Stephen King - Duma Key

“Yep.”

“Your mother?”

“What do you think, Daddy? Best guess.”

“My best guess is… not. Because she’s so concerned about Grampy right now.”

“Grampy wasn’t the only reason I kept the ring in my purse the whole time I was in California — except to show Lin, that is. Mostly I just wanted to tell you first. Is that evil?”

“No, honey. I’m touched.”

I was, too. But I was also afraid for her, and not just because she wouldn’t be twenty for another three months.

“His name’s Carson Jones, and he’s a divinity student, of all things — do you believe it? I love him, Daddy, I just love him so much.”

“That’s great, honey,” I said, but I could feel dread climbing my legs. Just don’t love him too much, I was thinking. Not too much. Because —

She was looking at me closely, her smile fading. “What? What’s wrong?”

I’d forgotten how quick she was, and how well she read me. Love conveys its own psychic powers, doesn’t it?

“Nothing, hon. Well… my hip’s hurting a little.”

“Have you had your pain pills?”

“Actually… I’m stepping down on those a little more. Plan on getting off them entirely in January. That’s my New Year’s resolution.”

“Daddy, that’s wonderful!”

“Although New Year’s resolutions are made to be broken.”

“Not you. You do what you say you’re going to do.” Ilse frowned. “That’s one of the things Mom never liked about you. I think it makes her jealous.”

“Hon, the divorce is just something that happened. Don’t go picking sides, okay?”

“Well, I’ll tell you something else that’s happening,” Ilse said. Her lips had thinned down. “Since she’s been out in Palm Desert, she’s seeing an awful lot of this guy down the street. She says it’s just coffee and sympathy — because Max lost his father last year, and Max really likes Grampy, and blah-blah-blah — but I see the way she looks at him and I… don’t… care for it!” Now her lips were almost gone, and I thought she looked eerily like her mother. The thought that came with this was oddly comforting: I think she’ll be all right. I think if this holy Jones boy jilts her, she’ll still be okay .

I could see my rental car, but Jack would be awhile yet. The pickup traffic was stop-and-go. I leaned my crutch against my midsection and hugged my daughter, who had come all the way from California to see me. “Go easy on your mother, okay?”

“Don’t you even care that—”

“What I mostly care about these days is that you and Melinda are happy.”

There were circles under her eyes and I could see that, young or not, all the traveling had tired her out. I thought she’d sleep late tomorrow, and that was fine. If my feeling about her boyfriend was right — I hoped it wasn’t but thought it was — she had some sleepless nights ahead of her in the year to come.

Jack had made it as far as the Air Florida terminal, which still gave us some time. “Do you have a picture of your guy? Enquiring Dads want to know.”

Ilse brightened. “You bet.” The picture she brought out of her red leather wallet was in one of those see-through plastic envelopes. She teased it out and handed it to me. I guess this time my reaction didn’t show, because her fond (really sort of goofy) smile didn’t change. And me? I felt as though I’d swallowed something that had no business going down a human throat. A piece of lead shot, maybe.

It wasn’t that Carson Jones resembled the man I’d drawn on Christmas Eve. I was prepared for that, had been since I saw the little ring twinkling prettily on Ilse’s finger. What shocked me was that the photo was almost exactly the same. It was as if, instead of clipping a photo of sophora, sea lavender, or inkberry to the side of my easel, I had clipped this very photograph. He was wearing the jeans and the scuffed yellow workboots that I hadn’t been able to get quite right; his darkish blond hair spilled over his ears and his forehead; he was carrying a book I knew was a Bible in one hand. Most telling of all was the Minnesota Twins tee-shirt, with the number 48 on the left breast.

“Who’s number 48, and how did you happen to meet a Twins fan at Brown? I thought that was Red Sox country.”

“Number 48’s Torii Hunter, ” she said, looking at me as if I was the world’s biggest dummox. “They have a huge TV in the main student lounge, and I went in there one day last July when the Sox and Twins were playing. The place was crammed even though it was summer session, but Carson and I were the only ones with our Twins on — him with his Torii tee-shirt, me with my cap. So of course we sat together, and…” She shrugged, to show the rest was history.

“What flavor is he, religiously speaking?”

“Baptist.” She looked at me a little defiantly, as though she’d said Cannibal . But as a member in good standing of The First Church of Nothing in Particular, I had no grudge against the Baptists. The only religions I don’t like are the ones that insist their God is bigger than your God. “We’ve been going to services together three times a week for the last four months.”

Jack pulled up, and she bent to grab the handles of her various bags. “He’s going to take spring semester off to travel with this really wonderful gospel group. It’s an actual tour, with a booker and everything. The group is called The Hummingbirds. You should hear him — he sings like an angel.”

“I’ll bet,” I said.

She kissed me again, softly, on the cheek. “I’m glad I came, Daddy. Are you glad?”

“More than you could ever know,” I said, and found myself wishing she’d fall madly in love with Jack. That would have solved everything… or so it seemed to me then.

We had nothing so grand as Christmas dinner, but there was one of Jack’s Astronaut Chickens, plus cranberry dressing, salad-in-a-bag, and rice pudding. Ilse ate two helpings of everything. After we exchanged presents and exclaimed over them — everything was just what we wanted! — I took Ilse upstairs to Little Pink and showed her most of my artistic output. The drawing I’d done of her boyfriend and the picture of the woman (if it was a woman) in red were tucked away on a high shelf in my bedroom closet, and there they would stay until my daughter was gone.

I had clipped about a dozen others — mostly sunsets — to squares of cardboard and leaned them against the walls of the room. She toured them once. Stopped, then toured them again. It was night by then, my big upstairs window full of darkness. The tide was all the way out; the only way you even knew the Gulf was there was by its soft continual sighing as the waves ran up the sand and died.

“You really did these?” she said at last. She turned and looked at me in a way that made me uncomfortable. It’s the way one person looks at another when a serious re-evaluation is going on.

“I really did,” I said. “What do you think?”

“They’re good. Maybe better than good. This one—” She bent and very carefully picked up the one that showed the conch sitting on the horizon-line, with yellow-orange sunset light blazing all around it. “This is so fu… excuse me, so damn creepy.”

“I think so, too,” I said. “But really, it’s nothing new. All it does is dress up the sunset with a little surrealism.” Then, inanely, I exclaimed: “Hello, Dalí!”

She put back Sunset with Conch, and picked up Sunset with Sophora.

“Who’s seen these?”

“Just you and Jack. Oh, and Juanita. She calls them asustador . Something like that. Jack says it means scary .”