“Hush. Could you pass the conditioner?”
Later we drag the sheets and pillows off the bed and curl up in the living room, listening to the skeins of Jimmy Stoma’s lost album. Within ten minutes Emma is fast asleep, while I slowly drift off to the two-part background vocals of a cut called “Here’s the Deal,” which is about either marital infidelity or methadone withdrawal—from the chorus it’s impossible to tell.
Soon I sink into a dream with a familiar theme, co-starring Janet Thrush. She and I are at the funeral home where we viewed her brother’s body, only this time we’re staring into an empty velvet-lined coffin. In the dream I’m needling Janet about her belief in reincarnation, and she says there’s no harm in keeping an open mind. In my lap is a bucket of fried chicken and I remark that if she’s right, we’re chowing on somebody’s reborn relatives, possibly even my old man. The dream ends with Janet slamming the casket lid on my fingertips.
“Jack!” Emma, shaking me awake. “Someone’s trying to break in!”
At the turn of the doorknob I snap upright. Since my burglary I’ve changed the lock and installed two heavy deadbolts, but my heart still races like a hamster. I bounce to my feet and brace my weight against the door; one hundred and seventy-seven naked pounds of determination. “Go away!” I shout hoarsely. “I’ve got a shotgun.”
“Down, boy.”
“Who’s there!”
“It’s me, Jack. Yer ole buddy.”
Heatedly I yank open the door and there’s Juan, a margarita glow in his eyes. With a loopy salute he says, “How’s it hangin’, admiral?” Looking past me, he spots Emma wrapped in a sheet. Before he can turn to flee, I grab an arm and haul him inside. The rustle behind me can only be my comely houseguest, retreating to the bedroom.
Juan topples into a chair. “Man, I’m so sorry.”
“Now we’re even,” I say. “What brings you out at two-thirty in the morning?”
“I’ve been thinking I should quit the paper.”
“You’re crazy.”
“See, this is why I need to talk.”
It occurs to me that a proper host would put on some clothes, but after years of locker-room interviews Juan is oblivious to nudity. He says, “I want to write a book. Actually, I’ve been at it for about six months.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“No, it isn’t, Jack. Not yet.” He cocks his head. “Who are you listenin’ to?”
“The never-before-released Jimmy Stoma sessions. This is what Dommie pulled off the hard drive.”
But Juan didn’t come for music, so I reach over and turn it off. Emma emerges in a sundress and sandals. As Juan struggles to rise, spluttering apologies, she very pleasantly tells him to stay put and hush up. Then she tosses me a pair of pants, and heads for the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Her composure is somewhat deflating. I was hoping for a rueful glance or an impatient sigh—something to acknowledge the miserable timing of Juan’s interruption. At least then I’d know that tonight amounted to something in Emma’s private ledger.
“Is it a sports book?” I ask Juan.
Heavily he shakes his head. “It’s about me and my sister. You know—what happened on the boat from Cuba.”
“You sure about this?”
“It’s a novel, of course. I’m not completely crazy,” he says. “I’ve changed all the names.”
“And you ran this by Lizzy?”
Lizzy is Juan’s sister, the one who was attacked on the shrimp boat. She now manages an art gallery in Chicago, where she lives with her two children. I met her once, when she came to Florida to stay with Juan during her divorce.
He says, “I can’t talk to her, man. We’ve never said a word about that trip.”
“Not in twenty years?”
“What the hell is there to say? I stabbed two guys and threw ’em overboard.” Juan blinks into space. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Lizzy understands.”
He has recurring nightmares about the journey from Mariel harbor; wake-up-screaming, grab-for-the-medicine sort of nightmares. Sometimes he comes by to talk in the dead of night, which is therapeutic for both of us. Emma would understand, but Juan should be the one to tell her. So I’m trying to keep my voice low…