sk.everythingseventual-第64章

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　　Floyd；　what's　that　over　there？　Oh　shit！　Oh　SHIT！
　　Who　was　Floyd？　The　only　Floyd　Bill　knew　was　Floyd　Dorning　（or　maybe　it　was　Darling）；　the　kid　he'd　run　the　snack　bar　with；　the　one　who'd　run　off　to　New　York　with　his　girlfriend。　Carol　couldn't　remember　when　Bill　had　told　her　about　that　kid；　but　she　knew　he　had。
　　Just　quit　it；　girl。　There's　nothing　here　for　you。　Slam　the　door　on　the　whole　train　of　thought。
　　And　that　worked。　There　was　a　final　whisper…what's　the　story…and　then　she　was　just　Carol　Shelton；　on　her　way　to　Captiva　Island；　on　her　way　to　Palm　House　with　her　husband　the　renowned　software　designer；　on　their　way　to　the　beaches　and　the　rum　drinks；　and　the　sound　of　a　steel　band　playing　'Margaritaville。'
　　
　　They　passed　a　Publix　market。　They　passed　an　old　black　man　minding　a　roadside　fruit　stand…he　made　her　think　of　actors　from　the　thirties　and　movies　you　saw　on　the　American　Movie　Channel；　an　old　yassuh…boss　type　of　guy　wearing　bib　overalls　and　a　straw　hat　with　a　round　crown。　Bill　made　small　talk；　and　she　made　it　right　back　at　him。　She　was　faintly　amazed　that　the　little　girl　who　had　worn　a　Mary　medallion　every　day　from　ten　to　sixteen　had　bee　this　woman　in　the　Donna　Karan　dress…that　the　desperate　couple　in　that　Revere　apartment　were　these　middle…aged　rich　folks　rolling　down　a　lush　aisle　of　palms…but　she　was　and　they　were。　Once　in　those　Revere　days　he　had　e　home　drunk　and　she　had　hit　him　and　drawn　blood　from　below　his　eye。　Once　she　had　been　in　fear　of　Hell；　had　lain　half…drugged　in　steel　stirrups；　thinking；　I'm　damned；　I've　e　to　damnation。　A　million　years；　and　that's　only　the　first　tick　of　the　clock。
　　They　stopped　at　the　causeway　toll…booth　and　Carol　thought；　The　toll…taker　has　a　strawberry　birthmark　on　the　left　side　of　his　forehead；　all　mixed　in　with　his　eyebrow。
　　There　was　no　mark…the　toll…taker　was　just　an　ordinary　guy　in　his　late　forties　or　early　fifties；　iron…gray　hair　in　a　buzz　cut；　horn…rimmed　specs；　the　kind　of　guy　who　says；　'Y'all　have　a　nahce　tahm；　okai？'…but　the　feeling　began　to　e　back；　and　Carol　realized　that　now　the　things　she　thought　she　knew　were　things　she　really　did　know；　at　first　not　all　of　them；　but　then；　by　the　time　they　neared　the　little　market　on　the　right　side　of　Route　41；　it　was　almost　everything。
　　The　market's　called　Corson's　and　there's　a　little　girl　out　front；　Carol　thought。　She's　wearing　a　red　pinafore。　She's　got　a　doll；　a　dirty　old　yellow…haired　thing；　that　she's　left　on　the　store　steps　so　she　can　look　at　a　dog　in　the　back　of　a　station　wagon。
　　The　name　of　the　market　turned　out　to　be　Carson's；　not　Corson's；　but　everything　else　was　the　same。　As　the　white　Crown　Vic　passed；　the　little　girl　in　the　red　dress　turned　her　solemn　face　in　Carol's　direction；　a　country　girl's　face；　although　what　a　girl　from　the　toolies　could　be　doing　here　in　rich　folks'　tourist　country；　her　and　her　dirty　yellow…headed　doll；　Carol　didn't　know。
　　Here's　where　I　ask　Bill　how　much　farther；　only　I　won't　do　it。　Because　I　have　to　break　out　of　this　cycle；　this　groove。　I　have　to。
　　'How　much　farther？'　she　asked　him。　He　says　there's　only　one　road；　we　can't　get　lost。　He　says　he　promises　me　we'll　get　to　the　Palm　House　with　no　problem。　And；　by　the　way；　who's　Floyd？
　　Bill's　eyebrow　went　up。　The　dimple　beside　his　mouth　appeared。　'Once　you　get　over　the　causeway　and　onto　Sanibel　Island；　there's　only　one　road；'　he　said。　Carol　barely　heard　him。　He　was　still　talking　about　the　road；　her　husband　who　had　spent　a　dirty　weekend　in　bed　with　his　secretary　two　years　ago；　risking　all　they　had　done　and　all　they　had　made；　Bill　doing　that　with　his　other　face　on；　being　the　Bill　Carol's　mother　had　warned　would　break　her　heart。　And　later　Bill　trying　to　tell　her　he　hadn't　been　able　to　help　himself；　her　wanting　to　scream；　I　once　murdered　a　child　for　you；　the　potential　of　a　child；　anyway。　How　high　is　that　price？　And　is　this　what　I　get　in　return？　To　reach　my　fifties　and　find　out　that　my　husband　had　to　get　into　some　Clairol　girl's　pants？
