“Shining,” I whisper, still gripping my war paint and trying to piece together the sequence of the last few minutes.
Ahab notices me, seemingly for the first time. “Who’re you?”
“That’s Ma’am,” says Albert, slurping the last of his daiquiri, then pulling a brand-new one out from under his chair.
I clear my throat. “It’s Mim,” I say, rapping my knuckles against the side of the tank. “What’s this?”
“We call it the Pequod,” says Ahab. “Perfect place for a little sun and relaxation.”
I raise my eyebrows. “What—inside?”
The Pale Whale chuckles and sips.
Ahab tightens his grip on Caleb. “It’s a pool, kid.”
Looking from Ahab to the tank, I can’t help but wonder what kind of people drink daiquiris and go swimming on top of a gas stations at eight a.m. on chilly fall mornings. But I’ll thank the gods of, you know, whatever, that they do. Because I’d be dead right now without these two.
Walt comes running around the tank. Pool. Whatever.
“Randy’s on his way,” he says.
“Good.” Ahab hoists Caleb to his feet. “You guys can hang downstairs till he gets here. He’s a dick of a dick, so he’ll probably wanna take you down to the station for questioning out of sheer boredom. Don’t say anything about the pool, okay? He’d find some city bylaw and have it removed.”
Walt gives him a thumbs-up, scurries down the rungs. I stand still for a moment, wondering if this is the right time. Certainly, it’s not how I pictured it happening.
“What’s up, Ma’am?”
I take a knee, unzip my JanSport, and produce Arlene’s wooden box.
For a second, no one says anything. Finally, Ahab says, “Where did you get that?”
His question is quiet, not accusatory.
“Arlene,” I whisper. “Your aunt—I was on the bus with her. The one that crashed.”
Albert sits up in his chair and takes off his aviators. There’s something in his eyes, some deep well of empathy.
“What’s wrong with everybody?” grunts Caleb, still in Ahab’s clenches. “It’s just a box.”
Without thinking twice, Ahab lifts Caleb up by his hoodie, and punches him once, twice, three times in the face. Blood splatters across the gravel roof, as well as a single tooth. The look in Ahab’s eyes isn’t murderous. It’s the look of a man who did what had to be done. Caleb drops to the ground unconscious. Considering the solemnity of the moment he interrupted, I’m thinking he got off pretty easy.
Ahab is in front of me now, looking at the box, then at me, and I suddenly can’t stop crying. It’s crazy, because Arlene was his aunt, not mine. I didn’t know her all that well, not really. I didn’t know her favorite color or movie, or what kind of music she liked, or if she preferred lakes to oceans. I didn’t even know her last name. But maybe those aren’t the things that channel love. Maybe the true conduit is more elusive than that. Maybe. And I think Ahab understands, because now his hand is on my shoulder, and he’s crying, too, and he doesn’t ask any questions, which I’m beyond grateful for. Handing the box over, I search for something memorable and eloquent to mark the occasion. Arlene was one of a kind, a true friend when I needed one, a grande dame from the old school. She was the sweetest of old ladies, and I will miss her dearly. All of these things are true, but the words I choose are far more profound.
“She smelled like cookies,” I whisper through tears.
Ahab laughs and so do I, and it occurs to me again how often laughter accompanies tears. Now Albert has joined us, and when I look up at him, the sun hits me squarely in the face. He slides his aviators into my hands, then pats me on the back.
“Finder’s fee,” he says.
Ahab lifts the gold chain off his neck. Dangling from the end, an old-fashioned skeleton key fits the lock perfectly. He turns his wrist, opening the box with a click.
This is his, not mine.
I pick up my backpack and walk halfway around the tank when his voice stops me. “You wanna know what’s inside?”
Maybe it’s the sun, or the emotion of reuniting Ahab with some piece of his dear dead aunt, but whatever the reason—in this moment, on the rooftop of this gas station—I miss my mother terribly.
I turn, take one last look at Ahab, dripping wet in his ridiculous clothes, holding his precious wooden box; behind him, his whale of a boyfriend is back in his chair, lounging in the shade, sipping a daiquiri like he’s on the beaches of Aruba.
“You could tell me,” I say, rounding the tank. Then, slipping on Albert’s aviators, I throw open the trapdoor. “But I probably wouldn’t believe you.”
22
The Mistress of Moxie
September 3—midmorning
Dear Isabel,
Dim the lights.
Raise the curtains.