Where Dolphins Go

by Webb, Peggy

  “Who does she think she is?” He was rearranging his thinning hair over a bald spot when a crumpled piece of yellow paper caught his eye.

  Garvin picked it up. Forget about privacy. Everything in this club belonged to him, including correspondence left lying around.

  Dear Jo Lisa, the letter said. I don't know why you left the way you did. The least you could have done was stay for Brett's funeral. But that's all over and done with. It's not what's already happened that's driving me crazy, it's what's about to happen.

  Susan's gone off the deep end over that doctor I told you about, and him with a wife who needs him. You've got to come home, Jo Lisa. I can't handle this by myself. Please! If you love your sister, please come home."

  The letter was signed, Bessie Markham.

  Garvin stared at it for two seconds before wadding it up and flinging it across the room.

  His star act had flown the coop and was heading home to Mississippi..

  Chapter Seven

  It was the TV dinners that drove him crazy.

  Back from his job, Paul sat at his table in his austere apartment hunched over a TV dinner—Salisbury steak looking like a crumpled-up fist and frozen peas the size and consistency of bullets. He'd left it in the microwave too long.

  Determined to eat if it killed him, he took a bite and chewed. Rome could have been built in the length of time it took him to chew the overcooked food. Disgusted, more with himself than the dinner, he threw it into the garbage can then grabbed his car keys.

  He was going out to eat. Someplace decent. He was a doctor. He knew that he couldn't keep up his present lifestyle without serious consequences.

  Driving without thought of destination, he ended up at one of Biloxi’s most renowned seafood restaurants, Mary Mahoney's. It was no trouble to get a table without a reservation. Although he looked like a Halloween scarecrow, his name still carried clout.

  "The courtyard, Dr. Tyler?"

  "Yes."

  He and Jean used to always prefer the courtyard, even in the midst of summer. In the evenings, breezes from the ocean stirred the branches of a massive live oak tree that presided over the tables.

  He passed silently among the diners toward a corner table, and there she was. Jean. Seated alone at what had once been their favorite spot.

  She glanced up and went as still as a doe caught in a trap. His feet wouldn't move. God, her eyes . . . her eyes were so big and tragic.

  He'd never meant to hurt her. The first time he ever met Jean Cooper Beaumont he'd wanted to protect her.

  She'd been standing in a corner of the ballroom, looking extraordinarily beautiful and extremely vulnerable. The revelry of medical students celebrating the end of another term seemed to have nothing to do with her.

  "Are you lost?" he'd said, hoping she was, hoping he could be her rescuer.

  "No." She laughed, a deep throaty sound that was both genuine and sexy. "At least, I don't think so. It's my escort who seems to be lost."

  "Champagne?" Without waiting for an answer, he clipped a glass off the tray of a waiter passing by. Their hands touched when she took it.

  Both of them knew it wasn't accidental.

  "Thank you." She took a sip. "I'm Jean Cooper Beaumont, by the way."

  "Paul Tyler . . . and 'nice to meet you' is inadequate." He took her arm and led her toward the patio.

  "What about your date?"

  "She seems to be lost too. I'd call that a stroke of luck, wouldn't you?"

  She'd said yes, and they had ended the night in his bed.

  It had been like that with them until Sonny died. Satisfying intimacy and communication that needed few words.

  He stood now with his feet rooted to the brick patio at their favorite restaurant, absorbing the hurt in her eyes and knowing he had failed her.

  "Paul," she said softly, so softly he could barely hear her.

  "Hello, Jean."

  They watched each other, wary and wounded. What could they say that hadn't already been said? You should have been watching him. You're his mother, dammit. The horrible things he’d spoken to her out of his grief. You're a doctor. Why couldn't you save him? The accusations she’d flung at him on a daily basis after they buried Sonny.

  Silver clinked against glass as Southerners stirred sugar into their iced tea. Voices rose and fell around them, the musical cadence as thick and slow as molasses dripping on cornbread. Laughter floated upward, Biloxi’s elite having a great summer night.

