Blood and Sand Page 2
He knows he’s got me then.
“Yes,” he says, releasing my shorts to clench his fist and pull it toward him in a gesture of victory. Then he begins to jump up and down.
I drop the keys and the towels and the bottles of sunscreen wrapped in them, kick off my flip-flops, and pause just a moment to take it all in—him, the sand, the sea, the sun.
“I love you, Dad,” he says with the ease and unashamed openness only a safe and secure child can.
“I love you.”
I take his hand in mine, and we walk down to the end of his world as the sun sets and the breeze cools off the day. And we walk right into the ocean from which we came. A wave knocks us down and we stay that way, allowing the foamy water to wash over us.
He shrieks his joy and excitement, sounding like the gulls in the air and on the shore. He plays with intensity and abandon, and for a moment I want to be a child again—but only for a moment, for more than anything in this world, I want to be his dad.
We forget about the world around us, and we lose track of time, and the thick, salty waters of the Gulf roll in on us and then back out to sea.
* * *
I first had the dream when Susan and I had been working on reconciling, and at the time, I thought it was about a son we would have together one day. When Susan and I split up and I was single again I’d occasionally have the dream. I then believed it to be about a son I’d have in the future with a yet to be determined woman I had hoped would be Anna.
When later I discovered that Susan and I had a little girl, I had believed the dream was about our little Johanna and that the gender of the child in the dream was irrelevant.
But then I continued to have the dream.
Many people, including experts on dreams, believe that recurring dreams are a sign of something unresolved—an unaddressed stress or an unacknowledged childhood trauma—but my experience of this particular repeating dream has never felt like any of that.
The dream resurfaced later when it looked as if Anna and I were going to adopt Carla’s son John Paul, and I believed it had been about him all along. But then when Carla decided to keep him, I again had no idea what it meant.
Maybe the dream isn’t about a literal son or child at all. Maybe it has a symbolic meaning I’ve yet to discern. Whatever it is remains a mystery—one made all the more mysterious and relevant by its recurring nature.
Whether arising from my thoughts about the subtle changes I’ve noticed in Anna or the experience of déjà vu and the recurring nature of the dream that caused it, I find that in spite of the pleasant morning and the pleasurable moment Taylor and I have just shared in this peaceful, picturesque place, I am filled with an acute sense of apprehension.
Day 4
I honestly don’t know how we’re doing it.
I mean how we’re functioning at all.
We are functioning, I guess—at least somewhat—and that seems impossible.
How are we actually waking up each morning? How are we getting out of bed? (To be fair, sometimes I don’t.) How are we getting ready and getting dressed? How are we putting one foot in front of the other? How are we still living?
It must be that we don’t know where Magdalene is and what happened to her. If we knew for sure she wasn’t coming home to us . . . I mean we know, but we don’t know-know—not like for absolute certain. If I did—if I knew for absolute certain that she was never coming home to us again, I don’t think I’d get up. Not in the morning. Not ever again. Keith might be able to— probably would—but not me. I couldn’t.
I’m so numb it’s like I’m not really alive.
I’ve never felt this dull before, this dead.
You would think feeling nothing would really feel like not feeling at all, but that’s not how it is. Feeling nothing actually has a feeling. A lack of feeling is a feeling. It’s sort of like the sound of silence. Silence does have a sound. It can be deafening. And feeling nothing can be excruciating.
Day 5
Day 5
The Florida House has become the Forensic House. Our beloved dream home and B&B will forever be marred. Forensics is finished with our house, but I’m not sure I can ever stay here again. It certainly will never be a home again—not unless we get Magdalene back and can be a family again. But even then, would I want to live somewhere where she had been taken from? I don’t think I could. But even if I could, I couldn’t do that to her. I used to love our home. This house is very special. Or was. A unique, one-of-a-kind labyrinth of love. And it has always been such an expression of who we are. The architecture and construction, the secret passageways and hidden rooms, a reflection of Keith. The furniture and decorations, the comfort and coziness, a reflection of me.
It was our dream home. Now it’s our nightmare house of horrors.
For now, no matter what else we decide to do, I’m keeping Magdalene’s room just the way it is for as long as we live here. No matter what. The only thing I’m going to do is take her unopened Christmas presents from under the tree and put them in her room. Everything else will stay just as it was. Well, just as it is now that the crime scene unit is finished with it.
I’m still hoping we’ll get Magdalene back soon and she can open her presents. We’ll put Christmas on hold until she comes home—no matter how long that is. And if she never comes home again, then I will never celebrate Christmas again.
2
The assigned topic of my talk today is The State of the World and What to Do about It. Following each talk there will be a talkback where attendees get to respond to what I say with comments and questions.
“This is a big topic,” I say. “Not one I feel qualified to address. In some ways the state of the world is obvious, but what to do about it . . . there’s a question. I think in one sense the state of the world is as it ever was, but in another it’s—at least in ways—a whole new world.”
