Where Dolphins Go

by Webb, Peggy

  "Maggie tells me you're back at the hospital."

  "Just barely. I've been back two days."

  Suddenly they ran out of things to say. Their life together—the love and the laughter and the tragedy— swirled between them in memories so vivid, they seemed to be spectators at a surrealistic ballet.

  "Jean ... I came back to get some personal items. Pictures of Sonny. The baseball cap I got for him at Yankee Stadium."

  "I see."

  "I don't have anything of his at my apartment."

  She sat very still, her hands folded on her lap.

  "When I left I couldn't bear any reminders. But now . . . I don't want a lot, Jean. Just enough to remind me of the good times."

  She knew there was plenty of air in the room to keep her alive if she could only manage to get enough of it into her lungs. Forcing herself to breathe deeply and slowly, she stood up.

  "You can take whatever you like, Paul."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Certainly. He was your son too. I'll just go back to my painting while you're here."

  He nodded, and she left. She sat in front of her easel listening to his footsteps. Walk and pause. Walk and pause. He sounded hesitant, uncertain.

  "Jean?"

  She jumped. Paul was standing in the doorway, holding two photographs in brass frames and Sonny's well- loved, well-worn baseball cap.

  "I'll take these ... if it's all right with you."

  "Yes. It's fine."

  He lingered in the doorway, a stranger in his own home. Jean clung to her stool, a wife in limbo.

  "Jean, dragging this out is doing neither of us any good. If you want more, just tell me.”

  She felt as if he had socked her. Hadn’t she had enough loss? Hadn’t she dealt with enough upheaval without him pushing her to cut the last tie that bound her to her son?

  “It’s not the money, Paul.”

  “Then what? “

  “Please moderate your voice.”

  He raked his hand through his hair in a gesture she used to find charming. Now, it simply made her sad.

  “I’m sorry, Jean. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I’m just trying to come to a civil agreement. What would it take to get you to sign the papers?”

  Paul was being sensible, as always. But Jean didn’t want sensible. Actually, she didn’t know what she wanted, but not this, this unemotional conversation about divorce as if you could shed a husband as easily as you shed a pair of shoes you no longer liked.

  She was not only uncomfortable with this discussion, but vaguely upset, too. Hurt, even. She felt cornered, and it always brought out the worst in her.

  “Is there some reason you’re in a hurry, Paul?”

  He went stiff with outrage. He was thinking of that Riley woman, of course. But his anger gave her no satisfaction. Instead, she wanted to curl into a ball on the sofa and have him come over and take her in his arms the way he used to. She wanted him to say, “I’m here, Jean. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  He didn’t do any of that, of course, and even if he had said those words to her now, she wouldn’t have believed him. Nothing would ever be all right again.

  Still, when her estranged husband stalked toward the door she felt something sitr, some faint notion that she ought to play hostess, at the very least. Once, she’d been very good in that role.

  “Paul.” She started after him. “I’ll see you out.”

  He wheeled around, his hostile stare enough to stop her.

  "I know the way."

  She felt the screams inside, and knew that if she let them out, she'd be sucked once more into the black vortex of a living hell. With slow, deliberate movements she went back to her easel, picked up her brush and began to paint.

  o0o

  On Wednesday afternoon Susan hurried toward the gate of the research center, and there Paul was, tall and still too thin, studying her with eyes that carried a hint of pain.

  "Paul!"

  "I want to be the one to tell you, Susan . . . I'm back in medicine now."

  Did that mean she wouldn't see him anymore?

  "It's partially because of you, Susan."

  "I can't take the credit. You're a strong man, Paul."

  "Susan . . ." Something moved in his eyes, something bright and unexpected, and he reached out to her.

  His hand hovered close to her cheek, so close, she could feel its warmth. "I'll come back every Wednesday . . . for you and Jeffy."

  He touched her then, touched her cheek with fingers both strong and tender. Hope sprang to life in her, and dreams so long buried, she'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be a woman. There seemed to be no oxygen left in the sultry air.