  Paul hardly remembered what a great summer night felt like.

  "How are you, Jean?".

  Any fool could tell. She was a tragic woman, one who would probably crumble if he said what was really on his mind. Jean, just sign the divorce papers and get it over. What’s the use of dragging out this agony?

  He’d filed for divorce six weeks after he moved out, knowing he and Jean could never go back, knowing he didn’t even want to try. And here they were, months later, still in limbo.

  “I’m fine, Paul.” He had to lean toward her to hear her soft voice. “And you?"

  "The same."

  They used to talk about music and art and literature. They could spend hours arguing over politics, then laugh about their differences over a glass of wine.

  "Well . . ." she said. "I don't want to keep you from your dinner."

  He left then, left her there at their favorite table, glad she had ended the chance encounter gracefully. He sat with his back to her so they were both spared the pain.

  The waiter came, but he hardly knew what he ordered, and later, what he ate.

  Get by. That's all he wanted to do.

  o0o

  "Red flowers, Mommy." His eyes bright with excitement, Jeffy sat in his car seat, tilting just a little to the left but still watching out the window. "See them."

  Susan slowed the car. Estes's Nursery was rampant with color. Summer flowers of every description sat in pots on rows of shelves, displayed outside under an awning to entice avid gardeners.

  "They're beautiful, Jeffy."

  "Can we plant some?"

  It was late in the season to be planting flowers. With the intense heat, they'd have to be watered almost every day.

  "Of course we can, darling." She put on her signal light and turned into the parking lot. If flowers sparked Jeffy's interest, then by George she'd plant flowers. Anyhow, she loved them. When she was a little girl, she and Jo Lisa used to spend weekends with their grandmother in Mobile. She remembered the azaleas and the sweet smell of gardenias and the delicate, lacy pattern of lilacs.

  Stopping to buy flowers would make them late to the Research Center, but she was certain Paul Tyler wouldn't say a word. He probably wouldn't even notice; he seemed to care for so little.

  Her heart hurt at the thought of his loss as she lifted Jeffy from the car.

  o0o

  Paul saw Susan Riley's car as it coasted into the parking lot. She helped her son from the front seat, then opened the trunk of her car and proceeded to unload flowers, pots and pots of them. All red. Chatting to Jeffy, who sat watching from his small stroller, she set the flower pots in the shade one by one, then reached into the car and took out a box. Smiling, she came through the gate pushing the stroller and struggling to hang onto the box with the other hand.

  She was bringing him cookies again. Or another cake. Or perhaps this time it would be brownies. The irony was that even though he swore he wouldn’t get involved, he found himself looking forward to her visits, anticipating her home-baked gifts, even thinking up clever things he could say to make her smile.

  Paul passed a hand over his face, then got a cup of water from the fountain. The door to the computer room opened, and Bill came in carrying an armload of data.

  "I can't face Susan Riley and her son today, Bill."

  "Why not?"

  He briefly considered making up some excuse. But for all his sins, he still had enough honor to be repulsed by the thought of lying to his best friend.

  "I saw Je
an last night."

  "You went to the house?"

  "No. I ran into her at Mary Mahoney's."

  "What happened?"

  "Basically, nothing. She said hello and I said hello. We both said we were fine like two polite strangers who had never shared the same house, let alone the same bed."

  "I'm sorry, Paul." Bill put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I had hoped the two of you could patch things up."

  "It would take more than a patch to put us back together. It would take a body cast."

  Paul walked to the window and stood looking at Susan Riley. "Look at her out there, Bill, smiling, expecting a miracle." Paul wadded his paper cup and threw it into the garbage can. "Well, I'm fresh out of miracles. I can't go out there anymore. I can't get involved with other people's lives, their hopes, their dreams."

  Bill stood quietly by, letting Paul vent his feelings.

  "Week after week she stands by that pool smiling and humming, humming for God's sake as if she's got the world by the tail." He ran his hands through his hair. "Susan Riley acts as if she's immune to tragedy."

  Bill’s silence screamed through the room, and Paul stood there sweating, feeling like coward.