I am a bit preoccupied by what appears to be Anna’s lack of engagement. It’s subtle—something maybe no one else would notice—but compared to her usual eye contact and encouraging nods and sweet smiles, she seems disinterested and distracted.
“It seems to me that human history is the narrative of human nature—of the continual conflict between our default settings of selfishness and self-centeredness and the better angels of our natures. At our worst we are tribal and brutal—and we’re seeing plenty of examples of this. Rampant xenophobia and the demonization of the other, the different. Bold and blatant abuse of those not us, who are seen to pose a threat to us. We hear it in the rhetoric and see it in the actions of many among us.”
I don’t speak for long—less than fifteen minutes. How to Save the World in a Quarter Hour. I can’t remember everything I say, but it’s mostly a brief introduction for the discussion to follow and the later sessions throughout the week.
“I don’t have the answers, the solutions to resolve the world’s enormous issues,” I say, “but I know it all comes down to love. Ever-expanding love that leads to equality and unselfishness, that treats the other not as an other at all—but as, like the Austrian philosopher Martin Buber said, a thou instead of an it. We don’t treat others inhumanely unless we see them as less than human—less human than us. Be they immigrants or minorities or women or a different religion, culture, political party, or sexual orientation from us, it’s only when we view them as less than that we treat them as less than. Humanity is hardwired to be tribal. We care for and protect and connect with and share with and believe the best about those in our tribe. So what love does is increase our compassion and understanding to such an extent that eventually and ultimately it places everyone—all the people on the planet—in our tribe. Of course, this won’t end conflicts or problems, but it seems to me that there’s no question that we handle these issues far differently with people inside our tribe than for those without.”
The gathered group is a mixture of permanent residents, those who work on 30A but can’t afford to live here, and the wealthy of Atlant
a, Nashville, and Birmingham vacationing here.
Though not very diverse racially, they are one of the most socioeconomically diverse groups I’ve spoken to in quite some time. Seated on the same pews are the old-moneyed wealthy who manage millions and the seasonal barely-above-minimum-wage working poor who manage somehow to make it even though they don’t earn a living wage. It will be interesting to see the extent to which this diversity shows up in the questions and comments during the talkback.
I enjoy sharing my few brief thoughts with the audience. It has been a while since I’ve spoken to a congregation—well, a while for someone who’s accustomed to doing it weekly. I haven’t had a congregation of my own since Hurricane Michael decimated much of Gulf Correctional Institution where I was chaplain and the inmates had to be shipped off to other facilities around the state.
Because of the hurricane’s destruction and the uncertainty around when exactly the prison’s reconstruction will be completed, and because I was unwilling to move even temporarily to work at a different facility, I resigned. For the first time in a long time I have only one job—that of investigator with the Gulf County Sheriff’s Department, and I’m hoping for more opportunities like this one to give inspirational talks at various places or to fill in for ministers away in training or on vacation. Of course, such opportunities and invitations will probably be determined by how this week goes, which based on the first question is not promising.
“Are you really saying all we need is love?”
The questioner, a sixty-something white man with a halo of sparse, wool-like hair and a perpetual scowl above the half-glasses permanently poised on the end of his nose, can’t hide the disdain from his voice. Of course, it’s highly likely he doesn’t try.
“Not in a pop song kind of way,” I say. “Not in a trite, sentimental, theoretical way, no. But in the ‘fighting against our selfish natures in order to extend ourselves on the behalf of others’ way, ‘to put ourselves in their place and to care for them as we care for ourselves’ way, yes.”
“How’d that work out for the hippies?” he says.
“It works well for everyone who truly practices it.”
“I guess you and I—and Jesus come to that—have differing notions of what working out well means.”
“I dare say we do,” I say, nodding and smiling.
“Smile insipidly if you want to,” he says, “but ‘Kumbaya’ around the campfire won’t solve anything, let alone everything.”
“On that we agree completely.”
Day 11
Day 11
I don’t want to eat or sleep or do anything but look for Magdalene.
If even a moment passes by when I’m not thinking about her or trying to find her, I feel more guilt than I ever have about anything in my entire life.
I was shocked when Keith wanted to make love last night. How can he even think about anything pleasurable or enjoyable while our little girl is out there somewhere with God only knows what being done to her? I didn’t handle it well. I didn’t mean to come across as so harsh and judgmental, but I really was just floored that he could even want to. He said it would be healing and restorative and help us be closer and have the wherewithal to go on, but I just couldn’t. I can’t.
Keith is being so patient with me, so good to me. I know he feels so guilty about that night. And as much as it hurts me to think it, he should. But it’s causing him to be even more attentive and patient. Ordinarily he would’ve gotten mad about the way I acted and the things I said. And that would be on top of his frustration from not having sex. But he didn’t get upset or offended or anything. He just apologized and held me. It was sweet.
3
We have lunch in the dining room of the Florida House—the bed and breakfast we’re staying in this week.
The dining room is larger than those found in most homes, but not by much. A long, wide wooden table that seats ten leaves little space for anything else. Twelve people, counting Taylor who sits on an end corner between me and Anna, are crowded around the table.
