They All Fall Down

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  Another sailfish launched into the air.

  Maybe I should try it. “Oh, wow, look—” But my stomach dropped to my ankles, bile burned up my throat and my cheeks had numbed from the stinging cold.

  As Javier searched the boat for a fishing pole and muttered about all he’d do to a sailfish in a skillet, I settled into a deck chair next to Frank and beside the Cracker Jack box–sized swimming pool. A little calmer here and still a good spot to be seen.

  “This boat’s gonna roll over,” I said, cramping myself into a ball. “And the way it’s slamming back and forth like this? Can’t be normal. I should go talk to the captain.”

  Frank snorted. “This yacht was manufactured for the open ocean. It’s not one of those putt-putt watercrafts forced to wander about the crowded harbor during Sunday gospel brunch. Don’t blame the yacht, Miriam. The ocean has swelled up and down since the beginning of time, and more people have worked on engineering this watercraft than the two people who created you. You’re not used to adventure on the high seas—that’s obvious—but I’m certain you’ll eventually get there. Welcome to better living. Enjoy the ride. Try not to vomit.”

  My lips went numb. “You know, there’s a time to say, ‘Yeah, it is a little rocky out here,’ and then there’s a time to shut entirely the hell up, and since you don’t think we’re gonna sink, guess which time this is.”

  Frank’s smirk slid off his face and plopped onto the deck alongside my inner ear.

  Time to move again, time for ping-ponging between all six of my sailing companions, not saying much out of fear of vomiting. I hadn’t been the only person moving from place to place, playing adult-size musical chairs. Eddie had moved away from Desi to sit with Wallace. Wallace had moved to nap on a chaise lounge. Every seat Evelyn chose was too small for her body. Desi moved to sit with me, then Frank, then Wallace. Javier jumped here and there, asking us about food allergies, lobster or crab, quinoa or vermicelli, whiskey or rum, dark chocolate or butterscotch, sushi or tempura, smoke or vinegar.

  Now, my hair lay like a mat against my skull, wet from the freezing mist of pounding waves. The yellow bra I wore glowed beneath my silk tunic, which was also saturated with salt water. Water sloshed in my suede flats, too, and the wet leather kept rubbing against my raw feet. I could feel the blisters coming. That’s when I said to no one in particular, “I can’t.…”

  Not caring about my storyline for the moment, and done with it all, I lurched into the living room with its dry couch, warmer air, and blue-and-white-striped carpet. The soft recessed lighting almost persuaded me into believing that I was resting in a hotel suite in Malibu, not thirty-eight million miles away from the Mexican shore.

  A platter of untouched sandwiches sat on a low-slung coffee table. My stomach gurgled—the thought of ham or tuna salad or mozzarella with sundried tomatoes made me gag. Do not throw up on TV. I skipped the sandwiches.

  On Mictlan Island, there’d be plenty to eat—Javier would make that happen. He’d liked my answers to his culinary questions: lobster, vermicelli, rum, butterscotch, tempura, and smoke. But was there anything he could do about the sea?

  “Gimme a minute,” he said, scribbling into his tiny notebook. “I’ll make you a cocktail that’ll make you forget you’re in the middle of the ocean.” Then he winked at me and said, “Oh, one more question—foam or sauce?”

  Ugh. No foam. I was surrounded by it. Hated it now more than sushi and quinoa.

  Maybe I should throw myself overboard and find peace that way.

  The yacht dipped.

  Arms flailing, I staggered to the couch, knocking the top slice of bread from a ham sandwich onto the table. The crystal chandelier above me tinkled—it was laughing at me.

  This wasn’t good.

  La Charon was gonna crack in half. The way it shimmied and those vibrations beneath my feet? Not normal. Not for a boat. Not for a yacht. Ask the Titanic. Oh, you can’t? See? Vibrations.

  Out on the deck, Desi laughed. Then Javier laughed. Then Frank cachinnated.

  I was the only one having a bad time. I was the only one hating the shrieking wind and the pounding waves. I hated this fiberglass-hardwood floating death trap. I hated the way my heart pounded and my nerves jumped each time the yacht groaned. It sounded as miserable as me. Nauseous, I glanced at the sandwiches again and gagged. I was gonna do it this time. I was going to upchuck all over the coffee table.

