Dragon Moon Page 6

  Behind us, in the marina, a big Hatteras fires up its engines, battering the morning’s calm, the noise drowning out all possibility for conversation. I wait a few minutes, until the boat’s motors warm up and the captain throttles them down to a low growl, and then say, “It’s Saturday. Didn’t you notice how many boats were already on the bay this morning? Look around.” I point toward the constant flow of joggers and bicyclists traveling up and down the sidewalks on both sides of Bayshore Drive. “Do you see anyone in a suit?”

  Henri looks, shakes his head. “No.”

  “Right.” I ruffle his hair with my right hand. “Most people don’t have to work today.”

  “You don’t have to work ever, do you, Papa?”

  I think of all the chores I do back on my island — all the time and effort I expend taking care of my son — and smile. “No,” I say. “I don’t have to work.”

  Henri and I wait in silence. Overhead, a white cloud, already swollen and puffed out with moisture, shades us for a few moments as it passes on its journey west toward the Everglades. I watch it go by, knowing it will spend the day feeding on the humid air, growing until it turns dark and angry and then rushes east to menace us in the late afternoon.

  Cars pull into Monty’s parking lot, disgorging either groups of boaters laden with supplies or workers for the restaurant. Other cars pass us on Bayshore, some pulling boats on trailers, heading for the public ramps at Dinner Key a few blocks to our south. Finally a blue compact turns at the light and Rita waves from the driver’s window. Henri waves back, as do I. “She was nice to me when we went to the office, Papa. I like her. Do you?”

  I shrug, say, “She’s okay — ”

  “For a human.” Henri interrupts with my standard qualification, then giggles.

  I tickle the boy, keep him giggling. “Yes, for a human.”

  But, I have to admit to myself, as she gets out of her car and walks toward us, even for a human, Rita Santiago in tight jeans and a simple yellow cotton T-shirt makes for quite an impressive sight.

  “Mr. DelaSangre ... Peter,” she says, offering her hand. “I hope I haven’t made you and Henri wait too long.”

  I take her hand and once again find myself enjoying her touch more than I want to. “No problem,” I say, letting go, regretting the loss of contact. “Henri and I have been enjoying the morning air.”

  Rita draws in a breath. “It’s beautiful today, isn’t it? What a shame we’re not going somewhere outside.”

  “I wanted to ride in that car.” Henri points to the Corvette. “But Papa says we can’t because of you.”

  “Really?” Rita looks at me while she says, “I don’t see why not. If you don’t mind riding on my lap. I think we can all squeeze in.”

  “Can we, Papa?” Henri asks. “Can we?”

  At Rita’s and Henri’s prompting I take down the Corvette’s top. “We’re going to a jewelry shop near the Dadeland Mall,” Rita says as she gets in the car, helps Henri onto her lap. “But it’s too nice to drive down U.S. 1 today. Can we drive through the Grove, down Old Cutler?”

  I nod. “I haven’t been that way in years,” I say. I take us through the middle of Coconut Grove’s business district, then south on Ingraham Highway — the street shaded and cooled by a living canopy provided by the large oaks and ficus trees that line the roadway.

  Henri sits on Rita’s lap, swivels his head from side to side as he attempts to gaze at each home we pass, each jogger or bicyclist, each car.

  “I called around like you asked,” Rita says. “Mayer’s Jewelers no longer carries the necklace you bought there. But a clerk there remembered the four-leaf-clover design. He told me one of his clients had matching earrings made by this jeweler, Sam Moscowitz. I called Mr. Moscowitz yesterday and arranged an appointment for us this morning.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I glance at Rita and my son — the boy sitting on her lap with her arms around him. Both of them seem perfectly content with their seating arrangement. I smile. “I knew I could count on you to find what I need.”

  “We haven’t found it yet.” Rita returns my grin. “We’ll see soon enough if this Moscowitz can do what you want.”

  “But it’s probably unfair of me to make you come along with us. No doubt you have better things to do on your day off.”

