MIAMI ICED

by Susan Sussman

“Yes?” the attorney’s fingers fly across the buttons. A map flashes on the screen.

  “Batteries don’t take kindly to Florida sunshine, so a picture window is the last place you’d stock them. Also, when I worked shrinkage at Montgomery Ward’s, batteries were one of those items that seemed to want to hop into shoppers’ pockets and walk off without paying. We put our batteries near where the checkers could keep an eye on. I believe you’ll find most drugstores do the same.”

  “So?” says the attorney, pushing a finger along the screen, moving the map this way and that.

  “It seemed to me that the eye-witness for the Prosecution got his corners mixed up, then gilded the lily with those batteries. Now, I’m not a professional like you. But it did cause me to wonder if he was confused, like you say, or just stitchin’ up a story out of whole cloth. Either way, it occurred to me that eyewitness’s mistaken testimony could put a question or two in the juror’s minds about your client’s guilt or innocence. I did hand the bailiff a note to give to you.”

  The attorney looks sheepish. “I got it but I thought you misunderstood the man’s testimony.” She frowns at the map on her screen. “Shit,” she says softly. “Shit.”

  “No drugstore?”

  “I can’t believe the original attorney assigned to this case didn’t bother checking… This is so—this is….” upset now, dialing someone.

  “Counselor?” says Lucille.

  “Yes?”

  “You wouldn’t be one of those attorneys you mentioned?”

  “Which attorneys?”

  “The ones who think my knitting in court disrespectful?”

  The young woman pauses. “Not at all, not at all.” A smile works its way up to her eyes. “In fact, a very wise woman once told me – how did she put it? – -- ‘handwork helps a person focus wonderfully well’. I think your knitting is beautiful. I think you’re beautiful.”

  “Well, all right, then,” says Lucille. “All right.”

  Lucille winks my way. “See you tomorrow,” she says, heading off to her bus stop. How did I ever imagine she needed defending?

  I trudge through the noon swelter to my car, rescue my phone from under the front seat. Parker left a message. “Hi, Laura. I expect your sister told you I brought my SCUBA gear to check out your boat. She and her boyfriend are real nice. Hope I didn’t disturb them too much. Anyhow, looks like your propeller needs to be replaced.”

  I can’t. Can’t sink one more penny into that floating money pit. I call him back. “Don’t worry,” he says, “it’s no big deal. I have a friend up in Palm Beach who has an extra propeller he can put on.”

  “How much?” I ask, bracing.

  “Friend owes me,” he says. Parker’s calling in a favor for my boat? Or is he thinking of it as his boat? “We could take her up now,” he says.

  “Now?”

  “My friend’s off work tomorrow and then I’m leaving town for a couple of days. So, today would be best. If you have the time.”

  “As a matter of fact,” I say, “my schedule just opened up. I’m about half-an-hour from the marina.”

  “Let’s make it an hour,” he says. “I have a few things to finish.”

  Great. An hour will give me time to stop at home and change clothes and beat my hair into submission, maybe slap on a little makeup. I mean sun block. No, I mean makeup.

  -It’s important a young girl looks nice.

  Thank you Grandma.

  I’m driving past the library park when I spot the Professor stretched out face up under the banyan, fingers laced under his dreads, eyes closed, earphones on, a man without a care in the world. I pull into a No Parking space, hit my blinkers and run over. “Excuse me,” I say. He doesn’t hear. “Excuse me,” I say, pulling Bitsy’s lunch from my purse. Still nothing. I bend down and touch his shoulder. He bolts upright, wide-eyed, terrified.

  “Sorry,” I say, “sorry, sorry, sorry,” holding out the lunch. “Sorry to disturb you, Professor. But, I have to leave and wanted to give you this.”

  He’s blinking now, a free-diver struggling up from the depths. He pulls off the earphones, “Paul Robeson’s Othello,” he says, picking up a battered cassette player, waving it in the air, “makes your soul sing.” He jabs the stop button and hits rewind. “A black man tried acting Othello once a hundred years before Robeson. Know what the critic wrote?” His voice shifts into a sonorous British accent, “Owing to the shape of his lips it is utterly impossible for him to pronounce English.” He laughs. “That critic never met Robeson, never imagined such a magnificent voice. This…” he shakes the tape player at me, “…this Othello will break your heart.”

