by James Jones
She just didn’t know. She just didn’t really know, that was the truth. There was about Jim, in addition to the physical, she had to admit, that attraction of the dirty-cop, the ‘devil’ thing. It was somewhat the same feeling she had had about the black-jacketed motorcycle rider on that long-ago Sunday over in Jersey. This was certainly nothing to “build a life on,” obviously. It was true that Jim was also the only man she had been the slightest bit attracted to since she had met Ron. But she was also smart enough to know that had it not been for the entire Carol Abernathy thing, there would not have been the slightest incentive in her to be the slightest bit attracted to anybody.
Oh, that miserable son of a bitch! How dare he do something like that to her? To take her up there, to live with that old woman, when all of them knew she had been his mistress all those years. How could anybody ever forgive anybody for doing a thing like that?
She didn’t know. She just didn’t know. She would have to wait and see.
It would be such a relief to run off and screw another guy. She was tired, already tired, of complex responsibilities, of trying to cope with Ron Grant’s complex nature. A simple fuck with a simple man would be such a relief. Especially if the other guy adored her, and was therefore easy to handle. She knew Grant would throw her out if she did it, and she didn’t want to lie to him ever (would not respect him if he believed her in her lie). So it would really be the end. The real end. And yet underneath all that she was sorely tempted. He deserved it. Being the wife of a Kingston diver was no great point in favor, certainly. Of course she could change him. But she didn’t really love him. Finally she slept.
In the morning, while they got up and dressed to go down for coffee, he said hardly a word to her, one icily polite “Good morning,” and looked at her with such chilling, such astral distance that she was at first disbelieving and then infuriated. Was that all he was going to do then? Was he just going to go right ahead and let her do it? Then by God maybe she would do it!
If he could have just once apologized, said he was sorry, admitted he was wrong about taking her up there to Ganado Bay to live with his damned ex-mistress. Ex-? Ex-, my ass! She was hardly even ex-.
Doug was already down and packed, his two bags sitting there and heating up on the sun-drenched porch, and was having himself—apparently—the second of a series of celebratory Bloody Marys. Jim Grointon was having one with him and smiling and laughing, but he was really only sipping at his. Jim had never really been a drinker, not in the class with Doug and Grant. And that was as well. Neither had she been for that matter, until she met Grant.
René and Lisa were both there. Doug had paid his bill already, and was humorously—though clearly with a certain amount of serious concern—complaining about how high it was. After they had joined the group and sat down, Lucky secretly but seriously looked at Jim appraisingly, cold-bloodedly, the way she had used to look at men back before she fell in love and became a married lady. She could break him all up into tiny shattered pieces and throw him away, she was convinced. He deserved it too. She remembered Bonham holding forth on him once in Ganado Bay, telling about him and some other diver’s wife in Yucatan, another friend’s wife he had done. The two men had finally had a big fist fight about it, which neither of them had won, and the other guy had left his wife. How any man could stand up as he had and openly brag upon another man as his friend when he was trying all the time behind his back to hurt him by cuckolding him with his wife, Lucky simply could not understand. It was truly awful. And it made some answering ‘devil’ in her herself giggle secretly.
And Ron—Ron Grant—her husband!—was acting exactly as if he didn’t care. He was treating Jim exactly the same way he had treated him yesterday, before her speech of last night. And when they left for the airport, and Jim asked if he might have lunch with them, Grant agreed and said of course he could. Ben and Irma would be there too of course, but even so! He had to be doing it deliberately.
Ben and Irma had wanted to go in too and see Doug off, so there had been quite a crowd since both René and Lisa were coming, plus their oldest son Ti-René (for Petit René) who had become quite a fan of Doug’s, and wanted to come too. René drove the hotel’s bigger car, not the jeep, with Lisa and Ti-René beside him in the front, and Doug sat in the back with Ben and Irma. Lucky and Ron rode with Jim, in his older much more beatup jeep. Jim had asked Ron if they’d like to ride with him, and Ron had said of course they would. For clearly sentimental reasons of his own Jim had insisted on carrying Doug’s bags in the back of his own jeep, so Lucky rode between them in the front on the little jump-seat cushion Jim had had installed. It seemed that the three of them were going everywhere together now, and had been for quite a number of days now. Sitting between them with one arm along the back of each of their seats to hold on in the jouncing jeep, while trying to keep her bare legs in their shorts out of the way of Jim’s hand and the gearshift, Lucky suddenly remembered the time right after their marriage when she had told Ron that someday she would cuckold him, and that he had answered that “if she did, then she would have to let him watch.” Ugh. Jesus! Was he actually trying to push her into something like that now? Her own fantasy, of screwing another man in front of him while he watched, made her blush now in the breezy windblown jeep, but that was only a fantasy. But what else could he be doing, the way he was acting? And she still was not unattracted to Jim? Didn’t he know that?
