Dark Light

38

I stepped outside into wind and shadows, immersed in salt-dense air as I walked the bicycle toward the road—then stopped. There was a truck parked at the driveway entrance, no lights.

I stood for a moment, watching beneath a moon that was cloud-shaded. Moonlight flickered as if through a ceiling fan. The pickup truck had oversized tires, and chrome vertical exhaust pipes. Paint, dark. Windshield, tinted. When a car passed behind it, though, I could see a large person sitting at the wheel. Big, block-shaped head. A man.

I took out the palm-sized tactical light I carry when running or biking at night. It’s a Surefire, military design, special-ops issue. Shine it in someone’s eyes, it’s as blinding as a flashbulb. I was about to point it at the car when the porch light came on behind me. Chestra—being thoughtful.

Maybe the driver finished his phone call, or maybe he was watching the woman’s house and the light spooked him. Whatever the reason, the truck started and spun away, its engine making a distinctive NASCAR rumble. It was one of the expensive pickup trucks, all the options, I guessed.

A BMW doing slow drive-bys, then an expensive pickup truck tonight.

If Chestra’s house was under observation, it wasn’t by petty thieves. It was someone with money.

It caused me to think about the old promissory notes. She’d kept them in what she called “Marlissa’s trunk,” at her Manhattan apartment. A neighbor had shipped them. They’d arrived today in a box. Chestra had yet to hear from Frederick Roth’s family representative, and mentioned that she had left a message for the attorney letting him know she’d done what he had asked.

Potentially, the notes were valuable.

She felt as if she was being watched? Now a vehicle in her drive, sitting in darkness.

I didn’t like it.

I considered going back and telling her about the truck. Decided it would only scare the lady. And, frankly, I didn’t trust myself. The axiom that it’s painful for men to go without sex is an adolescent gambit. I hadn’t dated for several months, but that wasn’t the reason. I didn’t trust myself because the pheromone wave I’d just experienced was unsettling. The woman’s voice was mesmerizing, true, but how could someone her age have that effect on me?

No, I wasn’t going to risk it.

Instead, I pulled the bicycle into the shadows and waited. Maybe the truck would return. Or do a drive-by. The big moon was behind clouds, so it took me a moment to realize that I was in the family cemetery. I had leaned the bike against a crypt. The leading edge of the Yucatán storm was miles behind me, the faint flare of lightning too dim for reading.

I waited for nearly ten minutes for the vehicle to return before using my little flashlight.

The crypt on which I’d rested the bicycle was inscribed:

NELLIE KAY DORN

CAME INTO THIS WORLD JUNE 9, 1868

WENT TO HER LORD JUNE 7, 1935

A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN AND RIGHTEOUS

I lingered as I studied the vault next to it. Placed my hand on the cold marble and leaned with the flashlight:

MARLISSA ARKHAM DORN

BORN FEBRUARY 7, 1923, VARGUS, AUSTRIA

DIED OCTOBER 19, 1944, SANIBEL ISLAND,

FLORIDA

WHOM THE SEA GIVES UP, GOD EMBRACES

I’d seen photos of these women when they were young, stunning, full of life. Strange to be standing so near yet eternally removed. I remembered Chestra saying, “No woman can live up to the expectations of Marlissa’s kind of beauty.”

It was a touching observation; also, a telling insight. Beauty is a genetic device: trickery that instigates competition. All illusions are temporal, and death is as indifferent as life. What Chestra said was indisputable.

Someone had placed fresh flowers at the feet of both vaults. The man in the truck?

More likely, it was Chessie.

I was restless, my head was pounding, streets were empty because so many islanders had evacuated, and even the University Grille was closed.

Ten o’clock on an autumn Monday, full moon glowing, and Sanibel was like a ghost ship—moored, but felt as if it might break anchor in the wind.

I wasn’t ready to go home to the lab, and I wasn’t ready for bed. The Shop’n Go on the corner was an inviting fluorescence, but the idea of stopping at a convenience store because I wanted companionship was deflating. Instead, I pedaled hard along the bike path, Tarpon Bay Road behind me, the flower power beach bike creaking beneath my weight. I headed toward Captiva, mangroves to my right, then passed the dump created to burn storm debris, smoke and ash swirling. The wind freshened. I rode through pockets of sulfur-heated air, beneath trees; spooked a mother raccoon, a line of hunch-backed babies trailing.

Tomlinson’s Dinkin’s Bay Rum Bar and Grille was a mile ahead, on the left, at the intersection of Rabbit Road. A big tiki-shaped stucco building, the outside painted with tropic foliage, a parking area of brick pavers. There were lights on, silhouettes of people inside.