  The woman leans her head back, stares at the branches and leaves shading the roadway, the flashes of blue sky that show through periodically. “Sure, I could be doing my laundry ... or going grocery shopping ... or I could be washing my car or studying,” she says. “Or, let’s see, I could spend the day being chauffeured around in a Corvette” — she hugs Henri enough to make him squirm in her grasp — “in the company of two good-looking men.”

  Ingraham gives way to Old Cutler Road and the road widens, its overhead canopy intermittently sparse, the houses larger and more palatial. “I can’t believe so many people can afford homes like this,” Rita says, then puts her hand to her mouth. “Of course, you could probably buy any one you wanted to.”

  I study the estates that we pass, their fake columns and overlarge doorways, their self-important gates and carefully manicured lawns and grimace. “I wouldn’t want any of them. They’re way too self-conscious. You should see my house. It’s designed to be part of the landscape it inhabits — not to stand out from it.”

  Rita looks at me. “I’d like to see it.”

  Once again I’ve little doubt of Rita’s availability. But, as tempting as she is, she isn’t the one I want. “Maybe one day, if we have time.”

  Sam Moscowitz, short and round, with small thin fingered hands that seem to be perpetually in motion, either gesturing or rubbing together or picking up and straightening whatever objects might be nearby, says, “Sure. I remember,” when I ask about the emerald, four-leaf-clover necklace and the earrings he made to match it. To my delight, he brings out pictures of the earrings and sketches of their design.

  “Two weeks,” he says. “They’ll be ready. They’ll be perfect. Your sweet lady here will love them.”

  Rita blushes. “They’re not for me,” she says.

  “Oh. Some other lucky lady.” Sam cocks an eyebrow at me. “Or should I say a very lucky man?”

  Back in the car, Henri says, “I’m hungry, Papa.”

  “We can go get some burgers now, if it’s okay with Rita.”

  “But I’m tired of burgers!” the boy whines. “I want a steak or something else big. ...”

  I sigh. “Not until tonight, when we get home.”

  “No, I want it now!”

  Rita grins at the struggle of wills going on around her. “I’ve got an idea,” she says.

  Henri looks up at her. I say, “What?”

  “Henri, have you ever been to Metrozoo?”

  My son shakes his head.

  “It’s a place full of all different types of animals. We could go there and eat and see them all. Though the food isn’t very good there.”

  “Animals?” Henri asks.

  “Lions and monkeys and snakes and bears — all types. Would you like that, Henri?”

  He looks at me. “Can we, Papa?”

  We don’t arrive at Monty’s until well past five in the afternoon. Henri, tired from an afternoon of rushing from viewing one exotic creature after the next — and stuffed with two, far too well-cooked hamburgers, as well as an ice cream sandwich and almost a bag of buttered popcorn — sleeps so soundly that he barely moves in Rita’s arms as she takes him from the car.

  She cradles the boy so his cheek is pressed against hers, watches as I put up the Corvette’s top. “He’s so sweet,” she says.

  I nod, motion for her to hand him over to me.

  “Can’t I carry him to the boat for you?” she says.

  Her cheeks and nose show the red tinge of a day spent in the sun. I look at her and smile. “Sure.”

  Neither she nor I say a word as we cross the parking lot and walk down the dock to my boat slip. Everywhere people coming in from a day
on the water are pulling their boats into slips, washing down their windows and decks, piling leftover supplies on the docks, preparatory to bringing them back to their cars.

  Gas exhaust and diesel fumes mix in the air with the smells of fried fish and beer that emanate from Monty’s. The house band at the restaurant begins their first set by playing Marley loud enough to be heard from the farthest docks and I glance at my sleeping son and smile when he notices none of it.

  At the boat, Rita says, “He was right, you know.”

  “Who was?” I take the boy, lay him down on the bench behind the driver’s seat.

  “The jeweler. Whoever you’re buying those earrings for is one lucky girl.”

  I shrug, say, “That remains to be seen.”

  Rita wrinkles her forehead, stares at me. “Aren’t you going with her already? What remains to be seen?”

  “It’s complicated,” I say, thinking of Chloe, wondering how she’d react to seeing me with this woman, whether she’d care at all. “I don’t know that I can explain.”

  I get off the boat, approach Rita and extend my hand. “Thanks for your help today ... and for Metrozoo. It was a great idea.”

