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  Outside, the sky is turning to india ink. The vapor lights of the trailer court shine through the bedroom skylight. Makes everything look like pink lemonade. That’s what Dagmar used to say. When they were first married, she and Leon used to sit on lawn chairs in front of the Airstream and drink pink lemonade with sloe gin. They used to talk about the days when they could have a real kitchen, one with a real stove, not a hot plate. The kind of kitchen you can make tapioca in—even though Dagmar really can’t cook. It was just the thought of it. Somebody making tapioca for you makes it a home.

  Leon loves tapioca. Mama Po used to make it for him all the time. In poker, tapioca is slang for tapped-out, broke, busted. Sometimes, Leon thinks his mama was preparing him for what the rest of his life would bring, filling him up with his future.

  But, still he loves it. Misses it. And her.

  He lies on the bed and watches the stars come out one by one. When the sky looks bruised with them, he dials Dagmar’s number. It goes into voice mail immediately.

  “It’s me,” he says and wants to tell her about playing poker with Jesus on Christmas Day, but the more he thinks about it, the queasier he gets. Something about the man’s eyes, the suffering in them, makes him feel ashamed.

  “Just wanted to say ‘hey’.”

  Hey, I miss you. Hey, I still love you. Hey, I won’t screw up again. And hey—Leon can barely think about this part, about standing on the shore holding their young son, Cal, in his arms. His small lifeless body. The riptide.—Hey, I am so damn sorry I want to die.

  He wants to tell Dagmar all these things, but it’s just too painful. “So, hey,” is what he says. “Merry Christmas.” Then hangs up. It’s the first Christmas without their son, without each other. Dagmar just couldn’t forgive him. “You never pay attention,” she said when she left. And he knew she was right.

  When the moon turns full overhead, Leon drives to the Wal-Mart, Carlotta’s note in his hand like a grocery list. Inside the store the light is so bright there are no shadows, no dark places. He walks up and down aisles filled with young men in aprons and bow ties, slicing the tops of boxes with razors, stocking the shelves. Their acne is angry. Their hair, surprised. Leon hardly notices. He’s too busy looking, but doesn’t think to read the signs, or ask someone.

  The store is as large as an airplane hangar; his footsteps echo. Hardware. Auto Repair. Lawn and Garden. The endless tombs of frozen foods. He knows he’s getting closer. Two dozen kinds of brownie mix. Fluffy. With nuts. With white chocolate chips. With artificially flavored mint frosting. Fat free. And then he sees it. Shelf stable and the color of chalk. The pearl of fish eyes watching him alone. So he puts it in his cart. Case after case. Tapioca. Premade and ready for anything.

  Chapter 10

  “This is a Kodak moment if I ever did see one,” Jimmy Ray says, beaming. His blue pin-striped suit is immaculate, despite the early hour. His silver hair glints like a department store diamond. He is coconut oil clean.

  It’s a good day, a strong day, Dagmar thinks, and feels happy. The week before, Jimmy Ray had some trouble getting out of bed. His skin was ashen.

  But today, he looks like the old Jimmy Ray, the one who used to boogie woogie with her when she was small. The Jimmy Ray who used to tell her stories of Mardi Gras. Used to tell her about the time he rode in the parade with Louie Armstrong who was crowned King of Zulu and they both wore traditional blackface, like everybody around them—“Those New Orleans Zulu are white folk after all,” he’d say and wink. Used to tell her about Professor Longhair, and the rest of the Blues Jumpers—how they would roller coaster their way through a creole of Caribbean and blues while masked ladies in crinoline spun across the dance floor like peach blossoms in strong wind—“Such lost beauty,” he’d always say. That Jimmy Ray: the one filled with life.

  “Dagmar, honey, your elf cap is a little crooked.”

  Jimmy Ray has Dagmar and Jesus posed in front of the Christmas tree. Dagmar is still wearing her green elf cap, which sets off her hair, makes it seem redder than it is. And Jesus, looking a little sleep deprived, is in his sheet. Dagmar adjusts her cap.

  “Jimmy Ray, hurry up,” she says and put her arm back around Jesus, his bony shoulders. He pulls back slightly. Skittish.

