North of Havana

by Randy Wayne White

  But then it all changes and it changes quickly. Palm trees begin to clack and clatter in a nervous breeze. The breeze grows and builds, and then, as if guided by the boom of a sail, it swings compass-hard out of the northwest, hunkering there while a high-pressure system slips into the void. Then the wind blows Minnesota cold, roiling the green Gulf of Mexico until it’s the color and texture of jagged marl, leaching the heat out of an ineffectual sun, sending the tourists scrambling and skittering back to their heated condos and expensive motel rooms to brood about money and their rotten luck.

  Dewey had arrived unexpectedly with the first freight-train swing of wind. I’d been working on my thousand-gallon fish tank out on the deck of my stilthouse, fitting a new Styrofoam cover to insulate it from the predicted cold snap. Nearly a year before, my place had been all but destroyed by an explosion and I was still putting on finishing touches, rebuilding this, fixing that, trying to get things back to normal. No easy job. The problem with the Styrofoam cover was that I had sufficiently changed my new tank’s PVC piping configuration—the raw water intake, exhaust, and overflow systems—so that the old cover could no longer serve even as a template. So I had spent the whole morning building a cover from scratch, measuring and fitting, cutting Styrofoam to size, then bracing the thing with marine plywood stripping. Every so often, someone from the marina would wander over to inspect, then comment on my handiwork, usually as prelude to some new bit of marina gossip or an invitation to a party on the mainland or up on Captiva—this was the holiday season, remember?—and they would generally finish by observing that I was being way too fastidious. The cold front wouldn’t last for more than a week, so why didn’t I just throw a tarp over the damn tank? It would save a helluva lot of time.

  I listened to them. I smiled. I went right on working. One of the great frauds promoted by New Age mystics and other mind-control profiteers is that we are exactly what we envision ourselves to be. Imagine success, they tell us, and success will beat down our doors. Visualize big goals and big money; don’t sweat the small stuff. But I think it is far more likely that we are directed less by our dreams than we are steered by our fears. We don’t run to success—whatever success is—we flee in its general direction until success hits us in the face. The best executives, best salespeople, best tradesmen, builders, promoters, and professionals all have, at the bedrock core, a healthy fear of not living up to their obligations. The obligations vary—each craft and discipline creates its own—and they range from the great and grand to tiny little nit-picking details that demand long hours, short weekends, and a full ration of stubbornness. The duties of obligation are not flogged on the late-night infomercials because there is nothing flashy about commitment. Hard work without shortcuts or excuses just doesn’t sell on cassette, disc, or video.

  I wasn’t about to throw a tarp over my fish tank because I am one of those people who sweats the small stuff. “Anal retentive” is the current euphemism. I am compulsive about details. I am a neatener and a straightener. Whenever I try to cut corners by slopping together some makeshift remedy, I suffer a nagging anxiety at belly-button level. The solution? I don’t cut corners or slop together makeshift remedies. There are “What if?” people who are nostalgia junkies. I am a “What if?” person who is driven by fear of the future. What if I covered the fish tank with Pliofilm and the temperature dropped below freezing? My tank contains immature snook, tarpon, and sea trout, all carefully collected and painstakingly maintained. Most of them would die. What if the nor’wester blew a gale? The Pliofilm would be ripped away in strips and the wind would damage sea squirts, tunicates, anemones, and the shrimps and squid that live among them. Odds were that it wouldn’t freeze and it wouldn’t blow a gale… but what if it did? Sanibel Biological Supply, purveyor of marine research specimens, is a small company but it’s my company, my obligation, so I sweat the details. As Jeth Nichols, one of the local fishing guides, has told me more than once: “You big dumb shit, what with all the tah-tah time you spend looking through a microscope and cutting open fish, no wonder you live alone. What woman’s gu-gonna put up with that?”

  Jeth’s stutter doesn’t affect his powers of observation; he’s probably right on all counts.