　　Tell　him！　she　shrieked。　Make　him　pull　over　and　stop；　make　him　do　anything　that　will　break　you　free…change　one　thing；　change　everything！　You　can　do　it…if　you　could　put　your　feet　up　in　those　stirrups；　you　can　do　anything！
　　But　she　could　do　nothing；　and　it　all　began　to　tick　by　faster。　The　two　overfed　crows　lifted　off　from　their　splatter　of　lunch。　Her　husband　asked　why　she　was　sitting　that　way；　was　it　a　cramp；　her　saying；　Yes；　yes；　a　cramp　in　her　back　but　it　was　easing。　Her　mouth　quacked　on　about　déjà　vu　just　as　if　she　weren't　drowning　in　it；　and　the　Crown　Vic　moved　forward　like　one　of　those　sadistic　Dodgem　cars　at　Revere　Beach。　Here　came　Palmdale　Motors　on　the　right。　And　on　the　left？　Some　kind　of　sign　for　the　local　munity　theater；　a　production　of　Naughty　Marietta。
　　No；　it's　Mary；　not　Marietta。　Mary；　mother　of　Jesus；　Mary；　mother　of　God；　she's　got　her　hands　out　。　。　。
　　Carol　bent　all　her　will　toward　telling　her　husband　what　was　happening；　because　the　right　Bill　was　behind　the　wheel；　the　right　Bill　could　still　hear　her。　Being　heard　was　what　married　love　was　all　about。
　　Nothing　came　out。　In　her　mind　Gram　said；　'All　the　hard　days　are　ing。'　In　her　mind　a　voice　asked　Floyd　what　was　over　there；　then　said；　'Oh　shit；'　then　screamed　'Oh　shit！'
　　She　looked　at　the　speedometer　and　saw　it　was　calibrated　not　in　miles　an　hour　but　thousands　of　feet：　they　were　at　twenty…eight　thousand　and　descending。　Bill　was　telling　her　that　she　shouldn't　have　slept　on　the　plane　and　she　was　agreeing。
　　There　was　a　pink　house　ing　up；　little　more　than　a　bungalow；　fringed　with　palm　trees　that　looked　like　the　ones　you　saw　in　the　Second　World　War　movies；　fronds　framing　ining　Learjets　with　their　machine　guns　blazing　…
　　Blazing。　Burning　hot。　All　at　once　the　magazine　he's　holding　turns　into　a　torch。　Holy　Mary；　mother　of　God；　hey　there；　Mary；　what's　the　story　…
　　They　passed　the　house。　The　old　man　sat　on　the　porch　and　watched　them　go　by。　The　lenses　of　his　rimless　glasses　glinted　in　the　sun。　Bill's　hand　established　a　beachhead　on　her　hip。　He　said　something　about　how　they　might　pause　to　refresh　themselves　between　the　doffing　of　her　dress　and　the　donning　of　her　shorts　and　she　agreed；　although　they　were　never　going　to　get　to　Palm　House。　They　were　going　to　go　down　this　road　and　down　this　road；　they　were　for　the　white　Crown　Vic　and　the　white　Crown　Vic　was　for　them；　forever　and　ever　amen。
　　The　next　billboard　would　say　PALM　HOUSE　2　MI。　Beyond　it　was　the　one　saying　that　Mother　of　Mercy　Charities　helped　the　Florida　sick。　Would　they　help　her？
　　Now　that　it　was　too　late　she　was　beginning　to　understand。　Beginning　to　see　the　light　the　way　she　could　see　the　subtropical　sun　sparkling　off　the　water　on　their　left。　Wondering　how　many　wrongs　she　had　done　in　her　life；　how　many　sins　if　you　liked　that　word；　God　knew　her　parents　and　her　Gram　certainly　had；　sin　this　and　sin　that　and　wear　the　medallion　between　those　growing　things　the　boys　look　at。　And　years　later　she　had　lain　in　bed　with　her　new　husband　on　hot　summer　nights；　knowing　a　decision　had　to　be　made；　knowing　the　clock　was　ticking；　the　cigarette　butt　was　smoldering；　and　she　remembered　making　the　decision；　not　telling　him　out　loud　because　about　some　things　you　could　be　silent。
　　Her　head　itched。　She　scratched　it。　Black　flecks　came　swirling　down　past　her　face。　On　the　Crown　Vic's　instrument　panel　the　speedometer　froze　at　sixteen　thousand　feet　and　then　blew　out；　but　Bill　appeared　not　to　notice。
