by Chris Stuck
For whatever reason, lambasting her just didn’t feel right. Maybe empathy for her liberal foolishness washed over me. I don’t know. I closed the message. I started a new one, but I had no clue what to write. I stared at the screen. I drummed my fingers on the keys. Trying to write something, anything, that fit in Neblitt’s cheery parlance was pointless for someone like me. So, just to be done with it, I typed the first thing that popped into my head—“I think I’ve met a woman.”
* * *
On Monday, in Cozumel, the Ocean Wanderer roamed into port at sunrise. Being an early riser, I just happened to be up already, standing at the deck 12 railing, watching the entire docking procedure: the flurry of crewmen, the massive anchor dropping from the ship’s belly button, the honking of the earth-shattering horn. It was almost as ridiculous as the sleep I’d gotten the night before. I was still a little groggy, still a little weirded out since I’d spent most of our day at sea in my cabin. So, I dosed myself with caffeine, had an unimpressive breakfast, and at ten, found myself standing in front of the jumbotron that displayed the shore excursions. Tommy and his new companion, Deirdre, were at my side, not that they noticed.
They’d stoked their romantic fires so efficiently our first night at sea that through our shared wall they sounded like two chimps moving furniture into the wee hours. They still couldn’t keep their hands, and feet, off each other, both of them so energized I wondered if they’d smuggled contraband aboard. They were “rarin’ to,” as Deirdre, an apparent Texan, kept saying. Rarin’ to do everything: snorkel at Chankanaab, ride a catamaran or some Jet Skis, and, if they had time, eventually have a “dolphin encounter,” which Tommy said as though it were a sex act.
I had other plans. I pointed at the excursion to San Lazaro, an old leper colony, and said, “That sounds like fun to me.” They both gave slow, polite nods, as though they didn’t want to betray the fact that they thought it was maybe a bit morbid. Being of strong mind, I could tolerate gloom as long as it had a point to it. I had a feeling they, like the rest of their progressive ilk, were more content to have their picture taken holding an iguana that was dressed like Captain Ahab. We parted ways.
I strolled out of the port terminal toward Punta Norte and quickly located the pier where my excursion was to begin. Unsurprisingly, San Lazaro was not a well-liked attraction. There was no one in sight, a fact the shriveled curmudgeon of a boat captain seemed rather pissed about. I sensed he’d somehow been saddled with this unpopular charter and wanted to make as many runs to and from San Lazaro as humanly possible. “Rápido,” he said, “vamanos,” as though we were making an escape. He fired up the outboard motors tout de suite and was settling inside the cockpit when, from ashore, a woman’s voice pleaded for him to wait. I turned and saw it was Zarrella jogging hastily toward us. I waved. When she saw me, however, she stopped and immediately looked ashore as though she’d left something important behind.
“Oh,” she said, inching toward the boat. “It’s—you.”
“That’s right,” I said. “The stranger. Try not to sound too excited.”
She approached but seemed indecisive. She straddled the pier and the boat for a moment, giving me a displeased look.
“Well?” I said. “Are you coming? Or are you just going to keep looking at me like I stink?”
With that, she boldly stepped aboard and sat across from me on the starboard side, as though she wasn’t going to let my presence ruin this for her. The captain, who I sensed had a hatred of tourists, wasn’t in any better mood with a second passenger. He floored it, smacking the outboard controls all the way to the console. The force sent me and Zarrella sliding back toward the stern as the bow rose and cut through the water like a Ginsu. We reached top speed pretty quickly. The ride smoothed out from a stomach-churning romp to a nice, pacifying bounce. With the wind in my face, I peered over the port side and watched the water fly by, clear as an aquarium. I could see schools of spear-shaped fish and big dumb turtles gliding near the surface as well as other nasty things on the ocean floor.