  "She's not immune to tragedy. Her husband committed suicide three years ago."

  Paul felt as if he'd been socked in the gut.

  "He drove his car into the gulf. The tide washed him up on Ship Island."

  "How did you know?"

  "She told me."

  "She didn't tell me."

  "Did you ask?"

  Of course he hadn't asked. He hadn't wanted to know. Knowing about Susan Riley, caring about her would be dangerous.

  "Paul, it's been nearly nine months now. Are you so wrapped up in your own tragedy, you can't see that other people hurt?"

  "What do you know about losing a child? Your children are safe, Bill, safe and happy." Paul doubled his hands into fists. "Dammit, who are you to judge?"

  Bill's face turned red, then white.

  "God, Paul. I'm sorry. I had no right to say that."

  Bill's step was heavy as he went to the fountain for a cup of water. By the time he had drunk it, his color was normal. "Susan Riley is waiting. I'll take care of her today."

  "Thanks, Bill."

  With the air cleared, Bill hurried to the door, then turned in the doorway. "But just today, mind you. I don't care if that woman is humming damned 'Yankee Doodle.' Next week I expect you to have your butt out at that holding pool watching after her and that little boy."

  Bill slammed the door and hurried out to meet Susan.

  Outside the window, Fergie set up a commotion. Standing by the pool, Susan Riley greeted Bill with a handshake. But she didn't offer him the box. Somehow that pleased Paul.

  The sun shone on her face, her hair. Even in that relentless and unforgiving light she looked like a madonna.

  Standing at the window far enough back so he couldn't be seen, Paul watched as Susan held onto Bill's hand. Her smile was positively radiant . . . and all for Bill.

  Disgusted for watching, and ever more for caring, he stalked toward the closet for his private stash of booze. Halfway across the room he stopped, paralyzed by shame at his own weakness. Slowly he turned back to the window.

  Susan was bent over her son, talking earnestly. He wondered if there had ever been a time when she gave up, when she crumpled like a porcelain doll that had been stepped on, when she turned to something outside herself for ease.

  Not alcohol. Her eyes were too bright. Her skin was too clear and dewy. The sun glinted on Susan's arms, her shoulders. She was wearing a sundress, the kind that left her shoulders and the upper half of her back bare.

  There was something so appealing about her, Paul felt like a voyeur watching from the window. Disgusted, he turned away from the window.

  Filled with a restlessness he couldn’t identify, he prowled the room, being careful not to glance out the window. Fergie squeaked and chortled. Paul could hear the sounds of Susan's laughter. Sweat beaded his upper lip.

  Stealing back to the window, he watched her. She was gloriously alive and more than passably pretty. Something warm unfurled in Paul's chest.

  He crossed his arms and leaned on the chair, not caring anymore whether they saw him. Bill was so confident with Susan and her son, so much at ease.

  Once charm and warmth had come easily to Paul.

  It seemed a lifetime ago.

  He swung his gaze from mother to child. For the first time since Jeffy had come to the center he didn't see the child as a reminder of Sonny, but rather as a separate human being, a little boy struggling against great odds to be as normal as possible.

  Paul watched him with a doctor's eye. There was a definite rapport between child and dolphin. Every time Fergie breached the water, there was a perceptible change in Jeffy, a spark in his small face, a coming-to- life look that Paul had seen many times, that he understood as the rebirth of the will to live.

  Of course the boy needed more than the dolphin. He needed physical therapy; he needed someone to work his tiny legs and arms, to rebuild the strength in those unused muscles, to reprogram the brain to send the signals that had been automatic before the stroke.

  An idea began to form in Paul's mind.

  He struck the back of the chair with his fists, hoping the jolt would bring him to his senses.. He'd have to be crazy to get involved.

  He wanted to turn away from the window, but the sight of the damaged child and the words of the Oath of Hippocrates held him. With purity and with holiness I will pass my life and practice my art.

