In the early years Red was gone in the navy, and then he spent all his time on Gorda, and Mother never managed well alone. Her wealthy family had turned their backs on her when she married a penniless navy man, and she struggled to manage a household without servants. Her books were scattered around the house and her art covered the walls, and if there were dust bunnies the size of jackrabbits roaming the house, it mattered little to her. She could be so fun and laughing, so shining and beautiful, and then suddenly plummet into the depths of a depression that closed out everyone else. Maddy, Pit, and I did our best to avoid her when she was having one of her “bad days.”
She wanted me to go with her to the beach that day. It was a Saturday, and I wanted to stay home and play with Pit and our friend Molly, who lived next door. They were planning on taking Pit’s skiff across the river and up what we called Mosquito Creek to a spot where there were lots of polliwogs and baby frogs. But my mother insisted I go with her. She was having one of her bad days, and often when she was depressed, she just wanted to get out of the house. Once away, either she wouldn’t talk or she would complain. I hadn’t wanted to listen to her go on about my brothers or Red, so I sulked but went along.
In the car, I sat in the backseat. I’d relived that day so many times in my mind, tried to take it back, do it differently. But on that day, I wouldn’t look at her as we walked out onto the beach.
We settled on our blanket, and I stretched out on the farthest edge.
“Will you swim with me?” she asked after several minutes.
I shook my head. She was talking to me, but I wouldn’t listen.
“Honey,” she said, taking off her sunglasses, revealing the dark circles beneath her penetrating eyes. “Sey, please try to understand.” I buried my nose in my book and flipped my hair over my shoulder.
She reached out and touched the part at the crown of my head, then gently slid her fingers down the strands to rest on the bare brown skin of my shoulder: Her voice was quiet when she spoke.
“Seychelle, will you ever forgive me?”
Getting it all wrong, thinking she meant just that day and making me leave Pit and Molly, I stared at her wrapping myself in preadolescent self-righteousness, and said, “No.”
I pretended to ignore her when she stood and walked into the water. I remember noticing, though, that she was wearing her beach shoes, purple sandals with garish pink plastic flowers over the toes, which she usually kicked off onto the blanket. I knew there was something wrong about that, and I remembered thinking, I don’t care.
I didn’t see her again until the people on the beach started running down to the tide line and I got up to see what the commotion was all about. I pushed my way through the crowd, already feeling the coldness staving off the sun’s warmth. The first thing I saw was the white foot beneath the pink plastic flowers, then this blond lifeguard trying to blow life back into her body.
Yesterday I hadn’t been there for Neal or Patty Krix. Not in time. And just like Maddy said, I’d never ever spoken about what happened that day because even though everyone kept telling me that it wasn’t my fault, I always felt deep down inside that Maddy was right.
When I got back to Lightnin’, I pulled out onto A1A and headed north toward Lauderdale. The more I turned things over in my mind, the more questions I came up with. I couldn’t just let it alone. It was like one of those persistent little leaks in the boat that would continue to nag me until I solved the problem of where it was coming from. Much as I was ticked off about the mess that had been made of my cottage, I knew that Neal had to be in a hell of a bad fix if he didn’t think he could come to me and just ask for my help. Was he that hurt, scared, angry? In fact, maybe it was a signal, maybe he was asking for help in his own way. I was determined not to miss any more signals. I wasn’t really conscious of having made a decision when I turned onto Seventeenth, but when I pulled into the parking lot of the Top Ten Club, I figured that if I asked around, found out a little more about Patty Krix, I might understand what had happened out there and help both Neal and me out of this mess.
It was lunchtime, and the parking lot was about half full. The cars were much fancier than I would have guessed: Lincolns, BMWs, Infinitis. I’d always thought these places were full of frat boys and solitary raincoat wearers. Did businessmen really have power lunches while looking at naked women? The idea made me laugh out loud.
I waved off the valet parking attendant and parked my Jeep out back by the dumpsters, where I didn’t think anybody would notice the clearly out-of-place vehicle. I walked around to the front door feeling the eyes of the jocular hail-fellow-well-met business guys in dark suits taking in my casual dress and my aloneness. I squared my shoulders, which after years of competition swimming and lifeguard paddling were rather broad, stood at my full height, and dared the little parking attendant with my eyes. He didn’t say a word as I passed.
Aside from the fact that there were ten stark-naked women around on brilliantly lit stages, dancing to an old Bee Gees tune, the restaurant didn’t really look much different from other franchise restaurants across America. It had the standard booths, tables, and bar. The tacky decor, in red and gold, was supposed to look better in the subdued lighting. Oversize lava lamps graced either end of the bar, looking like elongated, transparent female torsos. Lots of reproductions of oil paintings hung on the walls from the days when painters liked their models to have a bit more meat on their bones, when round bellies and fleshy thighs were thought as lovely as big breasts. The waitresses wore gold lamé bodices that revealed plenty of cleavage, frilly tutu-like skirts, and fishnet stockings. The lunch rush was over, and no more than half the tables were occupied. Every single customer in the place was male.
A short, muscular Latino guy wearing a gold tank top stood just inside the door. His black hair stood up in a spiky crew cut, shiny with gel, and though his eyes were hidden behind dark shades, I could feel him looking me over. I headed straight for the bar, feeling awkward, but none of the customers paid the least attention to me. The tables were clustered in groups of four around the raised stages, and the men sat transfixed. Most of the dancers wore nothing but garters, under which they had bunches of bills. Periodically, one of the men would reach out and add to their collections. If there was conversation going on among the patrons, it was indicated only by heads cocked to the side. The men didn’t look at one another.
At the bar I ordered a Corona from the bartender, who had the most enormous bosom I had ever seen. Her metallic bodice looked stiff as fiberglass, like it had been molded over a couple of Patriot missiles. I was sure it took some pretty advanced engineering to provide support for that. When she brought me the beer, I waved off the glass and squeezed the lime straight into the cold bottle.
“So what brings you in here?” she asked as she replaced the glass in the rack overhead. “I guess it’s not the entertainment.”
I smiled. “No, you’re right there. I’m looking for anybody who knew a girl named Patty Krix.”
She squinted at me. “Well, now, I don’t think you’re a cop. Besides, they’ve already been here. Sent over some gorilla. Wanted to know about both Patty and the boss.” She shivered, and her cleavage undulated the way a dead jellyfish does when you poke it with a stick. “Like I can tell them anything on him they don’t already have in their files.”