always calculating, always planning her next move. She was detached from the moment, as if she was just going through the motions. I mean, I really didn’t care because the sex was pretty great. Now I guess it makes sense. But how was I to know?”
“You can’t beat yourself up over her, Bob. No one could have predicted it. You were having fun with a nice-looking woman.”
“No doubt about that, but it does nag at me.”
“You gotta let it go.”
“I’ll try. I need a shower. My last one was in Lake City, I believe, in a square tub with an empty tube of shampoo. Seems like a month ago.”
“Upstairs on the right. She’s on the left so give her plenty of space. I guess you’re piling in for a few more days. Welcome again.”
“Thanks, but I’m leaving soon for Maine. I want cooler weather and I need to get away from this place. The insurance company is already giving me the runaround and I don’t feel like fighting right now. How long is she staying?”
“She just got here. I have no idea. She mentioned a memorial service next Saturday in California and I’m already thinking of ways to avoid it.”
“That would be just awful. I quit doing funerals years ago. Such a waste of time and money and emotion.”
When he was gone, Bruce tidied up the kitchen and left for his next adventure, a trip to the nearest grocery store.
4.
At dusk, Bruce and Polly left his house in the Tahoe and headed north. A few blocks from downtown the island became dark again as they drove into areas still without electricity.
Polly was stunned by the devastation; she had never witnessed firsthand the aftermath of a major storm. Neither had Bruce, for that matter, but after five days he was growing accustomed to downed utility poles, blocked streets, overturned vehicles, front lawns filled with soaked rugs and furniture, and mountains of debris and garbage. They passed a small church where dozens of FEMA trailers were assembled in neat rows in a parking lot and people were waiting quietly, in a long line, to be served dinner brought in by volunteers. They passed a park where a tent city had sprung up. Parents sat in lawn chairs around a fire pit while children kicked soccer balls in disorganized games. Next to the park on a softball field, National Guardsmen were handing out bottles of water and loaves of bread.
Bruce found the street in an old section of postwar tract homes, all of which were damaged and uninhabitable. In most driveways, shiny new FEMA trailers now sat next to cars and trucks. Some had pipes running to the sewage lines; others did not. From the looks of the houses, the trailers would be used for a long time.
Wanda Clary had been Bruce’s first employee when Bay Books opened twenty-three years earlier. As the only holdover from the prior owner, Wanda assumed from day one that she knew far more about selling books than her new boss, and though she was right she wrongly tried to assert too much control. They clashed early and often, and Bruce thought about firing her on many occasions, but she was loyal, punctual, and willing to work for the low wages he offered in the early days. As he learned almost immediately, in retail dependable help is hard to find. With time they staked out their own duties and turfs and Wanda held on to her job, if only by a thread. Before her stroke, she was often abrupt with Bruce, short with customers, and rude to coworkers. But after her stroke, which as it turned out was not that serious, not the first one anyway, her entire personality changed dramatically and Wanda became everybody’s grandmother. Customers adored her and sales increased. Bruce paid her more and they became friends. But the second stroke almost killed her and forced her retirement. Her husband died shortly thereafter, and Wanda, who was pushing eighty, had been barely surviving on a pension for the past ten years.
She was sitting in a lawn chair beside her