  Did people die from longing? She thought she might. Hot color bloomed in her cheeks.

  "I'm glad, Paul . . . for Jeffy's sake."

  For Jeffy's sake. Her words echoed between them, and Paul let her go.

  He squatted beside her son and took his tiny paralyzed hand. "How are you, pal?"

  "Great!"

  "Then let's get to work."

  Forbidden, her mind whispered as Paul took fish from the bucket one by one and placed them in Jeffy's paralyzed left hand. Forbidden, her heart cried as he carefully closed the little fingers around the fish and drew back the scrawny arm to take aim at the water where the dolphins waited.

  She touched her cheek where his hands had been. Paul glanced up, and their eyes met, held.

  One look. That was all that had passed between them. But such a look. The kind that made her think of waking up hot and restless in the middle of the night and knowing why. Knowing exactly why.

  Chapter Thirteen

  One week after he'd been back, Paul saw his first patient.

  "You can't hide forever," Luther had told him.

  "I'm consulting with you on your cases. That's not hiding."

  "Bull."

  Luther's blunt assessment confirmed what Paul already knew: he had lost his nerve. Years of study and success in his field weren't enough to offset the terrible conviction that in failing Sonny he had doomed himself to the dark outer world of physicians who had lost the healing touch.

  Now, waiting for his first patient, he sat in his office with his palms sweating. His nurse Willa stuck her head through the door.

  "The patient's ready, Dr. Tyler."

  A small child sat on the examining table swathed in a disposable gown and looking pale, thin, and scared. Her mother sat nearby with her feet lined up in military fashion and her hands gripping the handles of her purse.

  "She has heart trouble, Doctor. At least, that's what they told us in Mobile. It never has amounted to much, but she's been puny lately, and I can't seem to get her fever down."

  Paul's hands trembled as he looked at her record.

  Mary Lynn Henley, four years old. A small needy child, entrusted to his care.

  He approached her as if she were a time bomb about to go off in his hands, calling on God and habit to save him.

  "Let's take a look at you, Mary Lynn." Funny that he sounded the same as he had before Sonny's death—caring, self-assured, knowledgeable, a man his patients could trust.

  When he bent over the child, she stared at him with big blue eyes. Then slowly, ever so slowly, she put her tiny hand on his. His had to work hard to get a grip on his emotions.

  Mary Lynn's thin, blue-veined hand patted his. "Mr. Doctor Man, Mama said you can make me well."

  "Well, now, Mary Lynn, let's see what we can do about that."

  He put the stethoscope to her fragile chest. Pneumonia. He double-checked, just to be sure. He’d order ex-rays to confirm, of course, but there was no mistaking the symptoms.

  "Mary Lynn." He took her tiny hand. "I'm going to put you in the hospital for a few days so I can make you well again. I promise I'll come see you every day. Mommy can stay with you if you like. Is that all right with you?"

  She nodded. Paul handed her a sucker, then went into his office and made the arrangement
s. Afterward he slumped in his chair.

  One patient, and he was a total wreck. What would happen when he saw the next one, and the one after that?

  Paul stared at his degrees hanging on the wall, then slowly stood up. He had to get away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jean wondered who could be ringing the doorbell so late at night.

  Sitting at her piano with the last notes of Chopin echoing in the empty house, she considered not answering the door. It couldn't be Maggie. She was at a Little League game with Timmy. And it certainly wasn't Paul. He would have called first.

  She struck another chord. The doorbell rang again, persistent.

  A month ago she would have let it ring. She stood up, smoothed down her skirt, raked a hand through her hair, and went to answer the door. The man standing in the beam of her porch light had faded blond hair thinning a little at the crown, a stomach going slightly to pot, and a familiar full-lipped mouth.

  "Curt! What in the world brings you here?"

  "Aren't you going to ask me in, Jean?"

  She stood aside for him to pass. Instead, he leaned down and gave her a quick hug. His Ralph Lauren cologne was a shade overpowering. She wondered if he still put it on the inside of his thighs.

