Part 12 (1/2)
”Joanna was an okay person. Not like Carrie, but okay. I mean there was no need for anybody to blow her into pieces.”
I climbed aboard and up the side ladderway. There was one hole left, a neat rectangle about two feet by five feet. There was new plywood over an area at least sixteen by thirty feet, the major portion of the sun deck. Jason came up with the last piece and laid it in place. It fit so snugly he had to stomp it into place with his bare heels. He knelt on it and took the nails from his canvas ap.r.o.n and smartly whacked the nails home. He threw one to me. It had a twist like a screw, and it was heavy-duty galvanized.
”These won't let go,” he said.
”You're doing a good job.”
”Ollie and I both think we are. He did part of this. What I plan on doing is caulk all these seams with a resin compound before I lay the new vinyl decking. It doesn't exactly match this stuff but it's close. Here's a sample. Close enough?”
”n.o.body will ever notice. What about the ports?”
”That's another story. I got a guy coming to make an estimate tomorrow morning. At ten, if you want to be in on it.”
I left him to his hammering and went below and went down into the forward bilge area. It took thirty seconds to make certain n.o.body had located my hiding place between the fake double hull, not even the impressive Harry Max Scorf himself. I checked out three weapons. If he found them, he had had the sense to leave them where they were, entirely legal.
The lounge was a sorry mess. It was damp as a swamp and already sour with mildew, a graygreen sc.u.m spreading across the carpeting. The yellow couch lay with its feet in the air, a dead mammoth from earlier times. Shards and splinters of coffee table and chairs lay here and there in profusion. A large splinter protruded from the precise center of a stereo speaker. Another had pierced a painting I was fond of, right between the Syd and the Solomon of the painter's lower right corner signature. There were thick brown stains of dried blood. There was a chemical smell, like cap pistols and ammonia.
Meyer came hurrying in. ”h.e.l.lo! Should you be roaming around like this?”
”I'm roaming around crying.”
”I know. I know.”
”Is the wiring messed up? Would the air conditioning work?”
”It kept blowing circuits at first, and I found out that it was the lamp that used to be on this bracket over here. It smashed the inside of it. But now things work.”
”Then instead of letting the place rot, let's get some sheet Pliofilm and staple it over the ports and get the air conditioning going to start to dry it out in here. And let's pull up this carpeting and get it trucked away”
”All right. But spare me the 'us' part of it. Go back and rest.”
”Is there any ice?”
There was. I a.s.sembled a flagon of Plymouth and carried it topside and sat at the controls and sipped and watched the sun sliding down the sky on the other side of Florida. That drink really slugged me. I had to pay special attention to every s.h.i.+ft of weight and balance as I walked back to the motel. Every footfall was an engineering problem. My ears had started ringing again.
Cindy heard me and opened the interconnecting door and stood staring at me. I realized that I was visibly smashed, and I realized she'd had all too much of that in her marriage.
She shook her head. ”Travis, good G.o.d. Sit down before you fall down.”
”Thank you very much indeed.”
”Are you going to be sick?”
”I don't think so. Thank you very much indeed.”
”Here. Let's swing your legs up. Let me get your shoes.”
”Thank you very much indeed.”
Eleven.
I OPENED my eyes. It was night. There was a small lamp with an opaque shade on a table in a corner. Cindy Birdsong slept in the wing chair beside the table, long legs extended, ankles crossed, head tilted way over to rest on her shoulder, mouth slightly agape. I spied upon the privacy of her sleep. She rifled the closets and drawers of memory while her body lay a-sprawl, clad in gray cardigan, pink blouse, dark blue slacks.
I looked at my watch. I pressed the b.u.t.ton. No display. The batteries had died. I had such an evil taste in my mouth I knew I had been asleep a long time. I felt as if I could eat a bison. Raw. With a dull fork.
I tiptoed to the small bathroom and eased the door shut before I turned the light on. I looked at a gaunt, weathered, and most unfamiliar face. I brushed my teeth with foaming energy and drank four gla.s.ses of water. My tan looked yellowed, as if I had jaundice. The white scar tissue in the left eyebrow seemed more visible than usual, the nose more askew. The eyes looked s.h.i.+fty and uncertain. Some kind of hero. Some kind of chronic girl-loser. Some kind of person on the edge of life, unwilling and/or unable to wedge himself into the heartlands.
When I turned the light off and opened the door, Cindy was sitting bolt upright on the edge of the chair, knees together. She hugged herself, rubbing her left shoulder, and said, ”I must have dozed off. I'm sorry.”
”Why be sorry? What time is it?”
She gave a little start as she looked at her watch. ”Good grief, it's a quarter to four! I... I really haven't been sleeping well lately. Until now. I guess you were so deep in sleep it was contagious. How do you feel?”
”I'm starving. You asked. I have to tell you I'm going to faint from hunger. I'll fall heavily.”
At her invitation I followed her into the larger unit she had shared with Cal. There was a kitchenette arrangement behind folding doors, scrubbed to a high s.h.i.+ne. We inventoried the possibilities, and I opted for Polish sausage and lots of eggs. She went into the bathroom and came out with minty breath and brushed hair.
She made an ample quant.i.ty and served herself a substantial helping. It was not a meal where conversation was encouraged. It was a meal which required more eggs, and she hopped up and scrambled more. She served good coffee in big mugs.
At last I felt comfortable. I felt cozy. I leaned back. She caught my eye and flushed slightly and said, ”I haven't been eating hardly anything. Until now. I've lost about six pounds in the past week or so. I want to keep it off.”
”You seemed about the right size and shape when I checked into your marina, lady.”
”I get hippy. That's where it all goes.”
The silence between us was comfortable-and then uncomfortable. The awareness grew, tangible as that ringing in the ears. She looked down, flus.h.i.+ng again. When she got up I reached for her and caught her wrist, then tugged her gently around the corner of the table toward me. She came with an unwillingness, looking away, murmuring ”Please.” I pulled her to stand by me, against my thigh, and slid my hand to her waist, slid it under the edge of the pink blouse to clasp the smooth warm flesh where the waist was slimmest.
”No,” she said in a soft dragging voice, far away.
”I have been losing girls,” I said. ”It has to stop.”
”I'm not a girl. Not any more, I'm not.”
I stood up and put my hands on her shoulders, felt a gentle shuddering that was awareness, not revulsion.
”Cindy I could say an awful lot of dumb things. What it would boil down to is, I'm alive, glad to be alive, and I want you.”
”I... I just can't quite... ”
And I steered her slowly and gently to the relative darkness of my connecting unit, through the door ahead of me, arm around her waist, blundering together to the bed.
At the bed, after she sat and I began to undo the b.u.t.tons of her blouse, she pushed me away and said, ”I have to say something first. Before anything happens. Listen to me. Wait. Please. When I heard he was dead there was... some kind of dirty joy in me. I cried and carried on because people expected me to.”
”It's like that sometimes.”
”I don't want it to be like that for me.” Her voice was uneven. ”I know what they think. It was all just dandy great until he got on the booze. Well, it wasn't all that great. It wasn't even half good between us. He wanted it to be great. I couldn't really love him. I tried to imitate loving him, but he knew it had all gone away for me. He knew I felt empty. That's why he started drinking like that. People got it all backward. And I feel so... so rotten. So sick. So really terrible about... what I did to him.”