At the airport, while the rest of them stood or sat around the airconditioned bar as they waited for the jet to come in, Doug had gotten her off to herself to talk to her. Doug’s really enormous personal charm could captivate, and capture, just about anybody, whenever he wanted to turn it on and use it—witness the way he had captured the love of little Ti-René, and after spending almost no time with him at all, and René and Lisa too, and even Jim. Now he was using it on her, and it was working on her too. He gave her his biggest most understanding Greek-Turkish smile, complete with the sensitively, seriously washboarded forehead, and put his big hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t think I don’t know what’s goin on,” he said, “and don’t think I don’t appreciate you.”
She had recoiled—inwardly. Not outwardly. “You do?”
“And I know you’re goin to work it out.”
“You do.” This time it was a distant, noncommittal statement, not a question.
“I know you’ve had a lot of shocks. And a lot to digest. The meal is almost bigger than the stomach, as the old poet says. But I want you to know I’m givin you old Papa Doug Ismaileh’s vote of confidence.”
“Oh, Doug.” She found herself somehow trapped into honesty, almost against her will. “I don’t even know if he loves me. I don’t honestly think he does.”
“Sure he loves you,” Doug smiled. “In his way. Don’t you know nobody ever loves anybody in exactly the same way?”— there was no pause for an answer—“and nobody knows better than me how hard, how tough he is to get along with. It would take a saint to live with him for more than a week. But I also know you can handle it.”
“You think so,” Lucky said faintly.
“I know so. Remember I know him longer than you. You can, you know how (no matter whatever, what-ever-ever could or might have happened to you in your life up to now; maybe even because of that!), you have the ability to handle this, him, in just about any way you choose.” He paused perhaps significantly. “Did you hear me? Any way you choose. And let me tell you, whatever happens—whatever you do see fit to do—I’m convinced, I’m absolutely certain, that I’ll be seein you two—together—in New York in . . . six weeks or a couple of months.”
Faintly, and for some unexplained reason half-disgustedly trying to unravel the somehow unstated meaning of all this, Lucky said nothing. If he was saying what she thought he was saying—She couldn’t even think it. Or that he could be saying it.
“Don’t forget what I told you,” Doug smiled at her warmly and gently kissed her on the ear, then took his big ha
nd off her shoulder and as gently led her back to the others clustered noisily at the bar. As she walked with him, Lucky felt she ought to feel uplifted but instead she had the feeling of a real, an enormous, and an honestly acquired depression and putdown. Revulsion. Both for herself and for Ron and for just about everything. And when the big Greek kissed her gently again and winked sweetly, then went through the customs departure gate and out onto the sidewalk and across the apron to the big jet and then stopped in the black cave of the hatchway to wave once at all of them, she had the same feeling, even more strongly.
They went out in the catamaran that afternoon, after the lunch both Ron and Jim himself had invited Jim to. Ben and Irma went with them, because as Ben said he wanted Irma to get accustomed at least a little to what it would be like on the Naiad’s cruise. (’Course, Ben told her, she’d probly be able to spend at least some of the days ashore probly, in the Nelsons studyin the island and all that stuff.) Lucky was glad that Ben and Irma had come along. She simply could not stand Ron, or Ron’s attitude. He was completely polite to her; he had helped her into and out of the jeep on the airport trip, had opened every door for her, and now he was just as considerate and solicitous of her getting into and out of the boat. But all the time there was this astral—astral was the only word she could give for it, it was so so far away—distance about him. He even went so far as to go off spearfishing alone after a couple of snapper he had seen (bringing back three of them on a fish stringer, which she knew was not right, not safe, to do), leaving her alone on the boat with Jim. Of course Ben and Irma were there on the boat too, at least Irma was. But even in spite of that she noted (without understanding) that he treated Jim just exactly the same as he had always treated him. He did it almost scrupulously. That night just before dusk when they returned, they found that Bonham and Orloffski had arrived.
