“Now listen,” said Charlotte, pulling out her tour tickets. “After a walking tour of Marshmallow-lox, a traditional fishing village, we go to the prehistoric temple of Hagar Qim, the Blue Grotto including underwater flora and fauna, and then we’ll mingle with locals at a typical whatever-this-word-is, and see the place where some movie called Black Eagle starring Jean-Claude Van Damme was filmed. And then we see a Caravaggio painting in St. John’s Co-Cathedral.”
“Wow,” said Cord. “That sounds…”
“Exhausting,” admitted Charlotte.
Cord was relieved to hear his mother say so. “Why don’t I run down to the Excursions Desk and see if we can change to a more low-key tour?” he said. “I mean, I want to see some of the sights, but maybe not all of the sites.”
“Honey, would you?” said Charlotte. “I don’t want to see all the sights, either! Just a few.”
“Actually, there are crazy tunnels hidden underground here—war tunnels—wouldn’t that be cool?” said Regan.
“We must see the co-cathedral,” said Charlotte. “And then maybe a nice Maltese beach?”
“I didn’t get any tours,” said Matt. “I’m going to just relax by the pool.”
“Matt,” said Charlotte. “What are you talking about? We’re in Europe. You can’t just stay on the ship.”
“I need a break, not an excursion,” said Matt sharply.
Charlotte looked down, hurt. Regan pursed her lips but did not speak. Cord, fury coursing through him, met Regan’s gaze. With her eyes, she pleaded for him to stay silent. “I’ll be right back,” said Cord, swallowing his ire.
There was a long line at the Excursions Desk. Cord searched on his phone and found a small operator out of Valetta named Kiko. He booked the Half-Day Delights of Malta tour, paying with his own card. Then he sat down in a bright orange chair to read the paper on his phone before heading back to Shells.
The story was fairly deep in the Business section of The Wall Street Journal. Cord would have missed it entirely had he not been so reluctant to return to his family. It was written as an op-ed, and the headline asked, “Is 3rd Eyez the New Theranos?”
“Oh, God,” said Cord.
The story said that “anonymous sources” were reporting a “shake-up” inside 3rd Eyez, calling the company “secretive to a worrisome degree.” Cord rubbed his forehead, anxious. An “insider” was quoted as saying, “Will 3rd Eyez change the way we see the world…or turn out to be just another overvalued scam? Only time will tell.”
Disregarding the time difference, Cord called Georgie. “Cord,” she said, “it’s three in the…”
“Have you seen it?”
“Seen wha—”
“Third Eyez in The Wall Street Journal. I’ll wait.”
After a few moments, Georgie said, “Anonymous sources?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry,” said Georgie. “I don’t know who—”
Cord cut her off. “Is there anything I need to know?”
There was a long pause. “No?” said Georgie.
Cord’s heart sank. “What is it?” he said.
“Nothing,” said Georgie. “It’s just…it’s nothing.”
“What’s the shake-up?” said Cord.
“It’s…”
“Tell me, G.”
“I’m leaving Third Eyez,” said Georgie. “I just…it’s personal. It’s not the product, Cord. I promise you. The product works. You saw it.”
“Personal?”
Georgie sighed. “Well, here goes,” she said, “I’m…well, I’m having a baby.”
“Whoa,” said Cord. He rubbed his eyes. “Okay. Wow.”
“Don’t sound so excited.”
“I’m just…I’m stunned, G. Who’s the dad?”
“No one you know.”
“Wow,” said Cord again. He smiled, shaking his head, then said, “I’m happy for you. That’s amazing. A baby. When are you due?”
“January,” said Georgie.
“January. Well, okay. But, G, will you let me know if there are any problems with Third Eyez? Promise?”
“I will. Cord, you know I will.”
“My ass is on the line.”
“I never told you to fund the whole thing,” said Georgie. “That was your call, Cord. I was just letting you in.”
Cord pressed his fingers to his temples. “Talk soon,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Georgie. Cord could practically see her in the oversize Garfield T-shirt she probably still slept in, her hair a mess.