  I kicked off my flats, then crept to the bathroom, touching walls, touching rails, touching every solid thing to keep me here. As I crept, the dark wood corridor pressed me from all sides. Good. The boat plunged to the right. I hugged the wall and closed my eyes as my belly dipped. I prayed quickly—please don’t let me die—and staggered an inch closer to the bathroom. Then the boat rolled to the left. I hugged the opposite wall. Prayed. Waited. Staggered. Prayed some more. Waited some more. Staggered some more.

  Back in the living room, Desi said, “It’s so cozy in here.” Her hair looked like a bird’s nest, and her eye makeup had run from all of her gawking in the mist. “Oh, lookit! A chan-dee-lee-yer! On a boat. How queer! I just rhymed now, y’all.”

  I threw myself farther down the corridor, finally arriving at the bathroom. As I reached for the handle, the boat dipped to the right. I grabbed the wall again as the bathroom door slid open. Gold light from the lavatory poured out into the hallway.

  Eddie’s reflection appeared in the bathroom mirror. His Red Sox cap sat on the sink, and a red scar ran across his hairline. That scar looked raw. Still angry. Still sore. He was examining a silver gun in his hand. It was the biggest handgun I’d ever seen. Like Dirty Harry’s .44. Something else—was that the wooden butt of a revolver?—was shoved into the waistband of his shorts.

  My heart shuddered.

  Guns? Why did he have—?

  The boat rolled left.

  Bam! The bathroom door slid again and slammed shut.

  Didn’t matter.

  Guns! He had guns. Why did he have—?

  Forgetting my seasickness, I staggered back to the living room and leaned on the bar for support. Fear of drowning had taken a backseat to fear of dying by gunshot.

  Wallace had awakened from his nap and now reclined in an armchair. Desi perched close to Frank on the love seat. “That Bentley you came in,” she cooed, tapping his wrist. “Was that yours?”

  Frank covered her hand with his. “No, babe. Car service—had to arrive in style. But I am the proud owner of a Maserati, a Ferrari, and of course, a Ducati. Not that I drive much—I prefer car service for any business. And my wife, Celeste, hates my bike—but lately, she doesn’t understand me. Anyhow, there are more important things to think about than filling a gas tank and not making right turns on red.”

  Wallace noticed me clutching the bar. “My, my, Miriam. Someone else has now done your makeup. Let me guess: Elphaba? The Grinch? Uncle O’Grimacey?”

  Frank laughed.

  “Everything okay, girlie?” Desi asked. “You do look a little green.”

  I teetered over to the couches, and with a shaky hand, pointed back toward the hallway. “I just saw Eddie right now,” I whispered. “I saw him in the bathroom, and he has two—”

  “What’s she whispering about? What’s the big secret?”

  We all turned to the voice—Eddie was now standing in the doorway. His hands were empty, and his black T-shirt had been pulled over the waistband of his cargo shorts.

  “I believe we may have a troublemaker in our little group.” Wallace’s violet eyes shone like the sharpest knives.

  Eddie crossed his massive arms. “Yeah? Who would that be?”

  Wallace smiled at me. “That would be … her.”

  My blood chilled, and it took me a second to realize that he had just called me the troublemaker. “What?”

  “Oh, don’t choke yourself clutching your pearls, dear,” Wallace said. “You and I both know that crying wolf is something you do, isn’t that right? To be completely honest, I could never bel
ieve a single word that tripped off that forked tongue of yours.”

  Everyone was now staring at me as though I was the biggest, blackest spider on the whitest wall in the world.

  Javier cleared his throat, then said, “Did I just miss something?”

  “Drama,” Eddie said.

  Take control. Now. A boulder lodged in my throat and I swallowed and swallowed to force it up or to force it down. But it wouldn’t move.

  Wallace smiled at the others. “Helpful FYI. A little bird told me that Mrs. Macy cannot be trusted.”

  “Geez,” Desi spat. “Can you give her a chance to speak? You ain’t even let her complete a single sentence.” Dismayed, she shook her head and sucked her teeth. “My gosh, Mr. Zavarnella. Wanna talk about trust? I don’t even know you, and what I do know, I’m not liking one bit. I don’t care who you are, but you’re not the boss of this group, sir, and this ain’t a good start to what’s supposed to be a trip of a lifetime.”

