Ghost Lights (14 page)

Casey would like this tree-house, he thought; Casey would love it here. She had looked into flying, flying in a glider. There was a program that could take her up in the sky. She hadn’t done it yet, but she still could. He would call her and say do it, do it. To know that lightness . . . it was not the running, not a vision of her once in a race, say, her slim young legs flying, though there had been times like that and he remembered them well enough. Field Day at school, when she was in the hundred-yard dash: he loved to watch her but she complained both before and after the race, even holding her purple ribbon. She did not like running. Hard to believe while he was watching her go, it so closely resembled joy . . . or flying a kite once, on a beach in Cape Cod, her feet kicking up sand on him. There were cliffs near them and the water was far too cold for swimming.

But that was not what distressed him, the memories of running. Only the simple memory of her face—her face without tension, without strain or grief.

“My daughter would like this,” he said.

“She would,” nodded T.

“I wish I could just take her—take her anywhere,” said Hal, with a rush of agitation. He saw Casey in flight, swooping. “Anywhere she wanted to be.”

He was staring out at the cruise ship. Its lights were like the lights of the ballroom in the resort—was it last night? No, the night before—dancing with Gretel. The nearness to the water made the lights blur and shimmy, part of the very same liquid.

“You know,” said T., and Hal realized T. was looking at him, reaching out to rest a thin hand on his arm, “she’s going to be all right.”

“I don’t know,” said Hal, but it came out like a sigh. Something about the guy’s bearing reassured him—his confidence, his certainty. He said Casey would be all right. So she must be.

“I promise.”

No need to move.

Only around the cruise ship was the water dappled with light; other than that it was blackness. Hal did not want to take a step, in case the platform broke beneath him or he fell off the edge, but this was fine for the moment. This was where he was now.

7

T
he boat was anchored on the east side, where no one would see it coming from the mainland. There was no dock there, only a narrow sandy path through the tangles of mangrove.

After a breakfast of instant oatmeal and water Hal followed T. along the path, ducking between branches. T. carried a canvas sack of his belongings slung over one shoulder. They had swum in the shallows on the other side of the island but the saltwater bath had not made T. seem any cleaner. He was still wearing the filthy painter pants, on which the pockets bulged.

“I have a razor, you can shave at the hotel,” said Hal to his back. “Before you get in touch with anyone. Because the cops, I mean if they see you like this, you know, the credibility issue.”

“You have to wade out,” said T. over his shoulder. “I recommend just leaving your shoes on. There are branches just beneath the surface, things that can cut.”

They emerged from the bushes with their feet already in the silty water; the roots of the scrub reached below the surface, long, thin vertical brown lines like wooden drips. Hal felt their knobbiness through the soles of his shoes. The cool water was around his knees now and his feet slipped in the mud beneath. He could see the boat ahead, a long, simple white shape with peeling paint.

“Here we go,” said T., and dropped his sack in. He climbed over the side and held a hand out to Hal. “Help?”

“I’m fine,” said Hal, and stepped in awkwardly, the boat rocking.

•

A
s the motorboat throttled down, nearing the beach, Hal realized they had an audience: Gretel. Gretel and the cornboys.

She was watching them from the swimming dock a few hundred yards away, standing on the sand in her blue bikini and shading her eyes as she looked out over the ocean toward them.

The cornboys, in overlarge sunglasses and a hot-pink double kayak, were paddling toward Hal and T.

Gretel raised her arm and waved.

“One of the Germans,” he told T., who was easing them into a slip. He waved back at her, trying to seem casual, which luckily was not difficult in the wave format.

Did she regret it? How deeply? Was she kicking herself? Seeing him now she would probably feel repulsed. Then again, maybe she would not notice him: he had T. in his company, the prodigal son. T. would demand her attention by not being dead.

“The Germans?”

“With the whole Coast Guard search thing? Looking for you? Her name is Gretel. The pink kayak? Those are her kids.”

The cornboys were bearing down. They paddled fiercely, their small mouths clamped into grimaces that indicated they were trying desperately to win. Yet there was no competition.

“Hey, guys,” called T., throwing his rope over the piling. “How’s it going?”

“Their English is rudimentary,” said Hal.

“My father went to get the airplanes,” called one of the cornboys proudly, slowing the kayak with his paddle.

“Yes,” nodded the other. Hal was still unclear as to whether in fact they were twins.

“Sounds pretty good to me,” said T., bent to his knot-tying. “The English.”

“I never heard them say that much before,” admitted Hal.

“Airplanes!” repeated the second cornboy.

“Gotcha,” said Hal. “He went to get the airplanes. Good to know.” No idea what the kid was talking about, but who cared. Wanted a shower, actually; wished he could have had one before he ran into Gretel. Not that it mattered: he expected nothing, or less than nothing. But just for the dignity.

