The Last Animal, page 21
The car had been found. It had turned up in the long-term parking section at the airport. It appeared that Lew had driven straight from the doctor’s office to the international terminal. He had booked himself a flight to Mexico City. The policemen explained these things to Delilah in low, official tones. They did not add that Lew was gone forever, leaving his family in the rearview mirror—but then, they did not need to. After all, he had climbed aboard with no luggage and no return ticket.
The next day, Delilah and Marge took a guided tour of the hotel compound. They passed the beach, where the sand was littered with broiling tourists. They visited Marge’s pool, where a pale young woman cut slow strokes through the water. In the dining area, only a few places were occupied, though a harassed-looking nanny was shepherding ten or twelve children who rampaged everywhere, spilling water on the tablecloths and barreling between the chairs. The first aid area was just another bungalow, painted white, with a red cross on the door. No doctor was in evidence—only a man with a bloody, bandaged foot, feverishly dreaming on his cot. A mess of young boys tumbled about in the nearby grass, chasing a soccer ball and cursing cheerfully in Spanish. The field bordered a cliff, about which they seemed amazingly unconcerned. A goat tethered to a rope was their halfway mark.
As the tour wound through the heart of the hotel, Marge was in her element, making notes in a little pad. The guide described all the activities that would be offered during their weeklong stay, and Marge scribbled them down: cooking class, marimba concert, glass-bottomed boat tour. Delilah stayed quiet. Marge would, she knew, take pleasure, as the days passed, in ticking off each activity as it was completed. She would throw herself wholeheartedly into a lecture about the local sea life or a demonstration of salsa dancing; she would take pictures of each event, which would eventually be pasted into a scrapbook, so that every aspect of her trip could be shared with her unwilling circle of friends, captured in chronological order and exhaustive detail.
But Delilah was less enthusiastic. In truth, she found herself at a bit of a loss. Kayaking, sunbathing—none of that was why she had come here. Playa del Carmen was the last stop on her vacation. She had chosen this spot for one reason only: to burn Lew’s final letter here, on the sand, in the same place where he had written it and mailed it to her. Now that she had done so, the ostensible purpose of her trip had been achieved. She was left at a loose end.
She had never told anyone about Lew’s letters, not even her children. Jenny and Chris had been thrilled by her wish to travel, but could not fathom why she felt the need to cling so relentlessly to the coastline of the Yucatan Peninsula. Delilah could not explain that she had been planning for three decades to travel Lew’s route and eradicate his last remnants, letting go of him finally. Part of her maternal duty was to protect her kids from the reality of their father’s insanity and the extent of the damage he had wreaked in her own heart. She had managed to pretend that this trip was a vacation and nothing more, a chance to see a little beauty before she died. Marge had thought it was a great idea. Yet her children had been undaunted in their efforts to widen the scope of her travels. Jenny, who voyaged the Caribbean yearly with her doctor husband, had discovered real tourist gems in the Bahamas and Bermuda that Delilah simply had to try. Chris, who was younger and more inclined to fly off on a moment’s notice, sleeping in flea-riddled hostels with a group of friends, was effusive in his praise of the music, ambiance, and top-rate ganja of Jamaica.
Delilah had ignored their advice. Her route was predetermined and could not be changed: Campeche, Progreso, Rio Lagartos, Cancun, and now Playa del Carmen, in that order and no other. That was the path Lew had traveled; one letter had come to her from each location. She did not want someone with her who might gaily suggest they bop over to Mexico City or take a boat trip to a nearby island. She needed something very specific on this journey: She needed Marge. Marge, who was wary of every stranger but incurious about her loved ones, would never notice if Delilah seemed upset, if she slipped away for an unexplained hour or two, if she lit small fires on the local beaches. Marge’s rough-hewn frame and sour disposition were as familiar as breathing. Baffled by maps and a stickler for rules, she clung to Delilah’s schedule as if it were written in stone.