  Wallace held up his hands. “No need to shout, dear heart. I’m gay, not deaf. Today. Tomorrow, that may all change and I’ll wake up gay and deaf, who knows. Never thought I’d be old and gay, but alas, the universe has her own plans. So. I do apologize for interrupting. I didn’t mean to be … mean. Just a hobby of mine. More of a bad habit, like, say … lying.” He offered me a sly smile, then nodded. “Lying is an awful habit. You were saying, Miriam?”

  “Go on, girlie,” Desi said. “Tell us what you were gonna say.”

  I took a deep breath—that boulder had plummeted to my knees—then squared my shoulders. “Just a minute ago, I saw Eddie in the bathroom, and he was loading two giant handguns. And he was muttering something, but I couldn’t make out what he … was … saying.”

  No one spoke. No one reacted. Wallace stared at me as the others stared at Eddie.

  “Are you certain that’s what you witnessed?” Frank finally asked.

  “It was not a glimpse, nor was it in my imagination.” Although the “muttering” part may have been … flair. “The guns were as real as … as … this boat—yacht—we’re on right now.”

  “Dude,” Javier said, eyes on Eddie, “why you got guns?”

  “I have no idea what she’s talking about.” Eddie’s arms were still crossed.

  “They’re hidden in his shorts,” I said, pointing at his hips.

  “Where? Here?” Eddie lifted his T-shirt to show a washboard-tight stomach but no guns.

  Desi giggled, patted her neck, and said, “Goodness gracious.”

  My face flushed, and bile was now helping lift that boulder back up to my throat.

  “Oh, dear.” Wallace chuckled, then sighed. “There’s a wolf, where?”

  Eddie squinted at me. “Guess I’m the wolf. A wolf with two guns.”

  Frank rolled his eyes, and Desi gave me an apologetic smile before they both turned away from me. Even Evelyn, now seated near the door, found her raggedy cuticles more interesting.

  So this was how Wallace Zavarnella planned to win.

  Not the first time I’d been accused of crying wolf. Last month, I had thought someone was snooping around my backyard. The cops came and found no one there except a family of possums. There was also the time someone kept calling me and hanging up. Calling and hanging up, over and over again. I freaked out and texted Billy, who then got the phone company and the police involved. After a brief investigation, they discovered that those hangups had been robocalls that had taken a few seconds to start.

  Was I a little sensitive? Prone to exaggeration and jumping at shadows a little too often? Probably. But none of those things had equated to “crying wolf.” Because Brooke McAllister’s sister Prudence had threatened me. And a few months ago, she had grabbed me that first time, maybe not hurting my left arm as bad as I’d claimed she had, but she had grabbed me. Well … she’d pushed me. Okay, bumped against me. Hard. Hard enough that I couldn’t lift my arm for a while, not really, thus legitimizing my disability claim. Basically. And that disability money—it wasn’t like I hadn’t worked for it, it wasn’t like I hadn’t put into the system. It was my money.

  But now, here I was, being mocked by people who’d only met me hours before, who didn’t believe that I’d seen what I’d seen. Eddie had brought two guns on board. He had! The hidden cameras in the bathroom would ultimately prove me right.

  “Baby, you need this.” Javier handed me a glass tumbler filled with salmon-colored liquid. “Scotch, orange juice, club soda, and pomegranate-cherry juice. Blood and sand.” He squeezed, then patted my shoulder. “Seriously—it’ll help you chill the hell out.”

  The cocktail was a one-two icy-hot punch to my gut. “Chilling the hell out” in progress.

  Evelyn darted over to the windows. “Look—there’s the island! And there’s the house.” Her voice—the first time I’d heard it—was deep and bleating.

  Enhanced now by the blood and sand, I floated over to the windows, squeezed into the middle of the group, and caught my first glimpse of Mictlan Island. A grand white house sat high on a hill, overlooking a canopy of thick elephant ear trees and wild grass. Tall palms dotted the shore to the island’s south, and white water swirled around large craggy rocks to the north.

  My ears buzzed, and I tried to smile—but Wallace Zavarnella … Thinking about him kept my smile lumpy and lopsided. What did he know about me? What secret had he been sworn to keep and how had he learned it? Who was the secret-spilling little bird and why had this stranger called me a liar? Now, Americans would go onto the internet and search on my name. My past would be discussed in recaps and forums and during reunion shows. All of it would be thrown in my face. Yes—my life had been subject to public discussion, but only in Los Angeles County. This show was nationwide, and …

  Maybe you should’ve thought about that before agreeing to play the game.

