Pages from a Cold Island Read Free Page B

the navy and had had two years of college. At the beginning of his junior year, at that point when the bureaucratic “ guidance ” clerks told him he must decide what he must do and what he must “ major ” in, he ’ d dropped out. As he hadn ’ t the foggiest idea of what it was he must do, it was only a question of time until he found his way to Beach Court where none of us knew that and prided ourselves on being all on a slow boat to nowhere. We employed, quite accurately but affectionately, terms like “ wholly mad, ” “ wonderfully crazy ” and “ a beautiful yo-yo ” to describe each other. On television two days before there had been a story that in Palm Beach Gardens at the north end of the county an eight-foot tall, massive and copiously haired humanoid creature was running wild. He ’ d been spotted, “ confirmed, ” and driven raving and roaring into a wooded area by a police or TV station helicopter. The year before he ’ d been seen in the Keys. He was thought to be working his way up the peninsula (no doubt making his way to the University of Florida at Gainesville for the summer term), and the inhabitants at the county ’ s north end were cautioned to be on the lookout for him. In sympathy McBride had wanted to get up a posse made up of habitués of Beach Court and find the “ poor fellow ” before the authorities did.
    “ We could chip in and get him a room in the hotel next to Exley ’ s, ” McBride had said.
    Everyone had laughed.
    “ Nobody ’ d notice anything unusual on this flaky block. ”
    Everyone had laughed again.
    “ All the reaction you ’ d get around here is, ‘ Who ’ s the new guy in the hotel? The tall one with all the hair. ’”
    Some months before I ’ d got into a mouth-watering conversation about the blandness of the best restaurant food as against home-cooked meals with Jack ’ s father Alex. Until a droplet of saliva fell onto the back of my hand, we had talked with an eye-narrowing and demented exuberance about roast leg of lamb— ” So the skin is drippy crusty, ” I ’ d volunteered, “ and you can eat it like meat candy ” —mashed potatoes and lamb gravy the texture of lentil soup; sautéed peas, baby onions an d fresh mushrooms mixed and sim mered together; salads with great chunks of fresh tomato and cucumber and swimming in homemade Roquefort dressing; and hot apple or pecan pie ecstatically topped with fresh whipped cream. For weeks afterwards Alex had invited me to his domicile for just such a meal but as I thought the McBrides lived on the mainland I politely refused. Save when I was “ kidnapped ” and driven across the causeway to a movie or, between three and five in the morning, carried to drink and to listen to live music at the White Caps, a deafening place without acoustics and fre quented by hotel and restaurant help when they got off work, my paranoia wouldn ’ t permit me to leave the island ( “ odd things ” were “ waiting ” for me “ over there ” ) and even those infrequent “ kidnappings ” became conversation pieces the next day on Beach Court.
    “ Exley left the island last night. ”
    “ He didn ’ t! ”
    “ He did! ” Then inadvertantly I ’ d discovered the McBrides lived right behind the Beer Barrel on Island Road. I ’ d at last accepted, and now they found it impossible to be rid of me. Three and four nights a week I was over there shoveling in the heavily gravied mashed potatoes with Alex and his wife Peggie, with Jack and his girl Joanne. We ’ d even reached that familial easiness wherein I “ raced ” Jack and Alex through the meal to see who would get to the couch first to watch the television movie. Whoever won invariably fell asleep during the opening credits and commercials and had on awakening to ask “ What happened? ” to which the reply was also invariably “ Nothin .”
    With Jack I now began the day ’ s ritual. “ What ’ s for supper? ”
    “ I forgot to ask. ”
    “