Audio is Female Hal
CHAPTER TWO
“If you want the past-look about you.”
With the dawn, remnants of a late-night rain departed. There was a thick moist denseness to the air, and the docks were slick from soaked wood and the green ooze that may appear and coat things after a damp night. The wet saturated everything, muffling lonely foghorn blasts coming from the harbor horn, the deep bass chord penetrating the haze from a few hundred yards distant. Coffee boiled. Wilson and his friends stared at one another across three feet of mahogany sole, scraping night’s dust from their eyes. Brooooooowwwww–Boooooooooooo, a constant interval repeating.
The Persephone’s varnished companionway was open, protected by an awning. Damp puddled here and there at her cockpit’s borders. Mist rose from the waters, drifting and becoming fog, making the Ferry dock appear deep and twisted old. Had it been the other end of the day, one might have conjured thoughts of water spirits and haunted pilings. But with morning, the scene was different — a stage curtain rising, the pilings about to lose their damp and dark, growing brighter with the sun’s first act, when a heating sun might burn away the clouds and fog. However, the strings were still warming up as Wilson sipped his coffee — strips of wispy damp caressing him until he rose, departing for a morning jog.
His first reaction had been—damn, how could they examine the high bluff cottages, well, with detail, in gloom and rain, already understanding enough of Daphne to realize that she would only observe for a few impatient seconds and then wish to leave, should the rain continue. And the weather seemed uncertain.
As he ran, a patch of expanding blue quarreled with wisps of cloud attempting to combine and extinguish it. Yet, by the time he reached the Grand, the sun was winning, rising in its eternal arc, in ascendance and leaving nothing left of gray except the drifting cloud-banks that held the bridge. A mass of billowing, ethereal moisture growing golden, pierced now by cream-colored suspension towers seeming to rise without foundation toward the sky.
The foghorns boomed from boats and from the fixed island lights. And as the morning’s first parade of ferries arrived, they entered through doors of haze until they sprang upon the Island less than a quarter mile away.
Beeeeeeeeee Braugh, the ferries EEEEEE and higher pitched. Island tunes, the clattered clomp of horses, the street cleaner’s wheeled carts squeaking...a horse’s neigh...clomp-clomp, clomp-clomp, with snare drum rhythms. Man, and island all awakening.
And past the Grand he ran—then by the large ‘cottages’ with their sensible and understated gingerbread. Well, at least compared to Daphne’s monstrous cluttered pictures. Some were white, some were graying, all porched and columned, with deck chairs waiting for their inhabitants to awake and command the view. He was certain Tim and Daphne would appreciate one of these. And then - problem solved.
Wilson stopped to look at a residence with repeating gables, a round shingled tower, and a lower round porch extending to a curved deck that wrapped the structure. This would work. He could copy, stretch, and add a walkout of foundation stone. Leave the interior spaces open, alter the loads, remove the columns from the center so not to block the great room’s view, and maybe do the whole dam thing in stone, like McCormick’s Riven Rock. Stone, shingles, and a copper cone—Copying this one, would provide Tim and Daphne with their ‘cottage’ mansion.
He knew where to get the stone, and Luigi could install it. Gray from Fond-du- Lac, a slate roof-dark gray green—But that would be a lot of money, probably add two, three hundred thousand to the cost, more if he got fancy with limestone. Was money an issue? She didn’t seem to care. Did he? Can’t tell, maybe or maybe not. Perhaps yesterday’s show was simply a game of husband and wife, for whatever reason, and perhaps having nothing to do with their new house at all. He had learned never to internalize and never to assume. The dynamics could be bizarre and strange. Anyway, like the growing bridge towers pushing up and rising in the fog, a house was also rising in his mind. Watch it…not too soon…she might not want this…she might want Mr. Potato Head.
God, I hope not, he thought, running back down the hill where the rickshaw black men used to ride. Past the golf course. Golf, a game he had played eventually, even if he had thought it silly at age four. But the forty-eight-year-old and the four-year-old had merged on this issue and he had again come to regard the game as silly. There was never such a game in which so many, so uncoordinated, played so badly. What had Mark Twain said? “A good walk spoiled.”
But no one was tossing clubs today. Through the arriving tourists...he ran...Already about their business of renting bicycles and signing up for carriage rides, “Island tours, Island tours,” the hawkers shouting, morning tourists walking, strolling, geeking, gawking. He ran by them too, past the commercial docks and then the Yacht Marina and more tourists descending from their yachts. Folks who did not need a ferry having come aboard their own.
Daphne was in the Stern; he saw no sign of Alicia, or Kenny on the Vixen — Slowing now and walking past. He stretched and greeted Daphne. Her face puffed from sleep and yesterday’s gin. She was chipper enough, though.
“What’s the schedule?” she questioned.
“We can go look whenever you guys wish,” he had said.
“Tim’s below-business.”
