Randy White - North of Havana

Meet a friend out of place in terms of space and time and it takes the brain a few beats to reshape the unexpected into the familiar. "Dewey?"

She made a face. "How many six-foot blondes you know? Now your memory's turned to mush. Just fucking sad!" She came striding up the dock, over the water, where I met her in a back-slapping bear hug. Picked her up, swung her around, gave her a brotherly kiss on the forehead. Stepped back to look into those good eyes, then hugged her again. Into my ear Dewey said, "Playtime's over, fat boy. Strap on your shoes. Coach Nye is back for the holidays. First we run, then we lift, then it's swim time."

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"We can talk while we run. Get your Nikes on."

"Can't. Not till I'm done working."

"Don't start with that stuff. You're always working."

"Give me an hour."

"Whine, whine, whine. Act your age!" She held my face between her hands and grinned at me. "Damn, it's good to see you, Ford!"

"And you, Dewey."

"The world just keeps getting crazier and faster and meaner, but you don't change. You and this rickety old fish palace of yours."

"You should have called. I could have picked you up at the airport."

"And ruin the surprise? Besides, I did call. Never got an answer, so I finally called the marina. Mack said you and

Tomlinson were off sailing someplace. That was what? October?"

"We sailed to Key West. I helped him get his boat in cruising shape. Tomlinson wanted to stick around for Fantasy Fest. That's a freak party; Halloween in Key Wasted. I caught a ride on a sports fisherman. A couple of buddies and I fished our way home."

"And left Tomlinson."

"Sure. His doctor said he was ready. He's getting better, I think. Slowly. Still a little weird. That lightning strike did more than just burn a scar into his temple. I expected him back last month. But the next day or two for sure."

"The scar I haven't seen. But Tomlinson's always weird."

"True… but not like this."

"And you still don't have an answering machine."

Nope, I didn't have an answering machine. No fax, no cellular phone, no beeper, no E-mail either. At the root of all technology is the human drive to triumph over isolation. Most people have a horror of being marooned. Sometimes I believe that I am not among them-a mild deception that has simplified my lifestyle. But lately, more and more of my clients were hinting that I was a little too isolated; that it was a little too hard to place orders, so the day would probably come when I would have one or two or all of the above.

Dewey was still talking: "… I wasn't absolutely certain that my Captiva house was going to be open in December, so by that time I-"

"By that time, you decided to ignore the messages I left."

"I know, I know. Dependable, punctual Ford."

There was something wrong with that? If I was in the country, near a phone, I tried to call Dewey every Sunday night.

Dewey said, "That's not the point. What I was telling you was, Bets did exhibition matches in Madrid and Lisbon, and I went along at the last minute. By then I figured, why not surprise him?"

"Ah," I said, picturing Dewey and Bets together. "Oh."

Dewey gave me an affectionate shake. "We're wasting time. I've got three whole weeks to do nothing but work out and lie in the sun. Then I'm off to Phoenix for the Amateur Classic." She was pulling me up the steps, toward the house; let me stop just long enough to fit the Styrofoam cover onto the tank. Said, "So the fun starts as of now. We run five, lift light, then we come back here and swim out to the island and back."

I said, "In the bay?" My house is built over the water on stilts. The lower level is all dock. The upper level is wooden platform. Two small cottages sit at the center under one tin roof. The platform extends out on all sides, creating a broad porch. Standing on the porch by the screen door, I could feel the first gusting chill of the coming nor'wester. I said, "An hour from now, the bay might be a little cold for swimming."

"Are you kidding? It's got to be, what? Eighty? Eighty-five degrees? Get your ass in gear, champ. Quit stalling. You're the one who told me whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

She followed me into the cottage and futzed around with the stereo and shortwave radio while I changed. She chatted about her flight down. Told me a little bit about the crummy golf courses outside Lisbon. When I asked how Bets was doing, Dewey said, "Fine, fine. She's one busy lady," in a vague, evasive way that suggested that Bets wasn't fine and Dewey didn't want to discuss it. There was something on her mind; something she needed to talk about, and I wondered how long it would take for her to finally get around to it. There are false extroverts who use bluster to hide their shyness and sensitivity. Dewey is one of them. At the core, Dewey is an outsider: the gifted kid who never quite meshed with the crowd. She was different, was always different, and so the shy child within was never eroded away by conformity. The child hides in there, way down deep, and when you are a friend of the child-which is the only way you can be Dewey's friend-you can say any dumb thing you want, any egoless inanity, and the child never challenges or criticizes. But the acceptance must be reciprocal. And maybe that kind of acceptance is the core of all true friendship. When Dewey does let the screen drop, she is still funny. Still irreverent. But she is also without guile, and delicate, delicate. Now, for a moment, she let the screen drop. It was in her tone. "Doc?"

"Yeah?"

"It crossed my mind that it might be a tad awkward… hell, a lot awkward, if I breezed in here and you had a… you know, a houseguest. For Christmas. Someone staying with you."

"You mean a woman?"

"Sure, what else? Maybe it wouldn't have been such a good surprise."

"I don't know why not."

"I just thought that they, the woman, I mean, might get ticked off. You know, jealous."

I finished tying my running shoes and stepped out from behind the bed screen. "Why would a woman be jealous of you?" The words were out of my mouth before I realized what a stupid and cruel thing it was to say.

Some insist that the human eye cannot register emotion. Those who believe it have not met Dewey Nye. She was staring at me, a wry expression fixed in place to hide the wound. "Thanks, partner. You do wonders for my ego."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way."

"Bullshit. That's exactly what you meant."

No way out of it, so I said, "Besides, I don't have any women. Nothing sexual, anyway. Just a couple of friends around the island."

Dewey said, "No kidding?," still pinning me with her gaze. She knew it wasn't true. In our frequent phone conversations, I didn't leave much out.

I said, "Well, sometimes it's sexual. Sure. But nothing permanent. Occasionally I meet a tourist lady who seems interesting, who likes to talk about more than which brand of tanning oil is best. But they never stay for more than a day or two."

"But you'd like them to stay. That's the kind of house-guest I meant. The kind you'd like to stay longer?"

Even to Tomlinson I would have probably hedged, but Dewey's intuition is too good. You hedge, you lie, and her screens lock instantly into place. I braced myself against the west wall and began to stretch hamstrings and calves as I said, "Nope, I haven't met one yet who I wanted to stay longer. Not in a while, anyway."

Actually, it had been just short of a year.

Dewey's laughter was only slightly mocking. "Jesus Christ, I can see you're undecided."

"I like women-as people. As roommates, it's another story. Same with men."

"And you get so many offers. I noticed the line outside, all those girls with suitcases, waiting patiently."