Island Soul

By Sam A. Mackie

Gordon Granger leaves Key West with two ex-wives, and a fianceé’
standing at the altar, and owing money to a dozen people. When he
returns ten years later to make amends, one person wants to be
repaid with interest -- and in blood. Along the way there’s a
birth, a death, and a series of startling nights and days that he
could never have imagined....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam A. Mackie
• Release date: Apr 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311531414

Sam A. Mackie

About Sam A. Mackie Sam A. Mackie is a Florida attorney and writer. This is his fifth novel, along with West By West By Key West, Jacks Are Better, Island Soul, and Saltwater, Sin, and Solace.

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Sam A. Mackie

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Table of Contents

Title page

Copyright page

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

The End

Chapter One

In Key West the Navy base abuts South Beach which is not really a beach at all, but only a short stretch of sand and cement breakwall at the southwest corner of the Island. For decades a group of Black entrepreneurs from the City who catered to the tourists had clustered at South Beach, near the Southernmost Point buoy, like they were this morning, and west down United Street and DeKalb Avenue and along the roadway that reached toward the Navy base’s main entrance.

It was black dark; and the salesmen began, as they did each morning at 5:00, unloading collapsible tables and chairs and coolers and cardboard boxes from their shabby cars and trucks. For the most part the men worked silently, or sotto voce amidst the smell of salt water, decaying fish, sea weed, and the black velvet coolness of the early morning breeze. Lit cigarettes bobbed at the corner of each mouth and smoke plumed from the men’s nostrils until, by 6:30, their wares were fully displayed across the old sheets and lengths of fabric that covered their rickety tables. With the sun lurking at the eastern horizon, casting deep shadows across the Southernmost Point and bathing the men with a strange, haunting light, they relaxed in their chairs and waited for the tourists to arrive.

At dawn every morning someone drove to the White Street Café for coffee and Cuban bread; and afterward the men sat, and drank, and smoked, and spread butter on their bread with plastic knives as they spoke quietly of the weather, the ocean, and yesterday’s sales. By 8:00 the regular traffic and the first Conch Trains were circling the Island, and the men were out of the chairs and hawking their merchandise to the people who arrived on bicycles and mopeds, on foot, and in their cars.

The men, as their fathers and grandfathers before them, sold shells, beads, cheap jewelry, faux Tiki-god icons hacked from the boles of palm trees, tacky wood sculptures of lighthouses and barely recognizable Key West buildings, boats in bottles with Made in China labels gummed to their bases, iridescent rayon scarves, jippa jappa hats and baseball caps, Key West mugs and glasses (A product of Thailand), and the ubiquitous T-shirts, $4 per or three shirts for $10, their thin cloth of glaring colors and the fronts ablaze with sayings like, My parents went to Key West, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt; Key West, The Last Resort; and Key West: Southernmost Point in the United States. The men were cheerful and animated as they peddled their chintzy merchandise, and instructed the tourists on the finer points of Key West living, Key West fashions, Key West restaurants, and especially Key West drinks, all of them cold and alcoholic.

The salesmen were all products of The Blocks -- the least prosperous section of Key west that was bounded by Duval, United, and Fort Streets, and the Navy base to the west where the Black families were cloistered. The Conchs, the native Key Westers, dominated the vicinity east and west around Duval and Simonton Streets downtown; and over the years the more affluent families moved further east, to Flagler Avenue, Venetian Drive, Trinidad and Bahama Streets, Riviera Drive, and Airport Boulevard, and to Stock Island, Key Haven, and Pearlman Estates. They all traveled the Island for business or pleasure; but none of them went to South Beach because it was the terminus of Black Town, Old Town, and Gay Town, and now just a gaudy tourist attraction.