  Very much at ease, he sauntered into her den, selected Paul's favorite chair, and made himself at home. He'd been there before ... as their guest.

  "I was afraid if I called ahead, you'd make some excuse. Folks haven't seen much of you lately."

  "I'm trying to change that."

  "I expect you to change it with me. There's a new great singer down at the Grand Biloxi Beach Resort. Why don't we run down there, have a drink, catch up on old times."

  It was not a question. Dr. Curtis Blake had always been aggressive.

  Jean started to say no. She didn't want to sit in a lounge and pretend her life was normal.

  Curt smiled at her. "Say yes, Jean."

  "Yes," she said, surprising both of them. "Let me freshen up a bit."

  Upstairs in her bedroom her hands shook as she applied lipstick and combed her hair. The faint scent of Curt's cologne clung to her clothes.

  One drink. That's all. She was just going for one drink.

  And if anything developed after that, she deserved it, didn’t she?

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Flour Sack Tea Room in Ocean Springs was a popular place for lunch on Saturday. A short drive across Biloxi Bay, it was close enough to be convenient and yet different enough to be appealing. Tucked on a tree- shaded street among Victorian houses and boutiques offering everything from arts and crafts to brass candlesticks, the tea room offered shelter from the heat and all the tea you could drink.

  Susan and Jo Lisa sat at a small table next to the window, sipping iced tea in glass fruit jars.

  "How about turtle cheesecake, Jo Lisa?"

  "It has about a million calories per bite."

  "Calories don't count when you're celebrating." Jo Lisa had a job singing, and after weeks of wariness they were finally beginning to feel like sisters again. Double cause for celebration.

  "What the hell? I'll have the whole damned turtle."

  Two well-dressed women came through the door laughing, and sat down at the table next to them.

  "Maggie," the elegant, dark-haired woman said in the bright, carrying voice of the wealthy and privileged, "I don't know how I let myself be talked into this."

  Jo Lisa was eavesdropping, and she didn’t care who knew it. The minute she’d spotted the brunette, she’d been on full alert.

  "You're the one who said you had news." The brunette’s companion was blond, petite, and pretty. Jo Lisa didn’t know her from Adam’s house cat, but she intended to find out.

  “Jo Lisa…”

  “Shhh.” She made a stop motion with her hand in case Susan didn’t get the hint.

  "You didn’t have to drag me all the way to Ocean Springs for me to tell it," the brunette said.

  Jo Lisa wanted to throttle her on the spot. She sounded smug, a quality Jo Lisa detested - unless she was the one displaying it..

  “You needed the outing. Go ahead, Jean. Tell your big secret. I’m dying to know.”

  “Be patient. Let’s order first.”

  Jo Lisa twisted so she could get a better view of the women, then leaned across the table so she wouldn't be overheard.

  "Pay attention to that woman, Susan.”

  "Which one?"

  "The one with black hair It's Paul Tyler's wife."

  Time stopped. Susan knew because everything in the room faded until there was nothing and no one except the stunning woman at the next table. She felt like a thief. She had gone to this woman's husband's apartment, held his hand, laughed with him, coveted him.

  God was playing a cruel joke on her. Of all the women in the world, why did Paul Tyler's wife have to be the one with beautiful hair and a flawless face? It had to be a hundred and ten outside, and she looked as cool as if she'd strolled through an October day. Why couldn't she at least sweat?

  "You must be mistaken," she whispered.

  "Your face is the color of chalk."

  "Never mind my face!"

  Jean Tyler and her companion glanced up, and Susan found herself staring straight into the eyes of Paul's wife. Paralyzed by guilt and curiosity, she held the gaze until the other woman looked away.

  "Oh, God," she whispered.

  "Let's get out of here, Susan."

  "No.”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t know you’d be so upset.”

  “I’m not upset. I’m going to finish my dessert.” Susan hid her shaking hands under the table cloth and forced herself to look normal. What was normal? She would sit there and hear every word Jean Tyler said if it killed her. She took a minuscule bite of cheesecake, making it last.

