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  Immediately a return message:

  Rozmer is away at a week-long training. My presence in this house is unwelcome. Today I found two crow feathers and a red mitten planted beneath the basketball net. Red and black. My arrest is imminent.

  Then before she can consider a response—and what the hell response might there be to such a message?—another email:

  Flies will gather around the wound. The wound is your own dark hole. I have to relocate immediately. I'm going to ask Marna if I can stay with her until the danger passes.

  If Mark were using drugs, calling her for money, she'd have the right to go into the monastery, wouldn't she? But now he is sick, sick and clean, heading toward the beyond, and it's looking as if this long time of calm is over. He is her son, not Marna's. She clicks on Reply:

  My number is (546) 342-6721. Call collect if you need to. Do not call Marna. Love, Mom

  She takes the phone out on the deck. Two o'clock: Marna will be at work, but she can leave a message on her machine. "Give Mark my number if he calls. I'm going to try to get him to go to the hospital. I'll call you around six." The phone doesn't ring. She waits. The phone doesn't ring. The gulls scream and settle. Scream and settle.

  Finally at 5:45, the ring comes. "I'm at the Quickway on Main. I can't talk long because they're tracing my calls. I've moved out of Rozmer's. I've got all my stuff. Could you work it out with Marna for me to stay at her house for a few days? Maybe they won't find me there."

  "Mark, I think the best thing is for you to come down here where you'll be safe, where you can walk on the beach and get some quiet rest. Richard is not here. He's undergoing treatments for the prostate cancer and he won't be back until the end of the month."

  There's a long silence, except for the sound of traffic. "Mark?"

  "I'm thinking," he says. "Six red cars just went by. Listen, surely nobody believes this WMD horseshit? Oil, this is about oil. And kicking Saddam's ass. Eight red cars in five minutes. Proof enough for me."

  "Mark, I think this is a good place for you to be. You'll be away from all that."

  "Nobody's ever going to be away from all that ever again. But, yes," he says, "Crystal Key. Maybe for now they won't know I'm there."

  "But Mark, I am only going to arrange the bus ticket, the taxi ride from Gainesville, if you're willing to let Marna take you to the Crisis Center to be admitted for a week or two until the world becomes less dangerous, until it will be less frightening on the bus." There's a banging right next to her ear. "Mark?"

  "I am not going to the hospital. I am not going to go back on meds. Zombie out and get fat and diabetic and lose all my teeth like those people in the halfway house—why I left there to go stay with Kerry in Portland in the first place. They'll commit me, zap me full of Thorazine, ship me off to Langston Psych."

  "I think Crystal Key is a safe, quiet place for you. Your room has its own deck and bathroom, its own entry with locks on both the doors. The Gulf is only a few feet away."

  "What about the crows?"

  "A beautiful white egret comes to beg food every day." Another long silence. "All right."

  "You will let Marna take you to Crisis for an evaluation? You'll let them admit you if they think it will help you feel more safe?"

  "Yes."

  "Then just before you're discharged, I'll arrange the bus ticket to Gainesville, the taxi ride here. I'm going to call Marna now. Don't go anywhere. Call me back in fifteen minutes."

  "I need a cigarette."

  "I'll arrange for Marna to buy you a carton." She dials Marna. Having Mark come to Crystal Key for a few weeks is better than her going home. Mark could not stay at Richard's when he's discharged. Probably he wouldn't even go to Crisis without the lure of the Gulf.

  Marna answers. Of course she's willing to pick him up and take him to Hillside. She'll bring Luke along for moral support. She'll buy a carton of the right kind of cigarettes at the cheap smoke shop. Once he's been admitted, she'll call. Not to worry, Marna tells her, sometimes you have to wait for hours before the Crisis people even get to you, but of course she knows all that. "Yes," Marna says, "this seems like a good plan. He's not drugging. That's the main thing."

  At 6:45 the phone rings. "Marna's here. She's going to take me to Hillside. She said to tell you she'll call you later. Could you email Rozmer at his workshop and arrange to get my March money? Tell him to come visit me when he gets back. I know what you're going to do now, Mom. Luke says hello."