“There’s always Neptune,” said Cord.
She laughed wearily. Cord couldn’t even remember where the assurance came from—some line in an old movie—but they’d always said it to each other.
“Yup,” said Georgie.
Cord called Wyatt next. Wyatt read the story sleepily, then said, “I’m on it.”
“Okay. I’ll check in later.”
“Cord…” said Wyatt.
“What?”
“The technology. You’ve…there’s something there…right?”
Cord paused, rubbing his eyes. “Third Eyez is going to change the world,” he said.
“Okay.”
“It is.”
“Sure, I said okay,” said Wyatt.
Cord hung up and stared into space for a moment. In front of him was the Excursions Desk; a woman in pink pants drinking a beer from a can; swirling carpet; and a glass staircase. But in his mind’s eye, Cord saw his face in the mirror of his Orlando hotel bathroom the morning after the 3rd Eyez presentation: gray, skittish, freaked out.
Was there something there, inside the warehouse in Florida? Cord sure as hell hoped so. Uselessly, he tried to remember—what had he seen? He cast back into his memory again and again, like a fisherman running on faith.
But there was nothing.
VIEWED FROM THE LIDO deck, the Grand Harbour was a medieval wonderland. This was Malta—a ninety-five-square-mile island between Africa and Europe, land of knights and secret World War II tunnels. The sky was pale blue, the sea a deeper blue, and in the middle, Malta was the color of honey. Like Rhodes, Malta was a scene from another time, as if modernity—with all its skyscrapers and McMansions and pollution and cellphones—had not yet happened.
“Well,” said Matt. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Sure,” said Regan.
“What does that mean?” said Matt. “It’s not enough that I have to hear it from your family?” Regan didn’t respond, and he grabbed her shoulder. “Answer me,” he said.
Regan turned around. With one good shove, Matt would go over the protective railing, breaking his legs, or maybe his neck. Her hands twitched. She smiled as sweetly as she was able. “I just wish you could come,” she managed. “To Malta.”
Matt watched her, his expression calculating. He wasn’t stupid, and she needed to remember that. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” said Regan. She made herself stay still. He would need to be the one to say goodbye.
“Well, have a good time,” said Matt. He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, and she allowed it.
As she joined the excursion line with her mother and brother (Lee had never shown up for breakfast), Regan tried to calm down. Her exchanges with Matt were so fraught—they left her shaken. They disembarked, and Regan spotted a short man holding a sign that said PERKINS. The man wore cargo shorts and a Yankees cap.
“Look! It’s our guy!” said Cord.
“I’m not a fan of all those pockets,” noted Charlotte. The way she immediately judged their guide based on his shorts infuriated Regan. It was so shallow!
“Welcome, welcome to Malta! I am Kiko,” said the man as they approached.
“Nice to meet you. Very nice to meet you,” said Cord, s
haking Kiko’s hand. Not for the first time, Regan wondered if Cord was gay. But he would have told her by now, wouldn’t he? Still, she was not imagining it: Cord’s eyes lingered on Kiko’s lips. They were beautiful lips—plump and pink. They looked like they would be soft to kiss.
Regan watched Cord watch Kiko. She wasn’t homophobic, but she didn’t have any gay friends, either.
Regan could remember her father laying into Cord, as if Cord’s inability to catch a baseball were a statement about Winston’s own masculinity. Regan felt tenderness toward her brother. The difficulty she encountered as a bigger, voicey woman must have been increased a hundredfold for Cord. No wonder he had ended up in New York. Maybe Regan should do the same.
“I am honored and pleased to show you my home. This is a magical island with so much history,” said Kiko, interrupting Regan’s thoughts. “Would anyone like to begin with a coffee or pastizz pastry?” he asked.
“I’d try a pastizz,” said Cord. He’d slid on mirrored sunglasses, making his eyes impossible to read.