Normally, I’m happy to be alone. Tonight, I was elated to see a fellow human being. No luck, though. It was Big Dan, Raynauld, and Greg just closing the place, in a hurry to get to their homes so they could finish boarding windows.

Tomlinson had left an hour ago, they told me. They hadn’t exactly asked him to leave, but they were glad he had. He’d been going from table to crowded table, wearing his weird goggles, and prescribing various drinks depending on the customer’s aura. Sounded like Tomlinson was having a restless night, too.

I rode on. Over a wooden bridge, then passed the elementary school, its playground and ball diamond more silent because of the implicit laughter of children. I stopped for a moment to look at the moon through clouds. Blue light in the moonlight.

I turned, and returned to Dinkin’s Bay. No one stirring at the marina, either. The approaching storm had chased most of the residents to the mainland. Boats with dark windows creaked on their lines; bait tanks hissed; halyards tapped in the wind. The bay was black but for the twin yellow eyes of lighted portholes on an old Morgan sailboat.

No Mas.

Tomlinson was awake.

I rode home, got a six-pack of beer, and started my skiff.

A board his boat, without an audience, Tomlinson is Tomlinson, not the ever-happy hipster people have come to expect. Tonight, he was more staid than usual, sitting at the settee berth, brass oil lamps and patchouli sticks burning, reading a book on the history of Islam.

I suspected it was the book that put him in a restrained, thoughtful mood, although he told me, “I was at the rum bar tonight and got weirded out, man, because I realized that just being who I am weirds out a lot more people than it used to. No matter how straight I get, the world manages to stay a little straighter.”

“Maybe you’re so far ahead, it just seems like you’re behind,” I offered.

“Um-huh. Wouldn’t we all like to think that.”

I ducked going down the three companionway steps, put the beer atop the icebox, starboard side, and told him, “I have a mystic-mental image of you going from table to table, wearing your Kilner goggles, telling customers to drink rum if they have green auras but stick to beer if they’re red. A kind of vision. It just came to me.”

He smiled and played along. “Very perceptive. Accurate, too. You’re definitely into a whole new sensitivity trip. Soon, you’ll be feeling actual emotions, Doc. Human emotions. The real test? That classic film, Old Yeller. I predict it’ll get a sniffle out of you yet.”

I was wearing my foul-weather jacket. It had begun to sprinkle while I was in my skiff. Light rain in a gusting wind. I hung the jacket near the aft quarter bunk, then adjusted the cockpit door, kerosene lamps fluttering, as I replied, “Nope. I always pull for the wolf. The one that’s got rabies and wants to bite the nice-looking kids.”

“You stopped by the bar?”

“Yeah. Dan and Raynauld told me about you prescribing drinks. Sounded like a good idea to me.”

“Yeah, well…I think it scared some people, and everyone’s already nervous because of the weather. I was surprised the restaurant was busy, so many people have split.”

He sighed, irritated.

Occasionally, irrational behavior troubles the man. He was troubled now.

“Folks are packing their cars and running. Why? We’ll get thunderstorms tonight. Wind’s supposed to be fifty knots tops. Tuesday, it’ll be a little worse, but so what? That’s no reason to leave homes, shut down businesses. I put out a couple of extra hooks and laid in some emergency bags of weed. That’s preparation, man. Everything else is just hysteria.”

The news media had gone hurricane insane, he added, intentionally exaggerating information. I took a seat as he talked about it, finishing, “Fear sells. Every news story is a variation on journalism’s favorite cliché: the apocalypse. But they’re screwing up the economies of whole cities, and I’m not even a capitalist, man. They’re screwing with people’s lives!”

Was that tea he was drinking?

Yes. Green tea in a ship’s mug. Something else added, possibly, but maybe not. He was uncharacteristically cogent for this time of evening. Yes, getting straighter and straighter while I, as he claimed, was becoming more in tune with…something. I have learned not to ask.

Tonight, though, I did not feel like the reasonable, rational man I attempt to portray. So maybe he had a point.

Tomlinson stood, took a can of beer and offered it to me. “No. Tea’s fine. Or nothing.”

“Your head’s killing you, man. I can tell. Your eyes get glassy. A CAT scan is what you need, amigo.”

“Do you have one aboard? If not, please drop it.”

“No. But I can get you something that’ll help.”

I said, “I’ll take it.” I thought he meant aspirin. Instead, he shrugged—Okay, if that’s what the man wants—and removed the teak cover from the icebox.

I watched him stick a bony arm into the icebox, and retrieve a plastic bag bulging with what looked like oregano but wasn’t. I’d seen this ceremony many times. When he lit up, I would go outside. Or we both would.

