Where Dolphins Go

by Webb, Peggy

  Where Dolphins Go

  Peggy Webb

  Copyright 2011 Peggy Webb

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover design copyright 2011 Pat Ryan

  Publishing History/ Bantam Doubleday Dell

  Copyright, 1993 by Peggy Webb (hardcover)

  Paperback edition, 1994

  Book One

  "Some of the subtlest secrets of the sea seemed divulged to us in this enchanted pond."

  HERMAN MELVILLE

  from Moby Dick

  Chapter One

  Forgetfulness came quicker if he mixed bourbon with his beer.

  Paul left his chair by the window, proud of how he could hide his condition as he walked to the closet where he kept his waders. He swayed a little at the door, then caught the knob to steady himself.

  "Whoa, boy. Can't have Bill find you like this . . . good old Bill." He opened the door and reached inside the deep rubber boot. His hand closed around the bottle.

  "Be mad as hell if he caught his good old buddy having a little afternoon boilermaker."

  Carrying the whiskey close to his chest, he made his careful way back to the desk. His hand shook only a little as he poured the liquor into his can of beer. Whiskey sloshed over the side of the can and pooled on the scarred desktop.

  Paul stared at the stain awhile, as if it affronted him. Then he shrugged and lifted the can to his lips.

  "Physician, heal thyself."

  He closed his eyes, waiting for the warm gray fog to settle over him, waiting for the blessed numbness to overtake his brain. The only thing that overtook him was the certainty that the next day he'd have a hangover.

  In the holding pen outside Paul's window, a huge dolphin surfaced and slapped his tail in the water.

  "Not today, Ferguson. Can't come out and play today."

  The great tail hit the water once more, and Paul turned to look out his window. Ferguson circled round and round in the pool, occasionally rising up in a fountain of spray, his body glinting silver in the bright hot summer sun.

  Across the pool Bill McKenzie stood with his back toward Paul, talking to a woman. She was half-hidden behind Bill, but Paul could see enough to know that she was fair and slim, bordering on skinny, and that she had a quiet face with big earnest eyes.

  For a moment Paul's curiosity was stirred.

  The woman talked with her hands. Her body language was urgent, almost intimate; and her movements were graceful and eloquent, like music come to life.

  Music come to life? He was drunker than he thought— or perhaps not drunk enough.

  Paul saluted the woman with his beer can. "Here's to you, whoever you are." The beer had gotten piss warm, but he didn't care. As long as it anesthetized.

  He reached for the whiskey bottle and poured another shot down the small elliptical hole. Might as well make sure.

  Outside in the holding pen, Ferguson began to chortle and squeak. What was Bill doing? They had done vocalization studies with Fergie that morning.

  Paul turned back to the window. The first thing he saw was the child, a tiny tousle-haired boy, sitting in his stroller, pale and motionless as a porcelain doll. His head lolled to one side, and his arms and legs stuck out as if they had no relation to his body. He looked like a Tinkertoy put together wrong.

  Paul clutched his beer can so hard, the sides began to buckle. The child gazed into the water, helpless, while the woman with the solemn face leaned toward Bill.

  The little fact was so still, so still.

  "For God's sake, Paul. Do something. DO SOMETHING!"

  Caught in a time warp, Paul stared out the window.

  As the aluminum gave way under the pressure, liquid ran down his hand, his arm. He didn't notice. All his attention was focused on the child, the silent, needy child.

  A wave of dizziness came, followed by nausea. Even in his semi-anesthetized state, Paul knew it wasn't the boilermaker at work: it was the past with its ghosts that wouldn't let go and its memories that crawled out of the dark corners of his mind when he least expected them.

  "No . . . God . . . no." He stood up fast, knocking his chair over. With his fingers still sunk into the sides of the beer can, he went to the refrigerator and leaned his forehead against the cool door. An image of the child wavered, faded, then came back with a vengeance.