  "I'm seeing someone," Paul's wife said.

  Relief flooded Susan. Then quick guilt. She didn't want Paul to be hurt. He had suffered enough.

  "I guess I should be pleased, Jean. But I had hoped you and Paul would eventually work things out. The two of you were so good together."

  Jo Lisa scowled at Susan. "Are you sure you want to hear this?"

  Susan nodded, and her sister shrugged and lifted her tea glass.

  At the adjoining table, Jean said, "I'm seeing Curtis Blake."

  "Curtis Blake won't hold a candle to Paul. For Pete's sake, Jean, you left Curtis Blake for Paul."

  "That was a long time ago."

  "I hope you know what you're doing. Bill says that Paul and Susan Riley are getting along awfully well these days. He seems pleased."

  Jo Lisa plunked her glass down on the table. "Let's get out of here."

  "I'm staying."

  At the next table Maggie grilled her companion. "Do you still love Paul?"

  "I don't know. He came to see me… "

  The waitress arrived with food, and Jean's reply was lost in the clatter of dishes and silver. By the time the food was served and the drinks poured, Jean and Maggie had moved on to another topic—Beth Ann and Timmy, apparently Maggie's children.

  Susan stood up and blindly rushed toward the door. Jo Lisa grabbed the checks, paid them, and joined her sister on the overheated sidewalk.

  "How did you know her?"

  "She came to the Grand Biloxi with this Curtis Blake. Between sets I overheard their names. He's some hotshot surgeon. Everybody knew them."

  Without a word she put her arm around her sister's shoulder. Jo Lisa had never been one to say I told you so."

  "Come on," she said, dragging Susan toward the car.

  They climbed in and started the silent drive home. Susan held her hands squeezed tightly together on her lap.

  Was she falling in love with a man who still loved his wife?

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sounds of Sunday morning echoed through Hope Methodist Church—bells chiming out the worship hour, laughter coming from the choir practice room, hushed whisperings risin
g toward the lofty rafters as saints and sinners alike took their places in the polished pews.

  Erma Jane Crocker was struggling to get her robe over her brand-new crepe de chine dress when Jo Lisa Markham strolled through the door. Jo Lisa leaned on the door frame with a cigarette hanging from her mouth, and surveyed the room with a bored look. Large rhinestone earrings dangled from her ears and bright scarlet lipstick adorned her mouth. She wore red high heels with no stockings, and what little material there was in her skirt barely covered her crotch.

  A woman with a starched hairdo and Pepto-Bismol pink lipstick stared at her, mouth agape.

  Jo Lisa turned a jaded eye her way. "Anything I can do for you, lady?" Except for the cigarette, she was minding her manners.

  The woman's mouth worked like a fish before she could finally make a sound. "You must be new."

  "No. I'm used."

  Miss Erma Jane Crocker nearly outran her shoes as she bolted across the room to seek refuge among a group of prissy, anemic-looking women. Erma Jane's mouth flapped nonstop, and the entire group turned to stare at Jo Lisa.

  There was only so much saintliness she could stand. She went to find her sister.

  Susan was at the piano, head down, studying the sheet music, humming softly.

  "If I were in your shoes, I'd be cussing, not humming."

  The first majestic chords on the organ swelled through the church as Susan glanced up.

  "If you're referring to what happened yesterday, forget it. I have."

  "Have you?"

  Susan colored, then turned her back to Jo Lisa and began to stack music into a folder. "I'm glad you decided to come, Jo Lisa."

  "Don't get your hopes up. I'm not here for a whitewash and overhaul. I'm here to look after you."

  "If that's what it took to get you here, be my guest. But I assure you I can take care of myself. I've been doing it for the past three years."

  Guilt clawed at Jo Lisa's black soul. She figured the devil must be laughing with glee.

  She grabbed up a choir robe and rammed it over her head. It hung in her earrings, and she nearly jerked her ears off getting it on.

  "How do you button this damned thing?"