  * * *

  So I was squatting over the cover, barefooted and dirt-streaked, when I felt the earthquake-tremble of footsteps on the dock that connects my house to the mangrove beach. Looked up expecting to see one of the marina regulars, but there stood Dewey instead. Her hands were shoved into the pockets of her Day-Glo red warm-ups, her blue visor cap was tilted back. She gave me a long look of appraisal, then shook her head solemnly. “Jesus Christ, I’ve been gone only, what? A year? That fast, you’ve gotten fat and let your personal hygiene go to hell.”

  Meet a friend out of place in terms of space and time and it takes the brain a few beats to reshape the unexpected into the familiar. “Dewey?”

  She made a face. “How many six-foot blondes you know? Now your memory’s turned to mush. Just fucking sad!” She came striding up the dock, over the water, where I met her in a back-slapping bear hug. Picked her up, swung her around, gave her a brotherly kiss on the forehead. Stepped back to look into those good eyes, then hugged her again. Into my ear Dewey said, “Playtime’s over, fat boy. Strap on your shoes. Coach Nye is back for the holidays. First we run, then we lift, then it’s swim time.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “We can talk while we run. Get your Nikes on.”

  “Can’t. Not till I’m done working.”

  “Don’t start with that stuff. You’re always working.”

  “Give me an hour.”

  “Whine, whine, whine. Act your age!” She held my face between her hands and grinned at me. “Damn, it’s good to see you, Ford!”

  “And you, Dewey.”

  “The world just keeps getting crazier and faster and meaner, but you don’t change. You and this rickety old fish palace of yours.”

  “You should have called. I could have picked you up at the airport.”

  “And ruin the surprise? Besides, I did call. Never got an answer, so I finally called the marina. Mack said you and Tomlinson were off sailing someplace. That was what? October?”

  “We sailed to Key West. I helped him get his boat in cruising shape. Tomlinson wanted to stick around for Fantasy Fest. That’s a freak party; Halloween in Key Wasted. I caught a ride on a sports fisherman. A couple of buddies and I fished our way home.”

  “And left Tomlinson.”

  “Sure. His doctor said he was ready. He’s getting better, I think. Slowly. Still a little weird. That lightning strike did more than just burn a scar into his temple. I expected him back last month. But the next day or two for sure.”

  “The scar I haven’t seen. But Tomlinson’s always weird.”

  “True… but not like this.”

  “And you still don’t have an answering machine.”

  Nope, I didn’t have an answering machine. No fax, no cellular phone, no beeper, no E-mail either. At the root of all technology is the human drive to triumph over isolation. Most people have a horror of being marooned. Sometimes I believe that I am not among them—a mild deception that has simplified my lifestyle. But lately, more and more of my clients were hinting that I was a little too isolated; that it was a little too hard to place orders, so the day would probably come when I would have one or two or all of the above.

  Dewey was still talking: “… I wasn’t absolutely certain that my Captiva house was going to be open in December, so by that time I—”

  “By that time, you decided to ignore the messages I left.”

  “I know, I know. Dependable, punctual Ford.”

  There was something wrong with that? If I was in the country, near a phone, I tried to call Dewey every Sunday night.

  Dewey said, “That’s not the point. What I was telling you was, Bets did exhibition matches in Madrid and Lisbon, an
d I went along at the last minute. By then I figured, why not surprise him?”

  “Ah,” I said, picturing Dewey and Bets together. “Oh.”

  Dewey gave me an affectionate shake. “We’re wasting time. I’ve got three whole weeks to do nothing but work out and lie in the sun. Then I’m off to Phoenix for the Amateur Classic.” She was pulling me up the steps, toward the house; let me stop just long enough to fit the Styrofoam cover onto the tank. Said, “So the fun starts as of now. We run five, lift light, then we come back here and swim out to the island and back.”