The migration Whites, Conchs, and Cubans out of downtown allowed the gays to fill the void; and they came from Provincetown, New York, San Francisco, Miami, and Cozumel, and invested their dollars in Key West with the ease and purpose of Monopoly money. They renovated dozens of the Old Town houses and, with a flourish of new plants, balustrades, fresh paint, and signs, refurbished the Duval Street shops. Along the way they divided the bigger stores into small boutiques that changed ownership, names, and merchandise with the frequency of a ship's bell chiming the four-hour watches. That was the rub. For all their money and energy, the new store owners did not understand that the history, color, atmosphere, and magic of Old Town evaporated with the new studs, drywall partitions, fresh paint, and modern furnishings.

Everything changed. The Old Town stores were replaced by ice cream and drink shops; men's and women's boutiques; garish jewelry and leather goods stores; cafes with cheesy French and English names; and T-shirt shops, a dozen of them in the ten-block area from the foot of Duval and Simonton Streets to White Street, each trying to undersell the other and all of their proprietors buying cheaper and more tawdry goods to maintain their profit margins. It was Old Town’s fascination changed immutably, changed to its opposite, forever.

As Old Town changed, so did the Southernmost Point. An economic study was made of the area intersected by Whitehead and South Streets, and the City Commission voted to convert the Southernmost Point into an historic district, complete with landscaping, widened sidewalks, brick paving, cement shoulders for the street, a large turn circle for cars and buses, and a length of cast-iron stands with wide-angled laminated boards containing descriptions and drawings of historic Key West events.

Unhappily, the trinket and shell venders could not be accommodated in the plans. With the onset of the new construction around the garish white-yellow-red-and-black-colored Southernmost Buoy, all of the street venders’ licenses were revoked, and no further sidewalk sales were allowed at the Southernmost Point.

It was the end of an era; just as, across the Island, everything else had changed so much these last years....

Chapter Two

Malcolm Jones, who everybody called Jonesy, his Greek fishing cap tilted over a thick comma of his salt-and-pepper hair that raised and lowered itself with the morning breeze and the movement of his pick-up truck, coasted along the section of North Roosevelt Boulevard that fronted Garrison Bight and the charter boat docks at the base of the Palm Avenue Causeway. He found an open spot along the curb, and parallel-parked directly in front of Geiger's Café. As he opened his driver-side door and closed it with a hollow chunk, he gazed across the north and east sides of the Bight where the mates were preparing blue runners and ballyhoo for the day’s charters.

He pocketed his truck keys, and stepped across the sidewalk. A six-pack of Coca-Cola was wedged at the base of the jamb and the cafe’s green-painted outside door, and he opened the screen door and ambled into the cool interior.

Hey, there, said Ray Geiger, who everybody called Raymond. He had seen Jonesy’s truck as it motored west along the boulevard, and he met Jonesy near the door.

Top of the morning to you, Raymond.

You, too, Bubba, said Ray, using the Key West corruption of brother and buddy that, depending upon the inflection and context, could mean everything from a fond hello to the worst sort of insult. Coffee?

Always.

Ray smiled, and nodded to the waitress behind the counter. She cut her eyes at Jonesy and smiled, too, and Jonesy tipped his cap to her. She filled a mug with coffee and a dollop of cream, added a spoon of sugar over the edge of the thick white porcelain, and stirred everything into a light-mahogany blend.

Ready, Boss, she said, with just the right balance of respect and playfulness in her voice.

Ray brought the mug to Jonesy’s table, and set it in front of him.

Thank you, Raymond.

Ray cleaned invisible drops of coffee off his fingers with the white towel that was always draped over his left shoulder.

You fishing today? he asked.

Jonesy tested the heat of the coffee at the edge of his mug, and slurped enough to wet his tongue.

On a day like this? Not me, Bubba. Good way to get sunstroke.

Jonesy nodded his head toward the Bight, and the line of charter boats that showed a mate at each stern, bent at the waist, sweating profusely, their hands and forearms plunged into gallons of ice and freezing water as they separated the day’s baits.

It’s August. Hot-hot. What do you expect? said Ray.

The Conchs use a repeated adjective phrasing that means superlative. In December it's cold-cold. In March, windy-windy. In August, it’s hot-hot.