  She didn’t mean to bring Jesus home to Jimmy Ray for Christmas, but when they pulled into the driveway, Jimmy Ray was standing outside waiting for her. Hands in his pockets, kicking stones with his well-shined shoes. It was a lonely sight. How long he’d been standing in the morning fog was a question too sad to ask. So she didn’t.

  But when Jimmy Ray saw Jesus and Dagmar he let out a great yelp. “Who you got there, sis?”

  Jimmy Ray was laughing so hard he could hardly speak. The sight of Dagmar in her elf cap and Jesus singing show tunes in a sea green Mercedes convertible with its top down was just too much for him to handle. This was not just a chuckle, but eye-watering laugher. Spitting laughter. He could hardly catch his breath, limped a little on the way to the car.

  “Sis,” he said, “when you said expect a little surprise on Christmas morning, you meant it, darling.” Then he turned to Jesus and extended his hand, “Pleased to meet you—”

  “Jesus.” The man was serious. Jimmy Ray didn’t expect that. Up until that moment, he thought the sheet was a joke.

  Dagmar shrugged. “He needed a ride.”

  “You were hitchhiking like that on Christmas?”

  “I don’t have a lot of choice,” Jesus said.

  For a moment, the three were unsure of what to say. In the quiet morning, they could hear the snap and pop of Jimmy Ray’s police scanners coming from his tiny house. It’s a cacophony of violence and mayhem that he seems to find reassuring these days.

  After his heart surgery, and conversion to Buddhism, he filled his house with scanners, twenty or more. Each one is locked on to a different frequency: police, sheriff, state police, airports, fire departments, EMS, even FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, which can provide a lot of drama with all the fires in the Glades and hurricane season. Some are set to pick up Miami. The one in the kitchen has a huge exterior antenna. You can hear all about muggings in Key West on clear days.

  “It’s the sounds of life,” Jimmy Ray told Dagmar when he first put them in. “The world hums with drama. Makes you jingle in your bones.”

  “You have to stop watching Cops.”

  But Jimmy Ray had a point. His is the only inhabited house for miles in any direction. Gets pretty lonely.

  “Look,” Dagmar said. “I’m going to run Jesus out to the interstate. I didn’t want you to worry.”

  Jimmy Ray flinched. The idea of sending Jesus packing on Christmas Day, even if he was just a crazy Jesus guy, just didn’t seem right. “Maybe we should all have breakfast first.”

  Dagmar looked squeamish.

  “In the spirit of Christmas,” Jimmy Ray said.

  Dagmar wanted to argue, but, in all the excitement, the caffeine had suddenly worn off. She felt like she’d hit a wall, just wanted to sleep.

  “That’s mighty nice of you,” Jesus said and opened his car door. Shook Jimmy Ray’s hand. “I hope this isn’t too much trouble.”

  Jimmy Ray gave a little bow. “No, sir. My pleasure. I got to warn you, though, that I’m a big fan of Mr. Buddha. But if that don’t bother you, come on in.”

  “Not much bothers me anymore,” Jesus said.

  Jimmy Ray looked at the man, his scarred forehead and hands. His eyes, murky lakes. It frightened him a little, but he tried not to show it. “Well, then,” Jimmy Ray said gently. “Let’s all have us a little breakfast. Dagmar promised corncakes with real corn and sorghum. Didn’t you, darling?”

  No, she wanted to say, that’s the first I’ve heard of it. “Huh?” is what she said.

  “And while you’re at it,” Jimmy Ray said, “why don’t you give Mr. Trot a call and tell him that we’re having Jesus over for breakfast. Maybe he’d like to join us.”

  Dagmar looked
at her watch. 7:02 A.M. Christmas morning. She was pretty sure that Trot, despite his undying love for her, would not find an invitation to breakfast with Jesus of interest at this hour. Of course, sleep-deprived and caffeine-numb as she was, Dagmar was forgetting one major thing—Trot is sheriff. Sheriffs usually like to know when Jesus rolls into their town to celebrate his birthday. However, at that moment, Dagmar was thinking not of Trot, middle-aged law enforcement officer whose mother still buys his underwear, but Trot, the lovesick teenager who stole her gym socks and wore them around for a month. That Trot. The gooney Trot. The Trot she probably should have married.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, but Jimmy Ray didn’t hear her. The two men were already walking up the broken sidewalk toward the house—“The Key Lime House,” as Dagmar calls it. It’s a tiny cottage edged by key lime trees and painted an overripe shade of yellow. Seems to grow from the center of the grove. The sun was rising. A flock of green parrots screeched overhead. A possum ran across the driveway, three babies scrambled after, tumbling on top of each other.