He heard first a “Damn”, and then a “Fuck”.
“When did you say? But I’m on Mackinac Island. OK, OK.”
Tim was coming up and out towards them, scowling and dressed for the Mediterranean.
“Shit- OK.”
He tossed the phone aside, facing the stern where Daphne sprawled and Wilson stood, staring back regarding this oddity, this too pretty for a man-man. Tim—In white pants, white socks, white shoes and a striped blue and white sailors’ jersey all topped off with, like a cherry on a sundae, a Greek fisherman’s cap. He laughed inside. Boy, this guy sure likes his costumes. Does he play golf? Of course, he does, poorly too, probably. Does he play in knickers?
In his mind’s eye, he could see the costume transforming from white to red with green socks, a pink shirt, and a black golf cap. Wilson shook off the apparition as Tim pocketed his cell phone and said, “We’re going to have to make this quick! Daphne, we’ve got to go, we’ll leave the boat. Pick her up next weekend. I’ll find some kid to watch her.” … “Well, Wilson, ready? Let’s hit it.”
Obviously, this must be important, or perhaps it was simply the way their relationship functioned, because Daphne, to Wilson’s surprise, made no protest. Where was the harpy of yesterday afternoon? Lost apparently. Daphne went below—returning in seconds with a bag.
“I’m ready. Are we walking?”
“It’s probably faster than a carriage,” said Tim. “I was going to get those folding bicycles out, see how they worked, not now… Lets go.”
So, it was up the hill again for Wilson.
“Did you bring a camera?” he asked Daphne. “I have mine.” Wilson gestured, pointing his camera towards the shore.
“No,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I like. You can send me pictures.”
Tim must have been in a hurry because he jumped out in front of them, almost running.
“We’ve got to make this quick.”…Twisting his wrist for the time... “I reserved a plane for an hour from now.”
So much for study and analysis. Don’t these people even care about this house? It’s going to cost millions. And the lot, well, it was worth a bunch on its own…all this to hurry, hurry, and race away?
Then they were on the bluff.
“Ok, Daphne, which one?” Tim looked at his watch again.
“Can’t you change the plane?” she said. “We are rushing it here.”
“Just pick what you like,” said Tim. “Wilson can make it work.” Turning to Wilson, “Can’t you?”
“Well, I guess,” said Wilson. “But it would be nice to know. Daphne, do you like that one with the porch or that one with the faux Byzantine thing on the side…That rounded onion turret?”
“Don’t like that,” she said.
They walked first west, then east, then west again, Tim constantly making himself obnoxious with his hurry.
“Ok,” she said. “That one.”
Amazing, she had picked-she was pointing at the one he liked, the best of the bunch. A Victorian with a long stately porch and only two dormers, a singular turret, the porch rounding the building at the corner to the west, with the roof a different pitch than the main body of the structure - less than half as steep.
“I like this one,” she said again, pointing at the entrance now.
“It’s the one I picked myself. That’s great.”
Wilson was feeling positive. This was a good sign. They agreed and with agreement, he could find direction.
“What do you think about a slate roof?”
“Sure, fine.” Daphne was now finished, and she looked away, back towards the Grand. Tim was paying no attention; he was looking at the bridge and ferries and then at his watch again. “OK…you guys have it? We’ll meet in two weeks. The planes are up the hill here,” pointing towards the woods. “Wilson, call us. Hey sorry, but you will have to get yourself home. Come on Daphne, let’s go.”
“What about the boat, my stuff?” she said.
“I called Kenny while you were talking. He and Alicia will take care of it.” And Wilson watched as his clients moved swiftly away and up the hill. Tim, a Mediterranean sailor. Daphne, still puffed gin.
Boy, these folks may be the weirdest ones yet, he thought as he turned toward the Grand and then headed back down the hill toward the Marina. ‘Shazam’ said the Demon. ‘Was that fast!’ But he had direction; at least he thought he did. Do I? ‘Sure, you do’, said his Demon.
Wilson wandered out to the Master Mind to gather his stuff. The boat was wide open with no sign of Alicia or Kenny. Weird, like one of those UFOs had just whisked the owner’s away—like in a movie, the scene where the coffee’s still boiling. Strange people-these…
The Robbins were headed North. In fact, they were just about to leave, waiting to say goodbye to him or not, if he did not show up in time.
“Well, I guess we can give you a lift across to Mackinaw City. But the wind’s South, it will be a beat. Take the morning, probably.”
“Don’t bother, have fun, enjoy your trip. I’ll grab a ferry.”
So, Wilson found himself schlepping his bag out to the ticket man, to travel back across the straits of Mackinac. Should he go fast or slow, racing catamaran, or old time Ferry? He picked the old, and just in time because she was leaving, her name Jennifer, rusted on her stern. He stretched and found a place on the metal bench; looking first toward the fort and then towards the mainland as he and the ferry departed leaving the scent of fudge and the clomp of horses behind.
