Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

“You can’t beat yourself up over her, Bob. No one could have predicted it. You were having fun with a nice-looking woman.”

“No doubt about that, but it does nag at me.”

“You gotta let it go.”

“I’ll try. I need a shower. My last one was in Lake City, I believe, in a square tub with an empty tube of shampoo. Seems like a month ago.”

“Upstairs on the right. She’s on the left so give her plenty of space. I guess you’re piling in for a few more days. Welcome again.”

“Thanks, but I’m leaving soon for Maine. I want cooler weather and I need to get away from this place. The insurance company is already giving me the runaround and I don’t feel like fighting right now. How long is she staying?”

“She just got here. I have no idea. She mentioned a memorial service next Saturday in California and I’m already thinking of ways to avoid it.”

“That would be just awful. I quit doing funerals years ago. Such a waste of time and money and emotion.”

When he was gone, Bruce tidied up the kitchen and left for his next adventure, a trip to the nearest grocery store.

4.

At dusk, Bruce and Polly left his house in the Tahoe and headed north. A few blocks from downtown the island became dark again as they drove into areas still without electricity.

Polly was stunned by the devastation; she had never witnessed firsthand the aftermath of a major storm. Neither had Bruce, for that matter, but after five days he was growing accustomed to downed utility poles, blocked streets, overturned vehicles, front lawns filled with soaked rugs and furniture, and mountains of debris and garbage. They passed a small church where dozens of FEMA trailers were assembled in neat rows in a parking lot and people were waiting quietly, in a long line, to be served dinner brought in by volunteers. They passed a park where a tent city had sprung up. Parents sat in lawn chairs around a fire pit while children kicked soccer balls in disorganized games. Next to the park on a softball field, National Guardsmen were handing out bottles of water and loaves of bread.

Bruce found the street in an old section of postwar tract homes, all of which were damaged and uninhabitable. In most driveways, shiny new FEMA trailers now sat next to cars and trucks. Some had pipes running to the sewage lines; others did not. From the looks of the houses, the trailers would be used for a long time.

Wanda Clary had been Bruce’s first employee when Bay Books opened twenty-three years earlier. As the only holdover from the prior owner, Wanda assumed from day one that she knew far more about selling books than her new boss, and though she was right she wrongly tried to assert too much control. They clashed early and often, and Bruce thought about firing her on many occasions, but she was loyal, punctual, and willing to work for the low wages he offered in the early days. As he learned almost immediately, in retail dependable help is hard to find. With time they staked out their own duties and turfs and Wanda held on to her job, if only by a thread. Before her stroke, she was often abrupt with Bruce, short with customers, and rude to coworkers. But after her stroke, which as it turned out was not that serious, not the first one anyway, her entire personality changed dramatically and Wanda became everybody’s grandmother. Customers adored her and sales increased. Bruce paid her more and they became friends. But the second stroke almost killed her and forced her retirement. Her husband died shortly thereafter, and Wanda, who was pushing eighty, had been barely surviving on a pension for the past ten years.

She was sitting in a lawn chair beside her FEMA trailer, chatting with a neighbor, when Bruce surprised her. She managed to stand, with a cane, and gave him a big hug. He introduced Polly as a friend from California. Wanda introduced her neighbor, a lady not much younger than her, and offered them seats in her kitchen chairs, which had been arranged in the driveway near the trailer. Much of the rest of the furniture was piled near the street to be hauled away one day.

Wanda said her house had taken eight feet of water that had not subsided for three days. Everything was ruined, same as her neighbors. Most of them had no flood insurance, nor did Wanda, and the future was pretty grim. The FEMA trailer was free for ninety days with a possible extension, which made no sense. What was FEMA planning to do with the trailers when they took them away? Wait for the next Cat 4?

Wanda and her neighbor had survived the storm in a shelter on higher ground, and they managed to find a little humor in their story. It was a frightening experience, one that they would never forget. Both vowed to evacuate the next time. Bruce told a few stories about the storm but said nothing about Nelson Kerr. He doubted if Wanda had met him, though she still read almost everything.

Polly just listened and tried to absorb the surroundings. Twenty-four hours earlier she was leaving the safety of San Francisco. Now she was sitting in a war zone with people who were sleepwalking through a nightmare, people who had lost everything and were happy to have a warm bed in a dark, tiny trailer. For a moment, she almost forgot about her brother.

Across the street a small gas engine came to life, then a lightbulb. Wanda said, “That’s Gilbert. His son brought him a generator yesterday and he’s showing it off, says he might be able to rig up a small window unit for some cool air.”

“Have you talked to your son?” Bruce asked.

“Well, yes, finally. We didn’t get phone service until Thursday. Phil called yesterday from St. Louis. Asked if I needed anything. Nothing really, I said. Just a new house, new car, new furniture, some food might be nice. A bottle of cold water. He said he’d do what he could, which of course means nothing.”

Changing the subject, and ready to leave, Bruce said, “We brought some water and food.” He left and walked to the Tahoe. Polly followed him and they hauled four cases of bottled water and three boxes of groceries to the trailer. Bruce took a quick look inside and was overwhelmed by the thought of living in such tight quarters for any length of time.

Wanda was crying, and Bruce held her hand for a few minutes. He promised to come back, and made her promise to call if she needed anything. When they left, a crowd was gathering around Gilbert’s lightbulb, and there was music on the radio.

5.

On the southern end of Camino Island, Curly’s Oyster Bar was crowded with locals looking for comfort food and a cold drink, and utility crews killing time on a Saturday night. Bruce and Polly waited half an hour and got a table outside on the deck. Of course, she did not eat fried foods and had never confronted a raw oyster. They settled on a bucket of boiled shrimp and waited on beers. She preferred white wine but Bruce steered her away from the boxed stuff poured at Curly’s. The music from the jukebox was soft and distant, and the conversations around them were subdued, as if folks had just stumbled out of the nightmare and were still stunned by the changes. There was too much work to be done to feel good about life.

In a low voice, Bruce said, “So, you’re the executor of Nelson’s estate.”

“I am. He made a new will last year and named me as executor, or executrix, to be more precise. The gender thing.”

“Who drafted the will?”

“A law firm in Jacksonville.”

“Have you talked to them yet?”

“No. Why the interest in his estate?”

“Just curious, that’s all. I assume he had some assets.”

She sighed, removed her designer frames, and rubbed her eyes. “How much do you know about Nelson’s business?”

“Not much at all. Mostly the stuff we’ve covered—legal career, bad divorce, blowing the whistle. He let it slip once that he paid a million bucks for his condo, but other than that I have no idea what’s in the bank.”