The Art of Floating (22 page)

The third, fourth, and fifth letters about Toad arrived on the same day. After that, they arrived in bundles. At first Bert tried to follow Sia's orders and leave them in the mailbox at the end of the driveway with her other mail, but soon there were too many. He couldn't have stuffed them into the mailbox if he'd tried.

“Besides,” he told her, “those photographers and reporters keep offering me money . . . big money . . . for just one of the letters. It's too much pressure.”

“Fine, Bert. Bring them to the door.”

Bert smiled.

•  •  •

And so the letters came:

• A woman in Brussels was concerned for Toad's well-being.
  
• Another in Singapore offered, in the event he was never returned home, a marriage proposal.
  
• This one had been looking for a quiet guy all her life—“The world is just too noisy.”
  
• That one was sure Toad was her neighbor's cousin who was wanted for unmentionable crimes.
  
• A man in Brooklyn had just broken up with his lover and needed a rebound boytoy who wasn't afraid of a little pain.
  
• This one wanted to let Sia know she was doing a noble thing—“Like Mother Teresa.”
  
• The redhead sent a few photographs Sia wished she'd never seen.
  
• A lonely woman in Texas wanted Sia to know she was selfish for keeping Toad to herself. “He's not a piece of jewelry you can lock in a box and wear around your neck like a trophy when you go out. He's a man. With needs.”
  

And these were only the letters in English. There were dozens in languages Sia couldn't even recognize.

•  •  •

“Any progress on the novel, Sia?” Jilly was feeling brave. All these letters/words strewn throughout Sia's house . . . they were bound to have an effect . . . bound to get Sia writing again.

“Jillian, really? That's what you're worried about right now? My manuscript?”

Oops.

“No, I'm not worried, Sia. But . . .”

“Tell your boss to stick it.”

“Another lead?” Sia said into the phone. “Have you even been able to confirm or deny the French one yet?”

“Not yet,” Richard said, “but we have to follow up on all of them.”

“So?”

“It seems a man who matches Toad's description is missing in Italy.”

“Italy?”

“Yes.”

“Is the family's name Duchella?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Why do you think this lead might hold water?”

“There are some indicators.”

“Such as?”

“Let me find out more.”

“Why can't you tell me what you know now?”

Richard paused. “Sia, there's a good bit of sadness in this story. I'd rather tell you only if it turns out to be the right one. Okay?”

The fish sliced through Sia's middle. “Oh, that doesn't sound good, Richard.”

“Just wait until I know more.”

•  •  •

Then
knock-knock
:

“What are those, Mom?”

“Peach muffins.”

“For me and Toad?”

“For the reporters.”

“What?”

“Odyssia, those reporters are here to stay. It's time to make friends.”

“I will not, Mother.”

“Well, I will.”

Sia couldn't imagine trying to stop her mother from doing anything, so she waved her hand at her. “Fine, but be sure to tell them I have not endorsed these muffins.”

“I will, sweetie.” She kissed Sia on the cheek. “Here are a few for you and Toad. One for Gumper and Jilly, too.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

As M made her way toward the reporters, Channel 7's gangly geek narrated: “Odyssia's mother is walking down the path toward the gate. She is not getting in her car. She is . . . she is . . .” The narration stopped as M handed him a fresh-out-of-the-oven peach muffin.

“Mmmmm,” he said as he pressed his nose to its spongy top.

As Sia watched M hand out muffins to the rest of the newshounds, the Girl Scout song M always sang rang in her head: “Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold.”

“Bullshit,” Sia said as she bit into a muffin.

If she squinted, Sia could still see a tiny bit of the warehouse through the trees. The oaks were tall. The white birch taller. The poison ivy? Flourishing.

“‘I've left a trail,'” she said, summoning “Hansel and Gretel” from memory, “‘like last time!' Hansel whispered to Gretel. But when night fell, they saw to their horror that all the crumbs had gone.

