Stephen King - Duma Key

I had no intention of telling Wireman about my furtive hunt through my daughter’s purse; that was something of which I’d grown more rather than less ashamed. But once I started, beginning with LINK-BELT, I couldn’t stop. I told him almost everything, finishing with Tom Riley standing at the head of the stairs leading up to Little Pink, pale and dead and minus an eye. I think part of what kept me going was the simple realization that Wireman couldn’t commit me to the nearest lunatic asylum — he had no legal authority. Part of it was that, attracted as I was by his kindness and cynical good cheer, he was still a stranger. Sometimes — often, I think — telling stories that are embarrassing or even downright crazy is easier when you’re telling them to a stranger. Mostly, though, I pushed on out of pure relief: I felt like a man expressing snake-venom from a bite.

Wireman poured himself a fresh glass of tea with a hand that was not quite steady. I found that interesting and disquieting. Then he glanced at his watch, which he wore nurse-style, with the face on the inside of his wrist. “In half an hour or so I really have to go up and check her,” he said. “I’m sure she’s fine, but—”

“What if she wasn’t?” I asked. “If she fell, or something?”

He pulled a walkie-talkie from the pocket of his chinos. It was as slim as a cell phone. “I make sure she always carries hers. There are also Rapid Response call-buttons all over the house, but—” He tapped a thumb on his chest. “I’m the real alarm system, okay? The only one I trust.”

He looked out at the water and sighed.

“She’s got Alzheimer’s. It’s not too bad yet, but Dr. Hadlock says it’ll probably move fast now that it’s settled in. A year from now…” He shrugged almost sullenly, then brightened. “We have tea every day at four. Tea and Oprah . Why not come up and meet the lady of the house? I’ll even throw in a slice of key lime pie.”

“Okay,” I said. “It’s a deal. Do you think she’s the one who left that message on my answering machine about Duma Key not being a lucky place for daughters?”

“Sure. Although if you expect an explanation — if you expect her to even remember — good luck. But I can help you a little, maybe. You said something about brothers and sisters yesterday, and I didn’t get a chance to correct you. Fact is, all Elizabeth’s sibs were girls. All daughters. The oldest was born in 1908 or thereabouts. Elizabeth came onstage in 1923. Mrs. Eastlake died about two months after having her. Some kind of infection. Or maybe she threw a clot… who’s to know at this late date? That was here, on Duma Key.”

“Did the father remarry?” I still couldn’t remember his name.

Wireman helped me out. “John? No.”

“You’re not going to tell me he raised six girls out here. That’s just too gothic.”

“He tried, with the help of a nanny. But his eldest ran off with a boy. Miss Eastlake had an accident that almost killed her. And the twins…” He shook his head. “They were two years older than Elizabeth. In 1927 they disappeared. The presumption is they tried to go swimming, got swept away by an undertow, and drowned out there in the caldo grande .”

We looked at the water for a little while — those deceptively mild waves running up the beach like puppies — and said nothing. Then I asked if Elizabeth had told him all of this.

“Some. Not all. And she’s mixed up about what she does remember. I found a passing mention of an incident that had to be the right one on a Web site dedicated to Gulf coast history. Had a little e-mail correspondence with a guy who’s a librarian in Tampa.” Wireman raised his hands and waggled his fingers in a typing mime. “Tessie and Laura Eastlake. The librarian sent me a copy of the Tampa paper from April 19th, 1927. The headline on the front page is very stark, very bleak, very chilling. Three words. THEY ARE GONE.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“Six years old. Elizabeth would have been four, old enough to understand what had happened. Maybe old enough to read a newspaper headline as simple as THEY ARE GONE. The twins dead and Adriana, the oldest, eloped off to Atlanta with one of his plant managers… no wonder John had had enough of Duma for awhile. He and the remaining three moved to Miami. Many years later, he moved back here to die, and Miss Eastlake cared for him.” Wireman shrugged. “Pretty much as I’m caring for her. So… do you see why an old lady with onset-Alzheimer’s might consider Duma a bad place for daughters?”

“I guess so, but how does an old lady with onset-Alzheimer’s find the phone number of her new tenant?”

Wireman gave me a sly look. “New tenant, old number, autodial function on all the phones back there.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Any other questions?”

I gaped at him. “She has me on autodial ?”

“Don’t blame me; I came in late on this movie-show. My guess is that the Realtor who handles things for her programmed the rental properties into the phones. Or maybe Miss Eastlake’s business manager. He pops down from St. Petersburg every six weeks or so to make sure she’s not dead and I’m not stealing the Spode. I’ll ask him the next time he shows up.”

“So she can call any house on the north end of the Key at the touch of a button.”

“Well… yeah. I mean, they are all hers.” He patted my hand. “But you know what, muchacho ? I think your button is going to have a little nervous breakdown this evening.”

“No,” I said, not even thinking about it. “Don’t do that.”

“Ah,” Wireman said, exactly as if he understood. And who knows, maybe he did. “Anyway, that explains your mystery caller — although I have to tell you, explanations have a way of thinning out on Duma Key. As your story demonstrates.”

“What do you mean? Have you had… experiences?”

He looked at me squarely, his large tanned face inscrutable. The chilly late January wind gusted, blowing sand around our ankles. It also lifted his hair, once again revealing the coin-shaped scar above his right temple. I wondered if someone had poked him with the neck of a bottle, maybe in a bar fight, and tried to imagine someone getting mad at this man. It was hard to do.

“Yes, I’ve had… experiences, ” he said, and hooked the first two fingers of each hand into little quotation marks. “It’s what makes children into… adults . Also what gives English teachers something to bullshit about in first year… lit courses .” Each time with the air-quotes.

Okay, he didn’t want to talk about it, at least not then. So I asked him how much of my story he believed.

He rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair. “Don’t try my patience, vato . You might be mistaken about a few things, but you ain’t nuts. I got a lady up there… sweetest lady in the world and I love her, but sometimes she thinks I’m her Dad and it’s Miami circa nineteen thirty-four. Sometimes she pops one of her china people into a Sweet Owen cookie-tin and tosses it into the koi pond behind the tennis court. I have to get em out when she naps, otherwise she pitches a bitch. No idea why. I think by this summer she may be wearing an adult didey full-time.”

“Point?”

“The point is I know loco, I know Duma, and I’m getting to know you. I’m perfectly willing to believe you had a vision of your friend dead.”

“No bullshit?”

“No bullshit. Verdad . The question is what you’re going to do about it, assuming you’re not eager to see him into the ground for — may I be vulgar? — buttering what used to be your loaf.”

“I’m not. I did have this momentary thing… I don’t know how to describe it…”