You’re right, though, Ray continued. Look at those guys, their hands frozen and busting their humps in all this heat. And for what?

That was our job once, said Jonesy.

Ray grimaced at the memory. I still don’t know how we did it.

Young blood. Lots of muscle. Lots of energy.

Yeah. And no brains.

Oh, bullshit, said Jonesy, softly. It was a great life; and you know it.

Yeah; I guess it was, Ray agreed, immediately forgetting the arduous work, and remembering the daily quest for ocean fish and the adventure of hooking them and seeing them into the boat.

Speaking of the old days; you hear Gordon Granger’s back in town?

Ray was standing at the table. He pulled a chair out and sat down, a surprised expression on his face.

You’re joking.

Jonesy sipped his coffee, and tugged a paper napkin from the holder at the center of the table.

If you look real close, he said, wiping the napkin quickly across his mouth; you’ll see I ain’t smiling.

Damn; what’s it been? said Ray. Ten years?

Easy. Maybe more.

How does he look?

Beats me, said Jonesy, setting his coffee mug squarely on the napkin. I haven’t seen him. I only heard.

Where’s he staying?

He rented a room downtown.

Let me guess: Caroline Street?

Jonesy nodded, yes.

Well, that ain’t good news, said Ray. If he had money, he’d be over to one of the motels on the south side.

Jonesy returned to his coffee, and sipped around the edge of the mug.

Maybe. Maybe not.

Is he working? asked Ray.

I wouldn’t suspect so. We’d of heard if he was.

Man, oh man, said Ray, the surprise still etched on his face. Gordon Granger. There’s about 19 people on the Island who wouldn’t mind seeing him floating face-down in this-here Bight.

Ray jerked his thumb over his shoulder, and indicated the large expanse of grey-green water that was shimmering around them in the early morning sun.

Jonesy made himself more comfortable in his chair, and shrugged. He ain’t going to win no popularity contest; that’s for sure.

He still owes me, Ray declared. I got the chit in the back room. In my desk drawer.

Maybe that’s why he came back. To make amends.

Ray shook his head, and raised both hands in question. With what? He must owe everybody on the Island.

Still; it’s possible, offered Jonesy.

There ain’t that much money in Florida. And what about Julie, and Sharon? And what was that other girl’s name?

Jonesy thought for a moment.

Rosalie.

That’s it. Rosalie. Any one of them would easy go out and buy a gun and put some bullets in his butt, pronto.

Jonesy nodded his head in agreement. Then again, there’s about five dozen people I could name, right off hand, who’d vote for him to be mayor. I never did understand it.

Ray grunted. Jonesy; a man can’t have two wives and a fiancee and go south on all of them, and still be happy -- or safe.

Ex-wives, Raymond. What’s the big deal? Lotsa people got one of them.

"He had two of them -- in what, three years?"

Jonesy shrugged. I seem to recall them divorces were legal. And Rosalie, I remember he let her keep the ring. Big stone, too; wasn’t it?

Ray shook his head. The man’s playing with fire. Either that, or he has a death-wish.

If that’s why he’s here, it ain’t going to be easy. Still; it’s possible he came back to square with everyone.

For all he owes? It’ll be a cold day in August.

Jonesy took a long pull of his coffee, and enjoyed the taste. Stranger things have happened, Raymond. Especially on this Island.

My, my, said Ray, playing with the towel over his left shoulder, and absentmindedly wiping his hands. Gordon Granger, back from the dead. Now ain’t this going to be interesting.

Chapter Three

Gordon Granger opened his eyes and stared at his watch that was lying face up on the cheap night stand. The dial was a blur. He closed one eye and tried to focus. Nothing. His head was jammed into the thin pillow and angled to the left, where the sunlight shafted through the jalousies and made bright slash marks on the expanse of ancient hardwood flooring next to the bed. A breeze from the open window stirred the chintz drapes that fell around the window casing, and he could smell the faint tang of sea weed, fish, and ocean that wafted into the small apartment room from the shrimp docks to the north.