“Good, wonderful,” said Kiko. He led them through a busy square to a food cart. Next to the cart, a man sold fish from a bucket to passing cars, haggling loudly. Kiko approached the cart, ordered, then handed Cord a pastry on a napkin. Cord tentatively bit and chewed. “This is…?” he said.
“Peas and ricotta,” said Kiko.
“Pungent,” said Cord.
“And some more treats,” said Kiko, handing Charlotte a brown paper bag. Where was Regan’s treat? Regan approached her mother, hoping Charlotte would share.
“This one is imqaret, a date cake,” said Kiko. “Next door is kannoli, you know this one?” They nodded. “We have then a Maltese honey ring, and lastly, almond torta.”
“I couldn’t,” said Charlotte.
“You could,” said Kiko. “Charlotte Perkins, you must.”
“Well, if you say so,” said Charlotte, selecting the almond torte. Regan, realizing no one was going to offer, reached in and chose a kannoli, biting into the sweet cookie.
“Come,” said Kiko. He led them to a bench next to a wide stone stairway. “Down these stairs, you enter secret tunnels used in World War Two,” said Kiko. “But, I’m sorry, the tunnels are closed on Monday.”
“Damn,” muttered Regan licking powdered sugar from her lips. They walked along the water, and Kiko gestured to an enormous cannon, asking, “Have you ever seen a bigger cannon?”
“No,” said Cord. “I have never seen a bigger cannon.”
“Me neither,” said Charlotte gamely.
“Because this is the world’s largest cannon!” cried Kiko, throwing open his hands.
“Is it really?” said Charlotte. Kiko crossed strong arms over his chest and nodded. “That is something else,” said Charlotte, opening her bag of treats and selecting another.
“The British constructed Rinella Battery between 1878 and 1886,” said Kiko.
“Oh?” said Charlotte.
“It was built to house one gun weighing one hundred tons,” said Kiko. “Also, a rifled muzzle-loading gun. There was once another battery to the west of the Grand Harbour, but this no longer exists.”
“Isn’t it hot?” said Charlotte. “I am very warm indeed.” She unbuttoned her neon-yellow cardigan and took it off, rebuttoned it and positioned it around her shoulders, carefully arranging the arms across her chest. “It’s very warm,” she said again.
“Mom, do you want to sit down?” said Regan.
“Only two hundred-ton guns survive,” said Kiko. “By arming Gibraltar and Malta, the British hoped to protect their route to India through the Mediterranean.”
“I’m going to faint,” said Charlotte matter-of-factly. “To be honest, these Maltese snacks are not agreeing with me.”
“But wait!” cried Kiko. “In a few moments, there will be historical reenactors dressed as nineteenth-century British soldiers to provide a military show combining the live-firing of historic artillery and cavalry!”
Turning her back to Kiko, Charlotte limped to a bench and sat down. Regan bit her lip, for once resisting her knee-jerk reaction to be the helpmeet.
“Another option is to skip the military reenactment,” said Kiko. He ran a hand through his black hair, touched his goatee.
“A nice cool restaurant?” ventured Charlotte, eyes closed.
Kiko smiled. “I am the best chef in Malta.”
“Are you?” said Cord. Flirtatiously! He said it flirtatiously!
“I will take you to my home. It is near a small village, and I make wine. We will cook and relax under my shady gharghar tree.”
“That sounds very nice,” said Charlotte weakly.
“I will go fetch my car quickly,” said Kiko. “Please enjoy an air-conditioned touristic shop.” Kiko led them inside a store called Woohoo Malta. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said. Charlotte perked up a bit, scrutinizing dish towels with local recipes printed on them.
Regan spied a nail clipper with the Maltese flag printed on top. “I’m getting it,” she said.
“A Maltese toenail clipper?” said Cord.
“It’s for me,” said Regan.
“Way to treat yourself.”
“Please,” said Regan. “Please, Cord, don’t be mean.”
