Page 39 of Victory Lap

maki. this time the math has your number in it

Mäkinen

my agent says it’s noise

also rule nine still has the typo. somebody tell the keeper

Chapter 13: Luca

The taxi from the airport is a seven-two. Clean, air conditioning committed to its work, driver plays no music, which I respect. The keeper rides in front with the case belted beside me in the back.

“One day,” he says to the rearview. “Island exception. Don’t make me regret the paperwork.”

“The paperwork was a nine-one. Cleanest I have ever filed.”

“It was thorough,” he allows. In the mirror, the driver keeps looking at the case. He knows what’s in it. Everyone at the airport knew what was in it. Aruba is a small island and the Stanley Cup clears customs loudly.

The villa is the same as it has been every year. This is the point of the villa.

Small, white, blue shutters. The bougainvillea has annexed another quarter of the bathroom window since February. I predicted this. That vine has structural ambition, and nobody on this island will stand up to it. The lock sticks. You have to lift the handle and lean. I have now performed the technique across multiple years.

Wes is on the balcony. There are lime wedges on the table and two glasses. And a third glass, because the keeper is a person and Wes counts persons. That’s him, complete, in one table setting.

“You made it,” he says.

“The Cup made it. I came with.” I take a lime wedge. This is the ritual. The lime is the first impression, and the first impression sets the tone for the entire stay. I have explained this every year. I taste it. I stop.

“Eight-one,” I say. “The lime has never been above a seven-five. What happened to the lime?”

“New tree,” Wes says, in the tone of a man reporting weather, and goes to help the keeper with the case.

I file it. The file has been getting strange entries all summer. I have chosen, professionally, not to run the report yet. It’s my day. Actually it’s my two days. An island exception, negotiated by a keeper who has decided we’re the easy stop on his schedule. The Cup goes on the little table in the living room. The ocean does its ocean thing past the railing. I take a photo and send it to exactly one group chat, captioned with coordinates and no explanation. Chaos is a dish I like to serve remotely.

For the record, the things that are not normal are as follows: The landlord stopped answering emails in May. The lime tree arrived unannounced. Wes has been answering every question about Aruba in the weather-report tone since June. Any junior auditor would have run that report already. I did not want the results yet. That is also in the file.

Thursdays happen even in paradise and at four o’clock, I take the laptop to the balcony and call Gwen.

She comes into frame with her purple hair and her rainbow glasses. Behind me, the most trophy is sitting in the Caribbean sun. I watch her clock it. Gwen has seen me cry, spiral, fragment, and rebuild. Gwen does not startle easily.

“Is that…?” she starts.

“It gets a day with me. It’s a whole thing. There’s a schedule and a man in gloves.”

“How’s the whole thing going?”

“The whole thing is a nine-four provisional.” I settle back. “Thought records are down to two a week. I did the walk this morning before I came to Aruba. I flagged one absolute on the flight. It didn’t hold up under review.”

“It never does.” She smiles the small professional smile that took me three months to earn. We walk through what’s been in my head, how I have been spending my time since my last in-person session.

“You look good, Luca. Not performing-good. Good,” she says at the end of our time.

“That’s the plant talking. How’s the plant?”

“Thriving. Since someone corrected my watering schedule.”

“You’re welcome. Same time next week?”

“Same time next week. Enjoy it, Luca. Enjoy the whole thing.”