“You know, Nick, it isn’t very sensible on either of our parts. But I guess we were never born to be sensible.”
“No, I guess not.”
Then they were talking about the wedding Old Pete had thrown at the Edgewater and about how Old Pete and Lou Duck must have felt when they saw her there, and they were laughing and the awkwardness had gone away and she had the feeling she sometimes had with him—that she wasn’t, never had been, what she really was.
So they sat there drinking, then abruptly (as it always had been with them) they went up to her room. Later, on the balcony overlooking the ocean they had dinner sent up. They could hear the surf and see it coming in and all the lights of the big hotels along the strip and suddenly Nick felt the uniqueness that was America.
“You know what this country really is when you see this place. There isn’t any place in the world like this.”
“I wish I had seen other places. So I would know,” she said. “What’s going to happen, Nick? To people like you and me.”
“I guess we’re forced to stick together,” he said seriously. “I mean like the poor are forced to stick together. Because they have no one else to depend on but the rest of the poor.”
“Is that the only reason?” she said. “I don’t think so. Sometimes when I’m with you I don’t feel like a whore anymore. I think that’s why I like to be with you.”
“You’ll never be a whore to me. Don’t use that word, Nora. Not on yourself.”
“But I am, nevertheless—you see we’re not really very sensible,” she smiled. “I mean you’re really very destructive, Nick. You come around a whore and she doesn’t want to be one anymore.”
“Stop it, will you?”
“All right.”
“I love you. You know that.”
“Yes. But that doesn’t solve anything. Does it? Really?”
He paused a moment. “No.”
“The wind is beautiful and soft and fresh tonight,” she said. It’s that way every night, I guess. But I don’t realize it—what are you going to do? When you get back?”
“The same thing. For a while.”
“No, there’s something else. Isn’t there?”
“Yes, there is. I’ve thought of it. And I must be very sure before I go ahead. But first I’ve got to get some things clear.”
“Well, you tell me when you want to.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Would you like to go out?”
“Not especially.”
“Good,” he said. And reached over and poured them each a brandy.
So, two days later, having sold his car, Nick returned to his Key. It had been a pleasant three days. It had seemed as inevitable as the sunrise and sunset of Marco that he should see Nora. And before he had left they had agreed there wasn’t any reason for them not to see each other as often as it was possible for him to come over.
CHAPTER XXXIX
THE high winds of the Atlantic hurricanes swept across Florida. The Glades bent westward and the Gulf of Mexico churned under gray overcast skies. There were days of no fishing in the Ten Thousand Islands and days when the sea was too heavy for Nick to even chance the journey from his Key to Marco. Two months had passed and Nick had begun to write. It was all at once the most exhilarating and terrifying time he had known in his life. Days would pass without his being seen at Molly’s.
In his new found work he knew what he wanted to say, felt an heretofore unknown satisfaction when he thought he had said it on paper and his depression would be terrible when next day he would find how clumsy was his work, how it lacked true emotion. He had begun to read with a fanaticism, never for story, but always for how emotion and effect had been obtained. At times he thought himself, as Old Pete had repeatedly told him—crazy, truly going mad. He realized too, near the end of November, that his ‘sketches’ were in reality all but bit parts of a whole—a larger mural which was his story. The frustration of not knowing how to put it together, of knowing how clumsy was his technique, how truly terrible his construction made him feel outraged and stomach sick as he had never before known. He longed to talk to someone about his work. To show it. He did not realize it was vanity that prevented him from doing so. Then suddenly he had begun, from the writing, to find out some things about himself that he had never known and did not like. At the end of the first month he had become exhausted and frustrated and had gone into Molly’s and gotten roaring wrathfully drunk and if it had not been for Larry would have been taken good by several of the Cracker boys.
Occasionally he wrote home by sending the letter to Nora to be mailed in Miami and had a post office box there where Nora would pick up his mail and send it on to him. He did not like reading the letters which came from Mary. They seemed to get more and more depressing. Yvonne would write occasionally but he never heard from Old Pete although Mary would always say how much Old Pete missed him and needed him. To Gus he did not feel it was necessary to write nor did he expect to hear from him.
Daily the work seemed to get better. He had unconsciously fallen into a routine whereby he was most productive. He was beginning to learn something of the value of the discipline of patience, of the practice and peace that came from moderation. In his mind he saw Nora as he had never known her before; and he was startled, severely perplexed, when in a mind’s study of Old Pete he found that what he thought his father’s weaknesses were in reality his greatest strengths.