Seven o’clock, he guessed. Maybe a few minutes before, or after. He surveyed the room, and mentally opened each drawer and catalogued his belongings where they lay in the cheap bureau that was set against the far wall. First drawer: undershorts, white socks, and T-shirts. Second drawer: three blue cotton work shirts, and two pairs of faded jeans. Third drawer: black socks, and a baseball cap. On top of the bureau, his wallet, car and room keys, a handful of change, and the new savings account bank papers. Hanging in the closet were a pair of dress slacks and two white shirts, and underneath them a pair of Sperry Topsiders and good leather shoes. More than enough to get the job done, he thought.

He rolled between the sheets and bed cover for a few moments, unraveled himself, stumbled into the bathroom, and soaked in the shower for a good five minutes. He let the hot water pelt his body until the inexplicable soreness in his left knee moderated, and he could scrub himself without wincing. He never used to feel strains or aching muscles and joints for no reason, especially in the morning. But now every morning and at odd times -- sometimes while he slept -- he ached and felt discomfort for no reason at all. His lower back. Neck. Fingers. One leg; or the other. He hated the idea of it, and the feeling. Even his hair, once deep brown and combed in the latest style, was now streaked with white and thinning at his crown, and seemed to droop, most days, and not lie the way he arranged it.

Getting older. Goddamn.

Afterward he shaved, stroking his chin and jaw with the safety razor until his face shined. Dressed, his baseball cap in hand, he locked the apartment door and went quickly down the back steps and across to the curb. He was driving an ancient, ragged white Chevy Impala, what the natives called a Conch cruiser because the sea air caused even the newest and most expensive automobile or truck to rust with its first scratch; and who needed a good car when the Island was only one mile north-south and three miles east-west in span, and the nearest big city (Miami) 150 miles away?

He fired the engine, spun the wheel, and eased the Chevy away from the curb and into Caroline Street. He motored east, past Elizabeth, William, Margaret, Grinnell, and Frances, south on White Street to Truman, and east again toward Garrison Bight. As he approached Geiger’s Café he checked the rear-view mirror. Seeing no traffic behind he did a snappy U-turn, tires lightly screeching on the hot asphalt, and slid the Impala into a parking spot near the front door.

As he killed the engine the cylinders continued to fire and ping for a moment; and when he exited the car he saw Randy Garrett, one of the charter boat mates, just outside the café screen door with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in each hand.

Hey, Randy.

The mate looked up and stopped, surprised. Coffee spilled from the Styrofoam cup in his left hand, and he winced as the hot liquid splashed his fingers.

Damn! he snapped.

Gordon chuckled.

Easy, Bubba.

Gordon? Jesus, said Randy, his eyes widening. When the hell did you get back?

Gordon smiled. I’m fine, thanks, Randy. How about you? Jennie and the kids okay?

They’re -- everyone’s fine Randy wanted to shake hands, and be invisible and angry at the same time. In his embarrassment he balanced the Styrofoam cups precariously, and tried not to spill any more coffee. Jesus, Gordon. What’s it been; 10 years?

Just about. In case you were wondering, here’s that 50 bucks I owe you.

While Randy stared, his face a portrait of stunned silence and confusion, Gordon reached for his wallet and fingered two 20s and a ten-dollar bill out of the second fold. As Randy balanced the coffee cups in his hands, Gordon gently stuffed the three crisp notes into Randy’s front shirt pocket.

We’re square, right?

Well, I -- sure, Gordon. Thanks.

You’re welcome. Good luck today.

Sure ... okay ... thanks....

As Gordon stepped into the cafe, Randy Garrett stood at the sidewalk, his mouth open, coffee dripping down the fingers of his left hand, his next words frozen in his mind, and unspoken.

