We’ve got two hours to kill until Dr. Winston Sawyer will see us, so Janet and I order rum drinks and grouper sandwiches at an outdoor joint a block off Bay Street. Somehow we end up talking about death, a subject on which we hold vastly different philosophies. Janet says she believes in reincarnation, which is how she’s held herself together after Jimmy’s death. In a nutshell, she believes her brother will come back as a dolphin, or possibly a Labrador retriever.
I, on the other hand, believe death is the end of the ride. Death travels on the caboose.
“What about an afterlife?” Janet inquires.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I say. “On second thought, do.”
“You believe in heaven?”
“From all I’ve read, it sounds pretty tedious. Frankly, your reincarnation program seems more intriguing—except with my luck I’d come back as Shirley MacLaine.”
“Don’t make fun.”
“Or a mullet.”
“What’s that?” Janet asks.
“A fish whose only purpose in life is to be devoured by bigger, hungrier fishes.”
“Jack, you don’t understand. The way it got explained to me, whatever happens on earth, your spirit remains safe and whole. Whether you’re a fish or a butterfly or whatever.”
I gnaw crossly on a pickle. “All right. Say I get reincarnated as a lobster—”
“Let’s not talk about this anymore.”
“First day of lobster season, some bubble-blower nails me with a speargun. You’re saying I won’t feel a thing? Even when they drop my tasty red ass into a pot of boiling water, my spirit will feel A-OK? You honestly believe that?”
“Can we get the check please.”
Dr. Winston Sawyer is eighty-seven years old, the same age as Jacques-Yves Cousteau when he died. Says Dr. Sawyer: “I’ve delivered more babies than any other poysin in all da Bahamas.”
Janet and I had braced ourselves for such news. The man’s waiting room was packed with pregnant women.
“We’re here about my brother,” Janet says.
“Ah,” Dr. Sawyer nods. He continues nodding. “Indeed, indeed.”
Janet glances anxiously at me. I am burning this scene into memory in case I need to write about it later in the newspaper.
“The American who died in the diving accident,” I remind Dr. Sawyer. “Last week at Chub Cay?”
“Ah.” The doctor smiles warmly. I am impressed by the old man’s dentition, which is flawless and luminously white.
I say, “Perhaps we’re looking for another Dr. Sawyer.”
“I understand your confusion,” he says, “but be assured dat I’m fully qualified, fully qualified. The police call me occasionally on such matters, occasionally as I say, due to my long years of experience… ”
I ask why there were no stitches on the body of Janet’s brother.
“Stitches.” The doctor blinks drowsily.
“As are commonly used in autopsy procedures, yes,” I say, “to close the chest cavity.”
Janet sighs. The color has seeped from her cheeks. She extracts the lump of chewing gum from her jaw and lobs it into a wastebasket.
Dr. Winston Sawyer raises a bony finger the color of polished teak. “You say autopsy, well, I must tell you, sir—and you, madam—dat dere wasn’t need for an autopsy. Dat is why you saw no sutures! I was merely ast to attend by the police, who call me on such matters, due to my experience… ”
The doctor trails off. The upraised finger curls and uncurls.
“Go on,” I say. “You were asked by the police… ”
Dr. Sawyer’s chin snaps up. “Indeed. I was ast to examine the body, which I did, and subsequently certified the death as accidental. Subsequent, as I say, to a postmortem examination.”
“But a visual examination only.” I take out my notebook and uncap a pen. Blessedly, Dr. Sawyer fails to notice.
“Understand dat I’ve had occasion to see many drowning victims over dese many years. This was quite routine,” he says, directing his words toward Janet, “not that any such tragedy is ‘routine,’ madam. But in the medical sense, you understand, it was. Drownings are not uncommon here in the Bahamas, not uncommon. Sadly to say.”
Numbly Janet asks, “So, how did Jimmy look?”
Dr. Sawyer grunts helplessly. The sage finger is withdrawn.
“I mean,” says Janet, “you see any bruises? Any sorta… you know, Jack, what’s the word?”