Lew had sent five letters in all. In the days and weeks after his disappearance, Delilah had been in a fog. She scarcely remembered that period now, though it had been a busy one. With a toddler on one hip, a demanding and unsympathetic boss, and a severe case of morning sickness, she had moved through her days in a blur. She could not remember how she had come up with the right day care center for little Jenny. She had no recollection of the inevitable conversation with her obstetrician, in which she had explained that the father would not, after all, be there for the birth—that he would not be there, ever again. She had vague impressions of her friends’ well-meant but unhelpful sympathy. Her mother’s scarcely veiled I-told-you-so smirk. As the days had passed, one slipping into the next, there had been a general impression of dreaming. It felt as though nothing in the world was solid or constant. Nothing could be relied on. She could not even trust her own senses.
What she remembered was the letters.
Those pages, marked in her husband’s writing, stood out in her mind with all the hot glow of a streetlamp on a hazy evening. Even now, she could have recited each one by heart. Lew’s mental state seemed to have fluctuated. Some of the letters had been coherent, almost cheerful; others had been downright unhinged. His desire to harm others had spiraled, occasionally, into an urge to harm himself. He had spoken often and with longing of falling off the edge of the world. One note had been little more than a poem about the old, sea-battered rowboats kept by the hostel where he was staying in Progreso:
Just can’t get over them. Old tubs almost. Gaps between the boards. Wood warped. Been at sea so long they don’t look like wood anymore. Really worried somebody might throw them out. Keep coming back to check on them. Been sketching them too. Might send you a doodle.
Delilah had read between the lines, and when his letters stopped—stopped forever—she knew what he had done. She had even dreamed about it: Lew in a rowboat on a great green swell, gazing into the deeps, and then the final, fatal splash.
It was early morning when Delilah first saw the man. She and Marge were in the hotel gift shop at the time, examining a rack of leather bracelets. Marge was a sucker for this kind of tourist trap. Back home, in Seattle, her apartment was decorated with odds and ends that she had picked up while on vacation in Costa Rica, Canada, Italy. Nothing was too touristy or too cliché for her. Half of the fun of traveling was bringing things back and hanging them on the wall. Now Marge wandered tirelessly among the shelves, fondling sand dollars and necklaces made of shark teeth. She was captivated by a row of wooden flutes. Idly, Delilah picked up a carved frog, painted with garish splotches of yellow. Turning it over, she saw Made in the USA stamped on the bottom. Smiling to herself, she replaced it on the shelves.
It took her a while to realize that she was being watched. In the corner, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat, a man was hovering. Delilah had the impression that he had been there for some time. She gave him the once-over. Pudgy. Genial. A human teddy bear. There was an awkward moment when their eyes met, and then he turned, pushing through the front door with a jingling of bells.
But that was not the end of it. She saw him again at lunch. As Marge cornered the cook to ask how the meat had been prepared, Delilah noticed the man in the straw hat sitting at a nearby table, reading the paper. She saw him again at the first aid station, where she and Marge stopped to see if there was any Dramamine in stock. (Marge had brought her own supply, of course, but it had dipped a bit low, and it would not do to run out.) Delilah, weary from the heat, was leaning against the wall, staring out at the water, when she caught a glimpse of the man moving away, down a nearby path. She recognized the tilt of his hat.
She saw him again in the afternoon, when she allowed herself to be dragged down to the pool. Marge swam laps, grunting and sputtering, and Delilah settled on a lounge chair, a book unopened at her side, her mind wandering freely over her lost husband, and her children, and the workplace from which she had so recently retired—slaving away as a paralegal in a midsize law firm. She had never loved her job; she had been grateful to walk out the door for good. Now, as she sprawled in the ferocious sunlight, the office where she had spent so many years—the fabric-covered cubicles, the genteel burr of the phones—seemed impossibly far away. On the other side of the horizon, behind the sky. Delilah was halfway into sleep when a shadow fell across her. She opened her eyes. The man was standing over her, blocking the light. He had shed his Hawaiian shirt and straw hat. He was wearing nothing but a red bathing suit. He gazed down at her for a moment, then wheeled with surprising speed and leapt into the pool.