Gordon stood just inside the screen door, and his eyes examined the interior of the café. The paint was different -- from the beige he remembered to its present light blue -- but everything else was exactly the same. Behind the counter at the far side of room the waitress was standing at the huge silver coffee urn. She was arranging the carafes -- two regular, one decaf -- and cleaning the bottom and sides of the machine where dribs and drabs had been splashed as coffee filled the never-ending succession of porcelain and Styrofoam cups. The grill was alive with the short-order cook who was pushing scrambled eggs into a mound; watching small rows of bacon and sausage and two pairs of eggs laying side-by-side-by-side as the edges began to pucker and brown; and monitoring the toasters from which he pulled bread slices and English muffins, and painted them with a small brush and butter that he dipped from a large green bowl to his right.

Most of the counter stools were occupied. Ray Geiger and Jonesy, still at the table, were looking at him with equal portions of surprise and entertainment. Gordon glanced outside, where the Bight water sparkled. He could hear the sounds of the mates and captains and tourists preparing themselves for another day of charter fishing, and the usual onlookers as they chattered and added to the general, early-morning hubbub. To the north a group of pelicans paddled in a tight circle around the bow of one of the light-tackle skiffs. At the far end of the Bight, a squadron of sea gulls wheeled and screeched as they hunted for bait fish in the shallows near the Palm Avenue causeway.

Jonesy raised his coffee cup in a small salute.

What you say, Gordon.

Not much, Jonesy. How’s everything?

Gordon, said Ray Geiger, making the word a name and hello at the same time.

Raymond. How’s business?

Business is good, said Ray. We got fresh coffee in the pot.

I’ll take one.

Cream and two sugars?

Gordon fingered his baseball cap onto the back of his head.

I’m impressed, Raymond. Yup; cream and two sugars. That other seat taken, Jonesy?

Not at the moment. Help yourself.

Ray stood up, and ambled toward the counter and gave the waitress the order. Gordon dropped his baseball cap onto the table, and sat across from the older man.

I heard you were back in town, said Jonesy. Didn’t rightly expect you to come by here this morning.

Why’s that?

Jonesy sipped his coffee before answering, and wiped his lips carefully with his paper napkin.

Oh, I don’t know. You left town in a hurry, Bubba. You didn’t expect to be voted man of the year when you hauled-ass; did you?

Yeah ... it was pretty quick; wasn’t it.

And messy.

Thanks, said Gordon, to the waitress approaching them. She set the steaming mug on the table in front of him. How much is that?

She smiled pleasantly.

Raymond said the first round was on him.

A thin smile passed Gordon’s face. Oh, he did, did he? What’s your name?

Betsy.

Betsy, please ask Raymond how much my bill is –- total, as of today.

Her brows knitted.

Total? All you have is the cof --

Betsy, ask him, please; just like I said. He’ll understand.

‘kay, she answered, and made a whatever-you-want gesture with one hand.

Jonesy sat back and played with his mug. Gordon looked Jonesy straight in the eye, and sipped his coffee. In a few moments the waitress returned with a chit in her hand.

Here, she said, her face thoughtful.

Gordon looked briefly at the paper and reached for his wallet. He fingered three 10s out of the fold, and handed them to the waitress.

The change is for you, he said.

She gave a small, delighted chuckle as she took the bills. That’s a big tip for a cup of coffee. Thanks.

You’re welcome.

Jonesy raised his mug to his lips, swallowed a long draft, and sighed with the rich, warm feel of the coffee on his tongue.

Good stuff, he said.

Gordon was amused, and tried to guess Jonesy’s next comment.

You like it?

I like all of it so far, said Jonesy, wiping his mouth with his paper napkin. We saw how you squared with Randy outside. And now Raymond, here. I’d say you were off to a good start; whatever else you got in mind.

Who said I had anything else in mind?

You got that look in your eye, said Jonesy.

Well, maybe ... there are one or two things.

For instance?

Gordon gazed into his coffee mug for moment.

I thought I might go see --

Julie. And Sharon?

Gordon nodded.

Are you serious?

I was thinking about it.

Rosalie, too?

Is she still around?

Jonesy looked briefly into the top of his mug, as though it held the answer. I don’t believe so. Last I heard, she was in Miami.

How far back was that?

I’d have to say ... three years, probably.

