Desie cut in: “There’s an island over on the Gulf Coast. My husband’s clients intend to bulldoze it into a golf retirement resort. A pretty little island.”
Twilly’s mother nodded. “I was married to such a man,” she said with a frown. “I was young. I went along.”
An unhappy noise came from Palmer Stoat. The pillowcase puckered in and out at his mouth. Desie put one foot on the chair and began to rock him slowly.
“What’s the matter?” she asked her husband. “You getting thirsty?”
Twilly said, “His gourd hurts. I whacked him pretty hard.”
“For tossing garbage out of the car,” Desie explained to Twilly’s mother.
“Oh dear,” said Amy Spree. “He’s always had trouble controlling his anger. Ever since he was a boy.”
“He’s still a boy,” Desie said fondly.
Amy Spree smiled.
“That’s enough of that,” said Twilly. He jerked the pillowcase from Palmer Stoat’s head and peeled the hurricane tape off his mouth. “Say hello to my mom,” Twilly told him.
“Hello,” Stoat mumbled, squinting into the sunlight.
“How are you?” said Amy Spree.
“Shitty.” Stoat’s cheeks were flushed and his lips were gnawed. His left temple featured a knot the size of a plum.
“Mr. Stoat,” said Twilly, “please tell my mother about the bridge.”
Palmer Stoat blinked slowly, like a bullfrog waking out of hibernation. Desie continued to rock him with her foot.
“Tell her how you lied to me about the bridge,” Twilly said, “lied about the governor killing the bridge so the island would be saved. Mother, Mr. Stoat is a close personal friend of Governor Richard Artemus.”
“Really?” said Amy Spree.
Stoat worked up a glower for Twilly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Twilly raised his hands in disgust. “You said the bridge was dead but, lo and behold, what do I encounter this very morning on Toad Island? A survey team, Mother. Measuring for—surprise, surprise!—a new bridge.”
“Uh-oh,” said Amy Spree.
“Without it, Mr. Stoat’s clients can’t build their fancy resort, because they can’t get their cement trucks across the water.”
“Yes, son, I understand.”
McGuinn ambled onto the deck. He sniffed the knots at Palmer Stoat’s wrists, then leisurely poked his nose in his master’s groin.
“Boodle, no!” Stoat bucked in the rocking chair. “Stop, goddammit!”
Amy Spree turned her head, stifling a giggle. On the beach behind the deck were half a dozen young surfers, shirtless, with their boards under their arms. They were staring out morosely at the flat water. Amy Spree thought the scene would make a good picture, photography being her newest hobby. McGuinn trotted down the steps to make friends.
“So what now?” Twilly slapped his palms loudly against his thighs. “That’s the question of the day, Desie. What do I do with this lying, littering shithead of a husband you’ve got?”
Desie looked at Twilly’s mother, who looked at Palmer Stoat. Stoat cleared his throat and said: “Give me another chance.”
“Are you talking to me,” said Twilly, “or your wife?”
“Both.”
“Palmer,” Desie said, “I’m not sure I want to come home.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Stoat huffed impatiently. “What is it you want, Desie?”
“Honestly I don’t know.”
“You want to be Bonnie Parker, is that it? Or maybe Patty Hearst? You want to end up a newspaper headline.”
“I just want—”
“Fine. Then don’t come home,” said Palmer Stoat. “Don’t even bother.”
Amy Spree rose. “Son, I need some help downstairs in the garage.”
“Relax, Mom,” Twilly said. “It’s all right.”
Amy Spree sat down. Desie Stoat took her foot off the chair, and her husband rocked to a stop.
“Do whatever you want,” he snarled at his wife. “Fuck you. Fuck that stupid Labrador retriever. To hell with the both of you.”
Twilly’s mother said: “There’s no need for profanity.”
“Lady, I’m tied to a goddamn chair!”
Desie said, “Oh please. It’s not like you’ve been a model husband the last two years.”
Stoat made a noise like a football going flat. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers, Desirata. Now: One of you fruitcakes better untie me.” He twisted his neck to get a fix on Twilly Spree. “And with regard to the Toad Island bridge, junior, there’s not a damn thing you or anyone else on God’s green earth can do to stop it. You can have my wife and you can have my dog, but that new bridge is going up whether you like it or not. It’s what we call a foregone conclusion, junior—no matter how many paws and ears and dog balls you send out. So take off these ropes this minute, before I start raising holy hell.”