  GREYHOUND TICKET CENTER:

  MARWICK, NY, TO GAINESVILLE, FL

  Departs Arrives Duration Transfers Carrier Schedule

  06:05 am 10:45 am 1d, 4h, 40m 2 PHK0705

  07:55 am 08:55 pm 1d, 13h, 0m 2 ADT0107

  12:50 pm 09:15 pm 1d, 8h, 25m 3 ADT0136

  Yellow Cab: 775-2460, $75.00 from Gainesville to Crystal Key

  The "transport loom," as Mark calls it, calms her. Now she knows there's a way for him to get here that's manageable. Next she clicks on "Musician's Friend" and orders the same inexpensive acoustic bass and practice amp Mark has had her order several times before. The same drum pad and sticks. A Spalding leather basketball. Express delivery. So important for Mark to have something to do that he cares about. And, what the heck, she orders Pumas too. No doubt he'll arrive down and out. She is going to have to tell Richard, but not until Mark actually steps out of that taxi, since of course he may not arrive at all. But if he does, no matter what Richard says or even if he makes no response, the message will be, He calls; you jump.

  She keeps the phone in her pocket as she gets the room she's been using as her studio ready for Mark. She brings down a chaise lounge and opens it out on what will be Mark's deck. She sits in it and sees what Mark will see: the ibises' ribbon of flight going out to the island for the night, the last sun flashing off their white wings. What she wants to hear more than anything else is Marna's voice saying, He's been admitted. By nine o'clock she's transferred all her materials and paintings out to the garage. Surely Marna will call any minute. She arranges clean blue towels on the rack behind the toilet and pulls the shower curtain so the magnets grip along all the edges, then checks the room again to make sure there's nothing red and nothing black. No weird numbers like 666 on any of the decor.

  Dark now. Back in the balcony, she doesn't think she'll be able to sleep, but she stretches out on the bed anyway, the phone right by her ear. She moves her hand over to Richard's side; his warm, sweet body is not there.

  The phone. Ten o'clock. It takes her a few seconds to find it under the pillow.

  "Del? Mark is here at my house. He's sleeping. He's doing okay. Hillside would not admit him."

  "They wouldn't admit him?"

  "They said he did not appear to be a danger to himself or others. They did not have any beds and they didn't think it warranted transporting him to Albany. Of course they wouldn't let me go in for the evaluation and they wouldn't tell me much, but from what I've gathered from spending the last few hours with him, he's able to completely veil the psychotic symptoms. No weird images whatsoever to me. Other than being incredibly thin, he seems normal. Still handsome. Maybe a bit piercing, the look in his eyes, but he seldom looks at me straight on. I don't remember him ever doing a lot of that."

  "No," she says. "And what does he say about Florida?"

  "He says if you'll let him, he wants to take the bus. Tomorrow, if you can put it together. He says he thinks it will be the best thing for him to do. And Del, when I asked him about the drugging, he did look at me and he says he has not used for four months. I believe him."

  She breathes and presses her hand against her head. "There's a bus at twelve fifty tomorrow. Thirty-two hours and three transfers. One of them in New York. What do you think?"

  "It breaks my heart to look at him. So thin and lost. Harder for me to be tough with Mark than it is with my own son. Maybe that's because I know I'm not going to wake up in the morning with my TV set gone."

  "Let me think for a minute," she says. Sh
e gets up. The Gulf sky is full of stars, the Milky Way, a streak of light. "Can you put him on the bus tomorrow at twelve fifty? I'll call in the morning once I get it arranged. How's Luke?"

  She sits on the deck all morning once everything is set. She's too jumpy to do anything but watch the tide going out. 1:05. The phone rings. "I just put him on the bus," Marna says.

  Her shoulders let down. "In about thirty-five hours he'll be here. If he doesn't do some kind of drug deal in New York with the hundred dollars of food money."

  "I'm pretty sure he's not going to do that." Marna laughs. "Because he's got a guardian angel with him. Are you ready for this, Del?"

