Page 57 of Bend
I leave the island four times annually—one trip inland for each season—and that’s mostly for Trudie. Was for Trudie. She needed things on occasion, and with her bum hip, it was easier for me to get them.
After she passed, I debated ever leaving the island again. No reason to. I’ve got food and supplies. I can get Bob, my cousin and my manager, to arrange a courier to get the paintings. Maybe pay him to haul his ass down here and do it himself if he doesn’t trust a third party. Not my problem. Keeping me anonymous is Bob’s problem. Has been since we started.
The only thing that made me second-guess confinement to the island was pussy.
When I first came here four years ago, I didn’t leave for months. I started dreaming of pussy. Smelling pussy. Even tasting it. So I found Clarice, a lonely young widow in one of the row houses by the water. She likes it like I do, and she never wants to see my face.
She’s a good enough fuck. But I have to go to her. I would never bring her here. I would never bring anyone here.
I could pay for pussy. Liplocked pussy. Motor boat some discreet escort to the island. But escorts are boring.
Even Clarice—predictable, submissive Clarice—could conceivably say “no.” She could fight me if she wanted. And I need that. Need to think that maybe one day, she’ll decide to twist around and grab my hair and look into my eyes.
Without that possibility, without the chance that it could all implode, it’s not fucking worth it.
So, no escorts in motor boats.
After I’ve had some time to digest Trudie’s death and my subsequent inheritance of Rabbit Island, I decide no more Clarice, either.
I’ll find another way to deal with my dick.
Peace follows my decision. Peace: the closest thing I’d found to happiness. I think Trudie would have been glad for me.
I celebrate my vow of seclusion by wandering the forest. Pines and oaks, cypress, swampland. The island is an eighth of a mile long, and I love every fucking inch of it. I leave my cabin for two nights and pitch a tent on the boulder on the northwest side of the island. Sit beside it with my feet in the sand and listen to the whip-poor-will, to the lapping of the waves. Watch cypress branches drifting in the salty breeze. And when I can’t keep my hands still any longer, I let myself paint. A gull in the water. A squirrel on an oak. Simple shit.
The next day, I call Bob. Set up the courier.
And then three days ago, when I’m up at Trudie’s cottage, archiving her unpublished poems, the phone rings.
Trudie wasn’t a lover of technology, and she especially hated talking on the phone. In her honor, I let her archaic answering machine pick up. I wonder who the fuck has her number. The old woman was more reclusive than even me.
A second later, a male voice fills her little office.
“This is a message for James Wolfe. I’m Michael Halcomb, partner at Halcomb & Mallory and Gertrude O’Malley’s new estate attorney. I need to talk to you about her attempted deeding of Rabbit Island to you.”
I sit there a moment, absorbing the echo of my name; resisting the urge to grab the phone. Then I pluck it off her desk. “What do you mean attempted?”
I can tell the lawyer is surprised to hear my voice. I’ve got a deep voice. Distinctive. Shit… It’s fucking infamous.
I’m fucking infamous.
Bet the bastard was hoping he wouldn’t reach me.
“Mr. Wolfe?” His voice sounds tinny.
“You mentioned a problem?”
He clears his throat. “Er…yes sir. I’m glad I reached you. There’s an issue with the deeding of the island. Nothing insurmountable—”
“Spit it out.”
“I’m afraid the attorney in charge of Ms. O’Malley’s final arrangements was a junior colleague. He was only on the—”
“Spit. It. Out.”
“The island can’t be deeded to you, despite your being temporarily in charge of her trust. In the event that no family member is helping govern the trust, conservation land like the island can’t pass hands. For ownership of the island to change hands posthumously, it’s got to be done via Gertrude’s family. There’s only one living descendant, according to my research. A granddaughter—”
“Sarah Ryder.” A redhead. Freckled and pale, from the look of her in the photo on Trudie’s desk. Despite some kind of family feud, Trudie kept track of the girl. Subscribed to the Boston Journal online. Even had me program Google to send Trudie an e-mail alert when it picked up the name “Sarah L. Ryder.”
