Read Online Whale Season by N. M. Kelby - Free Book Online Page A

Jesus—at least for the moment—sings the hit solo from
Annie
.
    â€œTomorrow! Tomorrow!
    I love ya, Tomorrow! . . .”
    And the voices go silent. They hate show tunes.

Chapter 9

    L eon never expected Carlotta to leave on Christmas Day, pack up and go without a forwarding address. A two hundred and fifty thousand dollar land yacht is his and Carlotta doesn’t even get to know about it, doesn’t even get to roll around in its silk sheets, doesn’t get to have that Cold Duck and lamé feeling.
    He picks up the note that has fallen onto the floor, next to a pile of his dirty socks. The writing is large and lacy. The “Os” are round as powdered mini-doughnuts.
    You know where to find me.
Carlotta.
    Leon doesn’t have a clue. She doesn’t have a car. It’s pretty far to walk to the interstate. The nearest town is Flamingo. There’s a shortcut through the mangroves, so she can have gone there but it seems unlikely. It’s not much of a town, smaller than Whale Harbor and well known for its mosquitoes. Black clouds of them swarm both day and night.
    Leon suspects she’s gone someplace with a mall.
    He calls her cell phone again. No answer.
    â€œLeave a message after the tone,” a voice says.
    â€œI’m an idiot,” he says. “But then, you know that.”
    Then he presses the “pound” key for “faster delivery.” Sits down hard on the waterbed. Waves crash beneath him. He wants to slowly lie back, sleep with the cold water lapping under the heels of his feet. He’s not used to staying up all night. He’s so tired, everything around him is moving slow and fast at the same time. Everything’s a little blurry.
    Outside, the sky is turning to india ink. The vapor lights of the trailer court shine through the bedroom skylight. Makes everything look like pink lemonade. That’s what Dagmar used to say. When they were first married, she and Leon used to sit on lawn chairs in front of the Airstream and drink pink lemonade with sloe gin. They used to talk about the days when they could have a real kitchen, one with a real stove, not a hot plate. The kind of kitchen you can make tapioca in—even though Dagmar really can’t cook. It was just the thought of it. Somebody making tapioca for you makes it a home.
    Leon loves tapioca. Mama Po used to make it for him all the time. In poker,
tapioca
is slang for
tapped-out, broke, busted
. Sometimes, Leon thinks his mama was preparing him for what the rest of his life would bring, filling him up with his future.
    But, still he loves it. Misses it. And her.
    He lies on the bed and watches the stars come out one by one. When the sky looks bruised with them, he dials Dagmar’s number. It goes into voice mail immediately.
    â€œIt’s me,” he says and wants to tell her about playing poker with Jesus on Christmas Day, but the more he thinks about it, the queasier he gets. Something about the man’s eyes, the suffering in them, makes him feel ashamed.
    â€œJust wanted to say ‘hey’.”
    Hey, I miss you. Hey, I still love you. Hey, I won’t screw up again. And hey—Leon can barely think about this part, about standing on the shore holding their young son, Cal, in his arms. His small lifeless body. The riptide.—Hey, I am so damn sorry I want to die.
    He wants to tell Dagmar all these things, but it’s just too painful. “So, hey,” is what he says. “Merry Christmas.” Then hangs up. It’s the first Christmas without their son, without each other. Dagmar just couldn’t forgive him. “You never pay attention,” she said when she left. And he knew she was right.
    When the moon turns full overhead, Leon drives to the Wal-Mart, Carlotta’s note in his hand like a grocery list. Inside the store the light is so bright there are no shadows, no dark places. He walks up and down aisles filled with young men in aprons