  Money, though—or the promise of it—was a helluva drug.

  Still, I had to do something. I needed Wallace Zavarnella kicked off the island.

  Bastard. He’d pay for embarrassing me in front of this group—and in front of all America.

  And as I drained my cocktail and joined the others out at the rail, I tossed Wallace Zavarnella a look that wiped the smile off his smug, jaundiced face.

  I will get you back, old man.

  I had my ways.

  6

  For the moment, though, all plans of revenge against Wallace Zavarnella had to be stowed. The Sea of Cortez had turned golden, and I shaded my eyes to see … nothing. The sunlight had blinded me, and as we neared the rickety dock, the big white house disappeared behind a shimmering tree line.

  “Ohmygosh, that’s Artemis?” Desi asked with a wistful smile. “It’s just about the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen.”

  Back in Los Angeles, I used to live in a beautiful home. But now I lived in a crappy house in the middle of crappy L.A., with police helicopters always thundering above my head. There were more weeds than grassy lawn, a puke-green paint-chipped porch, and sagging shutters. This house was not the house I’d dreamed of. This house was all cautionary tales and children beware … and I had become the wicked witch who ate them.

  And now, the voice in my head whispered, Watch out. Something about Artemis, something about Mictlan Island made me breathless—and not in a thrilling way. So many trees were packed tight together. All that water sloshing, forever green, forever choppy. There were so many places to hide and to be hid, and I remembered Andreas’s talk of drug dealers and man-eating dogs and opium poppies and fields of weed.

  “It’s so far from everything,” Desi said to me.

  So far from the police (a good thing), the fire department (a bad thing), from … America (good, bad, depended on the moment).

  “Being far makes it an island,” I said, my bravado as strong as foam.

  Desi swiped at her chapped nose, red now as though she’d been crying. She rubbed her elbows and shook her head. “If something bad happens, it’ll take forever for the cops or the paramed
ics to reach us.”

  “I’m sure they have helicopters, and like, high-speed catamaran-things.”

  “True,” she said, brightening. “Hey—” She tapped my wrist. “Wallace Zavarnella is a jerk, okay? A jerk wearing a bad wig. Stuck-up little prick.”

  “Back at the port,” I said, “he wouldn’t even move his bags to let me sit down.”

  “I sat with him, and lemme tell you…” She wrinkled her nose. “The man is as old as the hills. He smells like my momma’s medicine cabinet, if you really wanna know. Just don’t let him spoil your adventure, Miriam. Next time, when he’s all bitchy like that, tell him to stick it where the sun don’t shine.”

  “Believe me, I’m trying very hard to be nice. Next time, I will let my true self run up one side of him and down the other.” I blinked to try and glimpse Artemis again, but I still couldn’t see it. Guess I could blame my blindness on Javier and his delicious red drank.

  The closer we came to shore, the more the boat rocked … just like the putt-putt Sunday gospel brunch tugboats tooting around the harbor. I gripped the rail tighter. Don’t react. Be strong. Control your story. My grip remained firm.

  Desi’s gaze turned from the sea and landed on Eddie, who now stood ramrod straight at the stern. She grinned as she fingered her blue scarf. “You see that guy’s abs when you made him lift up his shirt? Hot damn. So he’s a little grumpy—ain’t seen him smile once today, but he’s big, blond, and a man, make no mistake about it.”

  “You forgot crazy, Desi,” I said. “Big, blond, and crazy.”

  “I ain’t had crazy yet,” she said, grinning. “I’ve done ‘young,’ and I just finished doing ‘old’—Larry, my husband, rest his soul. He was ancient—almost sixty—and he was soft and he was a penny-pincher and he couldn’t keep up with me in bed or anywhere else.” She nodded at Eddie. “But Mr. Boston Strong? He’ll do for a spell.” She winked at me and wiggled her nose. “You’ll be my wingman, won’t you?”

  Well, I’ll be … America’s Sweetheart was a horndog.

  I cocked an eyebrow. “And those two guns I saw—those guns don’t bother you?” Really: Where had he hidden the guns? In his back pockets? In ankle holsters beneath his socks?