The first week in December Larry brought him out a telegram which Nora had forwarded from Miami. It was an extremely rough day of periodic rain squalls and Larry and Nick had a difficult time beaching Larry’s boat. The telegram was from Mary and said that Old Pete was very sick and that Nick should come home at once. Nick got into Larry’s boat and they made it to Larry’s camp and in spite of the windbreakers they were soaking wet. From Larry’s camp Nick tried to place a call but the lines were down so Larry drove him in to Naples. Nick placed the call collect and Yvonne answered and accepted the charges. Before Nick had a chance to ask about Old Pete, Yvonne informed him that it was about time he had let them know exactly where he was; it was ridiculous, smug, and childish to have his mail sent to a post office box. Then she told Nick that there wasn’t anything at all wrong with Old Pete—Mary had gotten extremely drunk and sent the telegram because she wanted to have Nick home again. Yvonne said that Old Pete was deeply hurt because he hadn’t heard from Nick and went around the house all night saying: ‘My son. My Son, MY SON,’ and was very irascible and more difficult than ever, and so disgraced by the breaking of the engagement that he wouldn’t even go to church any more. Nick asked if he still went to the poker games and he and Yvonne both laughed when Yvonne said, yes, he still went to the games. Mary was drinking more and more and Yvonne said that she, herself, was trying to figure some way of getting out of the house! She also said that the theatre business was bad and Old Pete had mentioned several times that they thought they might sell out. She also said that Pierro’s practice wasn’t going well at all and it was rumored that he and Marci weren’t getting along. Then she asked Nick what he was doing. He said not very much, reading and fishing, and to be sure and give everyone his love, and not to worry, and to be especially sure and say hello to Old Gus. Yvonne asked him if he wanted to speak to Mary and he said no, he thought it would be better if they didn’t speak and Yvonne agreed. Then she asked him how Nora was just as if Nora was right next to him, and he told her that he hadn’t seen her at all but he could tell Yvonne didn’t believe him.
Nick received two more alarming telegrams from Mary during the Christmas season and neither one was valid. Painfully, painstakingly, he pursued his work. He found he could work better at night. He would work from eleven until four or five and then if he had a fishing party take them out, or fish for himself. In the afternoon he walked the beach in the sun or drove his boat back into the Glades. His book began to take shape and suddenly the monumental task of actually completing it, the way he wanted it completed, confronted him. He beca
me depressed, so depressed that the always noncommittal, live-let-live Larry suggested he get away for a while....
He decided to go to Miami and see Nora. It had been September when he had last seen her and now it was late January, almost four months. He went into Naples and bought himself two tropical suits and several sport shirts, the first clothes he had bought since he had come back to the States. He hadn’t spent a cent of his income and had earned and saved from his guiding and fishing. He decided to splurge and take a thousand with him and rented a convertible in Naples and took off for Miami soberly.
Nora was not at the Royal. Nor at the Kings, nor at the apartment, all of which she had left as forwarding addresses. He tried several bars and clubs inquiring of her and finally realized at two in the morning he had better start looking for a room. By means of bribery he got a room at the Royal. Next morning one of the bellmen told him (by means of bribery) that he had seen her around, he thought it was at the Flame or the track. He went out to the track but she wasn’t there. At the track he began to drink. He made a forty dollar bet on a five to one shot and the horse came in. At the clubhouse bar he struck up a conversation with a long-legged, finely breasted red-head, who was married—the wife of a Cleveland undertaker; thirty-three, green-eyed, ripe. They left the track together. And, later, around six, in her room at the Yale Plaza she had asked him if he didn’t want to join her in Havana to see the freak shows. He said he would have to go back to his hotel to change for dinner and would pick her up around eight, then called to tell her he couldn’t make it. Premeditatively he had called, hadn’t stood her up, wanted to have it available, knowing surely she wouldn’t be available long and thinking he was a damn fool for letting it go.
That night he started to hit the places looking for Nora. He started a little after ten. It was a fine, star-filled night with a soft wind from the sea and clouds out over the sea. At first he didn’t drink much, but soon he was drinking in almost every place he went. He hit the Flame around two in the morning. The dice girl knew Nora and after feeling out Nick thoroughly told him a place where she might be found later on—a small bar in an apartment house at the north end of the beach. Nick went there around three in the morning. The place was filled with an assortment of characters: pimps, lesbians, jockeys, whores, suckers. There was a piano player behind the bar and a girl singer behind the bar. Nick had several drinks, waiting. About five she walked in. At first he couldn’t believe it was she. She was so pale and thin and overly made up. Her eyes were half-shut and yellowish and she swayed slightly as she walked by him up two places to the bar. He walked around to where she stood:
“Nora,” he said.
She turned around, her eyes slowly focusing on him. She was on something now, he was sure, and drunk besides.
“Nick,” she said. “Little Nickie.” Then nastily: “What the fuck you want little boy.”
“Nora, what’s happened?” he asked. Then realized how stupid it must have sounded. “Let me buy you a drink. What are you drinking?”
“Beat it,” she said.
“Like hell I will,” he said. She was not clean, he could see, and her pancake was caked unevenly.
“You heard the lady,” a voice said next to Nick. He glanced around at a tall thin weak-mouthed man. He looked him up and down. He had brown suede shoes and dark brown gabardine pants and shirt to match. The shirt was a sport shirt but buttoned and where the tie should have been was a little emerald horseshoe. Nick turned back to Nora.
“What are you drinking?” he asked and felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Leave him alone, Steve,” Nora said. “I know him.”
“You heard the lady,” Steve said.
“Leave him alone, you goddamn pimp sonofabitch,” Nora said drunkenly and incoherently to Steve.
