Neria, exploding: “No, I’m the wife! That’s my house!”
Sure, thought Edie, now that insurance money is in the air. Dump the granola-head professor and come running back to blimpy old Tony.
“Brooklyn,” Edie embellished. “I think he said Brooklyn.”
“Sonofabitch,” Neria moaned.
Curtly the operator asked Mrs Torres if she wished to try another telephone number. No reply. She’d hung up. Edie Marsh did, too.
Her heart drummed against her ribs. Unconsciously she rubbed her damp palms on the rump of Mrs Torres’s lovely linen shorts. Then she hurried to the garage and located a pair of small green-handled wire cutters.
From the living room, Snapper called: “Who the hell was that? The wife again?” When he heard the garage door, he yelled, “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you!”
Edie Marsh didn’t hear him. She was sneaking next door to clip the telephone lines, so that Neria Torres could not call Mr Varga to check out the wild story about Tony and the young blonde and the Ryder truck.
The license tag on the black Cherokee was stolen from a Camaro on the morning after the hurricane, in a subdivision called Turtle Meadow. That’s where Augustine was headed when Skink directed him to stop at a makeshift tent city, which the National Guard had erected for those made homeless by the hurricane.
Skink bounded from the truck and stalked through rows of open tents. Bonnie and Augustine kept a few steps behind, taking in the sobering scene. Dazed eyes followed them. Men and women sprawled listlessly on army cots, dull-eyed teenagers waded barefoot through milky puddles, children clung fiercely to new dolls handed out by the Red Cross.
“All these souls!” Skink cried, simian arms waving in agitation.
The soldiers assumed he was shell-shocked from the storm. They let him alone.
At the front of a ragged line, Guardsmen gave out plastic bottles of Evian. Skink kept marching. A small boy in a muddy diaper scurried across his path. With one hand he scooped the child to eye level.
Bonnie Lamb nudged Augustine. “What do we do?”
When they reached Skink’s side, they heard him singing in a voice that was startlingly high and tender:
It’s just a box of rain, I don’t know who put it here. Believe it if you need it, Or leave it if you dare.
The little boy-scarcely two years old, Bonnie guessed-had chubby cheeks, curly brown hair and a scrape healing on his brow. He wore a sleeveless cotton shirt with a Batman logo. He smiled at the song and tugged curiously on a silver sprout of the stranger’s beard. A light mist fell from scuffed clouds.
Augustine reached for Skink’s shoulder. “Captain?”
Skink, to the boy: “What’s your name?”
The reply was a bashful giggle. Skink peered at the child. “You won’t ever forget, will you? Hurricanes are an eviction notice from God. Go tell your people.”
He resumed singing, in a nasal pitch imposed by tiny fingers pinching his nostrils.
And it’s fust a box of rain, Or a ribbon in your hair. Such a long, long time to be gone And a short time to be there.
The child clapped. Skink kissed him lightly on the forehead. He said, “You’re good company, sonny. How’s your spirit of adventure?”
“No!” Bonnie Lamb stepped forward. “We’re not taking him. Don’t even think about it.”
“He’d enjoy himself, would he not?”
“Captain, please.” Augustine lifted the boy and handed him to Bonnie, who hurried to find the parents before the wild man changed his mind.
The pewter sky filled with a loud thwocking drone. People in the Evian line pointed to a covey of drab military helicopters, flying low. The choppers began to circle, causing the tents to flutter and snap. Quickly a procession of police cars, government sedans, black Chevy Blazers and TV trucks entered the compound.
Skink said, “Ha! Our Commander in Chief.”
Five Secret Service types piled out of one of the Blazers, followed by the President. He wore, over a shirt and necktie, a navy-blue rain slicker with an emblem on the breast. He waved toward the television cameras, then compulsively began to shake the hands of every National Guardsman and Army soldier he saw. This peculiar behavior might have continued until dusk had not one of the President’s many aides (also in a blue slicker) whispered in his ear. At that point a family of authentic hurricane refugees, carefully screened and selected from the sweltering masses, was brought to meet and be photographed with the President. Included in the family was the obligatory darling infant, over whom the leader of the free world labored to coo and fuss. The photo opportunity lasted less than three minutes, after which the President resumed his obsessive fraterni/ing with anyone wearing a uniform. These unnatural affections were extended to a snowy-haired officer of the local Salvation Army, around whom the Commander in Chief flung a ropy arm. “So,” he chirped at the befuddled old-timer, “what outfit you with?”