nocturnal wanderings. She sat at the desk and looked back at him, the blur of her eyes sea green. Now he knew. She was the woman on the underwater reef in his recurring dream, submerged in Neptune’s murky cobalt closet, a wealth of seaweed wreathed in her hair, white body pierced by fish slipping through thighs. He moved toward her between the cages with a newly acquired heaviness in his legs. Not easy for a bull to swim beneath the sea.
St. Cloud made his way to the desk, clung to its edge like it was the side of a life raft. He struggled to get one more trick out of his bag before he drowned. “Can I see you? I must see you. I must talk to you.”
“Y’all are seeing me.” She straightened in her chair, pushing away from the desperate pleading in his voice.
“I don’t mean here. I mean after you get off. I mean tonight. Where do you live?”
“I live on a lane called love.” She observed him warily, the fluorescent tubes above cast a cool light over her aloofness. “Do y’all know Love Lane?” She threw the question out unexpectedly, as if sensing the drowning man before her would go under without something to buoy him up. “It does sound corny, but it’s true. Love Lane’s behind the library. Key West is filled with funny little lanes with cute names.”
St. Cloud leaned toward her from the edge of the desk, then pulled back, afraid of getting in over his head. The breeze of the air-conditioner touched up the fall of her brown hair, exposing the sides of her face, slender bones pressed an indentation like inverted quarters of the moon at the top of each cheek. “I live on Catholic Lane.” He spoke the words slowly, struggling to put more distance between himself and the green drowning pools. “If we can only get the two lanes end to end we could make one long street of Christian Love.”
She wasn’t buying his clumsy trickery. “When does a lane become a street? I moved down here from Georgia, up there we have Main Streets and Second Avenues. No matter how small the town, or little the streets get, they never become lanes.”
“A lane becomes a street when a pier becomes a bridge.”
“What do y’all mean by that?”
“James Joyce, a writer, said a pier is a disappointed bridge.”
“I’m not disappointed with my little lane. I’m very happy there. A place of my own where I come and go as I please. I hope my littlelane never becomes a street, that would be too busy and complicated. I don’t want complications on my lane.”
“Even if it becomes a street of brotherly love and kisses?”
“I’ve got all the love and kisses I need.”
“Who are you saving them for?”
“Why … my dog, of course.” The surface of her green eyes rippled with ridicule at his awkward approach. “I’m saving up forty dollars a week to buy him.”
“Maybe your dog will be the adventurous type and want to take a walk on the wild side of Catholic Lane?”
Her eyes went cold. He had gone too far. The green water froze, isolating him in a moment of dead silence, the silence preceding the power of a solid ice surface cracking with a roar of swollen tension. “I’m very pleased with my life … my … independence. When your divorce is final I’ll see y’all.”
“It’s not that simple. Nothing is final or forever. Not divorce decrees, not eternal love.”
“It is simple for me, and that’s final.”
A sudden electrical surge flickered the fluorescent tubes overhead, pouring cool blue light down upon her. The pools of her eyes widened, the blue light exposing at the depths of each a translucent pearl, mirrored souls of ancient oysters. Madonna on the reef.
St. Cloud tried his last and most obvious trick. “At least you can tell me your name?”
“Lila.”
Not easy for a bull to swim beneath the sea.
5
N O TE ME TANGUES , St. Cloud. Don’t let me down.” Justo nervously rubbed the gold wishbone hung from the thick chain around his neck. He peered expectantly down the
St. Cloud made his way to the desk, clung to its edge like it was the side of a life raft. He struggled to get one more trick out of his bag before he drowned. “Can I see you? I must see you. I must talk to you.”
“Y’all are seeing me.” She straightened in her chair, pushing away from the desperate pleading in his voice.
“I don’t mean here. I mean after you get off. I mean tonight. Where do you live?”
“I live on a lane called love.” She observed him warily, the fluorescent tubes above cast a cool light over her aloofness. “Do y’all know Love Lane?” She threw the question out unexpectedly, as if sensing the drowning man before her would go under without something to buoy him up. “It does sound corny, but it’s true. Love Lane’s behind the library. Key West is filled with funny little lanes with cute names.”
St. Cloud leaned toward her from the edge of the desk, then pulled back, afraid of getting in over his head. The breeze of the air-conditioner touched up the fall of her brown hair, exposing the sides of her face, slender bones pressed an indentation like inverted quarters of the moon at the top of each cheek. “I live on Catholic Lane.” He spoke the words slowly, struggling to put more distance between himself and the green drowning pools. “If we can only get the two lanes end to end we could make one long street of Christian Love.”
She wasn’t buying his clumsy trickery. “When does a lane become a street? I moved down here from Georgia, up there we have Main Streets and Second Avenues. No matter how small the town, or little the streets get, they never become lanes.”
“A lane becomes a street when a pier becomes a bridge.”
“What do y’all mean by that?”
“James Joyce, a writer, said a pier is a disappointed bridge.”
“I’m not disappointed with my little lane. I’m very happy there. A place of my own where I come and go as I please. I hope my littlelane never becomes a street, that would be too busy and complicated. I don’t want complications on my lane.”
“Even if it becomes a street of brotherly love and kisses?”
“I’ve got all the love and kisses I need.”
“Who are you saving them for?”
“Why … my dog, of course.” The surface of her green eyes rippled with ridicule at his awkward approach. “I’m saving up forty dollars a week to buy him.”
“Maybe your dog will be the adventurous type and want to take a walk on the wild side of Catholic Lane?”
Her eyes went cold. He had gone too far. The green water froze, isolating him in a moment of dead silence, the silence preceding the power of a solid ice surface cracking with a roar of swollen tension. “I’m very pleased with my life … my … independence. When your divorce is final I’ll see y’all.”
“It’s not that simple. Nothing is final or forever. Not divorce decrees, not eternal love.”
“It is simple for me, and that’s final.”
A sudden electrical surge flickered the fluorescent tubes overhead, pouring cool blue light down upon her. The pools of her eyes widened, the blue light exposing at the depths of each a translucent pearl, mirrored souls of ancient oysters. Madonna on the reef.
St. Cloud tried his last and most obvious trick. “At least you can tell me your name?”
“Lila.”
Not easy for a bull to swim beneath the sea.
5
N O TE ME TANGUES , St. Cloud. Don’t let me down.” Justo nervously rubbed the gold wishbone hung from the thick chain around his neck. He peered expectantly down the
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