“‘I'm frightened!' wept Gretel. ‘And I'm cold and hungry. I want to go home!'”

Sia turned and followed the narrow path into the woods.

•  •  •

“What did you think you were going to find?” her therapist asked.

“Jackson.”

“Really?”

“Well, maybe not Jack himself, but some sign that he'd been there.”

“Like what?”

Sia put her head in her hands. “A shoe. His wallet. His . . .”

“Yes?”

“His body.”

Oh, they were jealous, all right. The gangly geek and his newsy cohorts. Oozing green as Melissa Cho strutted by, dragging her cameraman along by the nose:

“Not fair.”

“An exclusive?”

“You've got to be kidding.”

“Why her?”

“She's not even a national news reporter.”

“Do you think she'll share?”

“Motherfucker.”

“Where did she get those god-awful shoes?”

•  •  •

As they groused, the Dogcatcher lurked behind the neighbor's rhododendron. Crouched behind the silver Prius parked not twenty yards away. Even crawled under a low fence three doors down.

No one noticed.

•  •  •

“You have ten minutes,” Sia said. “Ask the questions you want to ask. Film what you want to film. Ten minutes and you're gone.”

Jilly rolled her eyes.

“And you,” Sia said, “quit making faces or you're out of here.”

Jilly stuck out her tongue.

“Where is he?” Melissa asked.

Sia took a deep breath. This was it. She was bringing the devil into her house. It damn well better be worth it.

“He's out here,” Jilly said and she opened the back door. “Ta-da!”

Melissa stepped onto the patio and gasped. “Holy shit.”

“I know,” Jilly whispered to her. “He's fucking gorgeous up close, isn't he?”

Toad was where he always was . . . in the chair facing the water.

Gumper was also where he always was . . . standing by Toad, leaning against his leg.

Melissa turned to the cameraman. “Are you filming?”

He wasn't. He was staring at Toad, too.

“Film!” Melissa said.

“You're not going to miss anything,” Sia said. “This is it. All that you're going to see of Toad. No dancing. No walking. No chatting on the telephone or browsing the Internet. Toad sits. Toad stares. That's it.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, Melissa, did you think I was exaggerating?”

Melissa nodded. “I think the world does.”

P
lum Island Beach is a gently sloping shelf extending some distance out to sea. As a result of the slope, tidal flow does not reach very far horizontally, while breakers are small and close to shore. Boats can easily be launched from or landed on the beach. The shelf causes strong undertow currents that can pluck the thoughtless bather out of the shallows and draw the unsuspecting swimmer out to sea. During severe storms the beach is inundated and the breakers strike the dune line. Over the centuries a number of ships have been wrecked in the shallow waters off Plum Island Beach.*

“Thoughtless bather?” Jilly said.

“Yep.”

“Wiki says that?”

“Right here.”

“Do we have bathers here in Massachusetts? That's so . . . Scandinavian.”

“If Wiki says we do, we do,” Sia said.

“I'm pretty sure I've never seen a bather on our beach. I'd like to, though,” Jilly said. “Bathers are naked, right? Swimmers wear suits?”

“Think so.”

“Is Toad a bather?” Jilly asked.

Sia looked over at Toad. Just what the heck was Toad? An alien? A fish? A brokenhearted man? A freak? A criminal? A runaway? A great pretender?

“I'm pretty sure Toad would not be considered a bather, Jil. Remember, I found him fully clothed.”

Jilly grinned. “I'd like to make him into a bather. Strip him down and . . .”

“Jilly!”

“What?” Jilly laughed.

“Let's imagine another bather. Someone besides Toad.”

“Like who?”

“I don't know. Anyone. You pick.”

“Hm. Robert Downey Jr. would be nice.”

“How about Richard?” Sia asked.

“Richard?”

“Yeah, why not? He's got a good body. And he likes you. I think he'd be a perfect bather for you to happen upon.”

Jilly rolled her eyes and stood. “I'm going back to work.”

