Leona was five years old, the last time she saw Bulgy the Whale. She stood on the narrow strip of beach along the bay and watched Bulgy as he drifted west on the current, bound for China or, at the very least, Hawaii. The year was 1950. Bulgy, whose name was printed right there on his back, along with his eyes and blow spout, was lollipop red plastic, between three and four feet long. He inflated through the corner of his right tail fin which was rolled up and secured with a rubber band when he was firmly full of air. He had a white smile printed at the end of his round whale head, while his underside was smooth and undecorated. He was Leona's seaside companion when her grandparents took her on vacation. If there weren't too many beach-bound passengers in her grandpa's roomy sedan, Bulgy was allowed to travel in the back seat in his blown-up state. But since driving to fun places with lots of people made her grandpa happy, Bulgy usually rode, flat, in the trunk. That summer, Leona had a two-piece bathing suit of striped cotton, with a halter top and a bottom that was gathered and ruffled like a short rumba skirt. It felt more like a costume than like clothes. Leona's imagination was able to step in and add flourishes to ordinary situations. So each beach morning, Leona took her whale friend down the apartment steps and along Pearl Avenue to the still foggy shore, her grandma following with a picnic breakfast. The other friends and relatives strolled along later, bringing the umbrellas, blankets, towels and more food. Leona spent most of those days floating in the calm and shallow water, her arms and legs draped over the whale toy, while her aunt Nancy swam nearby. When Leona looked back on the day of Bulgy's departure, she tried to think what had been different. Was there more wind? She knew they had stayed on the sand longer than they normally did, waiting until nearly sundown to begin packing up. Her curly, brown hair had dried by the time she looked up and saw that Bulgy was not next to her towel where she had left him. He had become a bright, small spot of red far out in the channel, picking up the last rays of the sun as he started his journey. "We'll get you another one, Sweetie," her grandma said as Leona shrieked tearfully over the loss. "And think of the adventures he'll have. I'll bet someday he'll be back with stories to tell. Maybe he'll have a tattoo like your uncle Charlie." Leona was able to find a weak smile for the picture of Bulgy with a tattoo, though she still felt as though all the air had gone out of her. She guessed the tattoo would be a lady whale, the way her uncle had a hula dancer on his arm. It wouldn't be a bad life for Bulgy. She just hoped he didn't pop before he got someplace exciting. As years passed, Leona no longer thought about Bulgy, except in an occasional and half-hearted way. Bumper stickers saying, "I BRAKE FOR WHALES" barely jostled her memory. She grew up, through an assortment of inflatable and stuffed toys; through sports cars and mini skirts; eyeliner and old fur coats; pant suits and stretch boots with big heels; ecology, psychology and astrology. Like most people born in 1945, or any other year, she felt the quiet gnawing of something missing in her life. Much of her energy was spent collecting things at swap meets, things like lunch boxes depicting long-cancelled television shows, usually with the thermos missing; things like salt and pepper shakers that were cucumbers or eggplants wearing clothes. She hunted for heart-shaped celluloid pins and green glass refrigerator dishes, the kind her grandma had used. She bought black-and-white photographs of people she didn't know and postcards of places she had never been. One day at the flea market, Leona found a lone salt shaker, identifiable by the size of the holes, that was a red ceramic whale. The words "MADE IN JAPAN" were stamped on the bottom. Immediately she saw the image of a flattened, exhausted Bulgy being hauled aboard a fishing boat. His arrival was surely celebrated and artisans copied his likeness in useful household objects. It could have happened like that, she thought. So Leona held out a dollar to the sunburned man who ran the booth. She noticed his kind and open face and the fact that his tee shirt advertised an aquarium where he'd, apparently, had "A WHALE OF A TIME." He asked her, "Do you like red or do you like whales?" as he reached for the money. "I like the combination," Leona started to say, when she saw the tattoo on his arm, a young mermaid with a striped tail and matching halter top and curly, brown hair, her right hand raised in a gesture of greeting or farewell.