Duma Key

"Good. Get the picture and throw it in the oven. Then close the door and turn the oven on. High as it will go. Burn that thing."

"No, Daddy!" Wide awake again, as shocked as when I'd said fuck, if not more so. "I love that picture!"

"I know, honey, but it's the picture that's making you feel the way you do." I started to say something else, then stopped. If it was the sketch - and it was, of course it was - then I wouldn't need to hammer it home. She'd know as well as I did. Instead of speaking I throttled the faucet back and forth, wishing with all my heart it was the bitch-hag's throat.

"Daddy! Do you really think-"

"I don't think, I know. Get the picture, Ilse. I'm going to hold the phone. Get it and stick it in the oven and burn it. Do it right now."

"I... okay. Hold on."

There was a clunk as the phone went down.

Wireman said, "Is she doing it?"

Before I could reply, there was a snap. It was followed by a spout of cold water that drenched me to the elbow. I looked at the faucet in my hand, then at the ragged place where it had broken off. I dropped it in the sink. Water was spouting from the stump.

"I think she is," I said. And then: "Sorry."

" De nada. " He dropped to his knees, opened the cupboard beneath the sink, reached in past the wastebasket and the stash of garbage bags. He turned something, and the gusher spouting from the broken faucet started to die. "You don't know your own strength, muchacho. Or maybe you do."

"Sorry," I said again. But I wasn't. My palm was bleeding from a shallow cut, but I felt better. Clearer. It occurred to me that once upon a time, that faucet could have been my wife's neck. No wonder she had divorced me.

We sat in the kitchen and waited. The second hand on the clock above the stove made one very slow trip around the dial, started another. The water coming from the broken faucet was down to a bare rivulet. Then, very faintly, I heard Ilse, calling: "I'm back... I've got it... I-" Then she screamed. I couldn't tell if it was surprise, pain, or both.

"Ilse!" I shouted. "Ilse!"

Wireman stood up fast, bumping his hip against the side of the sink. He raised his open hands to me. I shook my head - Don't know. Now I could feel sweat running down my cheeks, although the kitchen wasn't particularly warm.

I was wondering what to do next - who to call - when Ilse came back on the phone. She sounded exhausted. She also sounded like herself. Finally like herself. "Jesus Christ in the morning," she said.

"What happened?" I had to restrain myself from shouting. "Illy, what happened? "

"It's gone. It caught fire and burned. I watched it through the window. It's nothing but ashes. I have to get a Band-Aid on the back of my hand, Dad. You were right. There was something really, really wrong with it." She laughed shakily. "Damn thing didn't want to go in. It folded itself over and..." That shaky laugh again. "I'd call it a paper-cut, but it doesn't look like a paper-cut, and it didn't feel like one. It feels like a bite. I think it bit me."

viii

The important thing for me was that she was all right. The important thing for her was that I was. We were fine. Or so the foolish artist thought. I told her I'd call tomorrow.

"Illy? One more thing."

"Yes, Dad." She sounded totally awake and in charge of herself again.

"Go to the stove. Is there an oven light?"

"Yes."

"Turn it on. Tell me what you see."

"You'll have to hold on, then - the cordless is in the bedroom."

There was another pause, shorter. Then she came back and said, "Ashes."

"Good," I said.

"Daddy, what about the rest of your pictures? Are they all like this one?"

"I'm taking care of it, honey. It's a story for another day."

"All right. Thank you, Daddy. You're still my hero. I love you."

"I love you, too."

That was the last time we spoke, and neither of us knew. We never know, do we? At least we ended by exchanging our love. I have that. It's not much, but it's something. Others have it worse. I tell myself that on the long nights when I can't sleep.

Others have it worse.

ix

I slumped down across from Wireman and propped my head on my hand. "I'm sweating like a pig."

"Busting Miss Eastlake's sink might've had something to do with that."

"I'm sor- "

"Say it again and I'll smack you," he said. "You did fine. It's not every man who gets to save his daughter's life. Believe me when I say that I envy you. Do you want a beer?"

"I'd throw it up all over the table. Got milk?"

He checked the fridge. "No milk, but we are go for Half-n-Half."

"Give me a shot of that."

"You're a sick, sick puppydick, Edgar." But he gave me a shot of Half-n-Half in a juice glass, and I tossed it off. Then we went back upstairs, moving slowly, clutching our stubby silver-tipped arrows like aging jungle warriors.

I went back into the guest bedroom, lay down, and once more gazed up at the ceiling. My hand hurt, but that was okay. She'd cut hers; I'd cut mine. It fit, somehow.

The table is leaking, I thought.

Drown her to sleep, I thought.