　　Here　came　a　mailbox　with　a　Grateful　Dead　sticker　pasted　on　the　front；　here　came　a　little　black　dog　with　its　head　down；　trotting　busily；　and　God　how　her　head　itched；　black　flakes　drifting　in　the　air　like　fallout　and　Mother　Teresa's　face　looking　out　of　one　of　them。
　　MOTHER　OF　MERCY　CHARITIES　HELP　THE　FLORIDA　HUNGRY…WON'T　YOU　HELP　US？
　　Floyd。　What's　that　over　there？　Oh　shit。
　　She　has　time　to　see　something　big。　And　to　read　the　word　DELTA。
　　'Bill？　Bill？'
　　His　reply；　clear　enough　but　nevertheless　ing　from　around　the　rim　of　the　universe：　'Christ；　honey；　what's　in　your　hair？'
　　She　plucked　the　charred　remnant　of　Mother　Teresa's　face　from　her　lap　and　held　it　out　to　him；　the　older　version　of　the　man　she　had　married；　the　secretary…fucking　man　she　had　married；　the　man　who　had　nonetheless　rescued　her　from　people　who　thought　that　you　could　live　forever　in　paradise　if　you　only　lit　enough　candles　and　wore　the　blue　blazer　and　stuck　to　the　approved　skipping　rhymes。　Lying　there　with　this　man　one　hot　summer　night　while　the　drug　deals　went　on　upstairs　and　Iron　Butterfly　sang　'In…A…Gadda…Da…Vida'　for　the　nine　billionth　time；　she　had　asked　what　he　thought　you　got；　you　know；　after。　When　your　part　in　the　show　was　over。　He　had　taken　her　in　his　arms　and　held　her；　down　the　beach　she　had　heard　the　jangle…jingle　of　the　midway　and　the　bang　of　the　Dodgem　cars　and　Bill　…
　　Bill's　glasses　were　melted　to　his　face。　One　eye　bulged　out　of　its　socket。　His　mouth　was　a　bloodhole。　In　the　trees　a　bird　was　crying；　a　bird　was　screaming；　and　Carol　began　to　scream　with　it；　holding　out　the　charred　fragment　of　paper　with　Mother　Teresa's　picture　on　it；　screaming；　watching　as　his　cheeks　turned　black　and　his　forehead　swarmed　and　his　neck　split　open　like　a　poisoned　goiter；　screaming；　she　was　screaming；　somewhere　Iron　Butterfly　was　singing　'In…A…Gadda…Da…Vida'　and　she　was　screaming。
　　
　　'Carol？'
　　It　was　Bill's　voice；　from　a　thousand　miles　away。　His　hand　was　on　her；　but　it　was　concern　in　his　touch　rather　than　lust。
　　She　opened　her　eyes　and　looked　around　the　sun…brilliant　cabin　of　the　Lear　35；　and　for　a　moment　she　understood　everything…in　the　way　one　understands　the　tremendous　import　of　a　dream　upon　the　first　moment　of　waking。　She　remembered　asking　him　what　he　believed　you　got；　you　know；　after；　and　he　had　said　you　probably　got　what　you'd　always　thought　you　would　get；　that　if　Jerry　Lee　Lewis　thought　he　was　going　to　Hell　for　playing　boogie…woogie；　that's　exactly　where　he'd　go。　Heaven；　Hell；　or　Grand　Rapids；　it　was　your　choice…or　the　choice　of　those　who　had　taught　you　what　to　believe。　It　was　the　human　mind's　final　great　parlor…trick：　the　perception　of　eternity　in　the　place　where　you'd　always　expected　to　spend　it。
　　'Carol？　You　okay；　babe？'　In　one　hand　was　the　magazine　he'd　been　reading；　a　Newsweek　with　Mother　Teresa　on　the　cover。　SAINTHOOD　NOW？　it　said　in　white。
　　Looking　around　wildly　at　the　cabin；　she　was　thinking；　It　happens　at　sixteen　thousand　feet。　I　have　to　tell　them；　I　have　to　warn　them。
　　But　it　was　fading；　all　of　it；　the　way　those　feelings　always　did。　They　went　like　dreams；　or　cotton　candy　turning　into　a　sweet　mist　just　above　your　tongue。
　　'Landing？　Already？'　She　felt　wide…awake；　but　her　voice　sounded　thick　and　muzzy。
　　'It's　fast；　huh？'　he　said；　sounding　pleased；　as　if　he'd　flown　it　himself　instead　of　paying　for　it。　'Floyd　says　we'll　be　on　the　ground　in…'
　　'Who？'　she　asked。　The　cabin　of　the　little　plane　was　warm　but　her　fingers　were　cold。　'Who？'
　　'Floyd。　You　know；　the　pilot。'　He　pointed　his　thumb　toward　the　cockpit's　lefthand　seat。　They　were　descending　into　a　scrim　of　clouds。　The　plane　began　to　shake。　'He　says　we'll　be　on　the　ground　in　Fort　Myers　in　twenty　minutes。　You　took　a　hell　of　a　jump；　girl。　And　before　that　you　were　moaning。'
　　Carol　opened　her　mouth　to　say　i