little over an hour to Charleston."

  "I know that. And I said to give me some space while I—"

  "You're not being sensible."

  "I don't care! You have no idea how much I hate hospitals. And they won't let you take care of me there."

  "I'm not qualified even to consult."

  She began breathing too rapidly again; he put a hand on her cheek to soothe her. She had on a sweater and there was a stadium blanket across her lap, but still she felt much too cold.

  "Qualified, bullshit, you're the one I want near me, doesn't that count for anything? If I'm gonna die I just want to be home when it happens!"

  "But you're not going to die."

  "Then don't make me think about it. Could we just lie down and hold each other? That's what I want most. I want to watch you sleeping. And if anything—goes wrong, I'll pinch you and wake you up." She made the best of a smile that still looked tortured. "I mean, if I need CPR, it's better if I'm already lying down, isn't it?"

  "That's one of the dumbest things I've ever heard. Abby, I'm sorry. I'm tired and you're not rational and I think I'd better call Luke."