  “Well, enjoy,” I say, setting down the food, backing away. I need to get home, fix myself up.

  His eyes go clear, focus on me. “You’re some kind of cook,” he says.

  “Me? Oh, no. It’s my sister. She’s the one.”

  He nods. “Tell your sister I do have a couple of questions. If she would be so kind. She used a seasoning on that chicken salad you left the other day, something with which I am not familiar. I’ll write my questions down, have them ready next time you come around. If that’s all right.”

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  He holds up the tape player, presses “play.” "The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief," his rich Robeson voice singing along with Shakespeare.

  There is, I notice, no tape in the player.

  There is, however, a parking ticket on my car.

  17

  Twenty minutes later I’m racing into the apartment, stripping off my anti-freeze courtroom clothes, resuscitating long-abandoned boat wear from the recesses of a bottom drawer. The faded cut-offs and tank top, worn chamois-soft from months of Florida sailing, sag sadly on the dwindling me. They’ll have to do for now. On to the makeup table. My hair, a mass of dry frizz, looks like alien plant life. Ah the joys of shifting hormones, bodily fluids evaporating -- dry eyes, dry hair, dry everything. I tuck my hair up under one of Michael’s old Cubs caps and pull down a couple of tendrils to soften the look.

  A stomach butterfly hits and runs. Then another. It’s been a lot of years, but I recognize the feeling. I’m schoolgirl nervous. About what? About meeting Parker? Butterfly. I pull the makeup mirror closer, brushing on blush and mascara.

  -Parker’s not my type.

  -No, he’s not.

  -Michael was my type.

  -Yes, he was.

  -Michael was bright and funny and lively and passionate and ate life whole.

  -No argument from me.

  I tweeze a few renegade hairs. The butterflies hit again. Parker, the tall lanky cowboy with his ‘aw shucks’ manner exudes western earthiness mixed with restrained strength. He’s like those TV poker players, on guard, watchful. But I’m a Mel Brooks, Woody Allen, Jon Stewart kind of gal, a sucker for bright mixed with humor and a soupçon of self-effacing puppy. Still, here I am, bothering to put on makeup. Butterflies.

  -This might not be about Parker.

  -What then?

  -It might be about reentering the world of the living.

  Even though I’m not attracted to Parker, I sense his interest in me and I’m pretty sure the vibes have nothing to do with his buying my boat. After all, he could have bought the boat through a broker. He could have dealt directly with Quincy.

  Oh, Lord, what if Parker comes on to me as we sail up to Palm Beach?

  -Today’s trip is about a propeller, not a date.

  I should call, make up some excuse about why I can’t go, ask if Parker would mind bringing my boat to his friend with the propeller, tell him I’ll pay for his time and trouble.

  -It’s insulting to offer to pay someone offering to do a favor.

  -Yes it is.

  --Ben Franklin said a person who does you a favor is more likely to do you another favor.

  --Yes he did.

  --Like buy your boat.

  --Yes he might.

  -You’re a grown woman.
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  -Yes, I am.

  -Mature, one might say.

  -One might.

  -Then straighten up and act like one.

  On my way out I see the note Bitsy left on the table: “Walking then going to the pool.” I grab a pen and scrawl: “Taking boat to Palm Beach with Parker, new propeller.”

  An unwelcome memory tape plays all the way to the Marina – complaints of my divorced and widowed Chicago girlfriends. At first they railed against men our age -“…. horny widowers and divorcees…” “…expect us to schtoop on the first date.” Now they’re exasperated by cougar-hunting young men – “…stopping us in the grocery store…” “…fanaticizing sex from experienced older women.” I can’t imagine entering the world of the dating.

  “Nice hat,” says Parker, already on board. He’s stowed the tarp and put out the cushions

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  “This is Florida,” he says. “You’re early.”

  He offers his hand, helping me from pier to deck. It’s a rough hand, calloused, strong. Damned butterflies again. I shoo them away. When we reach the ocean he opens the boat full throttle. “Won’t this hurt the propeller?” I yell.

  “She’ll be fine.”

  The roaring engines make it wonderfully impractical to talk. I set Michael’s favorite deck chair in the shade and give myself over to the warmth of the air, not rousing until we slow to enter the harbor. “Sorry I’m not much company,” I say, joining Parker at the wheel. “Sea air does me in.”