  Dagmar was still sitting in the car, confused and yawning.

  Jimmy Ray and Jesus stopped at the front door. Turned around.

  “You coming, sis? There’s breakfast to be made,” Jimmy Ray shouted. “And you know that Mr. Trot would love to hear the sound of your voice on a fine morning such as this!”

  Jimmy Ray never got over the fact that Dagmar chose Leon over Trot.

  “And I’m nothing without my coffee,” Jesus chimed in.

  Okay, Dagmar thought, they’re both crazy.

  “Mr. Jesus,” Jimmy Ray said, as the two men walked into the house, “I was wondering what influence you think the other Big Dogs had on your philosophy. You know, like Siddhartha, or even Confucius—he had some mighty hep things to say.”

  And then the two began loudly debating the virtues of polytheism as if they were old friends. Closed the front door behind them.

  Dagmar was still sitting in the car.

  What Dagmar thought she promised was Waffle House, open 24/7/365, with somebody else cooking and cleaning up. She’d just spent the last few hours cooking for The Dream Café staff and patrons. Since 3 A.M. she’d already fried up twenty-five pounds of sausage and rolled out 288 buttermilk biscuits. Plus, there was a Christmas dinner waiting to be cooked in a cooler in the trunk of her car—turkey and cornbread dressing, mustard greens, sweet potatoes, and a frozen pecan pie that still needed to be baked. What she wanted to do was look at a menu and kick off her shoes.

  Jimmy Ray opened the front door. “You coming, child? Breakfast won’t make itself.”

  No sense arguing. She hadn’t seen Jimmy Ray this happy in a very long time. Something about the perversity of the situation seemed to bring out the best in him.

  So she went in to make breakfast and decided that the phone call, which she knows will feature that ever-hopeful lilt in Trot’s voice, could wait.

  In the tiny yellow kitchen, Jimmy Ray’s refrigerator was filled with things he shouldn’t eat, including a quarter shank of country ham, a slab of bacon, and a bowl with a few small brown eggs from Tully, his hen. In the vegetable drawer, there were a few ears of fresh picked corn and some small green tomatoes.

  The men were sitting at the dining room table, waiting. She could hear Jimmy Ray tell Jesus about the time the Duke and Duchess of Windsor came to Mardi Gras. He loved that story. “They were the real royalty,” he said. “Walked like they were made of glass.”

  He sounded so happy. So Dagmar fried up the ham, shucked the last ears of corn for corncakes, pulled out the box of pancake mix, and warmed the sorghum. She found three plates that matched and a few oranges from the tree out back for juice. Her back ached. She could feel the veins in her legs. Six hours of cooking, she thought. Six more to go.

  When she brought two plates filled with breakfast into the dining room, Jimmy Ray looked surprised.

  “You actually made breakfast?”

  “What did you expect me to do?”

  “He thought you were calling the police,” Jesus said. “That’s why he sent you in there. Breakfast looks good, though.” He took his plate from her hand. “Thanks.”

  “Is that right?” Dagmar looked surprised.

  “Pretty easy to figure out,” Jesus said.

  “Well, why didn’t you just tell me?”

  She was now whining. Overtired as a child.

  Jimmy Ray looked a little sheepish. “Sis, you don’t know how to cook. I just figured you’d know I was talking code.”

  “What do you mean I don’t know how to cook?”

  Some questions are better left unanswered. That is the one thing that Jimmy Ray knows for sure about women.

  Jesus looked up from his plate, a drop of syrup rolled down the corner of his thin lips. His mouth was full of corncakes, but he said. “It’s not too bad. I’ve had worse. Although I’ve never seen corncakes made with pancake mix. Usually it’s made with cornmeal, isn’t it? More like a cornbread, I think.”

  Jimmy Ray was thinking that this was not a good time for a Zagat restaurant review.

  “Well,” Dagmar said, “should I call the police?”

  “I would,” Jesus said, “but I’m cautious by nature.”