  Paul clutched his stomach and heaved. Nothing came up except guilt and pain—and the memory of a tiny face, looking up at him with big pleading eyes.

  "Paul?" The outside door to the combination office- feeding room clicked shut behind Bill. "Are you all right?"

  Paul felt the hand on his shoulder, large, warm, the hand of friendship and compassion. He had promised Bill he would do better. And he really had tried. Oh, Lord, how he had tried.

  He turned to face his friend. "You don't deserve this, old buddy. I'll give you my written notice tomorrow."

  "Like hell you will. You can't keep running."

  "I can't keep accepting your charity."

  "This is not charity, it's a job. And you're going to stick with it until you can pull yourself together."

  Bill's pale red freckles nearly disappeared in the color that flushed his face as he pried the can from Paul's hand. "Dammit, Paul. I'm not going to let you kill yourself—at least not on my turf."

  Bill strode to the desk, jerked up the bottle, and flung it into the garbage can along with the beer. Metal clanged against metal. Broken glass tinkled. Bill stared into the wreckage, his chest heaving.

  Paul was not too far gone to see past his friend's anger into his pain. He didn't like to see Bill hurting. More than that, he didn't like to be the cause.

  "I'm sorry, Bill. I tried to wait until I got out of here." Paul ran his hands through his hair, hating the way they trembled. "Sometimes life seems so damned . . . useless."

  Bill hung his head and cursed the floor until all the anger went out of him. Then he sagged, like a sack of potatoes settling into place.

  He put both hands on Paul's shoulders. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. You, of all people, should know better."

  "Guilty, as charged.”

  "You need a challenge . . . something more than feeding dolphins."

  "The dolphins don't expect much of me except a few buckets of fish. I like it that way."

  "I don't. It's a waste, Paul." The air around Bill seemed to stir and hum as he made his way to the swivel chair. Hurricane Bill, employees at the center fondly called their director. He picked up a pencil and twirled it between his fingers. "You're wasting your life here at the center, and I can't seem to do a damned thing about it."

  "It's not your place, Bill. You and Maggie have been wonderful to me."

  "You'd do the same for me if you could." Bill studied the gaunt man leaning beside the refrigerator, then threw the pencil onto the desk. It bounced and rolled across the concrete floor, stopping inches from Paul's feet.

  Paul picked it up and put it back on the desk. "You dropped this."

  "Son of a gun." Bill grinned. "Half-crocked and still trying to get me to control my temper."

  "It's bad for your blood pressure."

  "Maggie will thank you. Probably with one of her chicken casseroles." Bill doodled around the edges of the desk calendar, turning the one into a stick figure, putting ears and a tail on the eight. Then he sat back in his chair, tapping the pencil against his teeth and studying his artwork.

  Paul waited. He had nothing else to do except go to bleak bare walls and functional furniture, an empty space that didn’t even deserve to be called home. Bill would insist on driving him, and Paul would consent. He had no intention of adding highway murder to his list of" sins.

  "A woman came to see me today," Bill said. "A woman and a little boy."


  Paul went very still.

  "Her name is Susan . . . Susan Riley. She knew about the center from that article in the newspaper last week."

  There had been many articles written about Dr. Bill McKenzie and the research he did with dolphins. The most recent one, though, had delved into the personality of the dolphins themselves. An enterprising reporter had done his homework. Dolphins, he had written, relate well to people. Some even seem to have extrasensory perception. They seem to sense when a person is sick or hurt or depressed.

  "Here little boy has a condition called truncus arteriosus." Bill squinted in the way he always did when he was judging a person's reaction.

  Paul was careful not to show one. Truncus arteriosus. A condition of the heart. Malfunctioning arteries. Surgery required.

  "Bill, I don't practice medicine anymore."

  "I'm not asking you to practice medicine. I'm asking you to listen."

  "I'm listening."

  "The boy was scheduled for surgery, but he had a stroke before it could be performed."

  For God's sake, Paul. Do something. DO SOMETHING!