  “Oh,” she says, “wait a minute. Mr. Gomez gave me something for you.” She rushes off, goes to her car and returns with an envelope. “He said you’d know what to do with this.”

  Taking it, I nod, double it over, put it in my pocket. “Thank you again,” I say turning toward the boat.

  Rita doesn’t move. “Peter, couldn’t I possibly join you to see this house you were talking about? I mean I had fun with you today. I think you had a good time too.” She says no more, waits for my reply.

  I turn back. “I did have a good time,” I say, looking at her, thinking how long it’s been since I felt the warmth of another body pressed against mine. But I wonder about Rita’s motives. She’s human, ambitious, obviously well aware of the wealth that I control and an employee of my business — all good reasons to avoid entanglement with her. And then, of course, there’s Chloe. I just don’t want to hurt Rita’s feelings. If things work out, the woman could be very useful for me.

  “You went shopping with me today for a gift for another woman,” I say. “I’ll be leaving the country in a few months. If everything goes okay, I’ll be marrying that woman in a year or two. I’m just trying to be fair to you. ...”

  “Why don’t you let me decide what’s fair for me?” Rita steps closer to me. “No one’s looking to get married here.” She moves even closer, so our bodies almost touch.

  The scent of her perfume reminds me of jasmine. That, mixed with her natural scent, spiked with the slight hint of her sexual excitement and my four-year self-imposed abstinence, makes her almost irresistible. Hating my weakness, I put my hands on her hips, pull her the last few centimeters toward me and lean forward so my lips meet hers.

  Overhead the late afternoon sun burns down upon us. We ignore its heat, pay no notice to the caress of the sea breeze as it plays with our clothes and our hair.

  A couple, leaving their boat, walks by us, averting their eyes, giggling, whispering about our kisses and hugs loud enough to be heard. Rita tightens her embrace. “Screw them,” she murmurs.

  “Papa,” Henri mindspeaks. “Why is she still here? We’re not going to eat her, are we, Papa?”

  “No, we’re not,” I mindspeak, pulling back from Rita.

  “Good,” Henri says. “I like her.”

  “Me too.” Cocking my head toward the boat, I say out loud, “Look who’s up.”

  Rita smiles toward Henri, smooths her blouse, straightens her hair. “I guess no boat ride for me today, huh?”

  I shake my head. “Not today,” I say. “It’s probably for the best.”

  She shrugs, says, “Well, you know where to find me,” and walks away before I can say anything else.

  6

  I’m ready to be gone. I wake each morning anxious to rush through the day so the next day can come and go. I call Tindall so often, to ask whether all the arrangements have been made in Jamaica, that he finally growls, “For Christ’s sake, Peter, how hard do you think it is to hire a few house servants and an interior decorator? The house will be ready before you leave. Your Land Rover’s sitting in Kingston at the dealer. As soon as I hire your groundskeeper, I’ll have him pick it up.”

  Almost a week has passed since we went with Rita to the zoo and Henri continues to delight me with his progress around humans. I regret now that I set our departure date so far in the future. My boy already thinks nothing of being in any human crowd.

  The other day, I let him play with at least two dozen other kids at the Dadeland Mall, in one of those brightly painted inside playgrounds malls built to encourage parents to come waste their money. All went well until a little girl, a head taller than him, shoved Henri out of her way so she could use the slide first. I took a deep breath. A few weeks ago, her life might have been at risk. But, rather than bite or slash her, Henri just waited for her to come down the slide and stand before he shoved her and knocked her down. He flashed me a grin when she ran crying to her mommy and then, rather triumphantly, took his own turn at the slide.

  Henri follows me around the house today as I inspect each floor, try out each massive, wooden storm shutter, perform maintenance on the generators, wind turbines and solar panels that provide power for the island.

  “Papa?” he says, after I start to inventory the foodstuffs and materials kept in the storerooms and the walk-in freezer on the bottom floor. “When can we go to the mainland again?”

  “Not for a few days,” I say and go into the freezer — to count the remaining cow carcasses hanging on hooks — while Henri wanders from cell to cell on the floor. He swings the unlocked barred doors open and closed until I begin to grit my teeth at the screech of their hinges and the clang and rattle of metal slamming into metal.