That evening, Marge’s usual complaint flared up. Her stomach could not cope with the fried bread and flavor of the Mexican cuisine. She decided to eschew dinner completely, give her system a chance to clear itself out—and besides, she wanted to get her cat-sitter on the phone and have a serious chat.
Delilah walked down to the dining hall alone. She spent the meal pretending that she was not looking for the man in the straw hat. A band, set up beside the palm trees, was playing a complex, fruity tune. A few young couples were dancing. Delilah craned her neck at the sight of a Hawaiian shirt bobbing among the tables. She turned sharply when someone called Hi! to another woman.
But he was not there. As this fact sank in, Delilah summoned the waiter over to order a glass of wine. She was beginning to feel ashamed of herself. In truth, she had little dating experience. Since Lew’s disappearance, she had done the right thing: Over the years, she had given it a shot, most recently with the help of the Internet. Jenny had aided her in setting up an online profile, complete with an outdated photo and a trite list of interests. Delilah had gamely put on perfume, had her hair done, gone to movies and the theatre. She had enjoyed the whirl of dating—nice clothes, new people, interesting activities. But somehow, nothing had ever come of it. She remembered one suitor, black-haired and svelte, who had leaned in for a kiss at the end of a long evening of ballet. As their lips met, Delilah had found herself thinking, with remarkable detachment, that she felt nothing. No butterflies in her stomach. No ache in her loins. It was like kissing the wall or the back of her own hand.
This was, of course, the fault of her husband. So many things could be traced back to Lew. Perhaps there could be no recovery from a blow like the one he had dealt her. Perhaps she had shut up her heart like a house in winter. She was not sure what she hoped for anymore. These days, she did not envy her married friends. She would see them at dinner parties, sharing bites of dessert and sniping at one another good-humoredly, with just a touch of malice. She did not want what they had—not really. Only now and again had she ever experienced true jealousy. The situation was always the same: Delilah would find herself staring at an elderly couple, in their eighties or nineties, sitting together in a stillness that was pristine and unbroken. They might be settled on a park bench; they might be waiting for the bus. The man would examine his fingernails. The woman would fiddle with her bracelet. Not a word would pass between them as the wind blew across their figures, ruffling their clothes. In those moments, Delilah would be overcome by a surge of melancholy, as powerful as an ebbing tide. It was the silence that she envied—a bond that had deepened past speech, past touch, past eye contact. The closest she had ever come to that kind of thing was her friendship with Marge.
Now she sipped her wine, her gaze fixed firmly on her plate, so that she would not continue to make a fool of herself by scanning among the tables. There was nothing special about the man in the straw hat. He was not handsome; he was, in fact, almost aggressively nondescript. Delilah was sure, based on the garishness of the shirt he had been wearing all day, that he was an American, like herself. He was her same age, or thereabouts—but that was all he had going for him. Besides, he was almost certainly not interested in her. The hotel compound was small. It was silly to think he had been following her. Indeed, he had probably been as surprised as she was to see her popping up every time he turned around. Delilah felt her cheeks flush. Hopefully he would not think that she had been pursuing him.
It was late by the time she returned to her bungalow. The sun hung just above the horizon, a watery pulp, staining the high clouds pink with light. As she moved up the walkway, she found the door blocked by a square, bathrobed figure, arms folded. Marge had evidently been waiting for her.
“How are you feeling now?” Delilah asked politely. Marge did not move aside to let her come in, so she leaned wearily against the doorjamb.
“Someone stopped by for you,” Marge said. “A man.”
Delilah’s hand flew to her mouth. “What? Who was it?”
“No idea. Shifty sort of fellow. He didn’t leave a name.” Marge squinted keenly. “You look tired,” she said with decision, and motioned Delilah inside at last.
The room was brightly lit. The hotel maids had swept and made the beds, leaving a lingering hint of perfume.
“This man,” Delilah said. “What did he look like?”
“Straw hat.” Marge clicked her tongue. “Hawaiian shirt. Red sunglasses.”
“And did he—” Delilah began, but Marge was pursuing her own train of thought.
