Pages from a Cold Island (37 page)

“
Just say,
”
I say at length, and steely-voiced,
“
I
’
m going home.
”

“
Where
’
s home?
”
April cries.

“
Home,
”
I say,
“
is inside
here
.
”
With great, grave and theatrical deliberation, I lift Yogi
’
s .22 Magnum and with its blue barrel go TAP, TAP, TAP against my right temple.

At Singer Island I leap. For a long time I float in free fall, face down on an eiderdown of air, twisting slowly, now buffeted dreamily, abruptly whipped now, now back face down on this eiderdown, this pillow of air, now into the ecstasy of watching the known places define themselves, the Beer Barrel, the Surf Apartments, the Seaview! Now I am shouting,
“
I
’
m comin
’
home, gang! Set up a vodka and grapefruit juice, Jack! Hey,
Diane, start collecting the sin
gles—we
’
re gonna make us some motherfuckin
’
lasagna!
”
It is invariably at this point that I awaken. I don
’
t know if I pull the rip cord or not.

So I am come
“
home,
”
back to my island, and it is Christmas, the temperature is 90 degrees, the humidity a distressing 86 percent, and yet to me this island has grown
“
colder
”
than ever. In the back of the hotel in the trunk of my beautiful Chevrolet Nova, rustier than ever, its lime-white gone almost snow-white from the relentless sun, there rests the again snugly wrapped manuscript of
Pages from a Cold Island
, at which I haven
’
t bothered to look since my return. While at Iowa I managed to bank,
“
bank
”
in my pants pocket, two grand; and were Big Daddy staying at the hotel, and lover of words and prince among men that he is, that two grand could be stretched into the year I need to remake the book. But alas, he is going; the high-rises, at which I will refuse to look when presently I walk my laps between Nigger Head Rock and the inlet, are climbing steadily; the money cocksuckers will not be stayed; and as I walk I will find myself thinking of stone houses, of Elysian havens, of last islands, of places that never were.

But enough of that. Today is Christmas, and Jack and Alex and I are sworn by Peggie to have no drinks until forty-five minutes prior to dinner, at which time we will be al lotted two frozen daiquiris, though after the meal we can, Peggie says, get as loaded as we damn well please. Peggie
’
s (nee Elizabeth
’
s) m
aiden name is Godwin; her grand
mother came from Bath, not far from Wantage, and on her death left Peggie a magnificent set of Wedgwood, the real stuff, on which we are dining today; and the reason we are sworn to sobriety is that Peggie is rightfully fearful that drunk we might break a piece of this ancient and precious china, for which, Peggie swore,
“
necks will get wrung!
”

When Peggie called this morning to order me to remain temperate, she told me we were having three kinds of meat, turkey, roast beef, and roast loin of pork; mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, squash; tossed salad, asparagus, green beans; cranberries; apple, pecan or pumpkin pie and homemade ice cream; God only knows what all. So I
’
ll worry about
“
last islands
”
tomorrow. What can
I
do on this, the Day of Our Lord, but wish everybody—all the relatives; all the good, good guys at The Head; Big Daddy and his wife; the Dianes, Rent-A-Car and -Barmaid; Toni and Gabrielle and her husband; my wop acquaintance in Panacea; my students, the Epsteins, April and other lasses in Iowa City; fat Eugene and his mom; Mary Pcolar and Rosalind Baker Wilson; and—well, just
everybody, not excluding the ut
terly thrilling Ms. Steinem, Gloria Wonderful, or even that mouthy and canny old
poseur
Mr. Mailer—what can I do on this day but wish everyone
an altogether lovely and peace
ful Christmas and an equal
ly joyous, productive and splen
did New Year?

š
THE END
›

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Frederick Exley was born in Watertown, New York, and educated at the public schools there, at the John Jay High School in Katonah, New York, and at the University of Southern California, from which he re ceived an A.B. in English in June 1953. His first book,
A Fan’s Notes
, was nominated for a National Book Award, won the William Faulkner Award for
“
the year
’
s most notable first novel,
”
was awarded the National Institute of Arts and Letters
’
Rosenthal Award for
“
that work which
…
is a considerable literary achievement,
”
and received a Rockefeller Foundation grant.

Mr. Exley divides his time between Alexandria Bay, New York, in the Thousand Islands region where he grew up, and Singer Island, Riviera Beach, Florida. He is now working on
Last Notes from Home
, the final volume of his autobiographical trilogy.