Sia smiled. “He likes you.”

“Bye, Odyssia.” And Jilly was gone.

“H
e touches you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“In the middle of the night, but he doesn't know he's doing it.”

“How do you know that?”

“I can tell. He's somewhere else. With someone else.”

“And you are, too?”

Sia looked away from her therapist. “Yeah.”

“How do you know this guy isn't just a really good actor? A master manipulator?”

“I just know.”

“You don't think he could be putting on this whole silent thing?”

“Just to get a piece of ass?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don't.”

“Sia, are you in any danger?”

“No.”

Tactical change. “How does it feel when he touches you?”

Sia closed her eyes. “Really fucking good.”

“You're lonely.”

“I know.”

“That's okay.”

“I guess.”

“Have you told anyone else?”

“You mean Jilly or my mom?”

“Mmmm.”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“I don't think so.”

“He doesn't move at all?” Dr. Dillard asked.

“Of course he moves,” Sia said. “Just not a lot and just not very often.”

“That is what an inanimate object implies, Mrs. Dane. Inertness.”

She wanted to smack him. This was another of the many topics on which she and Dr. Dillard differed. He did not understand or believe that while objects may be inanimate, they, like humans, are made of molecules . . .
and molecules are made of what?
Sia asked in her head.
Energy.

Dr. Dillard did not understand stillness either, and Sia refused to try to explain something so simple, so basic, to a hardheaded, hard-hearted man whose vision was no more brilliant than that of a slug.

“What I meant to say,” she revised, “is that Toad doesn't move a whole lot.”

Dr. Dillard smiled. Nodded. He believed he had caught her, shamed her, corrected her. But really he knew nothing. Not even that he had a bit of grape jam on the tip of his tie or that his mustache was longer on the left side than the right.

“What is your plan for Toad now, Mrs. Dane?” he asked.

“My plan?”

“Yes, you must have one. You must be doing something to help Toad find his way home.” He looked around the room.

Sia would have rather impaled herself on a pitchfork than share her plan with him. She thought about the letter from Sabbatina Duchella that had arrived the day before but that Sia hadn't yet had the balls to read. She lied. “I don't have a plan.”

Dr. Dillard raised his eyebrows and rolled across the room to look out the window. “No?”

“I've done what I can. I've given interviews, talked with you, told Richard over and over again how and where I found Toad. I read the papers in the morning and watch the news each night. I've even agreed to keep Toad here while all of you search out his origins. What more do you think I should do?”

Dr. Dillard turned from the window and rolled in her direction until he was standing right over her. “People say you are not a passive woman, Mrs. Dane. They say that when your husband disappeared, you nearly dug a hole to China to find him. That is”—he paused—“after you came out of your depression.”

“That's not nice,” Sia said.

“Maybe not, but it's the truth, isn't it?”

Sia noted that Dr. Dillard's eyes were a dull, monotonous brown. “Though it is no business of yours, Dr. Dillard, I was not in a depression when my husband disappeared. I was in shock.”

Dr. Dillard's eyebrows lifted a bit, implying that there was no difference between shock and depression.

Sia sat back in her chair.

“What is your plan, Dr. Dillard?” she said.

“Interpreters.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I'm going to figure out which language he speaks.”

“So far he hasn't spoken a language at all.”

“No, you're right. But if his native language is something other than English, hearing it spoken may trigger a response.”

Sia nodded. “Which languages?”

“German, Italian, Swedish, and French.”

“And these interpreters? You're bringing them here? The translators?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Fine.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Dane.”

Sia didn't answer. She just opened the door and let him roll out.

•  •  •

As Dr. Dillard rolled to his Lexus, the gangly geek climbed onto the fence at the end of Sia's yard, raised his camera, and snapped a shot.

“If you don't get off my goddamn fence right now,” Sia yelled, “I'm going to come out there and tie your scrawny legs in a knot.”

“Okay, okay,” the photographer said, stepping down. “No harm done.”