Our hosts and the owners of the B&B, Keith and Christopher Dacosta, sit at the opposite end of the table from us. They are gracious, warm, and welcoming, but each of them wears a subtle but palpable shroud of sadness.
In their early to mid-thirties, the two men are trim and stylish, though in different ways. Keith is more muscular and dressed more casually, and Christopher is slighter, softer, and more soft-spoken.
Between them and us the table is filled with many of the movers and shakers of Sandcastle.
There’s Wren Melody, the tall, thin, short-haired British lady of older but indeterminate age—is she fifty-five or seventy-five?—who owns the bookshop. Brooke Wakefield, the twenty-something painstakingly put together platinum blonde who operates the boutique. Clarence and Sarah Samuelson, the forty-something couple who run the restaurant. Vic Frankford, the middle-aged man who owns the grocery store. Rake Sabin, the proprietor of the bicycle rental place, Wheel of Time. And Henrique Arango, the fifty-something Cuban gentleman who serves as editor of the newspaper.
“A very inspiring talk, dear boy,” Wren Melody says. Her British accent is faint but still present. “Most rousing. Looking forward to the others still to come.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Inspirational, yes,” Vic Frankford says, his short, coarse salt-and-pepper hair not moving as he first nods then shakes his head. “Realistic, no. And maybe even dangerous.” His hands are thick, his nails manicured, and he wears a pinky ring on his right hand. His easy, smooth, confident nonchalance gives him the feel of being a made man.
“How so?” Henrique Arango asks, his dark eyes widening above their dark circles, his expression pushing his glasses up his nose.
“Aspirations of utopia are as dangerously hopeful as dread of dystopia are dangerously despairing.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear,” I say. “I was in no way describing a utopia. I well know the dangers of believing in the deus ex machina of humanity evolving en masse into something akin to perfection. It’s as hollow as the belief that a literal god in the machine will pull back the curtain, stop human history, and make everything right and new. No, what I was speaking to was what we as individuals can do. We can’t change anyone else or make anyone else do anything—except temporarily by the immoral means of force or manipulation. We can only change ourselves. We are only responsible for ourselves. I was only speaking to what is the best way to live for us individually. And of course that determines how we spend our time and money and how we vote and what causes we support. If everyone is in our tribe, then we’re not going to do business with those who treat another group as less than and in supposed need of conversion or marginalization or eradication. We’re not going to vote for or support any candidate or party or administration that is nationalistic, racist, xenophobic, or even uses any rhetoric a neo-Nazi could find the least bit of solidarity with. But that’s all secondary to how we live, what we say and do—in our private, unguarded, and unobserved moments and in our more public words and actions.”
“It’s not easy, though, is it?” Christopher Dacosta says.
He’s staring off into the distance and doesn’t seem to be speaking to any of us. His diminutive size, pale, unlined, clean-shaven face, and soft-spoken voice give him a boyish quality not often found in men his age.
Keith puts his hand on his back and pats and rubs him.
“How can you love or allow into your tribe those who are evil?” Christopher asks. “Predators who prey on innocence and the jackals who rush in afterward to pick the bones clean?”
Seeming far more like an inward musing that wasn’t meant to be verbalized than an actual question directed toward me, I don’t respond, just continue to listen.
The entire tone and temperature of the room changes, and everyone at the table stops—stops talking, eating, moving, even breathing for a moment.
Anna looks over at me, her quizzical expression
asking if I know what he’s referring to, and though I do, I don’t let on that I do.
Last year, just three days before Christmas, Keith and Christopher’s three-year-old adopted daughter, Magdalene, went missing and hasn’t been seen since. As is the pattern in most of the cases like theirs, Keith and Christopher went from sympathized-with victims to villainized-and-demonized suspects faster than you can say John and Patsy Ramsey and Kate and Gerry McCann.
I’m assuming the predator Christopher is speaking of is the perpetrator who abducted Magdalene, and the jackals who pick the bones clean afterward are the press and the public who turned on her grieving parents.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe it’s not possible. I don’t believe I can tell anyone else what they should do, but especially not those who have suffered beyond my ability to even comprehend. And I believe in attempting to get justice, in imprisoning predators so they can never again repeat their unimaginable atrocities. But . . . I am convinced by and believe in the absolute healing power of love and the ability of forgiveness to free us from the self-imposed prison cell that hate relegates us to.”
Day 13
Day 13
There are only a few reasons why anyone would abduct a child, and none of them are good.
I just keep thinking about what might be happening to my sweet little girl. Or, if she’s already dead, what might have happened to her before she was killed.
It’s absolute torture. It’s driving me mad. These images keep flashing in my imagination. They’re horrific beyond anything I’ve ever even heard about and I keep seeing them happen to my Magdalene.
I say it’s torture, but it’s nothing compared to what Magdalene has likely been through.
I want to jab a long knife into my ear or an icepick into my eye to get the images out of my head.