“I just called home,” she said. “Blackie is fine, but Pugslie still has that funny sneeze. I told the girl to bring him to the vet tomorrow morning. Better safe than sorry.”
“Did he ask for me specifically?” Delilah said.
“Who?”
“The man. He wasn’t just going room to room trying to dig up a date?”
“Oh, yes, he asked for you. By name,” Marge said, sitting on her bed with a squealing of springs. “He asked to take you kayaking tomorrow, of all things. Said he’d stop by in the morning.”
She yawned and shook out her mop of gray hair. Her gaze strayed toward the phone. Delilah knew she had already moved on in her mind, back inexorably to her housebound cats and the plight of their imperiled stomachs and throats.
“Marge,” she said quickly. “How did he know where I was staying? Did he say?”
Marge’s face clouded over.
“Oh, yes. He said all right. He told me he followed you, just as bold as brass. One evening, he followed you back from the beach. Can you imagine the cheek? He told me that outright, as if it weren’t strange at all.”
That night, Delilah dreamed about Lew. This was not unexpected. Her subconscious had been busy in the thirty years since his disappearance. The dream was chaotic, a jumble. Two piercing brown eyes, as bright as copper. A hot, shuddering embrace. Delilah moaned a little—and at once, Lew let her go. She saw him gliding away, moving with unnatural smoothness. She followed him—she always followed him—but could not catch him. Through an unknown landscape, down cobblestone pathways, up marble staircases, she chased her husband, the echo of his footsteps leading her helplessly forward.
It took her a while to wake. She was twisted in the sheet, her nightgown damp with sweat. The air was filled with the rush of wind. On the other side of the room, in her own bed, Marge was snoring genially. After a moment, Delilah hefted herself upright. She slipped into the bathroom.
She had never told anyone about these dreams, or the fact that they had come, like clockwork, every week for three decades. It was not the sort of thing she could share with her friends—or, God forbid, her children. It was embarrassing. Now she examined her reflection in the mirror. A thin, pale mouth. A thatch of white hair. In truth, she did not remember her husband—not really—not anymore. He had been gone too long. He had been absent longer than he had ever been present. She did not remember whether he had been kind. Whether he had smoked. Whether he had paid his bills on time. She was not sure if their lovemaking had been tender, or earth-shattering, or lackluster. She was not certain what foods he had liked. She could not remember if he had danced well. She had no recollections at all of Lew holding little Jenny in his lap, playing with her, reading to her. What she was left with was pain, rather than memory. Lew had ripped himself out of her life so violently that the wound of his leaving obscured all that had come before.
Even in her dreams, he was less a man than a phantom. His features were always uncertain; his figure often changed shape before her eyes, now slender, now bulky, shifting like smoke. He had become, in the truest sense, a ghost: vacant and insubstantial, characterized by emptiness.
Delilah knew that she was not the only one to be haunted this way. She remembered a night, more than twenty years ago, when she had woken to the sound of screams. Her son Chris, in his bedroom, was howling bloody murder. Delilah had flown down the hall, breathless, flinging a robe around her shoulders. Outside Chris’s room, she had collided with Jenny, in her bunny pajamas, white with fear.
Chris had been nearly out of his mind. He had pawed at her shoulder, gulping and gasping. He had been shaking from head to foot. It took him a while to make himself understood. A nightmare. A man. A shadow figure had been there, in his room. The man had tried to take him away.
At the time, Chris had been seven or eight; he had not had the language to articulate what he really meant. Delilah had rocked and soothed as he soaked her nightgown with tears. It was one of countless instances when she had been ludicrously aware of her own inadequacy. To be a single parent was to be always somewhere on the spectrum of failure. The math simply did not add up. One could not take the place of two. She stroked her son’s hair. She knew what his dream had been about, even if he did not. The faceless figure might have been his father—or the specter of death—or a symbol of the human potential for misadventure and loss. All these possibilities would be equally terrifying to a small boy. It had been Jenny who finally got her brother back to sleep that night. She had sung to him, a private composition Delilah did not recognize, a tune the children had created together while she was at work. Chris had hummed along until his eyes slipped closed.