Cord turned to her. Regan expected another cynical remark, but to her surprise, he took her in his arms. “I’m sorry, Ray Ray,” he said, using the nickname he’d once had for her. Regan remembered, in his embrace, a much earlier hug. Her father was yelling outside a door, outside Cord’s door. But Cord had locked the door and was protecting her, keeping her safe. Regan eased into her big brother, inhaling his smell. His real, dirt-and-butter smell, the one underneath his fancy cologne. How she loved him. And he would be there—she would have him—no matter what. Your “family of origin” (as her online therapist called them) could be toxic and strange, but they were yours: you could not escape them, for better or worse.
LEE WOKE ON A DECK CHAIR. She wasn’t sure which deck. Her last clear memory was ordering a double Chardonnay (oh, God) at the Red Rum Bar, and then there was a flash—could have been a dream—of holding a fluorescent drink in a plastic cup toward a starry sky. For about thirty seconds, her brain tried to convince her that coming to on a deck chair was somehow glamorous—a sign of her wild and freewheeling nature—but when she sat up and saw a man in uniform carefully sweep around her with his broom, she was disabused of the notion.
There was a night world on the ship. Roving teenagers who slept all day in the interior cabins their parents had paid for broke free, their faces glittering with makeup, their blooming bodies clad in leather and spandex; passengers shed their on-land personas and came alive under the disco balls and inside the flashing casinos; musicians, comedians, and dancers who worked on the ship were transformed by moonlight into superstars. There were people kissing in storage rooms, making love in roped-off corners. Lee had roamed the ship, marveling.
But daylight seemed to bake the allure from her midnight adventures. Morning sunbathers had given Lee a wide berth—her gold lamé dress made it clear she was a clubber gone to seed and not an early bird. Her head pounded. She hadn’t had a hangover in years, and vowed she wouldn’t have another. Her liver was too old to cleanse boozy toxins. And if she was pregnant, she was harming the baby. Was it possible? Was she pregnant? Lee thought of Jason, who sometimes ran her bubble baths, even lighting a lemongrass-scented candle and placing it in the soap dish. Once, they had made love in the tub and her hair had come too close to the candle, her ponytail briefly catching fire before Jason doused her in bathwater.
Lee’s emotions were all over the place these days: she seemed to seesaw between the depths of despair and fireworks of elation. Now, she felt her happiness ebbing away, and knew that a deep misery awaited, the fog rolling in. When it lifted, everything seemed possible. Inside the
fog, though, she wanted to die. It really was that bad. She felt so low she didn’t think she could survive. She had taken too many sleeping pills once, when the fog had stayed for weeks. Jason had begged her to see a doctor, had even made her an appointment and driven her to the small office in West Hollywood.
“My father killed himself,” Lee told the psychiatrist. “He hung himself when I was fourteen. I found him.”
“How did that make you feel?” asked the doctor, a slight woman named Evelyn.
Lee tried to remember. “I don’t know,” she finally answered, truthfully.
“You don’t know?” said Evelyn.
“I have no idea. I can see the bathroom, and I can see his body, but I can’t remember how I felt.”
Evelyn nodded, scribbling something on her pad.
“My boyfriend thinks I’m manic-depressive,” said Lee.
“What do you think?” said Evelyn.
“I just feel numb,” said Lee. “Numb and really tired.”
Evelyn crossed her hands in her lap and waited. Lee squirmed. After ten minutes, she stood up. “No offense, but I just don’t really have time for this,” she said, as she opened the door to leave.
“I’ll be here if you need me,” said Evelyn. This turned out to be a lie. A year or so later, when the fog was thick and deep, when Jason had left Lee for Alexandria Fumillini and Lee was considering pills again, she summoned her strength and drove to the Spanish-style office park. She made her way to Evelyn’s door. But there was a sign that said EASY ELECTROLYSIS. Lee tapped on the door anyway. It was locked.
So she got back into her Prius and called her mom, listened to Charlotte’s chatter until the fog dissipated enough for Lee to feel safe. She flushed all her sleep medications, just in case.
* * *
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The Jetsetters Page 13
