What fortitude the soul contains, That it can so endure The accent of a coming foot, The opening of a door.
—DICKINSON
It is Sunday evening. Still with a hangover Ross answers the door. It is Willis Skanes, the park manager and, more significantly, Darlene’s father. He is a tall, thin man. He wears a white shirt with a black tie and trousers; strange garb for evening. Ross thinks he must have come from his church, or a meeting. His Adam’s apple is so prominent it is hard for Ross not to look at it. Each time he swallows the black knot of the tie pushes down. When he speaks his voice is hard. He knows, Ross thinks immediately.
“How do, Mr, Portuh.”
“Can I help you with something?”
“Mind if I come in?”
Ross remains in the doorway, filling it; thoughts of Andy Taylor and interference.
“It’s late, Mr. Skanes. What do you want?”
“I unnerstan’ you bin drinkin’ a bit. Some folks’re troubled about it. They say you bin havin’ girls come by.”
“That’s not true. I just lost my wife, for God’s sake!”
“No need t’ take the name of the Lord in vain, Mr. Portuh. I can smell the drink on you.”
“Yes, I’ve had a drink! But there’s been no one here! It’s just cheap gossip!”
“So what would you call this?” Skanes pulls his daughter’s bra from his pocket brandishing it like a weapon.
“I ... I have no idea,” Ross says lamely.
“It was found jus’ behind your place here. This mornin’.”
“That doesn’t mean I had anything to do with it!” Ross says. It is a weak lie. Skanes presses his advantage.
“It’s this way, Mr. Portuh. Happy Hills has got a Committee as you know. They had some sessions over you the past while. Had another one jus’ an hour ago. They all’d like to see you tomorrow.
Skanes pulls out a page of foolscap typed in large letters to make it appear legal and significant.
SUMMONS
BY THE COMMITTEE FOR THE BETTERMENT OF OUR PARK
The presence of MR. ROSS PORTER is ordered by the Committee
MONDAY, 10 AM,
At HAPPY HILLS COMMUNITY CENTRE LIBRARY ROOM
To answer charges of corrupt behavior contrary to the Residents’ Rules
Signed: Willis W. Skanes, Park Manager
GOD BLESS AMERICA
Despite the tension of the situation Ross Porter stifles a laugh. The thing is ridiculous. It was obviously written by Skanes himself and likely typed very slowly and carefully by Darlene with her father hanging over her shoulder. The paper is smudged and damp where Skanes’ fingers have touched it. The situation is so absurd Ross cannot find the words to respond.
“Ten in the mornin’, Mr. Portuh. The Committee’s responsible to all the residents. I’m askin’ you to bring your rental papers, Sir.”
The threat in Skanes’ words brings Ross back from the absurd. Comic or not, this is an attempt to humiliate him. He knows the decision has already been made; the rest is simply theatrics. He responds roughly to match his accuser.
“Look, Mr. Skanes, if you think I’ll agree to appear in front of some kangaroo court, you’re out of your mind!”
“A what?”
“Kangaroo court. Special Committee. Arrogant old farts controlled by you!”
“No need for shoutin’. It’s late.”
“Too damned late for you to be summoning me to your pitiful little Inquisition!”
“What?”
“Never mind. This summons is not legal. It’s the work of a fool!”
“I don’t like that kinda talk. If you ain’t there tomorrow, I’ll have you evicted.”
“You don’t have the right!”
“I guess you all didn’t read the contract, Mr. Portuh. We got rules here. Public drunkenness’d be one of ‘em.”
“This is not in public! This is my place!”
“Not yours at all, Sir. Belongs t’ the park. And as I said, there’s been talk of girls ...”
“Another lie!”
“I got proof!” The bra.
“Of consenting adults!”
“She’s on a bus home t’ Tennessee. You won’t be seein’ her again.”
“She has the right to do as she wishes! She’s an adult, Skanes!”
“We don’t put up with no trash here.”
“You dare call me ...” Ross steps forward, fists furled.
“I wouldn’t move off that stoop.”
“You think your little summons can scare me?”
“That’s up to the Committee. You all can have a lawyer present.”
“And how would I get one by tomorrow morning? It’s Sunday night!”
“Ain’t my problem.”
“You son of a bitch ... you timed this!”
“That langridge ain’t suitable.”
“Get out of here! Get out now!”
Skanes leaves quickly, frightened of Ross’ show of temper. Ross knows he has made a mistake, defeated by his own desperation, this piece of paper and some inquisition he knew nothing of. The Committee, and Willis Skanes, will evict him, of that he is certain. He wonders how long they have plotted their scheme. He retrieves his rental papers and reads them but he cannot focus. The liquor has done that. He cannot defend himself because he has left himself defenceless. And so it is shame which launches him. A raging guilt empties the last of his liquor down the sink drain. He is packing his car at midnight when Jimmy White appears, his cigarette smoke curls white in the darkness. He looks worried. He picks up a box from the carport deck and hands it to Ross. It takes a moment for him to work toward words.
“What’s goin’ on, Ross? You goin’ home?”
“No. I’m going south, back to Sanibel.”
“You sure that’s a good idea? Weren’t you and ... Weren’t you there before you came here?”
“That’s right. Can you hand me that bag?”
Jimmy glances at the luggage, takes a drag on the cigarette, then does nothing.
“I just think this is wrong for you. You’ve changed since you came back. People can’t make head nor tail of it. Then there was last night with Darlene. Don’t get me wrong. I ain’t makin’ a judgement. I like to think of myself as your friend. A friend tells a friend the truth.”
“They want to evict me. Apparently there’s something in the rental contract ...”
“I noticed Willis Skanes came to visit earlier. Park Committee, right?
“That’s right. Busybodies. They’ve set me up. Summoned for tomorrow morning.”
“I seen it before. Curtain twitchers. Always lookin’ but hidin’ themselves behind their rules and their drapes. I don’t think they can just throw you out though.”
“What I’m looking for isn’t here anyway,” Ross mutters.
“Just what are you lookin’ for, Ross?”
“Right now I don’t know. They want me out. Fine. I’m getting out. I won’t allow them the chance to humiliate me.”
“Don’t think you’ll find much of whatever you’re lookin’ for outside yourself, Ross. Hope you don’t mind my sayin’.”
The road of regret takes him south back to Sanibel. Filled now with self-doubt he cannot quell the thoughts of how close he’d come to the underside of his despair. Then he thinks of his son and what he has done to Robert, and Justin, and Anne. They must be worried about him. He has not called or written since he left. He resolves to phone his son as soon as he finds a place to stay. This he must do. To maintain any cohesion at all he must reach past the acrimony he has created and find a way back to his family.
He recalls Andy Taylor and how unpleasant he’d been to the man, a friend who had simply wanted to help; then the sharp scepticism of Alice Bush once she’d learned his true motives; and finally Jimmy White with his sense of companionship and his doubt. Caught up in his terrific obsession he has not taken time to examine himself. Perhaps he has been wrong about this. Perhaps he is suffering Emily’s death by reeling from point to point, wanting an answer, helpless to find one.
Yet there is the dream: so powerful in him; so malevolent yet so enticing. It returns and returns and there is something in it which lures him on in his bizarre search. A thing beyond the known world has beckoned and, just as he is powerless to know its answer, so too is he unable to stop. Not now. Not after all he has given away, given up, given in to.
What could Emily have meant about water? He tries to recall the instant of her death and finds he cannot. He cannot evoke the most significant moment in his life. The monotonous hum of the tires on pavement permeates his thoughts. And he can’t think of the tune.
Perhaps I should have listened more closely.