Where Dolphins Go

by Webb, Peggy

  "I did."

  "What a waste," he said.

  "You'd better not let Mom hear you say that, Chris." The stockier boy, obviously a brother to the boy he’d called Chris, caught the dog’s collar and pulled him away from the blanket. "She'd skin you alive."

  "Hey, come on, Kevin, I'll race you to the marina."

  The boys were off, and Paul was left with agonizing memories and an empty whiskey bottle. It seemed a just punishment for his sins.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The calendar had become her enemy.

  Jean got up from her easel and turned her calendar face down on the wall. Then she took a brush and painted a streak of red on the canvas.

  Sonny's blood had run red in the street.

  She threw her brush across the room and covered her face with her hands. The screams trapped inside her were clawing to get out.

  Breathing deeply she forced herself to pick up her paintbrush and put it back in its proper place. She wouldn't let time defeat her.

  Picking up the phone, she called Maggie. "Can you come over?"

  "What's wrong, honey?"

  "Nothing . . . No, that's not true. I was thinking about October."

  "I'll be right there."

  October when the leaves were red and gold and Sonny had died.

  After she had hung up, Jean went through the house turning all the calendars face down on the walls.

  o0o

  Beth Ann had listened in the hall to her mother's conversation. She wasn't eavesdropping, exactly. She'd been passing by.

  "Mom?"

  "What is it, sweetheart?"

  "Can I take this dress back and swap it? It makes me look like a frog."

  "Do whatever you want to, but I think it looks precious on you."

  She didn't even look Beth Ann's way. How would she know whether it looked precious? Beth Ann hated it when her mother called her that. If she was so precious how come Maggie spent all her spare time with Jean and all her attention on Bill.

  Beth Ann thought she might start calling her parents Maggie and Bill. It sounded sophisticated and remote. The sophistication part would be a cover, of course, but remote was how she felt. Remote and fat.

  "Gotta, run, sweetie. If your father gets home before I do, tell him I've gone to check on Aunt Jean and will be home as soon as I can."

  "She's not my aunt."

  Maggie didn't even hear her.

  Beth Ann went downstairs to fix herself a double fudge sundae with two kinds of nuts and extra whipped cream

  o0o.

  "Would you stop being so damned noble!"

  Ignoring her sister, Susan smoothed a wrinkle in the choir robe she was hanging, then set about straightening the music on top of the piano. She didn't have the energy left to chastise Jo Lisa for cussing in the church on Sunday. Who was she to chastise, anyhow?

  “Go ahead and cry, Susan. Scream. But just do something."

  "I am doing something. I'm tidying the practice room. You could help."

  Jo Lisa began jerking choir robes off the chairs. "Don't expect me to do this every Sunday." She stuffed them on hangers and flung them onto the rack. "Furthermore, I refuse to hang that old biddy Erma Jane's. She looks at me as if I have the plague."

  "She's not used to seeing women in church dressed so flamboyantly.”

  "I bet she'd have a stroke if she knew I didn't wear a bra and panties."

  "Jo Lisa!"

  "Wait a minute. Hold the fort. Was that a smile I saw? Come on, Susan. Do it again."

  "Has it been that bad?"

  "Worse. Listen, kid. Paul hasn't called in nearly a week. That ought to tell you something."

  "He’s not like that. He wouldn't walk out on me without saying good-bye."

  "Bullshit."

  "I'm worried about him, Jo Lisa. He doesn't answer at his apartment and all his secretary tells me is that he's out of the office."

  "Did you ever think he might have decided to get back together with his wife?”

  Susan looked sheepish. "He's not there."

  "How do you know?"

  "I drove by . . . Don't look at me that way, Jo Lisa. I know that what I did was foolish and juvenile, but I had to know."

  "Let him go, Susan."

  "I don't know if I can."

  "Well, then, find him and get him back."

  Susan hugged the robe to her chest for a moment, then threw it on a chair. "Finish up here, will you, Jo Lisa?"