  I said, “In the bay?” My house is built over the water on stilts. The lower level is all dock. The upper level is wooden platform. Two small cottages sit at the center under one tin roof. The platform extends out on all sides, creating a broad porch. Standing on the porch by the screen door, I could feel the first gusting chill of the coming nor’wester. I said, “An hour from now, the bay might be a little cold for swimming.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s got to be, what? Eighty? Eighty-five degrees? Get your ass in gear, champ. Quit stalling. You’re the one who told me whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

  She followed me into the cottage and futzed around with the stereo and shortwave radio while I changed. She chatted about her flight down. Told me a little bit about the crummy golf courses outside Lisbon. When I asked how Bets was doing, Dewey said, “Fine, fine. She’s one busy lady,” in a vague, evasive way that suggested that Bets wasn’t fine and Dewey didn’t want to discuss it. There was something on her mind; something she needed to talk about, and I wondered how long it would take for her to finally get around to it. There are false extroverts who use bluster to hide their shyness and sensitivity. Dewey is one of them. At the core, Dewey is an outsider: the gifted kid who never quite meshed with the crowd. She was different, was always different, and so the shy child within was never eroded away by conformity. The child hides in there, way down deep, and when you are a friend of the child—which is the only way you can be Dewey’s friend—you can say any dumb thing you want, any egoless inanity, and the child never challenges or criticizes. But the acceptance must be reciprocal. And maybe that kind of acceptance is the core of all true friendship. When Dewey does let the screen drop, she is still funny. Still irreverent. But she is also without guile, and delicate, delicate. Now, for a moment, she let the screen drop. It was in her tone. “Doc?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It crossed my mind that it might be a tad awkward… hell, a lot awkward, if I breezed in here and you had a… you know, a houseguest. For Christmas. Someone staying with you.”

  “You mean a woman?”

  “Sure, what else? Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a good surprise.”

  “I don’t know why not.”

  “I just thought that they, the woman, I mean, might get ticked off. You know, jealous.”

  I finished tying my running shoes and stepped out from behind the bed screen. “Why would a woman be jealous of you?” The words were out of my mouth before I realized what a stupid and cruel thing it was to say.

  Some insist that the human eye cannot register emotion. Those who believe it have not met Dewey Nye. She was staring at me, a wry expression fixed in place to hide the wound. “Thanks, partner. You do wonders for my ego.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Bullshit. That’s exactly what you meant.”

  No way out of it, so I said, “Besides, I don’t have any women. Nothing sexual, anyway. Just a couple of friends around the island.”

  Dewey said, “No kidding?,” still pinning me with her gaze. She knew it wasn’t true. In our frequent phone conversations, I didn’t leave much out.

  I said, “Well, sometimes it’s sexual. Sure. But nothing permanent. Occasionally I meet a tourist lady who seems interesting, who likes to talk about more than which brand of tanning oil is best. But they never stay for more than a day or two.”

  “But you’d like them to stay. That’s the kind of house-guest I meant. The kind you’d like to stay longer?”

  Even to Tomlinson I would have probably hedged, but Dewey’s intuition is too good. You hedge, you lie, and her screens lock instantly into place. I braced myself against the west wall and began to stretch hamstrings and calves as I said, “Nope, I haven’t met one yet who I wanted to stay longer. Not in a while, anyway.”

  Actually, it had been just short of a year.

  Dewey’s laughter was only slightly mocking. “Jesus Christ, I can see you’re undecided.”

  “I like women—as people. As roommates, it’s another story. Same with men.”

  “And you get so many offers. I noticed the line outside, all those girls with suitcases, waiting patiently.”

  “Go ahead and joke, but I’m trying to explain something. The way it is with women these days. They begin by saying they don’t want a serious relationship. They always do. They say they’re not interested in marriage. They always are. They say they have no desire to impose on my solitude or my work. Inevitably, they impose on both. They leave hair in the sink. They wear my T-shirts. They get pissy when I do the cooking. And they always, always end up asking to borrow my boat—if I’ll just take a few minutes and teach them how to run it. Nope, two days is plenty. Three, tops.” I finished stretching and looked at her. “I sound cynical?”

  “You sound like a prissy old jerk.”

  “Yeah, well… this place is too small for two people. On a full-time basis, I mean. Besides, I like my routine. My work keeps me busy enough. It may be contrary to all acceptable social behavior, but I like living alone.”

  She still wore the bemused smile. “So let me summarize: No woman wants you, no woman will have you. You’re lonely as hell, horny as a goat, and as full of shit as ever.”

  I grabbed her and wrestled her around until we stood face-to-face. “If you’re asking to borrow my boat, the answer’s no.”