Quickly Steve stepped around and struck her hard on the side of the face. Nick didn’t hesitate. He took a heavy ashtray from the bar and holding it in his right hand smashed into the side of the pimp’s head hard as he could. Blood spurted at once and the pimp was on the floor looking up at him dazedly, blood streaming and the bartender was over the top of the bar. Nick stepped back and around and took a twenty from his pocket and gave it to the bartender and grabbed Nora’s arm and half dragged her from the place. Fortunately there was a cab unloading passengers when they came out. They took it and when they were about five blocks away they could hear sirens.
“Nick,” she screamed finally. “Nick,” she screamed. He put his hand over her mouth. “You killed him,” she blurted. He covered her mouth up again shaking his head. Soon she began to shake her head too, reassuring herself he had not killed, and he released his hand but she continued to shake her head reassuringly, then began to mutter about having a drink.
Nick stopped at a bar just off Collins in a crowded district and dismissed the cab and took Nora, still obviously on the verge of hysteria, inside. Silently she drank six double shots, then he got another cab and took her back to his hotel. He called the house physician and he gave her a hypo (Nick gave her several more shots while they were waiting for him) and she finally went to sleep.
He stayed up until almost eight o’clock, then went to sleep too. Around noon he awoke. She was still sleeping. He ordered breakfast. As he was eating she began to twist and turn and sweat in the bed. At first he thought it was a nightmare, then knew better. At four she awoke very sick. He called the doctor and he gave her another shot and while the shot was taking hold Nick managed to get some split-pea soup down her. At midnight she awoke again.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” she said. “Now.” She was desperate he could tell.
“What are you on?” he asked her.
“What fucking business is it of yours?” she said nastily, hatefully.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said.
“Where are my clothes?”
“Being cleaned,” he said. “They were filthy.”
“You bastard. You rotten bastard.”
“I’ll get the doctor.”
“The doctor can’t help me,” she said. Then screamed: “I’ve got to get out of here.”
Nick slapped her and she began to cry, then he called the doctor again. After she went to sleep Nick went downstairs and had a drink in the bar with the doctor. He explained who he was and what his suspicions about Nora were and that he would like to take her with him. The doctor was from Chicago originally and knew of Old Pete Stratton and was very cooperative and gave Nick several prescriptions for nembutal and told him to be sure and see another doctor when they got to where they were going and what to expect when Nora began to dump her habit.
As soon as she got up in the morning Nick made her take two of the nembutal. He had his things packed and put into his rented convertible. Then he helped her to get dressed and supporting her took her down to the car and they started the drive to Marco.
For a while she slept, then she would begin to twist and turn and sweat in her sleep as if having some horrible nightmare. He would stop and wake her and give her one of the nembutal, then drive on. Once she slept so soundly that he had become frightened and stopped again to shake her awake. Near Everglades City he tried to talk her into eating something but she refused. So he drove on into Caxambas Pass where his boat was docked at Larry’s and with Larry’s help put her carefully in the boat and started for the Key. Larry never said a word except “Glad to see you back, youngin’.”
The next week was a nightmare. Twice Nick had to send for the doctor from the mainland. Nora swore at Nick incessantly and loathingly. Once when he had come back to the shack from getting water she had tried to knife him as he bathed her forehead. He realized she was not only dangerous but so depressed she might be suicidal and he hid everything potentially dangerous to her.
She begged Nick to get her some ‘stuff. She would twist and turn and sweat on the bed then stiffen out, retch, fall on the floor, scream. Her body would jerk convulsively. Several times she had run and thrown herself headfirst into
the wall. When she had quieted down Nick would lead her down to the beach, out into the sun. Once, on the beach, between tremens, she had asked him in a bewildered yet somehow almost euphoric way: “Why did you bring me here?” And he had answered: “You’d have brought me, wouldn’t you?” And she had changed suddenly, bitten her lip, and glared at him. “Like hell I would,” with twisted Ups, hateful mouth. And in that moment Nick realized, no, she wouldn’t have done the same for him. The strange thing was it didn’t come as a shock. In a way he had known all the time she wouldn’t have.
Ten days passed and suddenly she fell into a deep sleep. She slept for almost thirty-six hours. When she awoke he fed her some canned chicken soup in the bed. When she was done she smiled up at him a weak, childish smile and shakily took his hand. “I guess I kicked it,” she said. “Thanks, Nick.” Then she slept again. He covered her and wrote a note that he was going into town to get some things, then for the first time in almost two weeks he left his Key. When he came back, exhausted, he crawled in next to her and when he awoke next day she wasn’t there. He found her on the beach, wading, wearing the dungarees he had brought her and one of his shirts.
“You watch yourself in those shallows,” he hollered to her. “There’s sting rays half buried in the sand.”
Knee deep in the water, she looked at him startled, then ran for the shore. He began to laugh.
“You were kidding,” she said when she got near him.
“No,” he said.
“I’m famished,” she said.
“I’ll bet you are. Let’s go up and make some bacon and eggs.”
“Pounds of bacon,” she said. “I look like hell don’t I.”
“You’ve been through a lot.”
“It’s beautiful here.”
“Yes. Come on, we’ll feed you.” He took her hand and they began to walk toward the shack.
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