Page 70 of Winter in Paradise
At eight thirty at night, after Floyd and Baker have eaten the barbecue—chicken, ribs, pasta salad, coleslaw with raisins, rice and beans, and fried plantains—there’s a knock at the door. Somewhere in the house, Winnie barks.
Who could it be? Baker wonders, and he wishes they’d left the gate down. He feels ill. He just indulged in some world-class stress eating, shoveling food in without even tasting it, and he can’t imagine who could be at the door this late. It’s not Cash; he would have sauntered right in. Maybe the police have shown up with Cash in custody? Maybe something happened to Cash: he hitchhiked home with the wrong person, or he was trying to hitch a ride and a driver didn’t see him and mowed him down. Maybe he did something desperate. Baker shouldn’t have teased him about Ayers, or about Claire Bellows, and he should never have forced a confession about the business. The stores failed. They’re gone. Even though Baker had predicted that would happen, he feels no joy in the reality. Poor Cash. He just wasn’t meant to run a business.
It could be Anna at the door, Baker supposes, although she would have to be a homing pigeon to find this place in the dark. There are no neighbors on this road.
He asks Floyd to run upstairs, brush his teeth, and put on his pajamas.
“No,” Floyd says.
Normally, Baker has a deep well of paternal patience, but he senses that this knock means bad news of some kind. “Please, buddy,” Baker says.
“I’m scared,” Floyd says, and Baker realizes that Floyd has every reason to be scared. This is a huge, unfamiliar house. Even Baker can’t recall which room he put Floyd’s suitcase in. Baker wants to tell Floyd that he, too, is scared—of things far more terrifying than shadows and strange noises.
It’s probably a taxi driver who picked up Cash and now is demanding to be paid.
Baker opens the door to find a tall, hulking West Indian man, and initially he thinks his guess is correct.
“Hello?” Baker says. He searches the darkness beyond the man for signs of his brother.
The man thrusts forward a square cardboard box. “For you,” he says. “Mr. Steele’s remains.”
Mr. Steele’s remains? Baker reaches out to accept the box and the man turns to go.
“Wait,” Baker says. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
“I’m Douglas Vickers, Paulette’s husband,” the man says. “Those came to her office today and she asked me to deliver them here.”
“Oh,” Baker says. In the moment, this makes sense. “Thank you.” Douglas gives Baker and Floyd half a wave and disappears down the stone staircase, leaving Baker to hold what remains of his father. The ashes have been delivered to the door like a pizza.
“Daddy?” Floyd says. There is likely a barrage of questions coming as soon as Floyd can figure out what to ask, but for now, he just seems to need reassurance.
“Everything is okay, bud,” Baker says. “I’ll be back in one second. You stay right here.” Baker turns to check that Floyd is standing in the doorway, then he goes flying down the curved stone staircase after Douglas. He catches the man just as he’s climbing into a white panel van. “Excuse me? Mr. Vickers, sir?”
Douglas Vickers stops, one leg up in the van, one on the ground, his face framed by the open driver’s-side window. “Yes?”
“You were the one who identified my father’s body, is that right?” Baker asks.
Douglas Vickers nods once. “I did.”
“You… saw him?” Baker asks. “And he was dead?”
Douglas Vickers gives Baker a blank stare, then he hops into the truck and backs out through the gate.
Once Baker gets Floyd to sleep—thankfully, Anna remembered to pack a few picture books, including The Dirty Cowboy, which reliably knocks Floyd out by the end of page six—he heads down the hallway to the room Irene has been using and knocks on the door.
“Come in,” Irene says.
His mother is sitting on the side of the bed, fully dressed, as if she has been waiting for Baker to knock.
“Is Floyd asleep?” she asks.
Baker nods.
“Good,” Irene says. “Because I have to talk to you and your brother.”
“Um, okay?” Baker says. “Cash isn’t home. I left him off in town when I got the barbecue.”
“Whatever for?” Irene asks.