It would be a hitchhike home, great! You’re almost fifty, live in a 4000 square foot house of creative beauty owned by you, and the bank, and you are still hitchhiking. But as he approached the highway, a belching rattletrap wreck of a truck pulled up next to him—Its bed filled with barking, yapping, leaping dogs.
“Shut up now, you hear! Shut up!”
It was Dean. One of the Northern Michigan ‘uniques’ who sometimes worked for him. Dean, the past and former drunk. Dean, the now born again. So born again that he should have had a Christian magic wand—One that he could wave, and raise, and lower, instead of talking. Why, just wave the magic wand, baptizing everyone, everywhere, and everything, with halos, instead of words.
“Wilson, what are you doing? You…you, you, you’re hitchhiking.”
“I used to do it all the time.”
“I’ll give you a lift,” said Dean.
And Wilson took it, aware that his ears were going to hate him, stepping into the dog dank confines of the truck. “You know Dean, a little more odor control and a little less God would be just alright here, just alright.” And, not to his surprise, he learned over the next hour that… Yep, God-The big planner, that God. Well, he was still here, Dean was sure of it, watching over Dean and all the sinners too, which Wilson took to include himself.
Dean found the turn, then roared down the final dirt of Wilson’s drive, producing a dusty cloud, choking the trees behind them, and stopping with a sideways skid…the dogs yelping, turning back and forth, crowded together in the pickup’s little bed.
“Shut up, Lie down.”
There had been no trouble finding the way. Dean had helped build the house. The guy could do beautiful finish work these days—of course he could do it just as well when he was a drunk, if he showed up. And Dean was a lot nicer to be around back then, less preachy and certain of himself. Back when Wilson would find him and Ron on the other side of the house, rolling around in the dirt, punching on each other, fighting in the mud. And he having to break it up. Hell, then they would just go back to work as if nothing had happened. Except Ron Yelling “You smell, take a shower, you smell like dogs.”
Well, Dean only faintly smelled of dogs today. His God must be a personal disinfectant, thought Wilson, but a disinfectant that did not extend to Dean’s truck. Apparently, God didn’t own a car wash. “Hey,” said Wilson, now finally able to get a word in ahead of God.
“Are you working?”
“Yep, always working, my work, the lord’s work, always working.”
Dean spat some tobacco juice on the gravel.
“I’ve got a job about to start. Want to give me a hand?”
“You know, I always like working for you, you’re the best, you care.” Said Dean, spitting again. This was nice to hear, even if it came from such a ‘messenger’.
“Call me in a couple of weeks. I’m about to start one. Should be two years’ work.”
“You know, that might work out. I’m finishing up some maintenance on Dad’s. Roof was leaking. Two weeks, sure…Will do.”
Wilson watched and waved as Dean jumped into his truck…Shouting at the dogs now... “Shut Up, shut up you darned Mutts”.
Wilson smiled, realizing that Dean had caught himself just in time before the “darn” had become a “damn”. The pickup, Dean and dogs, departed with a harrumphing, coughing, clatter, spinning gravel… a ‘Jesus is Lord’ sticker on the bumper, behind the briefly silenced, barking, yapping dogs.
Perhaps some Mahler, the Sixth, with its torment and joy to counter Dean and his dogs. He heads inside past the blond oak stairs, past the planters and the Corian kitchen...fiddles with the stereo and loads the CD. It booms soulfully. He pours a couple ounces of whiskey, takes a sip, then ambles out to the deck. There is no other house in sight. The view is perfect…his view, the bank’s view, the first and second mortgages’ view. Wilson sits high in trees full of summer’s green and watches the play of light and shadow, as their leaves and branches flutter and sway in a rising afternoon breeze. Real estate fellows have urged him to cut them down - a constant repeated summer selling refrain. For three years now, he has listened and ignored.
“They want the water; they want the water. If you want to sell, you must show them the water.”
It was against the zoning laws to remove trees, one hundred feet from the shore. These were near that limit. He could thin them high, leaving only tops, but that was really cheating, bending rules. Not that he gave a shit about rules, but the branches would stay for now... for yet another summer... their leaves too pretty...fluttering above him on his deck... peering out forty feet high or more into their privacy. No, he thought, sitting there high amongst them. Someone will have my taste, once cut they are gone forever! It would be alright. He had a job again to pay for it all. Already he was starting to imagine the new house, again and for the second time, parts of it emerging in his mind’s eye. Boy, he sure had liked that first plan.
Eighty feet below he could make out the blue, and a beach, and to the south, his little sloop. He was partnered with the bank on this, too. Mahler marched in rhythm with the sparkles on the water. Wilson thought he might go sailing. A breeze, his boat, he could think of houses equally well while sailing. He dumped the rest of the whiskey off the deck and headed down the hill, leaving Mahler playing.