Duma Key

I'd parked my car in the courtyard, beside Elizabeth Eastlake's silver Vietnam War-era Mercedes-Benz. I slid the portrait from my much humbler Chevrolet, set it on end, and held it up for Wireman to look at. As he stood there silently regarding it, a strange thought occurred to me: I was like a tailor standing beside a mirror in a men's clothing store. Soon my customer would either tell me he liked the suit I'd made for him, or shake his head regretfully and say it wouldn't do.

Far off to the south, in what I was coming to think of as the Duma Jungle, that bird took up its warning "Oh-oh!" cry again.

Finally I couldn't take it anymore. "Say something, Wireman. Say anything."

"I can't. I'm speechless."

"You? Not possible."

But when he looked up from the portrait, I realized it was true. He looked like someone had walloped him on the head with a hammer. I understood by then that what I was doing affected people, but none of those reactions were quite like Wireman's on that March morning.

What finally woke him up was a sharp knocking sound. It was Elizabeth. She was awake and rapping on her tray. "Smoke!" she cried. "Smoke! Smoke! " Some things survived even the fog of Alzheimer's, it seemed. The part of her brain that craved nicotine never decayed. She'd smoke until the end.

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!"