Free A Shadow in Yucatan by Philippa Rees Page B

strolling Securicor.)
    ‘ It’s nearer to the
beach y’know, and Arthur? Why, he doesn’t mind the drivin’
    Twenty-eighth
on Saturday sleeps late, or walks the dog...
No Afghan or elegant Saluki, but a home-grown sensible get-down
Rover, part pet and part policeman.
Sniffing its beat from Hibiscus to Azalea, sneezing, pausing,
lifting and retracing...
Tangling skeins of trotted scent along the clipped grass sidewalk,
four blocks to the Causeway,
and once over, to the Bay.
    Man, now see
him move!

    At seven the
street is a long lick of paint.
The Banyan boon of shade at the corner belongs to the
Architect.
(His curved walls are cedar, all other walls are white.)
No tooth shadows gnaw the surfaces as they do at noon:
The tattered spikes that serve the night are raised portcullis
high, but the garrison is in its vest, and the mailman’s been and
gone.
    Now the sun is
cracked for breakfast in the middle of the street; spatters the
sidewalk, and the back of the newsboy’s knees...
Only sleep soiled quarters grey and dim, door hatches plastic
sealed...
The air-propeller din sucked greedily through straw of mesh and
spat across the sheet.
    ‘ Hey Honey? D’ya
hear me? Would you say that fella’s queer?
Y’ know that one that wears those shorts and those shades against
the glare?’

    *****

    Stephanie stirs
to the flapping of sheets, and the creaking revolution of a
line...
Slatted sun flickers...
The windowsill flares, and is doused by the closing eye.
The open palm reflexes, the pillow wrist reclines, her body curves
towards its plinth and melts again in sleep.
The clock-still, washer-numb, rag-bound Sabbath sulks.
    Mrs. Martins in
mules beneath the mangoes treads a protest in sand and suds across
to the line and back.
Shuffles to stay shod, slaps and damns the mosquitoes.
Body bowls fall un-harnessed, roll beneath the housecoat...
(blessed midges take advantage in the shade)
    She feels for a
pocket of pegs, spins, secures, spins and reaches, and scratching a
buttock tracks back.
Mrs. Martins is shaking her Sabbath fist. Shalom .
    ‘ So Abel how does it
look? It looks good huh?
Your auntie, Abel, on the Sabbath in rollers, at the mangle
maybe?
To honour that wheedling whippet, long-legged layabout, your uncle
Will
(not will enough to stay alive even.)
Not that I am noticing the difference..
him half buried in the fishing canoe, paddling lazy through the
saw-grass with his pipe...
Did she ever tell you (your mama with her shoes and hats) that your
uncle was an alligator?
But still Abel, how does it look? I should also be enjoying the
hats, and today dressing for Schul’
    Miriam, widow
of goy Wilbur, continues to soliloquize without malice.
Wilbur, cause of curses has been dead too long.
    Abel, adulated
heir, prepares for manhood.
The uncertain Sabbath must be monitored;
He consults his gold Rolex, picks his nose and turns the pages of a
comic he is not reading...
    ‘So why must he read when he
inherits an apartment north of Fontainebleu ?’
    ‘ Ah, the tenant is
awake. I will ask when the flushing has a decent interval. If I
could bring myself to eat bacon, we could be having breakfast. A
daughter I wish I had. To adopt I couldn’t afford; to make believe
costs a person nothing.’

The Specialist
    Synchronised signals on Lauderdale thread
the lace of the idling engine ...
A line up of short-order shacks elbows for a view of the
parade.
    Champ beats
Burger-king, knocked down to Pete’s Pizzas, and two to you from
Charlie’s Cornets...
(bigger you can’t buy)
    Stand aside.
Yonder Palm Beach...
(cut rates for condominium convenience)
    ‘ For a place near
the water, what’s ninety thousand bucks?
We need to moor the catamaran, honey’
    Well
before.
Before the Boulevards, and Porcelain Parlour, Cassata Cafe and
Originals by Appointment, the Florida fanfare is scored for
braggart brass, despairing cheerfulness...
    Flaggin y’down with a
swollen tongue...
Only one, jus one more soda from de poor,
the undimmed