T. was climbing up onto the dock; Hal followed him. The cornboys were staring at them in that way children had—staring with no goal in mind, just like it was normal.

“This is the man your father was helping me look for,” said Hal.

“The dead one?” asked the first cornboy. He tended to speak first; probably the Alpha. Possibly he was older, but they both looked the same.

“Exactly,” said Hal, and hoisted himself onto the dock after T. He wanted clean, dry clothes, and the sun was making him squint.

Gretel stood at the end of the dock now, one hand on a hip, smiling quizzically; she was curious about T. already.

“Hi there,” she said as they approached.

“This is the guy,” said Hal. “This is him. Thomas Stern.”

“No way!” said Gretel, and leapt into T.’s arms, hugging him. “Oh my God! You’re alive!”

“I feel bad to have caused all this trouble,” said T., and pulled away gently.

“
Doch,
the important thing is that you are
safe
,
” said Gretel, beaming joy as though he was a long-lost friend. Hal stood by with his arms dangling, awkward.

“Well, thank you,” said T. “I am. Thank you.”

“I’m going to get him cleaned up,” said Hal apologetically. “We’ll see you a little later?”

“Yes, please,” said Gretel. “I want to hear the whole story!”

“Of course,” said Hal.

“OK,” said T., and they left her smiling at their backs.

“She actually means it, I think,” said Hal.

“I can tell,” said T.

•

H
al lay down on the hotel bed while T. took a shower. The sound of its steady falling was a hello from the civilized world.
Welcome home
. He listened with his head on the soft pillow, his body on the long, solid bed. What a relief. It was so good to have them. The pillow and the bed. The lights, the air-conditioning, and the running water. He was no nature boy. T. could keep his tree-house, no matter how good the view. There was a reason their hominid ancestors first stood upright and started beating smaller creatures to death with cudgels. It was better than what came before, that was why.

The whole atavistic thing was overrated at best.

There had been a shaving kit in T.’s suitcase, which the manager had handed over to Hal several days ago now—a shaving kit and clean clothes, and T. had taken them both into the bathroom with him. But still Hal worried he had failed to impress upon his new friend the importance of a mainstream appearance, when dealing with authorities in a third-world country, and when there was the corpse of a local involved.

Sure: in the past the guy had been Mr. Mainstream. In the past the guy wore Armanis and refused to get behind the wheel of anything but a Mercedes. Once Susan had been forced to rent him a Lexus, when his Mercedes was at the shop for service. To hear her tell it the guy had suffered a martyr’s holy torments.

But he was not that guy anymore. No indeed. Now he was a guy who ate chili from a can, had long toenails and a wiry beard that almost grazed his nipples, and apparently sported a well-worn, formerly white baseball cap—now sitting humped on the nightstand next to Hal’s bed—whose inside rim was ringed with a crust of brown stain best regarded as a potential disease vector.

He had to call Susan, of course. He was still tired, felt almost waterlogged with a fatigue that wouldn’t lift off, but he had to call her. Duty.

He raised the receiver, then remembered he needed the phone card from his wallet and rolled slowly off the bed to reach for it. As he typed the digits, it occurred to him that she might be in flagrante with Robert the Paralegal—she might not deserve this prompt, nay servile attention. Then the telephone rang on her end, rang and rang until he hung up before the answering machine clicked in. He had to tell her this himself, wanted the clamor of it in person—his reward in the form of her stunned amazement, her astonished gratitude at the good news.

He tried Casey’s number next, but the line was busy.

She was probably working.

Lying flat on his back, waiting for the shower to cut off, he considered the likelihood the authorities could be bribed to overlook the problem of a dead tour guide. Of course, to offer a bribe would imply guilt. Were they corrupt? Were they righteous? And where were they, in the first place?

He called the front desk to ask. The nearest police station, said the receptionist, was twenty miles up the peninsula to the north. It was connected to an outpost of the Belize Defence Force, apparently. The cops and the military, in an ominous conjunction. But maybe the young harelip cadet would be there, take pity on them, and intercede with his superiors on T.’s behalf.

Was there a problem? asked the receptionist, still on the line. “No,” said Hal, “none at all, thanks.” He hung up.

Possibly they would be ill-advised to contact the police after all. Asking for trouble. If T. told Delonn’s brother how the guide had had a heart attack, probably the brother would not bring charges. He wasn’t the suspicious type. And anyway what motive could T. have for murder?

He must have dozed off then, because when he woke up T. was standing over him with light around his thin, nut-brown face. The eyes were a piercing blue. Cleaner, wearing a white collar shirt and gazing down at Hal with what appeared to be compassion, he also seemed sanctified. Beneficent.