I never smoke. Not even cigars.

As he took out rolling papers, I said, “I’ve always honored the unspoken agreement you and I have about women we date. We don’t risk embarrassing them by sharing details.”

“We have an agreement about that? I thought we were both just being sly.”

“It’s a small island.”

“That’s true,” Tomlinson said. “The only drawback of living on an island is that resources are limited. Particularly around bar-closing time. Men’s paths are bound to cross. That’s the crass version, anyway.” He had separated two papers, now somehow joined into one. “The way we honor the ladyfriend deal, yeah. It’s very cool.”

“I’m talking about Chestra.”

“I’m aware of that. Are you asking me if we made the beast with two backs?”

“Maybe, but don’t answer yet. The effect she has on me when we’re alone is abnormal. Even if she’s fifteen years younger than I think she is, it’s still not normal. I’m trying to figure it out.”

“The age thing, yeah, man. It’s one of your hang-ups, I know. When you found out Hannah Smith sometimes treated old Arlis to the lady’s Triple Crown, you said it was disgusting. So maybe karma’s taking you down this road for a reason.”

“Distasteful” is what I’d said, but I didn’t correct him. “The dynamic is entirely different. Did you feel it, when you were alone with Chestra? The attraction? I saw you lose your temper, first time ever. I saw you choke a man. Testosterone. Rage, the murderous variety. Territorial displays of aggression. All at about the same time you were spending time with her.”

Tomlinson licked the paper again, poured in dried leaves, then rolled it into a fat cigarette, pointed at both ends. “When you put it that way, it does sound like I was being a romantic fool, head over heels in love with the woman. The attraction? Yes, I felt it. Powerful, too. Not at first, though. Every time I saw her, it got stronger.” He focused his sad blue eyes on me, being serious for once. “I’d get the shakes if I felt her breath on my cheek. When she sang, I wanted to possess her. I wanted to take her from behind, naked, and watch our reflections on the piano’s surface. Oh yeah, compadre, there was attraction.”

I felt a flash of anger, a territorial response, but recognized it for what it was.

“To possess someone. That’s out of character.”

“Man, it’s against everything I stand for. But you’re asking me for the truth.”

“Why did you stop seeing her?”

“Because she scared me, man. Chessie’s a rare being. One of the world’s coolest creatures, but she scared me. No colors in her aura, I already told you about that. Plus, she was immediately into you. More than attraction, it was a history kind of deal. There’s no fighting a connection like that.”

I watched Tomlinson light the cigarette, inhale sharply three times in quick succession, then hold his breath, his attention abruptly inward, gauging the potency.

I said, “We both have the same question about her music: How could someone with her talent slip through life unknown? I think I know the answer.”

He looked at me.

“You saw the photograph of Marlissa Dorn.”

He nodded.

“Chessie said you commented on how much she looked like Marlissa.”

Tomlinson nodded again, still holding his breath but paying attention.

“I think there’s more than just a similarity. Study her nose, the eye spacing, some other details. I don’t think Marlissa Dorn drowned in a hurricane. I think Chestra is Marlissa Dorn. She slipped through the world unnoticed because that’s what she wanted. Somehow, she got a chance to disappear. She took it.”

Tomlinson nodded emphatically, as he exhaled. “I’ve believed exactly that for a while. No way I could tell you. You’d of thought I was just being weird again.”

I said, “The problem is…” I had pondered this without explanation. “How can she be the age she must be and still look the way she looks? And her sensuality—it’s behavioral, but it’s also chemical. You noticed it before I did. If Marlissa Dorn is still alive, she’s also still extraordinarily attractive. Can it be possible?”

“One of the world’s great beauties, man.” He shrugged. “Sunlight on the skin; ultraviolet rays, that’s the principal cause of aging. The skin condition she says she has, why she only goes out at night—”

“Xeroderma,” I said. “It’s in the medical literature.”

“I know, I read about it. People who have it are called Children of the Moon.”

I was unaware of that. “Children of the Moon. Interesting. Even so—”

“Did she tell you the story about Hitler touching her shoulder? Like a curse.”

I said, “That can’t have anything to do with it.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. There’s something I didn’t mention. When she realized I believed she was Marlissa Dorn, the woman Hitler had put his mark on, it was like a door slamming. That’s what really ended it between us. Think about it.” He held the cigarette out to me.

I shook my head, as I always did—and my temples throbbed with the movement.

“This’ll help, Doc. Medicinal use, man. And not a bad way to spend a stormy night.”

I was about to open a beer, but thought, Why not…?