  He’s taking off his earbuds, unclipping an iPod from his belt. “Gave me a chance to catch up on the new Carl Hiaasen.” He turns into the Tradewinds Marina, cruising past the mostly empty slips, motoring to the far end of the marina, pulling around to a huge windowless building. Its two-story high sliding doors stand wide open. Inside, a couple of boats rest on rows of oversized metal shelving large enough to house hurricane-threatened boats five deep and four high. A burly man waits for us on the pier, a toolbox and red propeller at his feet. Parker pulls up and tosses him a line.

  “Laura,” says Parker, as we climb off, “this is Matt. Matt, Laura.”

  Matt grunts my way then jumps on board, expertly backing my boat around, guiding her onto a huge submerged sling. He clambers back onto the dock and presses a button. In seconds, a giant winch lifts the Go Bears straight up out of the water and moves her toward us. Matt hits the “Stop” button and checks along the hull. “You been burning through fuel,” he says.

  “I have?”

  “Wrong size propeller.” He pulls some levers, swinging my boat around, setting it onto a V-shaped metal framework.

  “Need a hand?” asks Parker.

  Matt nods. “Faster that way.”

  Parker turns to me. “This shouldn’t take but an hour or so. There’s an okay little restaurant about a five minute walk,” pointing to a group of low structures in the distance. “Has pretty good food. There’s a couple of shops right around it. Touristy stuff mostly, snow globes, seashells, but they help pass the time. How ‘bout I give you a call when we finish?”

  “Let me bring back some food,” I say. “It’s the least I can do for a free propeller.”

  “We’re fine. Get yourself a bite to eat. I’ll call you.”

  No one else ventures out in this mid-day sun, neither mad dog nor Englishman. I walk along the dock passing two deserted boats docked near the Dandy Brandy. She’s quiet today, no loud music, no bikini party. I left the Lucas children far south of here in a Broward courtroom. They’re likely already back in South Beach, resting up for tonight’s clubbing. A neon green FOR SALE sign fades on the windshield. I glance back toward Parker and his friend. They’re shielded from view by the boat storage shed. Work on the propeller will take an hour, Parker said. That’s a big chunk of time to fill. I’m not particularly hungry and have no interest in shopping. What I do have an interest in –

  --Don’t do this.

  --is taking a quick peek around the Dandy Brandy.

  --I mean it!

  I stroll towards the boat. In Chicago, my eighth grade friends and I would go to Belmont Harbor of a summer’s night and amble up and down the walkways between yachts. We’d stop at a darkened yacht, call out some imaginary friend’s name and, if there was no answer, we’d hop aboard and run through calling “Susi” or “Barbara” or “Murgatroyd”. We got to see all the fanciest boats and, if someone were on board, we’d giggle our apologies saying we must have written down the wrong slip number. We were adorable. Duplicitous, but adorable.

  -You are not thirteen.

  Whistling softly, I meander off the main pier onto the narrow walkway alongside the Dandy Brandy. A pelican eyes me warily.

  --Don’t do this.

  “Mary?” I call, my voice cheerful with a dash of airhead. “Mary? You home?”

  --I’m begging you.

  I bend over, trying to peer into the small side windows. The curtains are drawn. Might there be people sleeping on board, hung-over friends of the Lucas children, a coven of murderers? “Mary? Mary? We’re all waiting for you at the restaurant.” Silence. I continue toward the aft deck. Bathing suits are tossed over chairs, assorted flip-flops litter the deck along with empty beer bottles and soda cans. “Mary?”

  I take a deep breath and step onboard.

  -C’mon. Let’s go.

  -Aren’t you curious?

  -Na-uh. Killed too many cats.

  “Mary? You here?” Nothing.

  The deck chairs, their cushions a marvel of royal purple monogrammed in gold, are badly stained. These were the chairs in the newspaper photo I saw of Mel and Brandy laughing, loving, toasting flutes of Champagne. I run my fingers over a cushion, trace a jagged cigarette hole. Poor Brandy, so happy in that photo.

  Fishing poles stand jumbled in a corner their nylon lines hopelessly tangled. That dockhand, Lucky, testified that the brothers-in-law went fishing whenever Galdino came in from New Jersey. Lucky said he thought he saw Galdino here around the time Brandy and Mel went missing. I shudder. Had the two men gone fishing early that morning? Did Galdino kill Mel Lucas on this boat then go back to the house to kill Brandy?

