1
There are things we believe because they are true and there are things we believe because we need them to be true, but we treat each with the same sureness.
The charter sailboat Magic struggled to find the wind as she came about after spotting a pod of lolling dolphins. Her mainsail flapped in the unsettled breeze and then billowed taut and smooth with the golden mist of sunset. Andrew Keller munched on toasted almonds that had been out of the bag far too long. His eyes tracked the sailboat and the five country flags that fluttered on her mast. It glided past the end of my dock and out toward the mouth of the channel, where her passengers would witness the sun dip out of the cloud-blotched sky and into the emerald sea. Then it would come about again and drift home, a silent vessel sliding through the night.
“You know,” he said, running his tongue over his lower lip, “youth is the kingdom of our days. And when you screw it up, you learn that the ache of your mistakes is greater than the joy of your accomplishments.”
Andrew never shied away from greeting card prose. When he spoke, the world slipped its grip on reality, the stars twinkled a little closer. Or maybe it was the booze talking, for the stale smell of liquor had chaperoned him into the house. We sat in my screened porch, witnessing the day fade into a deep blue. It would soon be dotted with pinhole lights that winked from across the bay. His sullen gaze wandered over the motionless water. He looked shrunken. Deserted. As if he’d revealed a tender treasure that had been enshrined in his heart, but his Magi gift had elicited no response from his stone-eared companion. His vulnerabilities exposed, he had no choice but to curl up inside, chastising himself and remembering next time to swallow his words instead of sharing them.
He snatched the last of the almonds and tossed them in his mouth. He took another slurp of the midshelf grocery store wine someone had gifted me, propped his feet on the clean glass table, and continued with his lamentation, vulnerabilities be damned.
“My greatest desire became my greatest failure. Tell me if I’m wrong here—but muffing a lay-up at twenty is a little different than an airball at eighty. Youthful mistakes are like throwing a pebble on a still pond—the anguish ripples forever.”
“That’s a boatload of metaphors.”
“Tip of the iceberg, buddy. Tip of the iceberg.”
Andrew and I served together in the army, and he’d made an admirable solo effort to keep in touch over the years. He’d called and said he was in town and would like to drop by. He lived about an hour south of me. I’d suggested a bar, but he wanted to see my pad. I always felt a tinge of pity for Andrew. His efforts to endear himself to me had been both genuine and irritating. During our time together defending Lady Liberty, I’d taken him under my wing, displaying a paternal instinct I didn’t know I possessed and that hadn’t bothered to surface since.
My baffling altruism toward him stemmed from his painful misplacement in the armed forces. Andrew, who’d never exhibited an ounce of athleticism, had as much business slinging a rifle over his shoulder as I did explaining stitch markers to the Pass-a-Grille knitting club. A soulful person, prior to enlisting Andrew had composed music for his own band and planned a career in the invisible art. Something had chased him into the army. Something undisclosed and manacled deep within him. His time in the service was a self-imposed prison term. He served it with sober dignity and steely resolve that garnered admiration while never once betraying the tragic poem that lay within or what dark Baskerville hound nipped at his heels.
“Beautiful view,” he said. “Got a woman in your life?”
“I do. A cat as well.” The silence that followed disclosed his noninterest in both his question and my response. It was an opening for me to offer a conciliatory remark, but I was unable, or unwilling, to step forth.
The rank odor of low tide sickened the air. I took in an appreciative breath and followed it with a sip of whiskey, thinking of how to absolve myself for my decision not to offer Andrew a courteous invitation to stay for dinner. Kathleen wouldn’t be home until close to eight, as she taught a late class on Tuesdays. She’d be beat, and I didn’t want Andrew moping around when she staggered through the door. I felt bad about that but shrugged off the momentary remorse. I took another sip of whiskey, its tangy liquid smoke promising a rhapsody it could never deliver.
Andrew scooted up in his chair and placed his feet on the ground. “You remember that time we binged on Gladiator and Spartacus?”
“I do,” I said with a noncommittal nod. “What brings you to town again?”
He’d been vague when he called. Andrew was the Sofa King of Sarasota and had mentioned that he was in downtown Saint Pete for a meeting.
The Sofa King of Sarasota.
It was impossible to flip through the channels without witnessing his act. His royal robes, rouged cheeks, and ridiculously fake crowns. Women dressed as court attendants sang silly jingles—catchy little ditties—that got seared into your mind. Broyhill, La-Z-Boy, Thomasville. You name it, the king has it. Only the king can deliver the best furniture to your door at the cheapest price. Six locations in Tampa Bay. Visit us today. For his signature signoff, he’d beam into the camera as two winged-hat-wearing court jesters sounded their trumpets. “The king promises you a new life. Sale ends Sunday!”
We like to believe that we pick our careers, but I’m not so sure. Andrew’s shtick, like his days in the army, was an act. Andrew Keller had never found his spot in the world, or if he had, he’d been savagely rejected.
The Sofa King of Sarasota said, “Truth is, Jake, I was blowing a little smoke. There’s another reason I wanted to see you.”
“Oh?”
He leaned forward in his chair. “I heard that after the service you got into a little PI work.”
“Peace instigator?”
He arched his eyebrows.
“I locate stolen boats for insurance companies.”
“Close enough,” he said. “The thing is, I screwed up. Twenty years ago.”
“If you have trouble with the law, I’m not your guy.”
“Oh no.” He scrunched his face. “Nothing like that. I’ve come clean. Set the record straight. Unloaded the guilt.”
He clanked his empty glass on the table. A dolphin blew, sounding like the quick draw of a saw through a thin piece of plywood. A great blue heron descended with flapless wings and disappeared behind the seawall and into the fertile hunting grounds of the shallow water. It was close to a full moon, and soon the earth’s satellite would electrify the bay with a million white rose petals gleaming in the night.
“Remember what I said about messing up when you’re young?” he asked.
I nodded.
“I didn’t kiss the girl.”
“Man’s greatest sin.”
“And no greater one, my friend. Elizabeth Phillips, although she is now Elizabeth Walker.” He hesitated, as if the very mention of her name hushed the night. Dimmed the moon. “I met her in a church stairwell after a concert. I was out of college and she was in her last year of grad school.” He spoke deliberately, measuring his words, as if deciding what to leave in and what to leave out. “She was engaged to some guy who was on the road a lot. We started spending time together. She didn’t mind my motormouth. Accepted me for who I was.”