  "No." No, she is not.

  "He comes out of the bus station looking jubilant. He puts his duffel underneath. He comes and gives me a hug. Then he takes Luke's leash. 'I've got a pass to take Luke on the bus. American Disability Act. Richard's not at the condo and I'm sure my mom won't mind. Think of it, Luke and I playing take-away along the beaches of the Gulf. Thanks for everything,' he says, and he gets on the bus, with Luke, his service dog, heeling all the way. Waves to me until the bus turns the corner and disappears. What an artist."

  Del stands on Mark's deck, leans over the rail. Low tide. The sand spit reaches the closest island. She can almost see them: Luke leaping for the orange Frisbee sailing through the last glow.

  31 : Chant

  THERE IT IS AGAIN: watching him. Same exact spot on the railing by his door every morning. The crow with the fucked-up leg. If he even blinks, that crow knows. Its black eye always turned toward the slit between the curtains. He could pin that slit closed, but then the crow would know even more. Of course they would pick a crow with a crippled leg to be their envoy: their black agent of doom. We know where you are.

  Slowly, not to make a sound, she slides the screen to the deck open. A black bird whirs by, startles her. Both of them caught spying, Mark would say. It disappears into the palm trees. Please not that same crow again or she'll have to hear a thousand nonstop words about the goddamned thing the next time Mark permits contact. Without meds, what if he never comes out of this; what if the delusions go on and on? Another week and she'll be as bonkers as he is.

  With the bird no longer watching, Mark opens the leather notebook again. Black. Of course black.

  Christmas 1977

  Dear Mark,

  Because this is the first Christmas since your father left us, we'd like to give you and Aaron some thoughts to remember about him—some nice, amusing, and happy things…

  Left us. You bet. His grandparents gave Aaron a notebook exactly like this, except of course, his was maroon. Black and red. This notebook that he was sure was lost, but there it was right on top of a box in the barn when he was searching for Aaron's map. Right there on top of the box where they'd put it. Where they knew he couldn't miss it when he came back.

  She leans forward just enough to peer down through the top deck's floorboards for Mark's dark head sticking out like a turtle. The sparkling Gulf fifteen feet away and the only time he opens his door is for a cigarette and then click, clack, both locks lock and he disappears back into that dark room. All night long too, that clicking and clacking. But at least he isn't smoking inside. The condo owners were steely about that.

  He pushes the notebook behind the TV. Then he steps over Luke, moves away from his wheezing snores, and goes into the closet. Turns out it's the best place to hear what's going on upstairs. His mother was definitely walking around in the living room, but he can't hear her now. So much less chance of having to talk if he can time his cigarettes for when she's inside or out in the garage painting. Those are the best times because even if she doesn't actually creep down from her deck through the narrow opening, backwards, step by step on the steep stairs, to try to cheer him up or get him to eat a banana, he can always feel her concern tensing his air.

  He checks the phone: tone sounds normal, but have to be careful because it's probably bugged. He checks the door: both locks are set. Too bad no smoking inside, but his mother is dug in on that one. If she smells smoke, well, it wouldn't be worth it. He pulls the curtain enough to make a quick check both ways down the beach. Empty, tides splashing the flood wall. Every time he has to lean out into the world, he risks being seen. Those two guys by the water tower last night, chances are good they're the same men from the bus station.

  ***

  From the far end of the deck she sees Mark and Luke jogging in the distance, running in and out of the water. High tide. She gets the phone and brings it out to the deck so she can keep track of them. No Frisbee, but Luke is tearing around, bounding into the waves and then the brown dash of him returns. Two weeks since Mark arrived and virtually disappeared from view, but maybe, maybe, maybe this venture out in the light of day means something.

  She gets Richard's machine, his "be brief" message. Richard's machine is set up so that if you aren't brief, it cuts you off. "I'm doing okay. Painting and riding my bike. Looks like it's warm and sunny in Danford too. Have you heard the geese yet? I'll call back tonight." Richard has made no reference to Mark since she emailed him two weeks ago explaining her reasons for having Mark come to Florida after all.