Gordon nodded his head. That’s too bad.

People are like fish, Bubba. One has legs; the other, a tail. They move.

Gordon stood out of his chair, his coffee steaming in the mug.

I can’t argue with that statement, Jonesy. They move ... and they change.

Like you? asked Jonesy.

Gordon set his baseball cap firmly on his forehead.

I’m just about the same. A little older, of course. Maybe a little smarter. But just about the same. I’ll see you around, Jonesy.

Chapter Four

Well, no, I’m not the same at all, thought Gordon, as he opened the screen door and stepped into the bright morning sun. There was a vacant wooden bench near the east end of the wide cement sidewalk, and he settled himself and leaned comfortably against the backrest, enjoying the warm taste of the last of the morning’s coffee on this tongue. With several of the charter boats having already departed for the days’ fishing, and the Bight smooth and placid before his eyes, Gordon stared into the northern sky and the memories flooded back into his mind. Yeah, the first divorce was pretty bad. When the final judgment came down he had lost his house and car and had his bank account vacuumed, and he was living in an unfurnished room on Stock Island, sleeping on the floor, and taking the bus back and forth to work every day.

But he got back on his feet and the second marriage was pretty good -- for about six months. Then one day it was like someone turned a switch; and things went to hell slowly, and then all of a sudden. The second divorce was easier because although he owned, and lost, about the same amount of possessions, he knew what to expect from his ex, the judge, the lawyers, and the court procedures, and there were no real surprises. Still, at the end, he was a mess. Battered, exhausted, alone, and not giving a damn about anyone or anything in the world.

Both marriage were disasters, and mysteries, at the same time. But looking back he saw it all clearly enough. The casual meeting. The dates. The small presents. The dinners, and trips up the Keys and to Miami. The shared secrets. The histories, confessions, and intimacies. The expensive presents. The wedding. The honeymoon. The lives together. The routine. The boredom. Then, slowly, the small but ever-widening gulf. The misunderstandings. The doubts. The secrets. The lies. The brittle laughter. The confrontations. And, finally, the break.

More than anything else he was angry for allowing himself to be trapped, and trapped again. What the hell is it with all the women on the planet? Don’t they understand that a man can’t be tied down to a house and a family every day of his life? Jesus God Almighty. Other things count. Work. Friends. Football games. Fried chicken. Beer. Pizza. Even one-night stands; if they’re not planned, they aren’t really wrong. Just two people. That’s all. Usually strangers, meeting and talking and -- well, hell; everybody’s seen the bumper stickers. Shit happens. It isn’t love. It can’t be love -– not that fast and that aimless. But the excitement is what makes life worth living. Jesus, God, woman; don’t you understand? It’s nothing important –- not in the long run. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. It just ... happens. And it’s over. And that’s it....

Anyway, Julie, the first one, was just too damn particular. And the second one, Sharon, was just too damn demanding. Their diamonds cost almost $5,000 each; and the legal fees for each divorce were a hell of a lot more than that. But then the final papers were signed with both of them, and I was free; for about two months, anyway. And then, after getting vacuumed twice, what did I turn right around and do. A third engagement? Are you kidding me? It was ludicrous. Absolutely insane. How the hell could I have bought an expensive diamond ring and gotten engaged less than a year after the second divorce, and started the whole, exhausting, unbelievably complicated, wacko, roller-coaster, let’s-get-married routine again? It was incredible; but goddamn, it happened. And the third diamond was nearly $10,000. Why, why, did I think spending that much money on a ring would make it all work out the third time. I mean, we never even got to the church to have the ceremony! Well, no; she got to the church. But I didn’t make it because I didn’t want to make it. Okay; there’s no nice way to say it: I stood her up. Jesus H. Christ Almighty. What a jerk, Gordon mused, berating himself, as he closed his eyes, remembering....

