The Last Cadillac by Nancy Nau Sullivan Page A

a seagull. I go back there instantly from wherever I am. It will always be there, the cottage that held us together in one laughing bunch with the waves rolling onto the white beach—as long as there is memory, no matter what.
    We drove out to the cottage many times. In the ’50s, we clattered over the wooden drawbridge, which made a frightening sound as the boards rose up under the weight of the wheels. We watched the eagles swoop out of the tall narrow pines on the causeway between the mainland and the island.
    Burning pitch wafted from the fireplaces in the new neighborhoods—Key Royale, Sand Dollar Lane, Coquina Corners. The salty air was crisp in the winter, and even on cold sunny days, we went swimming and jumped in the high waves and walked on the beach.
    My grandfather and I “stepped out” together to the Cortez fishing village, where he bought me a Chinese hat, and we watched the fishermen unload grouper and red snapper from their day’s catch. Grandma and I baked cakes and made donuts. I wrote long letters to Lucy that consisted of wavy lines. My grandmother sent them anyway. I ran around and pressed gardenias to the dog’s wet nose, thinking he would love the flowers, too, but he sneezed and ran off in circles. It was heaven.
    My mother said, “I definitely left you down there too long.”

10
JUST GO ALREADY
    One blurry day, well before my mother’s death, I had decided to move to Florida. That day had begun like any other abnormal day. I was going to interview a Buddhist priest for the newspaper. I hoped to get some tips about living the calm, unobstructed life as my marriage crumbled into a heap of dust. I didn’t think I’d have any luck, but I was going to try. I was planning to get the secret of life and the story written by 8:00 p.m.
    The kids and I were still in our big old house with the divorce close at hand. Sometimes they spent the night at their father’s temporary digs, an apartment over a paint store in Lansing. This was before he moved in with The Mop. He was going through some strange creative phase, making furniture out of plywood and PVC pipe. Tick said his table wobbled and fell down. He was planning a spring wedding, and I told him the kids couldn’t go. The ink wouldn’t even be dry on the divorce papers.
    I took a trip to the garbage cans, dumped the trash, and lugged the cans out to the back curb. At that moment, my next-door neighbor hobbled out of her front door. Sheshuffled, but at a fast pace that I knew would allow her to catch up to me. I was about to be ensnared in one of her question and answer sessions, but I would be forceful. I had many tasks on my to-do list.
    â€œHellllooooo, I didn’t know you and the mister had patched things up. I see him come and go, and I hear him playing that pi-anny so loud, right-cheer in the middle of the day,” said Mrs. Krantz. “Such a lucky thing for you, you poor dear thing, with those children and all.”
    â€œOh, OK, thanks, Mrs. Krantz,” I said, teeth set on edge. I shook the garbage cans fiercely and retreated.
    I fumed. I could not even look him in the face. Now he’s sneaking in to play the pi-anny. In my house. Which he left.
    I slammed the door behind me and mulled this one over in my usual spot at the kitchen sink, finishing the dregs of old coffee and looking out at the garden that didn’t grow. My neighbor was the local gossip to end all, and she pumped me at every opportunity for details of my disastrous decline into singlehood. The talk of the neighborhood, she called it, with the Ex carrying on with the other woman just down the street and all. I did not like being the Talk of the Neighborhood, but the good part was that it felt less and less like a disaster. I was glad he was gone.
    But he is still coming back, I thought, as I pushed off the sink. When I’m at a town hall meeting, or running after a feature story, or visiting my parents, he