  "Here's the big question for you, Luke: Why is everyone trying desperately to hang on to his own twisted concept of reality?" Luke looks back at him, his ears raised, his head cocked to the side. "That's why you're the best—you know to just let me talk. It's stressful when she puts up resistance. Even if she doesn't say anything, her eyes get that 'I don't believe you' glaze."

  Mark wades into the water. "Got to thank her for the beach sandals though, ehh. Am I cool or what?" He scoops up a handful of water and drizzles it over Luke's head. "Okay, here's the other question: Why is everyone trying so desperately to grasp hold of someone else's twisted concept of reality?"

  This time Luke keeps right on going. "Yeah, you're right. Enough of this bullshit."

  At that Luke picks up a long stick of driftwood and carries it high, his tail a proud flag all the way to the condo.

  "Okay, I'm going to do what you say, Luke, and give Rozmer a call."

  Mark bends down a little so he can unlock the door without taking the shoelace-keyholder from around his neck. Little trick he learned from Careful Charlie and he hasn't locked himself out once since he got to Crystal Key.

  Luke hangs by the garage: Let's go play some more.

  "Yeah, we are going back. Take your moms for the surprise in a minute, but something we have to do first." He pulls the leather notebook from its hiding place and sticks it and the phone in the pocket of his shorts. He and Luke go out on the deck. He unfolds the canvas chair, another cool gift. Sits in it for the first time and puts his feet up on the rail. "Getting it together," he tells Luke, who settles in the shade behind the open door.

  He flips the notebook to the right page, lights a cigarette, and dials Rozmer's number. If he gets Rozmer's wife, well, probably he'll hang up. If he gets his machine, well, maybe he'll go ahead and read this to him anyway and then call again later. He hears his mother's steps overhead.

  She leans on the rail, watches Mark's feet beating out some tune against the boards below, feet that have been beating since he was a little boy. How I learned to drum, he's told her, every night in bed, I moved my feet.

  "Hey," he calls up. "I'm just trying to get Rozmer. Stick around. Might be of interest to you as well," he says. "Then Luke and I have something we want to show you down by that abandoned houseboat."

  Stick around? Definitely a new one. Now he's quiet. Probably listening to Rozmer's Word for the Day.

  Rozmer's machine picks up. Mark leans in close. "'The presentation of one's story is a magic ritual that keeps the beast within under control, kind of an incantation that affords protection from evil.' Hey, buddy, if this is you and you don't want to leave a message, keep calling, I'm bound to pick up sooner than later."

  "Rozmer. Something I want to read to you. It's from a notebook my grandparents gave me and Aaron in 1977, th
e Christmas after our father died. Introduction says they wanted to leave us with some happy memories. I've been reading it for the first time. Took me twenty-five years to get to it. Ready?

  When your father was about 10 months old, he was very imitative of sounds of every sort. He would laugh or cough exaggeratedly when anyone else did, and make a throaty noise to copy any motor sound, even the vacuum cleaner or the water pump. He was something of a clown, too. Before he could walk, he often raised up on all fours, legs stiff and head on the floor, looking back between his legs, sometimes picking up toys and playing with them in his hands with his head and feet as his 3-point anchor.

  "More to follow. Grist for the incantation as you say. I'm not quite ready to give out the number here and since it's unlisted it won't be on your ID. But I'll be in touch. The noise in the tunnel's only coming through one speaker now. Haven't seen the crow in a couple of days. Earth to Gabe. How are you doing, buddy?"

  The tide is so high they have to go by the road part of the way.

  "Don't worry," Mark says, "it's something that'll make you happy."

  Luke is in and out of the water. Every now and then checking back to make sure they're still with him.

  Hot. Pelicans glide by high over their heads, for a moment blot out the sun. Here and there they detour around patches of gooey tar. No cars. Only a few people stretched on deck chairs by the Gulf Motel pool. Two men fish off the bridge, one with a baby in a carrier on his back. A great blue heron sits on the rocks, watches the fishing lines as they reel them in. The roof of the ravaged houseboat comes into view just below the sea wall.