  I resist scolding the boy. He has no knowledge of the poor souls who have been imprisoned in the dark bowels of our house or their sad endings. Certainly he knows nothing of the humans who betrayed me here or how close I came to my own death not so long ago.

  Henri joins me in the freezer, blowing puffs of air, smiling at the little clouds of cold they create as he watches me recheck the temperature setting and make notes on a pad. “Why are you doing this?” he says.

  “Because,” I say, prepared to leave that as the final answer.

  But my son frowns at me. “Papa, it’s not fair. You always say that. I’m a little kid. How can I learn anything if you don’t tell me?”

  I sigh and smile at the same time. Henri’s right. This question isn’t like the endless patter of questions he usually barrages me with like, “Why do clouds float? What’s inside dogs?” and, my favorite, “Why do I have to do what you say?”

  “We’re going to be in Jamaica a long time,” I say. “I’m making sure everything will be okay when we get back.”

  “Why do we have to go? I like it here.”

  “You’ll like it there too. Anyway, I want to see someone who lives there. She and I will like each other, I think.”

  “Are you going to marry her?”

  “I might.”

  “Is she going to be my new mommy?”

  I sigh again. That’s how it is with Henri. One question leads to another and the answer to that leads to another. “I don’t know, son. It depends on how she feels and how I feel and on how you feel about her.”

  Before he can ask another question, I say, “Come on, let me show you something special.” Taking his hand, I guide him out of the freezer.

  Henri giggles, says, “Your hand’s cold.”

  I lead the boy outside onto the veranda, to the massive oak door between the doors to his and my bedrooms. “Watch,” I say. Thinning my hand, I work it into a crevice on the side of the doorway, feel for the catch that will release the iron-sheaved crossbar that keeps the door closed. As soon as I find it, I push upward and am rewarded with a loud click.

  Withdra
wing my hand, letting it regain its shape, I shift the crossbar sideways until it engages an internal counterweight and pivots out of the way. I swing the door open. Warm air, smelling of mildew, oil, sulfur and must, flows out from the dark interior. Henri wrinkles his nose and backs up.

  Stifling a laugh, I say, “It’s okay, son. This is one of your grandfather’s arms rooms. Some of the things in there are very old.” I don’t tell the boy that I haven’t opened any of the four arms rooms that Father built into each corner of the house since the day of Elizabeth’s death.

  Mindful of the canisters of gunpowder stored in the room I wish now my laziness hadn’t prevented me from installing electric lights in each of the arms rooms. Motioning for the boy to stay outside, I go in, find a torch and take it outside, where I can light it in the open air. Once it’s burning, I carry it in, slip it into a metal sconce on the bare stone wall, far from any gunpowder. Then I say, “It’s okay, Henri, come here.”

  His eyes grow large as he examines the one ancient cannon in the center of the room, the flintlock pistols, muskets and blunderbuss rail guns stacked on every shelf, the lead canisters full of powder and the bags of shot and stacks of cannonballs. “Wow,” he says.

  Nodding, I pat the barrel of the lone cannon. Once there were two in this room, as there are two in each of the others. But the mate to this one lies in the harbor now, encrusted and overgrown with barnacles and coral, decaying, I hope, until one day there will be no trace of what it once was capable of doing.

  I look at my son, see the curiosity in his eyes. Before he can ask yet another, “Why?” I say, “Your grandfather brought all this to the island a long time ago. You know our kind can live a long time, don’t you, Henri?”

  The boy nods.

  I think of the ancient, wheezing creature my father became at the end of his life. Life can be so unjust. “Some of us, like your grandfather, live for centuries.”

  “How old are you, Papa?”

  It takes a moment for me to calculate. After all, for someone capable of maintaining any shape, able to manipulate his internal processes as well, age matters not a wit. The face I present to the outside world is that of a man in his late twenties. What does it matter that I’m far older? Among my own kind I’d still be considered young. “Sixty-two,” I say. “But, Henri, I don’t want you to ever repeat that to any human. It would just confuse them. Promise me.”