  “Mary?” I call. “Whoo-hoo,” stepping around the bottles and cans, opening the cabin door. “Mary?”

  -No one here but us trespassers.

  -You should leave now.

  -Ya think?

  I ease down the steps into the dark cabin, pausing at the bottom to let my eyes adjust. Smells solidify in the dead air -- boat fuel, mold, mildew, beer, cigarettes, dirt, damp. I take a tentative step forward. My foot snags on a half-filled garbage bag forgotten at the base of the stairs. I go flying, use my hands to break my fall. Pain shoots up my wrist.

  --Mind if I say I told you so?

  I wiggle my hand side-to-side. The wrist’s sore but not sprained. Looks like I’m in for a night of cold compresses and aspirin.

  “Mary?” I call, pulling aside a brocade window curtain. Woa! Daylight glints off a rhinestone-studded, purple-leathered, smoky-mirrored wonderland of glitter and glitz. The bodacious Brandy may be dead, but her sequined spirit lives on.

  “Mary?” I ease open the bedroom door and switch on the light. Crystal fixtures blaze on either side of a circular bed. Satin leopard-print sheets lay rumpled on the mattress. A zebra skin bedspread lies heaped in a corner. Animal hide throw pillows are strewn everywhere.

  The bathroom air smells rank -- part bilge, part head, part no-one-loves-this-boat. Light from two milk glass sconces shines down on the mother-of-pearl sink shaped like an oyster shell. I turn the gold Cold sink handle and hold my throbbing wrist under water spewing from a gold dolphin’s mouth. A glob of aqua toothpaste hardens in the bowl next to strands of hair. The black marble countertop, mottled by spilled toiletries, looks like something decaying.

  What had the Lucas’ neighbor testified? “Brandy kept an immaculate home.” Brandy would have left this bathroom scoured, the bed made, pillows plumped, the bilge and head scrubbed and deodo
rized. Looks like her ‘neat’ gene skipped a generation.

  The cold water isn’t healing my wrist. Coming here was a bad idea.

  --Told ya.

  I turn off the lights and am two steps into the galley when I hear voices just outside the window. I duck down behind the bar. Who’s coming? What if they find me? My heart pile drives against my chest.

  “Nah, I’m not hungry.” A man’s voice. Soft thudding sounds. “How about taking a walk down to Schwartz’s for a beer?”

  “Okay,” says a woman. “Let me find my shoes.”

  An engine cuts out. These voices are not coming here. They belong to a boat docking in the next slip. I sit on the floor listening for the people to leave. I’m eye-level with booze stowed behind this bar. Glassware by Ralph Lauren. Top of the line booze. Brandy and Mel were spenders. Everything about this boat, about this lifestyle, must have rankled Joseph Galdino. There he was, stuck working construction in bitter New Jersey winters, while his lazy brother-in-law and his wife’s little sister retired to paradise. So what if Mel’s leg was mangled? Small price to pay.

  “Maybe,” says the woman, “we should just hang out onboard until later.”

  No, please don’t. Go away. Have a cool beer. Let me get out of here without being seen.

  “I’ve got to stretch my legs,” says the man. “Besides, it’s cool at Schwartz’s.”

  “Let me put on my face.”

  “It’s a beer for crissakes.”

  “Just a little lipstick.”

  I try to get comfortable, brace my back against the bar, study family photos covering the bar wall. Brandy and Mel looked like a couple of kids when they married. There’s a few photos of Galdino with a woman I assume is his wife though it’s hard to imagine this dour gray person is Brandy’s sister. The Lucas children are captured from birth to the present in those cutesy poses favored by professional child photographers. In contrast, candid snapshots of Caprice are scattered around the wall. She seems a somber child early on, standing upright and unsmiling between her two unsmiling parents. But she’s another girl altogether with her aunt and uncle; laughing as Brandy leads her around on a pony, as she rides on Mel’s shoulders at a carnival, as she and Brandy line-dance at a church social, as she fishes from this boat, as she poses on the dock with Clancy the harbormaster’s photo-mugging dog. This joyful creature is not the Caprice I see in court.