The Art of Floating Read Free

jay’s wings, or the virginal innards of a clamshell. It was Sia’s favorite time of year, and she was on that beach every morning at five A.M. , often earlier. Gumper loved it, too, though he didn’t distinguish as much between seasons. For him, the beach was the beach, the one place he got to run wild, bark freely, and chase all the humans he could sniff out.
    After she closed her phone and tucked it back into her pocket, Sia looked at the man, then Gumper. “Well, Gump, what do we do now?”
    Gumper’s plumelike tail waggled back and forth. He grumbled and grunted, then settled even more firmly against the man’s leg.
    â€œYeah,” she said, “that’s what I figured.” She closed her eyes. “Jack?” she whispered.
    But she already knew that answer, too. Jackson would have called the police on the spot and said, “Hey, I just found a guy on the beach and it looks like he needs a little help. How about sending an officer out this way?” Then he would have plopped down in the sand and waited, keeping company with the strange man until help arrived.
    If Jack had been there . . . if he hadn’t vanished into thin air . . . he and Sia would have bickered about this.
    â€œIt’s too dangerous to bring a strange guy into our home,” he would have said.
    â€œNo, it’s not. It’s okay, Jack,” Sia would have replied.
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œI just know. I feel it.”
    â€œSia, this guy could be anyone. A killer. A rapist. A thief.”
    â€œSo you’ll bring a potentially rabid animal home to save its life, but not a man?”
    Their ongoing tiff about logic versus instinct would have progressed from there, but right then that little fish in Sia’s middle was flipping and flopping like crazy, and she knew she couldn’t call the police until she had a sense of what was going on. Obviously this guy had been through something, arrived from somewhere, and didn’t have anywhere to go, at least in that moment. He was probably thirsty, especially if he’d spent significant time in the water. Hungry, too.
    She sighed and glanced around again. Nobody.
    â€œOkay, okay,” she said, beckoning to him, “that’s it, then. Come on. I’m taking you home with me. But if you’re a killer or a robber or even just a harmless nut looking for a friendly face to harass, save it for someone else.” Then she turned, slapped her leg for Gumper to follow, and started back the way she’d come.
    When she passed the teepee a few kids had built from driftwood the day before, she stopped, swung around, and saw that the man was moving along behind her in slow, stuttered steps. He was wobbly and weak-kneed, and he stumbled every few feet, but Gumper—the faithful beast—stayed by his side, taking his weight like a crutch. The man’s pants looked as if they’d shrunk, and his ankles and feet poked out beneath the cuffs. For the first time, Sia realized he was barefoot. He didn’t even have shoes.
    â€œOh, for God’s sake,” she said.
    First, her husband. Now this.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    When Sia and her troupe were almost out of sight, the Dogcatcher stood and, stepping lightly, walked to the spot where the man had magically appeared at the water’s edge. She waved her hands in circles and said, “Abracadabra!” Then she looked for something to save. Finding nothing, she scooped a handful of sand from the man’s footprints and poured it into one of the dozen or so plastic bags she kept in her pockets.
    â€œHmmph,” she said, gripping the bag, and then, “Gumper, Gumper, Gumper, Gumper.” This time she said it out loud. She liked the way his name bounced off her tongue like a red rubber ball.
    Then she trotted after the troupe at a safe distance, leaving behind little more than a bird’s