Every now and then, when I dared, I even looked at Zarrella, who didn’t seem that interested in looking at the water or me. When we were hit with a gust or spray, her only reaction was to smooth her dress, a strapless red flower print this time, her bare shoulders beaded with water. She was wearing a different hat, too, something dressier. It was red and white with a small white veil that barely covered her nose. She held it clamped on her head with her other hand, the veil pointless in all that wind. After a particularly strong blast hit us, I got an unobstructed view of the burned side of her face. The damage stretched from her right temple down her cheek and neck. The corner of her right eye was burned slightly shut. She must’ve sensed me looking. She tilted her hat and turned her head, showing me her good side. Then we both just faced forward like it never happened.
That was when San Lazaro, a speck out there in the ocean, appeared before us. It was one of the lush atolls the cruise ship had negotiated before we’d eased into port. As we approached it now, the captain swooped around the right and circled the overgrown islet, giving us full view of the ruins before docking. I must say, it was not a sandy paradise like the others. It was not brochure material. It was, for lack of a better phrase, ugly as a motherfucker. The entire isle, from base to peak, was a rocky fortress, a jail, really, with shrubs and trees growing up through any opening they could find. Even its point of entry was ominous, simply a tall, wide stone staircase that started right at the water’s edge.
The captain glided up to it and docked, and Zarrella and I disembarked, me climbing a few steps ahead of her. At the top, we were greeted by a weedy courtyard and two giant wooden doors that opened into the ruins. We strolled around wordlessly but together, both of us probably thinking the same thing: Is this it? The place was a sty. There were no gift shops or guides, no historical markers. I hated to admit it, but it was morbid, like touring an old, burned-down house. I felt like the whole place was just going to fall on us.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think this is what’s called a bullshit excursion. We’ve been suckered.”
She produced a parasol, opened it, and twirled it as she looked around. “Gee, how did I know you were going to say that?”
“Because, you obviously have a nose for certain kinds of people: complainers and assholes.”
After more walking, she said, “You’re right. You definitely seem like both.”
I took this as a good sign. Though she was younger than me, she’d apparently dealt with my people before. Maybe that’s why I got her to agree so easily about San Lazaro. So far, it sucking was the general consensus. We tried to make the best of our depressing milieu and strolled more, hoping there was actually something to see. We walked through a short, dingy tunnel, and amazingly when we emerged, we stumbled onto a sunlit courtyard with a few gnarled fruit trees. Zarrella went over and plucked a petite apple from a branch. She wiped it on her dress and bit into it. Her pleased reaction said it was sweet. I picked one, was about to take a bite, but then, from behind the stem, a girthy worm wriggled into view. I tossed the fruit like a hot coal.
“According to the guidebook,” Zarrella said, “the island is known for cliff diving. But the gusts are probably too strong today.”
“I don’t know,” I said, testing the wind. “Seeing people splatter themselves on the rocks might make this place more interesting. Right now, I feel like I’m at a landfill.” I found a clean spot on a rickety stone wall and sat in the shade of a big dead bush. She investigated a cluster of colorful plants that I was pretty sure were just weeds. Still, I watched her smell each and every bloom.
“It’s good no one’s here,” she said. “It’s peaceful.”
“Yeah,” I said. “People tend to just ruin things, don’t they? I mean, look around.”
She lit a long, skinny cigarette and fogged me like a roach. “A bit of a misanthrope, are you? I never would’ve guessed.”
I moved over so she co
uld sit. “It’s what my pothead therapist says.”
She said hers, too.
I took my blazer off. “Well, what do you know? It’s kismet. We’re finally getting somewhere, aren’t we?”
“Slow your roll,” she said. “We’re not.”
Instead of spelunking into the island’s deeper cavities, after a while we went up another long set of steps to the next level of boringness, sending sunning lizards skittering out of our way.
I asked if her therapist had made her come on this trip, too.
She shook her head no. “He suggested it, but he doesn’t know I’m here. No one does.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Do you think that’s peculiar?”