  Dewey held me with her eyes, still amused, but then the intensity and focus seemed to change. Suddenly she hugged me hard, then pushed me toward the door. “You men,” she said, nudging me along, “you bastards. It’s always the same: First you steal our hearts, then you destroy our dreams.”

  2

  A workout with Dewey is not a social occasion. When she runs she runs much too fast for conversation. For a guy of my size and of my construction, anyway. The lungs and capillaries of a 220-pound adult male can only distribute so much oxygen. Same when she lifts weights. God help the person who interrupts her concentration with idle chatter. Prior to her flying off to New York to live with Bets, Dewey had been my regular training partner. I dreaded those workouts because of her drill sergeant mentality, but also loved them because we pushed each other to the very edge each and every day… and that is the only way to return to the lighter-than-gravity, animal-quick, skin-ribs-and-muscle creature that lies within each and every one of us at the outer boundaries of personal fitness.

  Dewey had stripped down to orange Spandex running shorts and matching Spandex running bra. With her blue visor cap turned backwards, blond hair swinging, she might have been modeling high-tech running gear. As we jogged along the shell lane that leads from Dinkin’s Bay Marina to Sanibel’s main road, I said, “I’ll try to keep track of how many cars honk at us. What’s the old record—seven?”

  “Those bastards, I hate it when cars honk. Geeze-oh-Katy, it makes me jump every time.”

  Geeze-oh-Katy—a new expression she was using. Sounded girlish and homey. I said, “So try wearing a baggy T-shirt and shorts.”

  “It’ll be a snowy day in hell before I start dressing to please assholes in passing cars.” She glanced over at me. “You don’t like the way I dress? What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

  I said, “You look great. You always look great, Dewey.”

  She was nodding, not buying it. “Flattery. What you’d better do is save your breath. You’ll need it.�
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  The hour or more of hell I was about to endure required some psychological preparation. I tried my best.… Felt the ache of old wounds and the familiar grating pain of damaged knees… and reminded myself that the pain would soon fade into numbness. Felt the thoracic burn that forewarns oxygen debt… and comforted myself with the knowledge that the human body can abide a hell of a lot more discomfort than the brain’s little warning mechanisms would have us believe. Also reminded myself that this was Friday. Every Friday, all the marina regulars get together after work for a traditional weekend party. By the time Dewey and I finished our workout, Mack would have food out on platters beneath the sea grape tree and Igloo coolers packed tight with crushed ice and bottles of beer. It was a nice thing to imagine, a tough workout then all that ice and beer.

  When we reached the bike path that traces the interior of Sanibel, Dewey turned toward Captiva Island and lengthened her stride, running what, for her, was a comfortable six-minute-thirty-second-mile pace. She had a floating kind of stride. I huffed and puffed and thudded along beside. The wind had freshened—a chilled and gusting high-pressure wind—and we ran right into the teeth of it. It was like trying to run through cotton. Chilly or not, I was sweating before we finished the first mile.

  “How you feeling?”

  Her question surprised me. I had allowed consciousness to blur; was concentrating solely on putting one foot in front of the other. “Good,” I gasped. “Pretty good.”

  “Bullshit. I own golf balls with better color.”

  “Nope. Feel fine.”

  “You always say that. And you’re always lying.”

  After that, we ran in silence. Ran Captiva Road way past the elementary school, then cut inland through Ding Darling Sanctuary: a shell road that tunneled through mangroves and wove its way between brackish lakes. The mangroves were hunched up on their prop-root toes, showing the wind. Water in the lakes was the color of strong sassafras tea. White wading birds flushed before us. A bull gator lay wide-bodied on the mud, mouth open, soaking in the last of the fading heat. Biologists once believed that gators and crocs used their open mouths as a sort of thermostat, perhaps to facilitate digestion. Now they’re not so sure. Where the shell road curved beneath the wind there were dense pockets of musk… iodine, ozone, and sulfur—the smell of primal life; the smell of backcountry Florida. When I crossed to the lee side of Dewey, hers was a more delicate odor but similarly primal: shampoo, miracle fabric, the acidic smell of woman-sweat.