shipping lanes into a world he pictured as gaudy and loud, chaotic. Bright colors and horns honking, exotic vegetables and market stalls, and water, clear and deep and shadowy, an ocean of fish, larger and more powerful than those he had hauled to light. Beyond the reef.
From that same couch Thorn had told Kate and Dr. Bill that he was getting the hell off that rock. Twenty, a year of guiding behind him. Ready for the gaudy world.
His time away had lasted three months, one semester at Johns Hopkins. It was the only school Thorn had heard of, where Dr. Bill had done his medical degree. One semester of listening to bearded grad students talk about Vietnam instead of whatever courses they were being paid to teach.
Three months of seeing Dallas James every time he shut his eyes, the blood spilling out of him, Thorn wondering if the burn in his gut was guilt or satisfaction. Three months of drinking at wharfside bars and listening to fishermen talk, a language whose words sounded familiar but whose rhythms were all different. Finally hitching home before exams.
Thorn had been sick of hearing about a war he hadn’t even known existed. Worn out from staring all night at anatomy texts and coming to class in the morning to find the instructor had gone down to Washington to a protest march. Sick of the brittle weather, the smell of not enough air in the air, even disappointed with the waterfront, not the same Atlantic as he knew. This one dark and chilly, opaque as oil.
Sugarman asked him if he was ready to discuss this.
“Not really,” Thorn said. “Not really.”
Sugarman nodded, sat down on the couch opposite him. “I called Ricki from the funeral home,” he said. “I told her. I hope you don’t mind. I was doing it according to the book, next of kin.”
Thorn swallowed, trying hard to come around. “So, how’d she sound?”
“You know, like Ricki.”
“I know,” Thorn said, “smartass.” He brought his head up, straightened his back against the couch.
“Yeah,” said Sugarman. “I got the impression she wasn’t going to spend the afternoon crying.”
“You remember how Ricki was. She’s still that way.”
“I remember her friends,” Sugarman said. “I was in love with one of them. I can’t even remember her name. Short girl. Had a tattoo on her forearm, a heart with a dagger sticking into it. I used to look at that.”
“Brenda. Brenda something. I remember her. That’s how Ricki was. Still got friends like that. Only worse.”
“I used to stare at her, Brenda. What were they, punks?”
“I don’t know. Late beats, maybe. Early hippies. Something. That stuff gets all twisted around by the time it gets to the Keys. Who knows? I think Ricki just considered herself butch, big mama for all the outcasts. Did it to drive Kate crazy, I think.”
“Pretty girl like Ricki, with hoods like that.” Sugarman wiped the sweat gleaming on his forehead. “You want to sit out on the porch? Might be cooler.”
“In here’s OK.”
Sugarman glanced over at the wall of photographs again.
“Those were some days,” Sugarman said. “You know back then a cop’s life looked good to me. People didn’t bother the cops about little stuff. A little bar brawl. Some broken furniture. Hell, don’t worry old Morty. He’s probably listening to a ball game or the gospel hour at the station and wouldn’t come out till it’s over anyway. Not like today, hell. With nine-one-one, every time a baby’s howling with diaper rash, the neighbors call in a child abuse. Dog barking? Punch nine-one-one. You know I blame it on these push-button phones. It’s too easy. Used to be to dial a nine or a zero took a commitment. Now you punch it, it’s like any other number.”
“I guess I’m ready, Sugar, get going with this.”
Sugarman put his coffee down, looked pained at Thorn. Slipped his wedding ring off and slid it back on. “I’m sorry, buddy. I feel like I been run over. I’m not thinking real clear.
From that same couch Thorn had told Kate and Dr. Bill that he was getting the hell off that rock. Twenty, a year of guiding behind him. Ready for the gaudy world.
His time away had lasted three months, one semester at Johns Hopkins. It was the only school Thorn had heard of, where Dr. Bill had done his medical degree. One semester of listening to bearded grad students talk about Vietnam instead of whatever courses they were being paid to teach.
Three months of seeing Dallas James every time he shut his eyes, the blood spilling out of him, Thorn wondering if the burn in his gut was guilt or satisfaction. Three months of drinking at wharfside bars and listening to fishermen talk, a language whose words sounded familiar but whose rhythms were all different. Finally hitching home before exams.
Thorn had been sick of hearing about a war he hadn’t even known existed. Worn out from staring all night at anatomy texts and coming to class in the morning to find the instructor had gone down to Washington to a protest march. Sick of the brittle weather, the smell of not enough air in the air, even disappointed with the waterfront, not the same Atlantic as he knew. This one dark and chilly, opaque as oil.
Sugarman asked him if he was ready to discuss this.
“Not really,” Thorn said. “Not really.”
Sugarman nodded, sat down on the couch opposite him. “I called Ricki from the funeral home,” he said. “I told her. I hope you don’t mind. I was doing it according to the book, next of kin.”
Thorn swallowed, trying hard to come around. “So, how’d she sound?”
“You know, like Ricki.”
“I know,” Thorn said, “smartass.” He brought his head up, straightened his back against the couch.
“Yeah,” said Sugarman. “I got the impression she wasn’t going to spend the afternoon crying.”
“You remember how Ricki was. She’s still that way.”
“I remember her friends,” Sugarman said. “I was in love with one of them. I can’t even remember her name. Short girl. Had a tattoo on her forearm, a heart with a dagger sticking into it. I used to look at that.”
“Brenda. Brenda something. I remember her. That’s how Ricki was. Still got friends like that. Only worse.”
“I used to stare at her, Brenda. What were they, punks?”
“I don’t know. Late beats, maybe. Early hippies. Something. That stuff gets all twisted around by the time it gets to the Keys. Who knows? I think Ricki just considered herself butch, big mama for all the outcasts. Did it to drive Kate crazy, I think.”
“Pretty girl like Ricki, with hoods like that.” Sugarman wiped the sweat gleaming on his forehead. “You want to sit out on the porch? Might be cooler.”
“In here’s OK.”
Sugarman glanced over at the wall of photographs again.
“Those were some days,” Sugarman said. “You know back then a cop’s life looked good to me. People didn’t bother the cops about little stuff. A little bar brawl. Some broken furniture. Hell, don’t worry old Morty. He’s probably listening to a ball game or the gospel hour at the station and wouldn’t come out till it’s over anyway. Not like today, hell. With nine-one-one, every time a baby’s howling with diaper rash, the neighbors call in a child abuse. Dog barking? Punch nine-one-one. You know I blame it on these push-button phones. It’s too easy. Used to be to dial a nine or a zero took a commitment. Now you punch it, it’s like any other number.”
“I guess I’m ready, Sugar, get going with this.”
Sugarman put his coffee down, looked pained at Thorn. Slipped his wedding ring off and slid it back on. “I’m sorry, buddy. I feel like I been run over. I’m not thinking real clear.
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