Except it wasn't Desie's hand, it was his mother's. Amy Spree gently shook her son awake, saying, "My Lord, Twilly, were you dreaming? When did thisstart?"
Twilly sat up, chilled with sweat. "About a week ago."
"And what do you dream about?"
"Running on beaches."
"After all these years! How wonderful."
"And dead birds," Twilly said.
"Oh my. You want a drink?"
"No thanks, Mom."
"Your friend is relaxing out on the deck," said Amy Spree.
"I'm coming."
"The man with the pillowcase over his head?"
"Yes, Mom."
"She says it's her husband."
"Correct."
"Oh, Twilly. What next?"
Amy Spree was a stunning woman of fifty-five. She had flawless white skin and shy sea-green eyes and elegant silver-streaked hair. Twilly found it ironic that in divorcehood his mother had chosen Flagler Beach, given both her aversion to tropical sunlight and her previous attachment to a philandering swine who hawked oceanfront property for a living. But Amy Spree said she was soothed by the Atlantic sunrises (which were too brief to inflict facial wrinkles), and harbored no lingering bitterness toward Little Phil (whom she dismissed as "confused and insecure"). Furthermore, Amy Spree said, the shore was a perfect place to practice her dance and clarinet and yoga, all of which required solitude.
Which her son interrupted once a year, on her birthday.
"I never know what to get you," Twilly said.
"Nonsense," his mother clucked. "I got the best present in the world when you knocked on the door."
They were in the kitchen. Amy Spree was preparing a pitcher of unsweetened iced tea for Twilly, his new lady friend and her husband, who was trussed to a white wicker rocking chair once favored by Twilly's father.
"How about a dog?" Twilly asked his mother. "Wouldn't you like a dog?"
"Thatdog?" Amy Spree eyed McGuinn, who had hungrily positioned himself at the refrigerator door. "I don't think so," said Amy Spree. "I'm happy with my bonsai trees. But thank you just the same."
She put on a straw hat as broad as a garbage-can lid. Then she carried a glass of tea outside to Desirata Stoat, on the deck overlooking the ocean. Twilly came out later, dragging Palmer Stoat in the rocking chair. Twilly placed him on the deck, next to Desie. Twilly sat down on a cedar bench with his mother.
Amy Spree said, "I am not by nature a nosy person."
"It's all right," said Desie, "you deserve to know." She looked questioningly at Twilly, as if to say: Where do we start?
He shrugged. "Mrs. Stoat's husband is a congenital litterbug, mother. An irredeemable slob and defiler. I can't seem to teach him any manners."
Desie cut in: "There's an island over on the Gulf Coast. My husband's clients intend to bulldoze it into a golf retirement resort. A pretty little island."
Twilly's mother nodded. "I was married to such a man," she said with a frown. "I was young. I went along."
An unhappy noise came from Palmer Stoat. The pillowcase puckered in and out at his mouth. Desie put one foot on the chair and began to rock him slowly.
"What's the matter?" she asked her husband. "You getting thirsty?"
Twilly said, "His gourd hurts. I whacked him pretty hard."
"For tossing garbage out of the car," Desie explained to Twilly's mother.
"Oh dear," said Amy Spree. "He's always had trouble controlling his anger. Ever since he was a boy."
"He's still a boy," Desie said fondly.
Amy Spree smiled.
"That's enough of that,"said Twilly. He jerked the pillowcase from Palmer Stoat's head and peeled the hurricane tape off his mouth. "Say hello to my mom," Twilly told him.
"Hello," Stoat mumbled, squinting into the sunlight.
"How are you?" said Amy Spree.
"Shitty." Stoat's cheeks were flushed and his lips were gnawed. His left temple featured a knot the size of a plum.
"Mr. Stoat," said Twilly, "please tell my mother about the bridge."
Palmer Stoat blinked slowly, like a bullfrog waking out of hibernation. Desie continued to rock him with her foot.
"Tell her how you lied to me about the bridge," Twilly said, "lied about the governor killing the bridge so the island would be saved. Mother, Mr. Stoat is a close personal friend of Governor Richard Artemus."
"Really?" said Amy Spree.
Stoat worked up a glower for Twilly. "You don't know what you're talking about."
Twilly raised his hands in disgust. "You said the bridge was dead but, lo and behold, what do I encounter this very morning on Toad Island? A survey team, Mother. Measuring for – surprise, surprise! – a new bridge."
"Uh-oh," said Amy Spree.
"Without it, Mr. Stoat's clients can't build their fancy resort, because they can't get their cement trucks across the water."
"Yes, son, I understand."
McGuinn ambled onto the deck. He sniffed the knots at Palmer Stoat's wrists, then leisurely poked his nose in his master's groin.
"Boodle, no!" Stoat bucked in the rocking chair. "Stop, goddammit!"
Amy Spree turned her head, stifling a giggle. On the beach behind the deck were half a dozen young surfers, shirtless, with their boards under their arms. They were staring out morosely at the flat water. Amy Spree thought the scene would make a good picture, photography being her newest hobby. McGuinn trotted down the steps to make friends.
"So what now?" Twilly slapped his palms loudly against his thighs. "That's the question of the day, Desie. What do I do with this lying, littering shithead of a husband you've got?"
Desie looked at Twilly's mother, who looked at Palmer Stoat. Stoat cleared his throat and said: "Give me another chance."
"Are you talking to me," said Twilly, "or your wife?"
"Both."
"Palmer," Desie said, "I'm not sure I want to come home."
"Oh, for God's sake." Stoat huffed impatiently. "What is it you want, Desie?"
"Honestly I don't know."
"You want to be Bonnie Parker, is that it? Or maybe Patty Hearst? You want to end up a newspaper headline."
"I just want – "
"Fine. Then don't come home," said Palmer Stoat. "Don't even bother."
Amy Spree rose. "Son, I need some help downstairs in the garage."
"Relax, Mom," Twilly said. "It's all right."
Amy Spree sat down. Desie Stoat took her foot off the chair, and her husband rocked to a stop.
"Do whatever you want," he snarled at his wife. "Fuck you. Fuck that stupid Labrador retriever. To hell with the both of you."
Twilly's mother said: "There's no need for profanity."
"Lady, I'm tied to a goddamn chair!"
Desie said, "Oh please. It's not like you've been a model husband the last two years."
Stoat made a noise like a football going flat. "You'll be hearing from my lawyers, Desirata. Now: One of you fruitcakes better untie me." He twisted his neck to get a fix on Twilly Spree. "And with regard to the Toad Island bridge, junior, there's not a damn thing you or anyone else on God's green earth can do to stop it. You can have my wife and you can have my dog, but that new bridge is going up whether you like it or not. It's what we call a foregone conclusion, junior – no matter how many paws and ears and dog balls you send out. So take off these ropes this minute, before I start raising holy hell."
Never had Desie seen her husband so infuriated. His face was swollen up like an eggplant.
She said, "Palmer, why did you have to lie?"
Before Stout could tee off on her again, Twilly slapped a fresh strip of hurricane tape across his lips. The pillowcase came down over wide hate-filled eyes.
Amy Spree said, "Son, don't be too rough with the man."
Twilly hauled the rocking chair indoors while Desie whistled for McGuinn. Later Amy Spree served dinner, broiled shrimp over rice under a homemade tomato-basil sauce. They brought Palmer Stoat to the table but he made clear, with a series of snide-sounding grunts, that he wasn't particularly hungry.