If he couldn’t come south to me and share my porch, I would try to send an emanation of myself north to share his. Down the boardwalk to the beach, the tide coming in. All alone, except for the moonlight, and the little turtle eggs maturing as fast as they could in their protected dune. And then the next ordeal of breaking out of their shells and crawling on their little legs as fast as they could, down a vast stretch of beach to the safety of the waves. Some would make it, some would not.
Since I was sending an emanation of myself, I could order time and space as I pleased. I didn’t have to wait forty minutes, I could be at the wire fence immediately, crawl under it, climb the rotting steps to the porch—and stand facing the doorway.
Then, heart knocking against ribs, I approached him through the darkness, not running away this time.
You came back, a voice says, as if speaking from underwater. Despite its hollow tone, I can hear pleasure. I keep on moving toward him, though it’s too dark to see his shape. I know without seeing that he stands in the doorframe, no longer slouching against it, but upright and welcoming. The energy charge between us is still there. Though I can’t see him, I feel his outstretched arms. I walk forward into them. There’s no going back now.
XII.
A persistent knocking yanked me out of a sleep so profound that I couldn’t recall where I was or who I was. The nearby crash of the waves against the surf brought me back to Aunt Charlotte’s island and then I remembered my mom had died, and something else bad had happened more recently. It was morning though I had no memory of going to my room the night before, but obviously I had left the hammock, changed into my pajamas, and crawled into bed.
I was remembering Aunt Charlotte’s fall only as I opened the front door to a stranger, an elderly man, built like a bantamweight wrestler gone to seed, with shaggy white hair and white stubble all over his face. The only things neat about him were his clothes: a freshly ironed short-sleeved shirt with small red and white checks, khakis with the crease still in them, white socks, and docksiders.
“Good morning, Marcus,” he said, though what I actually heard was mawnin, Mah-kus. “I’m Lachicotte Hayes, a friend of your Aunt Charlotte’s. She wanted me to check on you. May I come in?”
I hadn’t found my voice yet, but I stood aside to indicate he was welcome.
“First things first,” he said. (Fust things fust.) “Your aunt is going to be okay, though she’s vexed because her arm’s in a soft cast and she won’t be able to paint for a while—her wrist wasn’t broken but she tore a ligament. They’re releasing her at noon and I’ll be bringing her home.”
“What about her ankle?”
“Well, it’s broken. Clean break in the fibula. It’s in a cast, too, which poses another problem. She can’t do crutches with one arm so she has to make her choice between a walker and a wheelchair. I told her I’d opt for the wheelchair, but if I know your aunt she’ll prefer to hop around on one leg in order to retain some control. Have you had your breakfast yet?”
“I just woke up.”
“And I woke you. May I make amends by cooking your breakfast? I’m a good cook. My third wife said she married me for my cooking.”
Both of them had been married three times, I was thinking. Had they ever had sex? It was hard to imagine, when people were so old. As it seemed polite to say something back, I asked if he was still married to his third wife, which made him laugh, exposing a mouthful of small, brownish teeth.
“Oh, she had enough of me a long time ago. These days, I’m taking a page from your Aunt Charlotte’s book, though I’m a speck more sociable than she is. How about breakfast?”
As the house opened directly into the kitchen, he was already en route to the refrigerator. “Uh-oh,” he said, after examining its contents. “No eggs, no bacon, no butter (buttah). What do you all have for your breakfast?”
“We don’t eat breakfast together. Usually she has a banana and microwaves some coffee in the middle of the morning.”
“I see nothing’s changed there, except she used not to have the microwave. What do you eat?”
“I usually have a bowl of cereal and a glass of milk. That’s really all I want.”
“Well … ,” scratching the shaggy head. “I guess you better have that, then. I’ll join you in a cup of tea.” He opened a cabinet above the sink. “There used to be a nice tea caddy in here, from Queen Elizabeth’s coronation…”
“A red tin box with a lion and a unicorn on it?”
“That’s the one.”
“It’s in her studio. She keeps her brushes in it.”
“Oh, my, isn’t that just—” He cut himself off midsentence and patted the upper shelves until he seized a plastic container filled with tea bags. “At least she saved my Typhoo.”
And so I sat down across the table from Lachicotte, as he asked me to call him. It was the first time since coming to live with Aunt Charlotte that I had faced another person at breakfast. He took milk in his tea and settled for two packets of sweetener after unsuccessfully digging at the rock-hard substance in Aunt Charlotte’s sugar bowl.
“I’ve been commissioned to go shopping with you for a bike,” he said. “I know a place.”
“You mean now?”
“Sure. It’s only half past nine. We can’t pick her up until noon, after the doc has checked her out. If you don’t absolutely have to have a new one, they’ve got some prize vintage models at this place. I’m partial to vintage models when it comes to cars, but it’s completely up to you.”
“But won’t it seem thoughtless?”
He looked perplexed. “Come again?”
“I mean to shop for a bike the same day she’s coming home in two casts.”
“That’s very thoughtful, but the sooner we get you some wheels, Marcus, the better for her. She won’t be able to drive for some time. You’ll be running errands, doing the grocery shopping. We’ll get you a roomy basket to go on the back, and you’re going to need a helmet. Until she phoned last night from the hospital, I didn’t know she had anyone living with her. I offered to come over right away, but she said you were a mature young man and had locked all the doors and would be fine. We haven’t been regularly in touch, your aunt and I, though she knows she can always count on me. And I feel the same about her.”
I had never set eyes on a car like the one waiting outside Aunt Charlotte’s house. A dazzling creamy white with a long swooping back and a majestic hood in front crowned with silver wings. Its upholstery was buff-colored leather, the dashboard a highly polished wood, and the steering wheel was on the wrong side.
“It smells good” was all I could think to say once I settled in the passenger seat.