Stephen King - Duma Key

Wireman took a pack of American Spirits from the pocket of his shorts, shook one out, put it in his mouth, and lit it. Then he held it out to her. “If I let you handle this yourself, are you going to light yourself on fire, Miss Eastlake?”

“ Smoke! ”

“That’s not very encouraging, dear.”

But he gave it to her, and Alzheimer’s or no Alzheimer’s, she handled it like a pro, drawing in a deep drag and jetting it out through her nostrils. Then she settled back in her chair, looking for the moment not like Captain Bligh on the poop deck but FDR on the reviewing stand. All she needed was a cigarette-holder to clamp between her teeth. And, of course, some teeth.

Wireman returned his gaze to the portrait. “You don’t seriously mean to just give this away, do you? You can’t. It’s incredible work.”

“It’s yours,” I said. “No arguments.”

“You have to put it in your show.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea—”

“You yourself said once they’re done, any effect on the subject’s probably over—”

“Yeah, probably .”

“Probably’s good enough for me, and the Scoto’s safer than this house. Edgar, this deserves to be seen. Hell, it needs to be seen.”

“Is it you, Wireman?” I was honestly curious.

“Yes. No.” He stood looking at it a moment longer. Then he turned to me. “It’s how I wanted to be. Maybe it’s how I was, on the few best days of my best year.” He added, almost reluctantly: “My most idealistic year.”

For a little while we said nothing, only looked at the portrait while Elizabeth puffed like a choo-choo train. An old choo-choo train.

Then Wireman said: “There are many things I wonder about, Edgar. Since coming to Duma Key, I have more questions than a four-year-old at bedtime. But one thing I don’t wonder about is why you want to stay here. If I could do something like this, I’d want to stay here forever.”

“Last year at this time I was doodling on phone pads while I was on hold,” I said.

“So you said. Tell me something, muchacho . Looking at this… and thinking of all the other ones you’ve done since you started… would you change the accident that took your arm? Would you change it, even if you could?”

I thought of painting in Little Pink while The Bone pumped out hardcore rock and roll in thick chunks. I thought of the Great Beach Walks. I even thought of the older Baumgarten kid yelling Yo, Mr. Freemantle, nice chuck! when I spun the Frisbee back to him. Then I thought of waking up in that hospital bed, how dreadfully hot I had been, how scattered my thoughts had been, how sometimes I couldn’t even remember my own name. The anger. The dawning realization (it came during The Jerry Springer Show ), that part of my body was AWOL. I had started crying and had been unable to stop.

“I would change it back,” I said, “in a heartbeat.”

“Ah,” he said. “Just wondering.” And turned to take away Elizabeth’s cigarette.

She immediately held out her hands like an infant who has been deprived of a toy. “Smoke! Smoke! SMOKE! ” Wireman butted the cigarette on the heel of his sandal and a moment later she quieted again, the cigarette forgotten now that her nicotine jones was satisfied.

“Stay with her while I put the painting in the front hall, would you?” Wireman asked.

“Sure,” I said. “Wireman, I only meant—”

“I know. Your arm. The pain. Your wife. It was a stupid question. Obviously. Just let me put this painting safe, okay? Then the next time Jack comes, send him down here. We’ll wrap it nice and he can take it to the Scoto. But I’m gonna scrawl NFS all over the packing before it goes to Sarasota. If you’re giving it to me, this baby is mine . No screw-ups.”

In the jungle to the south, the bird took up its worried cry again: “Oh-oh! Oh-oh! Oh-oh!”

I wanted to say something else to him, explain to him, but he was hurrying away. Besides, it had been his question. His stupid question.

Jack Cantori took Wireman Looks West to the Scoto the following day, and Dario called me as soon as he had it out of the cardboard panels. He claimed to have never seen anything like it, and said he wanted to make it and the Girl and Ship paintings the centerpieces of the show. He and Jimmy believed the very fact that those works weren’t for sale would hype interest. I told him fine. He asked me if I was getting ready for my lecture, and I told him I was thinking about it. He told me that was good, because the event was already stirring “uncommon interest,” and the circulars hadn’t even gone out yet.

“Plus of course we’ll be sending JPEG images to our e-listers,” he said.

“That’s great,” I said, but it didn’t feel great. During those first ten days of March, a curious lassitude stole over me. It didn’t extend to work; I painted another sunset and another Girl and Ship . Each morning I walked on the beach with my pouch slung over my shoulder, prospecting for shells and any other interesting litter that might have washed up. I found a great many beer and soda cans (most worn as smooth and white as amnesia), a few prophylactics, a child’s plastic raygun, and one bikini bottom. Zero tennis balls. I drank green tea with Wireman under the striped umbrella. I coaxed Elizabeth to eat tuna salad and macaroni salad, heavy on the mayo; I chivvied her into drinking Ensure “milkshakes” through a straw. One day I sat on the boardwalk beside her wheelchair and sanded the mystic rings of yellow callus on her big old feet.

What I did not do was make any notes for my supposed “art lecture,” and when Dario called to say it had been switched to the Public Library lecture space, which seated two hundred, I flatter myself that my offhand reply gave no clue as to how cold my blood ran.

Two hundred people meant four hundred eyes, all trained on me.

What I also did not do was write any invitations, make any move to reserve rooms for the nights of April fifteenth and sixteenth at the Ritz-Carlton in Sarasota, or reserve a Gulfstream to fly down a gaggle of friends and relatives from Minnesota.

The idea that any of them might want to see my daubings began to seem nutty.

The idea that Edgar Freemantle, who one year previous had been fighting with the St. Paul Planning Committee about bedrock test drillings, might be giving an art lecture to a bunch of actual art patrons seemed absolutely insane.

The paintings seemed real enough, though, and the work was… God, the work was wonderful. When I stood before my easel in Little Pink at sunset, stripped to my gym shorts and listening to The Bone, watching Girl and Ship No. 7 emerge from the white with eerie speed (like something sliding out of a fogbank), I felt totally awake and alive, a man in exactly the right place at exactly the right time, a ball that was a perfect fit for its socket. The ghost-ship had turned a little more; its name appeared to be the Perse . On a whim, I Googled this word, and found exactly one hit — probably a world’s record. Perse was a private school in England, where the alumni were called Old Perseans. There was no mention of a School Ship, three-masted or otherwise.

In this latest version, the girl in the rowboat was wearing a green dress with straps that crossed over her bare back, and all around her, floating on the sullen water, were roses. It was a disturbing picture.

Walking on the beach, eating my lunch and drinking a beer, with Wireman or on my own, I was happy. When I was painting pictures I was happy. More than happy. When I was painting I felt filled up and fully realized in some basic way I had never understood before coming to Duma Key. But when I thought about the show at the Scoto and all the stuff that went into making an exhibition of new work successful, my mind went into lockdown. It was more than stage fright; this felt like outright panic.