  Paul held up his hand. "Don’t go any further with this, Bill.”

  "Just listen, Paul. The child is depressed, doesn't respond to anything, anybody. She thought the dolphins might be the answer. She wanted to bring him here on a regular basis."

  "You told her no, of course."

  "I'm a marine biologist, not a psychologist." Bill slumped in his chair. "I told her no."

  "The child needs therapy, not dolphins."

  "That's what I thought, but now I’m not so sure.”Bill gave Paul that squinty-eyed look. "You're a doctor, Paul. Maybe if I let her bring the boy here during feeding times—"

  "No. Dammit, Bill. Look at me. I can't even help myself, let alone a dying child and a desperate mother."

  Bill looked down at his shoes and counted to ten under his breath. When he looked up Paul could see the pity in his eyes.

  He hated that most of all.

  Chapter Two

  Susan hadn't meant to cry.

  She knew before she came to the Oceanfront Research Center that her chances of success were slim. And yet she had to try. She couldn't live with herself if she didn't do everything in her power to help Jeffy.

  Her face was already wet with tears as she lifted her child from his stroller and placed him in the car. He was so lifeless, almost as if he had already died and had forgotten to take his body with him. When she bent over him to fasten the seat belt, her tears dripped onto his still face.

  He didn't even notice.

  She swiped at her tears, mad at herself. Crying wasn't going to help her son. Crying wasn't going to help either of them.

  Resolutely she folded the stroller and put it in the backseat. Then she blew her nose and climbed into the driver's seat. Couldn't let Jeffy know she was sad. Did he see? Did he know?

  The doctors had assured her that he did. That the stroke damage had been confined to areas of the brain that affected his motor control. That his bright little mind and his personality were untouched. And yet, he sat beside her like some discarded rag doll, staring at nothing.

  Fighting hard against the helpless feeling she sometimes got when she looked at Jeffy, she turned the key in the ignition and waited for the old engine to warm up. She was not helpless. And she refused to let herself become that way.

  "Remember that little song you love so much, Jeffy? The one Mommy wrote?" Jeffy stared at his small sneakers.

  Sweat plastered Susan's hair to the sides of her face and made the back of her sundress stick to the seat.

  She wished she had an air-conditioned car. Not for her sake as much as for Jeffy's. It didn't seem fair that he should have to suffer the heat, too.

  "Mommy's going to sing it to you, darling, while we drive." She put the car into gear and backed out of the parking space, giving herself time to get the quiver out of her voice. She was not going to cry again. "You remember the words, don't you, sweetheart? Help Mommy sing, Jeffy."

  "Sing with a voice of gladness; sing with a voice of joy. " Susan's voice was neither glad nor joyful, but at least it no longer quivered. Control was easier in the daytime. It was at night, lying in the dark all by herself, when she lost it. She had cried herself to sleep many nights, muffling the sounds in the pillow in case Jeffy, sleeping in the next room, could hear.

  "'Shout for the times of goodness. " How many good times could Jeffy remember? “Shout for the time of cheer." How many happy times had he had? Born with a heart condition, he had missed the ordinary joys other children took for granted—chasing a dog, kicking a ball, tumbling in the leaves, outrunning the wind.

  "Sing with a voice that's hopeful . . . "

  Susan sang on, determined to be brave, determined to bring her child back from that dark, silent world he had entered.

  As the car took a curve, Jeffy's head lolled to the side so he was staring straight at her. All the brightness of childhood that should be in his eyes was dulled over by four years of pain and defeat.

  Why do you let me hurt?

  The message in those eyes made her heart break.

  Susan would do the primal scream if she ever found a place where nobody could hear and a time when she wasn't too busy.

  The song died on her lips. The last clear notes lingering in the car were an unbearable sadness.

  Susan turned her head away and looked out the window. Biloxi was parching under the late afternoon sun. Dust devils shimmered in the streets. Palm trees, sagging and dusty, looked as tired as she felt. It seemed years since she had had a peaceful night's sleep. An eternity since she had had a day of fun and relaxation.