  "Where are you going?"

  Susan didn't even hear her. She was already out the door.

  o0o

  Bill sat hunched over his desk cataloguing the dolphin sounds. Even though it was murky outside and raining, the blinds were drawn in order to make viewing conditions better for the underwater video that played on the large screen occupying one wall – dolphins in the wild. A small lamp near his elbow was the only light in the office.

  He knew the dolphins were communicating. He even knew that each one identified himself before he spoke, using his signature whistle. For years trainers had been using a basic command/response approach in dealing with dolphins, but Bill was certain that the giant mammals were capable of more. He believed they were capable of abstract thought, that they talked about their past and their future. If the dolphin community was that cultured, that intelligent, might they not someday be able to talk with man, even to initiate conversations?

  What wonders could they tell? What marvelous knowledge was locked in the minds of the great mammals that plowed the depths of the sea?

  The prospect of discovery thrilled Bill . . . and kept him working long hours and even some Sundays. Thank God, Maggie never complained.

  He bent over the data, so absorbed that he didn't hear the knock on his door. Finally the knocking got through to him.

  He went around his desk and opened the door. Susan Riley stood with rain running down her face and her hair plastered to her head.

  "You're soaked." Bill grabbed her hand and pulled her inside. "Have you been out there long?"

  "Long enough." She brushed raindrops off her sweater.

  "When I start working, I get in my own little world." He pulled out a chair. "Here. Sit down. Let me get you a cup of coffee. Rain's chilly this time of year."

  "Thanks." She took the cup and smiled at him. The dolphin video still played on the wall behind her chair. With her wet face and clothes, she looked as if she were a part of their underwater world.

  "Let me turn that video off."

  "No . . . please. I can't stay long." She took a sip of coffee. "I'm looking for Paul. Do you know where he is?"

  "He didn't tell you?"

  "No. When I last spoke with him, he said he'd call soon." She took another sip, then looked at him over the rim of her cup. "He hasn't."

  Bill prided himself on being an observer of human behavior as well as dolphin behavior. What he'd seen between Paul and Susan had been good for both of them. He hesitated only a second before he told her where Paul was.

  If anybody could bring him home, it was Susan Riley.

  o0o

  The cabin on Eagle Point in Ocean Springs had been closed since Sonny's death. Paul stripped the dust covers off the furniture and opened the windows to let the autumn breeze off Davis Bayou blow through the rooms and dissolve the musky smell of neglect. Then he prowled the rooms, picking up objects that belonged to another life. Jean's red sweater draped over the back of a rocking chair. She would have dropped it there when she came in from painting the ever-changing water. Sonny's sneakers, tucked under the edge of his bed. One of them still had sand in the toe. Holding the sneaker, he heard the ghostly echoes of childish laughter.

  He placed the sneaker beside its mate. Then he made his way to the screened-in back porch. An old beat-up pail that Sonny used to carry—in case of emergencies, he always said—lay on its side on the wooden floor.

  I might fin a treasure, Daddy or I might find a frog. The prospect of finding a frog excited Sonny as much as the vis
ion of finding a treasure.

  Life in general excited Sonny.

  It was hard to believe that he'd been gone almost a year.

  Paul squeezed the handle of the little tin bucket, as if holding it so tightly would bring back its owner. Over the bayou a great blue heron lifted into the sky, and beyond, faraway places beckoned..

  A vision of Mark Baxter came to him, tiny, damaged, dependent. Paul had felt the child's heart pulsing underneath his fingers.

  He had not only failed to heal, he had maimed. Lately it seemed to be a pattern of his, failing the people he'd sworn to protect. Susan. And Jeffy. God, Jeffy with his damaged heart.

  They deserved more than a man who couldn’t keep promises, a man who ran at the first hint of trouble.

  Paul’s life stretched before him, an endless parade of empty days, empty hours. Perhaps he should leave Biloxi. Go someplace where surviving all those hours would be easier.