But he had omitted to shave, just as Hal feared. The long beard still stuck out stiffly from his chin like a useless appendage. He looked like one of the Hasidim. Or even a saint or Jesus.

Although Jesus was seldom pictured in collar shirts. They had not been popular at the time.

“Sorry,” said the Jesus-T. softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you. You can go back to sleep. I’m taking off for a while.”

Hal sat up, jolted.

“Taking off? Taking off where?”

“Headed to Monkey River Town. With Marlo. Sit down and talk to Delonn’s brother.”

“Good, right,” mumbled Hal, rubbing his eyes. “You’re coming back here after, right?”

“Should be back by sometime around dinner,” said the Jesus-T., nodding. “Don’t wait on me though. Time runs slow in these parts.”

“All right then,” said Hal weakly, and lay back as the Jesus-T. receded. The room door closed softly.

The Jesus-T. left the scent of soap and toothpaste. At least he had used them.

•

A
short time later Hal made his way to the hotel restaurant for lunch, himself freshly washed. He was spooning up soup and halfheartedly reading the paper when someone jostled his elbow: a cornboy, probably the Alpha.

Both of them were hovering, shirtless and dripping, in wet shorts. They held fluorescent boogie boards under their arms.

“Hey,” said Hal, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Where’s the dead guy?”

“He went to a meeting.”

“You finished?”

“You mean—my lunch? No,” said Hal, mildly astonished. “I just started it.”

“My mother wants to see you.”

“Uh . . .”

“You talk to her. OK? Then we go snorkel.”

The waiter leaned down and removed his soup plate.

“She gets bored. She likes friends. You talk to her.”

“Where’s your father?”

“In the airplane.”

“
Im Hubschrauber
,
” intervened the Beta, shaking his head.

“Yeah, right. A helicopter,” said the Alpha. “He took a helicopter to get to the airplane.”

“Dolphin HH-65A,” nodded the Beta, enunciating perfectly.

“I’ll be happy to talk to her,” said Hal. His club sandwich had come. He took a sip of iced tea. “Right after I eat. OK?”

“We are in front. We are by the ocean.”

“OK,” said Hal. “I’ll come find you. Promise.”

He watched them jog away, picking up a fry and dangling it over the small paper cup of ketchup. Were they actually concerned for their mother? Or was the snorkeling more the point? Or had Gretel sent them? Hal thought not. Their expedition had seemed self-directed. Gretel would have come to talk to him herself, if she wanted to. He might go over to her and then she might not be glad to see him. She might not want to talk to him at all, at least without T. in the mix. Possibly he could tell her T.’s story to cover up the awkwardness.

When he finished he took a chocolate-mint from the dish next to the cash register, popped it in his mouth and made a side trip to the bathroom in the lobby, where he splashed cold water on his face and combed his hair with his fingers. Nothing between them, in a linear sense: no future, no expectation. But still.

And he should call Susan again. Soon.

In the sun his eyes smarted. He had left his sunglasses in the room. He walked through canvas beach chairs, umbrellas, both with white and blue stripes, matching; hammocks were strung between tree trunks, his fellow hotel guests lying on them unmoving, fleshy and naked like human sacrifices. Mostly fat. Or fattish. He saw brown bottles of lotion with palm trees on them, dog-eared paperbacks splayed open on towels. One man had on a Walkman, and a tinny beat issued forth.

Shading his eyes, he looked for the cornboys. They were easy to spot in a crowd, typically.

“Hal!” cried Gretel. She was still excited, apparently, about the nondeath of T. She smiled happily.

She wore an orange and brown sarong below her floral bikini top and looked beautiful, though maybe a little older, he was noticing, or more tired than he had thought previously. Her face was shaded by a straw hat. She held her arms open. He leaned into them. She reminded him, suddenly, of people who mourned celebrities—celebrities they never knew, of course, people who were nothing but symbols to them. Fans at Elvis’s grave, for instance. People swaying with candles, or gathered at monogrammed gates holding armfuls of flowers. He had never understood it. The mourners had not even met the celebrities, never seen anything of them but a constructed public image, yet they wept, they swayed, some did violence to themselves.

Clearly the celebrities were symbols to them, and these symbols carried weight. He knew about symbols and their weight, their mystical eminence and power to enthrall. But that did not explain it. If the famous people were symbols, why did it matter when they died? Symbols went on forever.

Gretel had not known T., did not know Susan. How could she care, really? Her beaming happiness. For all she knew T. was a swine, yet she was visibly rejoicing.

“Tell me how you found your friend!” she exhorted, and pulled him underneath her umbrella. The cornboys were in the water. He plumped down on the canvas beach chair beside her, which turned out to be wet. The seat of his pants was instantly soaked and clammy.