  She was selfish to the core. Thinking about her own needs, her own desires. She had to think about Jeffy. There must be something that would spark his interest besides the dolphins.

  o0o

  "So this woman thought the dolphins would help him?"

  Bill leaned back in the kitchen chair and watched his wife set the table. When it was just the two of them, they enjoyed eating in the kitchen. Timmy was spending the night next door with his best buddy, Skeeter, and Beth Ann was off at one of those mysterious parties teenagers went to.

  "Yes. She was desperate, I think. Grasping at straws."

  "A mother will do anything for her child." Maggie puckered her lips in concentration as she placed the silver on the table, just so. Bill loved that about her, that after sixteen years of marriage she still considered meals with him an occasion worthy of the good silver and candles on the table.

  She touched his cheek as she walked by on her way to the oven. The softness and scent of her lingered. As he so often did, Bill marveled at his good luck. He and Maggie had been in love since they were sixteen. He couldn't imagine a day without her, a life without her.

  She opened the oven door, puttering and humming. Heat from the stove made damp curls around her face.

  He hugged her from behind, nuzzling the side of her neck. "You don't look a day older than you did when I first met you."

  "Liar."

  She leaned into him and they held on to each other, knowing how precious such moments were.

  "We could skip dinner," he said.

  "Hmmm." She twisted so she could kiss the side of his neck. "Or you could tell me more about this Susan Riley while you make the salad."

  "What else do you want to know?" He got salad makings from the refrigerator and began to tear the cool, crisp lettuce into chunks.

  "Exactly what role did she want the research center to play?"

  "She wanted my permission to bring the little boy there. She hoped that seeing the dolphins, relating to them, would make him want to live, would make him try."

  "What about a dog? Wouldn't a pet do the same thing?"

  "Apparently she's tried everything . . . dogs, cats, birds, goldfish. She thinks it's going to take something marvelous to bring that child out of his depression." Bill grinned. "Marvelous, like old Fergie."

  "
What would be the harm? Why can't she come?"

  "Well . . . obviously the visits would have to be strictly scheduled. We couldn't have the distraction while we were working. I thought about letting them come at feeding time, but Paul . . ."

  "... said no." Maggie faced him, holding onto her stirring spoon, her eyes damp with tears. "Oh, honey. Of course he said no. Every child he sees reminds him of

  Sonny. Don't you know that's why we have to practically hogtie him before he'll come over here for dinner?"

  "I understand. But sometimes I get so mad. The damned finest cardiovascular surgeon in Mississippi, and he's throwing it all away." Bill slammed his fist onto the kitchen counter. The salad bowl bounced, then settled back into place.

  "That's not good for your blood pressure."

  "That's what Paul said."

  "Good for him. I'll have to take him a chicken casserole."

  Laughing, Bill gathered his wife into his arms. "What would I do without you?"

  "I hope you never have to find out." Maggie squeezed his waist. "Call her."

  "You want me to call another woman?" he asked, teasing her.

  "I know you. You'll worry and stew for weeks, wondering if you did the right thing. Wondering if it might have worked. Call her, Bill."

  "Paul . . ."

  ". . . needs something, someone to bring him out of that prison he's put himself in."

  "You could be right."

  With his arms around his wife, Bill considered what she had said. Obviously he wanted to help Susan Riley if he could. But his first priority had to be Paul. They had grown up together, played football together, gone to college together. Paul had been best man at his wedding, had stood beside him in the church at both his children's christenings, had kept him from falling apart when Timmy had almost died of pneumonia. Paul was his oldest and best friend.

  Paul . . . was killing himself with the bottle. Bill would do anything to help him, even at the risk of losing his friendship.

  "I'll call her if I can find that number she gave me just in case I changed my mind." He smiled at his wife.

  While he searched his pockets, Maggie got the portable phone.