It hurt her. A lot. And it hurt him, too. But worse than the divorces and botched third engagement was his father’s death, right in the middle of everything. The old man was banged up, weak, and going to doctors and labs all the time; and then the diabetes and heart problems and emphysema all kicked in at once, and there was no way he could stay at home, and the hospice in Key West wouldn’t accept him. During the last couple of months the twice-a-week drives to Miami made any kind of daily pattern, for Gordon, impossible. The old man was in Jackson Memorial Hospital when he finally said the hell with all the testing, probing, needles, pills, therapy, and foolishness; and he just closed his eyes, put his head back, and died.

It was painful to watch Gordon, Sr., suffer and waste away with tubes in his nose and the back of each hand, a catheter dripping yellow liquid into a plastic sack, and surrounded by hanging bottles, machines, and eerie mechanical sounds as his heart, breathing, and other body functions were monitored every second of the day and night. What a way to live; and die. A human body with no dignity, reduced to red and green numbers flickering on the rectangular faces of black boxes, and a series of lines on long rolls of white paper.

Gordon hated to see the old man alive, but lifeless, and in constant pain. But far worse, Gordon saw the mirror-image of himself; 40 years older, toothless, clothed in chin stubble and a wrinkled, colorless hospital gown, his body a ravaged lump of meat being tended to by smiling but merciless butchers who probed, cut, injected, sucked, and shaved, his diseases and treatment leaving every square inch of his skin bloody, splotched, and scabrous.

Looking at his father, Gordon saw the detestable conclusion of his own mortality, the waste and destruction of his body by time and sickness, the evaporation of his pride and strength, the degradation of being helpless, and the total dependency on people wearing white smocks and flashing shallow, clinical smiles at him as they caused him unceasing, remorseless, intolerable pain. Pain deep enough to pierce his soul, and destroy any will to live. His father’s powerlessness, antiseptic torture, and abasement, scared the hell out of Gordon, and gave him nightmares for months afterward.

So he started to drink. First it was an ounce or two of bourbon at night so he could fall off to sleep. Then it was doubles; then triples in tall glasses so the bourbon looked smaller in proportion. Then he said the hell with it, and used a shot glass and drank singles until he nodded and fell asleep. Then it was day drinking: a beer at lunch ... two beers ... bourbon and water ... and finally an open bottle at his desk with the door closed, and the telephone off the hook.

Even with his brain pickled, Gordon knew he had to change. So he stopped drinking -- quit, cold turkey, one day, dumping a nearly full bottle of Dewars into the kitchen sink -- and started walking, then jogging, and lifting weights. Within six months he had worked himself into good condition and, just as importantly, back into good standing with the board of directors at Florida Keys Memorial Hospital. After all, he was the assistant chief administrator. It helped that this was Key West, where a certain amount of deviation from the accepted path of faithful husband and provider was understood and tolerated and, after two marriages and his father’s death, easily forgiven.

Then he met Rosalie. He could hear himself (and, strangely, could not stop himself from) saying a warm hello to her during the hospital foundation’s annual membership drive at the Pier House Hotel. They shared canapes and a glass of champagne, and smiled a lot into each other’s eyes. The invitation for lunch the next day came easily to his lips; and the whole, wild, crazy cycle of affection, trust, and involvement started again; and Gordon was sucked in just like he had been twice before. Well, not really sucked in. He did it to himself. Looking back, he realized he was desperate for something that he found difficult to describe. Friendship? Companionship? Love? Whatever it was, grabbed him; and he proposed and Rosalie had said yes, and he was trapped again. He bought her a huge diamond ring and they set a February date for the wedding. Then in November, just before Thanksgiving, Rosalie’s old boyfriend flew into town and called her, and they agreed to meet for a drink. The drink led to dinner and afterward he spent the night at her place; and her roommate told Gordon; and Gordon could not forgive Rosalie’s moment of weakness, and an indiscretion that he had committed a dozen times during both marriages, and more than once since his engagement began with Rosalie.

But the wedding date was set and the invitations mailed; and, two hours before he was due at the church, Gordon realized he should never have let things go so far. Clearly, on the horizon, he saw the apparition and then the reality of his third divorce. So he packed his