  Still holding on to Sonny's empty bucket, he stepped through the screen door and walked toward the water. A chilling rain had begun to fall. He lifted his face toward the heavens, wishing the rain could penetrate his skin and cleanse his soul.

  He didn't even hear her when she came up behind him.

  "Hello, Paul."

  He whirled around with the little tin bucket still clutched in his hand, and there was Susan, soaked to the skin. The rain had washed off every speck of makeup and plastered her hair to her head.

  "Aren't you even going to speak to me after I came all this way?" she asked.

  "God, you're beautiful."

  They stood three feet apart with the rain beating down on them.

  "How did you find me?"

  "I asked Bill."

  "You shouldn't have come."

  Rain pounded at them, hissing, and sea gulls rose up on pale wings, sounding their plaintive cries. The oppressive clouds seemed to come down around them until they felt as gray and leaden as the sky.

  o0o

  A stranger stared at her from Paul's eyes, and Susan was terrified. Goose bumps rose along her arms, and she hugged herself, more for comfort than for warmth.

  "You don't want me here?" she asked.

  "I didn't say that. I said you shouldn't have come."

  Could words kill? She thought she might die.

  He stared at her with his terrible, haunted eyes, not moving, not so much as one muscle in his face twitching.

  Say something, she wanted to scream. She bit down on her lower lip to keep her teeth from chattering.

  Paul stood beside the sea, stoic, unbending.

  Defeated, Susan turned to go. With every step she took she kept expecting Paul to call her back. His silence clawed at her. The wet sand sucked at her shoes, and she leaned down to pull them off.

  Their long journey had come to this, sand in her shoes and rain in her hair and a giant hole in her heart.

  "No!" She whirled around and flung her shoes at him."I won't let you do this."

  He didn’t even duck. One hit him on the chest, the other on his shin.

  "Please, Susan. Just go."

  She flew across the beach. Wet sand spattered her bare legs and a piece of driftwood tore her skirt.

  "No!" She doubled her hands into fists and battered at his chest. The little tin bucket hit the ground. 'You can't quit. I won't let you. Do you hear me!"

  Paul caught her fists and pinned her body against his.

  "Stop it, Susan. Stop it."

  "Damn you, Paul Tyler. I hate you." Tears streamed down her face. "I hate what you're doing to yourself . . . and to me ... and Jeffy . . . oh, God, Jeff-yy."

  He forced her head to his shoulder.

  "Shhh. Shhh."

  She jerked herself away. "Don't you dare tell me to hush. You made promises, Paul. How can you break promises to a child?”

  "I'm human."

  The torment in his eyes almost brought her to her knees, but she had too much at stake to quit.

  "Then act like it."

  His mouth slammed down on hers, but she wasn't going to be so easily won. She struggled against him.

  He pulled her so hard against his chest, the breath whooshed out of her. "What's the matter, Susan? Was that not human enough for you?"

  "Do you think you can drive me away with these caveman tactics?" She ground her hips into his, pressing so hard, she could feel the heat of him through the front of her wet skirt. "Think again, pal."

  Her breath sawed through her tight lungs. The rain picked up speed, beating at them without mercy.

  "Leave, Susan. Now."

  "No."

  "No?" His voice was soft and dangerous.

  "I said no."

  He rammed his hand into the front of her blouse and ripped it down the front. His hands were rough and demanding. Paul braced his arm around her back and took her to the ground.

  Pinning her with his hips and his legs, Paul licked the rain off her breasts.

  "Please . . . Paul ... oh, please."

  "Say no, Susan, and I'll stop."

  "Damn you, Paul Tyler . . . don't you dare . . . stop."

  He pushed up her skirt and tore aside the bit of lace that girded her hips. Sand tangled in her hair and ground into her bare skin. Rain and sweat slicked their skin as they rolled together on the beach—battling, devouring, hating, loving.

  His chest heaving, he looked down at her. "Is this human enough for you, Susan?"

  "If you think you can make me hate you . . . think again."