“No. I didn’t tell anyone I’m on this trip either. They’d think I’m a nut.”
She gave me a look but didn’t respond. At the next little courtyard, she headed right for one of the crumbling stone buildings, as if to change the subject. She went through a doorway with a crooked iron gate without any hesitation and vanished into the darkness.
“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. You might—I don’t know—die.” I stood outside, waiting. Just when I thought she’d never return, she came breezing by me.
“It’s a good thing you aren’t me, then, isn’t it?”
She strolled away, and I looked inside the doorway. There was nothing but a pile of rusty junk: old children’s tricycles from who knows when, metal doors, and collapsed bedframes. Somewhere in the mangled mess, I even saw large chains and medieval-style cuffs. “Jesus,” I said. “This place really is a bummer.”
As we walked up yet more steps to the top of the island, toward some sort of watchtower, she said, “Did you know, since 1995 an average of twelve people vanish from cruise ships every year? Gone, never heard from again.”
“Interesting. That one of your crossword clues?”
“No.” She thought to explain, but then she said, “It’s just trivia.”
“Well, I’ll try to remember that the next time I want to ruin someone’s day.” We walked and climbed for a few more minutes, stopping at a little overlook. When I thought she was off investigating something, I turned my back, removed my compact, and checked my makeup. I was worried the boat ride had thinned my foundation, that I was getting pinkish. This was my plight. Luckily, my face wasn’t bad. A few pats of powder were all I needed. I turned back around.
“Everything okay?”
“Just rosy,” I said. “Why?”
“You looked a little worried about your makeup.”
I stopped for a second. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She watched me. “Maybe go easy on the powder next time. It makes you look a little—chalky.”
With my back to her, I fondled my compact and then slipped it into my pocket. “Maybe you should mind your own business.” I walked over to a stone archway. I stood in its shade, fanning myself. After a moment, I said, “Is it me or is it hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night?”
She walked up. “It’s hot. That’s why there’s such a thing as cruise wear. But that’s not quite your style, is it?” She finished her cigarette and flicked the butt away.
“Damn right. I don’t want to look like everyone else on board.”
“Because dressing like you’re at a presidential debate makes you better than them.”
“Hey, if you look like a million bucks, you attract a million bucks. When you look like them, all you attract is a buffet. Who wants that? Besides, you’re the last person who should be saying anything about how anyone else is dressed. With that hat on, you look like Mary Poppins at the Kentucky Derby.”
I laughed, maybe too much. I may have even cackled. But she’d gotten personal with me. How could she not expect some reciprocation? Then again, how would I even know? Five dead marriages, and I still had trouble telling when I’d struck a nerve with a woman. I knew I’d done something the way Zarrella puckered her brow, though. She stood in front of me, as if ready to plant her foot in my crotch. She peeled off her hat and for a long moment just glared at me. With her hair matted and damp, she made a show of turning the burned side of her face toward mine. “Take a gander.” Up close, it was a raw swirl of pink and red, the healed skin still somewhat fresh. It looked like Hollywood makeup, enough to make anyone wince, but the way her right eye looked out defiantly through the burns made her intriguing.
That being said, I still looked away. I had a feeling that was what she wanted.
“Ugly, isn’t it?”
“No.” It took some will to look her in the eyes. “Not really.”
After a moment, she lifted her hand, dragged her index finger down the side of my cheek, and looked at the brown makeup on her fingertip.
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” I said.
She shook her head no and rubbed her thumb and finger together, wiping the makeup off. I could make out the streaky burns on her temple, cheek, and neck. I could smell her musky fragrance. It pulled me toward her.
“You’re kind of interesting, aren’t you?”
It was apparently another wrong thing to say. “Kind of messed up is more like it. I think we both are.”
“Yeah, well, I hate to break it to you, but my ex-wives already came to that conclusion long ago.”
