I did not know how many miles I walked, for I lost track of time, and each stretch of sand and water looked magnificently the same: I watched bobbing pelicans throw their heads back as they downed fish like shots of bourbon, and I deftly stepped around the flaccid blue balloons of beached Portuguese men-of-war. Most people I passed were old. Occasionally, the high-pitched voice of a child lifted above the roar of waves like a bit of bright paper carried by the wind. I picked up sand dollars worn smooth by the surf and beached shells reminiscent of peppermints sucked thin. I thought of Lucy and missed her again.
When most of the beach was in shade, I returned to my room.
Showering and changing, I got in my car and, cruised Estero Boulevard until hunger guided me like a divining rod into the parking lot of the Skipper’s Galley., I ate red snapper and, drank white wine while the horizon faded to a dusky blue. Soon boat lights drifted low in the darkness and I could not see the water.
By the time I found cottage 182 near the bait shop and thing pier, I was as relaxed as I had been in a long time. When Willie Travers opened the door, it seemed we had been friends forever.
“The first order of business is refreshment. Surely you haven’t eaten,” he said.
I regretfully told him I had.
“Then you’ll simply have to eat again.”
“But I couldn’t.”
“I will prove you wrong within the hour. The fare is very light. Grouper grilled in butter and Key Lime juice with a generous sprinkling of fresh ground pepper. And we have seven-grain bread I make from scratch that you’ll never forget as long as you live. Let’s see. Oh, yes. Marinated slaw and Mexican beer.”
He said all this as he popped the caps off two bottle of Doe Equis. Jennifer Deighton’s former husband had to be close to eighty years old, his face as ruined by the sun as cracked mud, but the blue eyes set in it were as vital as a young man’s. He smiled a lot as he talked, and was beef jerky lean. His hair reminded me of white tennis ball fuzz.
“How did you come to live here?” I asked, looking around at mounted fish on the walls and rugged furnishings.
“A couple of years ago I decided to retire and fish, so I worked out a deal with the Pink Shell. I’d run their bait shop if they’d let me rent one of the cottages at a reasonable rate.”
“What was your profession before you refined?”
“Same as it is now.”
He smiled. “I practice holistic medicine, and you never really retire from that any more than you retire from religion. The difference is, now I work with people I want to work with, and I no long have an office in town.”
“Your definition of holistic medicine?”
“I treat the whole persons plain and simple. The point is to get people in balance.”
He looked appraisingly at me, set his beer down, and carne over to the captain’s chair where I sat, “Would you mind standing up?”
I was in a mood to be agreeable.
“Now hold out one of your arms. I don’t care which one, but hold it straight out so it’s parallel to the floor. That’s fine. Now I’m going to ask you a question and then as you answer I’m going to try to push your arm down while you resist. Do you view yourself as the family hero?”
“No.”
My arm instantly yielded to his pressure and lowered like a drawbridge.
“Well, you do view yourself as the family hero. That tells me you’re pretty damn hard on yourself and have been from the word go. All right. Now let’s put your arm up again and I’m going to ask you another question. Are you good at what you do?”
“Yes.”
“I’m pushing down as hard as I can and your arm is steel. So you are good at what you do.”
He returned to the couch and I sat back down.
“I must admit that my medical teaching makes me somewhat skeptical,” I said with a smile.