  He'd been so young and full of zeal when he'd said them, so certain he could keep his chosen path and never stray. He remembered the feel of the surgeon's blade, the awesome sense of power, of holding destiny in the palm of his hand.

  He remembered the earnest faces of the young interns . . .

  "The Tyler technique is really quite simple," he said, smiling at them behind his mask. "So simple that I wonder why it was never used before."

  There was admiration in their faces. And respect.

  Bright lights illuminated the operating area, and nurses swabbed the sweat off his brow. As he demonstrated the surgical technique he had pioneered, he gave orders quietly. The operating room was holy, the surgical procedure reverent. He never defiled them with harsh words.

  And now, other surgeons were using his technique, other doctors were accorded the respect he'd lost.

  Had he lost it or had he thrown it away?

  Outside, Susan's voice rang on the sultry summer air, so clear Paul could hear it even through the closed window. She was singing. Bending over her son with Fergie

  frolicking and chortling nearby, she was singing words that matched the dolphin's song.

  "Show me a rainbow; show me the sun; Show me the bright stars, one by one. Teach me of flowers, raindrops and snow, All of the wonders, where dolphins go."

  Long after the song ended Paul stood at the window with the last clear notes echoing in his soul. Then with a new firmness in his step, he crossed to the closet and pulled out a wet suit.

  As he geared up he figured he would probably melt. Wet suits were for winter when the water was cold. But he was too damned skinny for a swimsuit.

  Looking down at himself, he chuckled. The sight was enough to shock the child to action.

  And who knew what the sight of him would do to Susan Riley. Send her screaming back home, he guessed. That was all well and good. He wasn't out to impress her.

  He would concentrate on the child. In the doorway he paused, praying silently for courage to get through the next hour.

  o0o

  Bill couldn't believe his eyes. Paul was coming toward them geared up for swimming with the dolphins. The suit sagged around his hips, but he was still wide enough in the shoulders so that the top didn't bag.

  "What in the world?" Beside him, Susan stared at Paul.

  "If you say one word to discourage him, I'll kill you," Bill said sof
tly. Then, loudly and with false joviality .. . "Well, well. What brings you out here, Paul?"

  "Cut the crap, Bill." Paul gave an exaggerated bow to Susan. "Begging your pardon, ma'am."

  Except for the way he looked, he was so much like the old Paul that Bill felt his throat tighten.

  "What's with the wet suit?" he asked.

  "I have a few ideas I'd like to try. That is, if Susan doesn't mind?"

  Paul's question hung fire as Susan warily assessed her unexpected ally. Paul looked as if he would bolt at the first hint of resistance.

  Please, God, Bill silently prayed, over and over. Please, God.

  The air hummed with tension as the two faced off. Slowly the spark in Paul's eyes died, and he turned and started back toward the building.

  "Wait," Susan called.

  "I want to help him," Paul said quietly, turning back to her.

  "I know." Susan smiled then, smiled and reached out to touch Paul's hand. "Thank you, Paul."

  They both glanced at their joined hands, then quickly drew apart. Bill continued to watch and pray. The situation was as fragile as a newly spun spider's web. One wrong move would rip it to shreds.

  "I can't promise miracles," Paul said.

  "I won't ask you to." She squatted beside her son. "Jeffy, Paul is going to try to help you. Can you say thank you to the nice man?"

  "Thank you, nice man."

  Bill saw all the emotions that crossed his friend's face —compassion, regret, longing, fear. For a moment he was afraid that dealing directly with the child would be more than Paul could handle. Theories were easy; putting them into practice was the hard part.

  He wanted to say, "Come on, pal. You can do it." But he remained silent, watching.

  Sweat sheened Paul's face as he squatted beside Jeffy's stroller. Man and child regarded each other with the solemnity of Old Testament judges.

  Finally Paul spoke. "Hi, Jeffy."

  "Hi."

  "I don't want you to be afraid, Jeffy. Fergie is your friend and I want to be your friend."

  Jeffy was not easily won. "Why?"

  A hush fell over Paul and Susan. The probing honesty of Jeffy's question held them back from pat answers and flippant remarks.