  He rolled to his back, taking her with him. His fingers dug into her flesh as he held her hips in place.

  "Hate me, Susan."

  “I can't . . . Paul. I can't. I love you."

  He pulled her down across his chest and held on to her tightly.

  "You can't love me."

  "I do."

  Susan felt the shift in Paul, the deep shudder, as if he were letting go a heavy load he’d carried far too long. He sat up and turned to face the sea.

  "Paul?" She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face into his back. "I love you, Paul, and whatever has happened, we can get through it. Together."

  "I did surgery, Susan . . . and ruined a child's life." He began to talk then, and she listened quietly, knowing he had to tell the story of the Mark Baxter – and his son - in his own way. And when he'd finished, they clung to each other, sandy and wet and emotionally exhausted.

  He pushed her dripping hair back from her face. "God, Susan, I'm so sorry."

  "So am I. I was mean to you."

  'You were just what I needed." He grinned. "Besides, I've never heard you cuss."

  "I'm a woman of many talents."

  He helped her up, then gathered the remnants of their scattered clothes off the beach.

  "Many-talented woman, I'm going to get you inside before you die of exposure."

  Holding hands, they raced through the rain to his beach house. Inside they crowded into the shower together, and afterward he found her an old pair of Jean's slacks and one of her blouses.

  "I hate these," she said.

  "I know."

  She made a face at him. "I could go naked."

  "Then I might have to eat you for supper."

  "How about after? I'm starving."

  They scrambled eggs, then leaned across the small table and took turns feeding each other. And when the table got in the way, Susan climbed into Paul's lap and they ate from the same plate.

  Afterward he built a fire, and they stretched out on the sofa, holding on to each other until the embers died down.

  "The rain's stopped," he said.

  "I'm glad. I don't like driving across Biloxi Bay in the rain."

  "I want you to stay the night."

  "I'd planned to all along."

  "There's a bed upstairs," he said. "I'd like to take you up there and try to undo what I did on the beach today."

  "What we did on the beach today was therapy. What we'll do in your bed is love."

  o0o#

  Paul
had no right to make declarations to his woman. Not yet.

  He carried her up the staircase and tried to undo harsh thing he’d said and done to her on the beach. Then afterward, he lay beside her holding her hand until she fell asleep. The old box springs creaked as he got out of bed.

  Moonlight streaked Susan's hair and glowed on her

  skin. Paul stood over her, marveling that she'd been willing to fight for him.

  He bent and kissed her cheek.

  "I love you, too, Susan," He covered her with a quilt, then went to the window and stood staring out into the darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  They returned to Biloxi at first light. Paul kissed Susan good-bye on her front porch, then spent a hectic day at his office catching up.

  Luther took rounds that night, but after hours Paul slipped into the side door of the hospital and went into Mark Baxter's room. Tubes connected his small body to the medicines and machines that kept him alive. According to his chart, there had been very little improvement since his initial stroke. Paul took hope in the fact that he was showing some movement in his left leg.

  Watching the rise and fall of Mark's fragile chest, he remembered how it had all happened. The Code Blue, the frantic rush to SICU. He recalled every detail with excruciating clarity, even to the way the scalpel had felt in his hand.

  He had done everything possible for Mark Baxter, and in the end he had failed. As he counted back over the years, he knew that his successes far outweighed his failures. He understood, too, that no matter how brilliantly he performed, he couldn't win every time. Death had to have his due. And somewhere in the book of fate it was written that pain and suffering must exist. Doctors didn't get to choose the recipients, and that was a mixed blessing.

  He brushed the soft hair off the child's forehead, then bent down and kissed his soft little cheek.

  He left the room as quietly as he had entered, left with his head high, his hands steady, and his eyes turned toward the horizon. He wasn't a miracle worker, but he was a surgeon with a gift for healing. The gift hadn't deserted him; he had deserted it.

  In the doorway he turned. "God be with you, Mark . . . and with me as well."

  He needed all the help he could get. He intended to reclaim his gift.

  o0o