After each divorce, my lost loves all said I needed serious, serious help. It made perfect sense. Every last one of them hated me when we first met. The way it starts is the way it ends. Greta, my first ex, said being with me was like reading a bad novel: the beginning was okay, the middle stank, and it wasn’t worth getting to the end. Mimi, my second, a marine biologist, often called me her little sea urchin, her little uni, most happy in my thorny shell. Tatyana the Russian, my fourth ex, agreed in her own Russian way. She said my love was like a plastic bag used to pick up dog shit: turned inside out so I didn’t have to touch anything. “Yet you fall in love at the drop of a hat,” she said. “Explain this, Melvin.” I couldn’t. It just was. I was a romantic. On that gloomy island with Zarrella, though, I was realistic enough to know my exes were right. I had interpersonal problems I had yet to correct. But at least I was on this cruise. I thought I was trying.
I followed Zarrella to the tippy-top of the island, to an iron staircase whose integrity I checked thoroughly before we ascended. We emerged atop the watchtower, in the blinding sun, where two crumbling turrets looked out over the perimeter of the island. Zarrella went over to the east-facing one. I investigated the west-facing and quickly realized this was where the cliff diving took place. Each turret was plastered with Mexican graffiti that translated to “Dive to Live. Live to Dive” and “Gringo, don’t hit your head.”
I looked over the edge and down. The crashing waves tried to lull you off the cliff, so I made sure to stay far from it. Instead, I looked farther out to sea, at the vast emptiness. Though I’d never been much of a nature lover, the quietude up there did slurp out any thoughts orbiting my brain. Of course, after only a few minutes, me being me, I reached my threshold. I was bored. I turned toward Zarrella and found her standing in her turret, close to the edge. She was looking down at the water so long I thought she’d fling herself into it.
“Be careful. One good gust, and you’re a goner.”
But she just told me to mind my business. She put her arms out like a cliff diver. I thought she was about to jump for sure. But, weirdly, she just took off her hat and started to undress.
“Whoa. What’re you doing?”
“Sunning myself, you weirdo. Calm down.”
She was wearing a bathing suit under her dress. Still, I turned my attention back to the sea. I hadn’t been in the company of a relatively bare woman in a few years. Yet I couldn’t help looking back. The spectacle was too strong: her olive skin, her arms in a crucifix pose, most of her body goosefleshed and continented with burns. The ocean kicked up, and a wave of mist cascaded over her. Her body tightened for a second. Then she relaxed, ready for more.
“So, in addit
ion to being a misanthrope, you’re a goddamn nudist. You aren’t a Democrat, are you?”
She shook her head, the wind taking hold of her kinky brown hair. “I’m a fierce Independent.”
I actually laughed. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
She shook her head. “Believe me. I’m the least amusing person you’re ever going to meet.”
* * *
We had dinner that night at Bionic, the ship’s space-themed bistro. It seemed like a fitting backdrop for people like us. The place was cold and precise, glass and stainless steel. Actual robots tai chi’ed their way around the restaurant, bringing us precisely made tapas, perfectly cooked prawns. They even uncorked the two bottles of fruit bomb Cab we quaffed in the process. At first, it all seemed natural. We got snockered quickly, the crappy vino bringing out our vulnerable sides. Eventually, we got all therapy on each other, swapping tales of mental hygiene. Like me, she’d been married a few times. She’d loved and lost. It was apparent she had more wounds than just her burns. It was probably apparent that I had way more wrong with me than my skin. Yet, even drunk, we still didn’t want to get too close. We didn’t know each other. We were like a couple of pie-eyed mimes trapped in our invisible boxes.
That was why it seemed a bit shocking when we reached the sediment of our last bottle and she asked if I’d like to go back to her cabin for a nightcap. We smuggled out another bottle of fruit bomb and sat next to each other on the end of her bed sipping the vino, not saying a word. A few minutes into it, I said, “You know what I like about you? You don’t suffer fools.”