  Dagmar was still holding a plate filled with food in her hand. For a moment, she appeared to be winding up for a pitch. Jimmy Ray had a panicked Oh-No-Not-Another-Christmas-Day-Massacre look on his face.

  “Maybe we should just have some breakfast,” he said and quickly took the other plate for himself. “Mmm. Mmm. Looks good.”

  He tried to sound cheery. But he was, after all, looking forward to pecan waffles and country ham at The Waffle House.

  Dagmar was not buying his false enthusiasm. She sat down next to him. Glared. Jimmy Ray shrugged. Jesus tucked into the food with ferocity. He barely chewed, just pushed ham and bacon into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in a long time.

  “He doesn’t seem to be breaking any laws,” Jimmy Ray said. “Honey, if there was an APB out on Jesus on Christmas morning, don’t you think I would have heard it?

  “I’ve not even heard a 10–96 in a week.”

  “10–96?”

  Jimmy Ray clucked. “10–96. Psych Emergency. Dagmar, I’d expect a woman of your education to know these things.”

  “Even I knew that,” Jesus said.

  Dagmar was not in the mood to be bested by a guy in a sheet, but before she could say anything else Jimmy Ray patted her hand. “Sis, the only serious damage he’s doing is to those corncakes.”

  “Can’t fault a man who likes your cooking.”

  “Let’s not labor that point,” she said, gave Jimmy Ray a look that could melt cheese. “I guess you’re right, though. He seems harmless.”

  Then Jesus took a long sip of orange juice, swallowed hard, leaned in and said. “But I am Jesus and on some level that is profoundly disturbing. Even to me.”

  Dagmar and Jimmy Ray exchanged an uneasy glance.

  “I guess this still all boils down to whether you believe in miracles, or not.”

  Dagmar stood up to call the police.

  Jesus smiled. “While you’re up, a little coffee would help.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Jimmy Ray?”

  “No, sis. I’m good.”

  Dagmar frowned. “I meant would you help me?”

  Jesus smiled. “She wants you to go and call the police with her.”

  “I knew that,” Jimmy Ray said, rose from the chair spider-boned, and pained. “I got to stop sitting so long.”

  In the kitchen, Dagmar dialed 911. Whispered the details. After a few minutes, she hung up the phone.

  “You’re right. There’s no APB on Jesus. He could be harmless. The operator was telling me that apparently you get a lot of this kind of thing on Christmas. Perfectly normal people start speaking in tongues. Too much stress.”

  “And that’s why everybody should be a Buddhist.”

  “Then the streets would be filled
with guys dressed as Buddha and there’d be after Buddha Day sales.

  “Anyway, the operator said that unless we can find evidence of brain trauma—you know, like he’s been in an accident or had a stroke—they usually remember who they are within a few hours.”

  “If he doesn’t?”

  “Then he’s probably a flaming nut job. But the police aren’t looking for him, so that’s some comfort.”

  “Bottom line?”

  “Trot has the day off, and since it’s not an emergency, they’re not sure when they can send somebody else.”

  “Well, that’s okay. I kind of like him. He’s interesting. Got some opinions about the world. You don’t see that often.”

  “Wait a minute, you’re the one who thought I should call the police in the first place. Which, by the way, was not very Buddhist of you.”

  Jimmy Ray shrugged. “Inconsistency is a protected natural right of all us old folks.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “He just seems a little lost.”

  “I don’t know.”

  The hum of the police scanners filled the moment.

  “But he knew my name,” Dagmar said.

  “Well, how’s that a wonder? You got your picture on billboards splayed all over from Venice to Miami. Your name is underneath in bold letters. Any man in his right mind, or not in his right mind, is gonna remember you.

  “Maybe you worry too much, gal.”

  She frowned.

  “Besides, I can take care of myself,” Jimmy Ray said. “And you, too. Now let’s have us a Christmas to remember. It isn’t every day that Jesus shows up to party.”

  “All this talk of Christmas; I thought you were Buddhist.”

  “Sis, when it comes to presents, I’d be the pope if I had to.”

  She kissed him on the cheek.

  “I love you, sugar,” he said; his voice cracked a little.

  I love you, Dad, she thought. “What do you mean, I can’t cook?” she said.