The arrival of Bonham and Orloffski took a great deal of the pressure off her. Much as she disliked the both of them, she was grateful for that. All of the talk all evening was of course of the Naiad, since they had come down this time to see her actually put in the water and take her over, and even Jim Grointon’s talk was all about the ship and the proposed trip. Ron was so excited by all of it that he once so forgot himself he put his arm around her and gave her a big grin. He could be really lovable. He got so excited and enthusiastic over everything. He insisted they must go down tomorrow and watch her be put afloat.
Lucky went. But Jim Grointon (who was as high over it all as the rest of the men) also went too. Once again Lucky rode in the front seat of the jeep between the two of them, one arm along the back of each of their seats to hold on. Ben and Irma rode in the back. They rode back the same way. She had to admit it was a beautiful sight to watch the big wheeled carriage lowered down the gently sloping ramp by the big winch until she, Naiad, was actually on her own, floating and rocking in the harbor water. Naturally they all went on board her, afterwards. And while nothing at all had been done about the sleazy dirty completely unprivate quarters and accomodations, Lucky could feel and had to admit also that the way the deck felt under your feet, more alive, when she was afloat, was different and more exciting, much more exciting.
The night before Bonham had briefed them on everything except the actual trip itself. Naturally, he and Orloffski had eaten dinner with them, naturally on Ron’s check—although Bonham said (with his usual look at her) that this would be the last time, it was just too damned expensive for Ron, and he and Mo would catch their meals in town somewhere after this. And he and Mo would sleep on board, while they worked on her sails and gear and on getting her ready belowdecks. He had made reservations with René already for Sam Finer and his wife, and they would be arriving in four or five days. The brain surgeon and his girlfriend would be arriving about the same time, but they would sleep on board too, to save money. The surgeon wanted to help with the work anyway. Bonham figured that after seven or eight days’ sailwork, ropework, rigging, and some minimal paintwork and cleaning-up below— they would be ready to go.
The second night, the night after they had visited the ship and watched the ‘launching,’ true to his word Bonham did not appear for dinner. But they came afterward, bringing with them all the necessary charts and maps and a pair of marine dividers and parallel rulers to lay out and brief them on the trip itself, those who were interested. Lucky wasn’t. When they came to the charts of the Nelson Islands themselves, she took one look and retired to the bar for a drink without understanding these any more than she had ever understood any maps, including highway roadmaps. Irma, who wasn’t interested either and who understood maps no better, joined her almost immediately. So the two of them sat at the bar, drinking, and watched the five men, Bonham, Orloffski, Ben, Ron and Jim, huddling excitedly over the great mass of charts and maps on the largest of the bar’s tables. Lucky could see that the other hotel guests scattered around, including the movie star and his wife, were all quite impressed. She herself wasn’t.
“You’re really going?” she asked Irma finally.
“Sure, why the hell not?” Irma said. Then she cackled her weird laugh. “I might even learn to swim. From those fucking boy scouts. Bonham’s promised he’d teach me.”
“Well, I don’t think I am,” Lucky said after a moment.
Irma leaned closer suddenly and glanced at the table of men. “I don’t think you have much choice,” she said softly. “Listen, Lucky. Ben and I’ve been talking. About you and Ron. We don’t really know what the trouble is. Except what you told me about that ex-mistress-‘foster-mother’ of Ron’s. But we’ve decided, and I’ve been delegated by Ben to tell you, that you damn well better go. If you want to save your marriage. Christ, you’ve only been married what? Not even two months yet already.” For Irma it was a long speech. “We think you want to save it,” she added. “And we want you to.”
“I’m not at all sure I want to save it,” Lucky said thinly.
“Well, that’s something else again,” Irma said. She was not cackling now.
Lucky didn’t answer, and instead turned to look at the men. She shouldn’t have said that. It was her instinct not to talk at all about things like that, not to outsiders, even Irma. She studied the men at the table pointedly, and Irma followed suit.
They were really something. Bonham, who could—when he had to—be reasonably polite and civilized, was nevertheless completely out of place here in this chic international bar and set. But Orloffski was a horror. His crude, loud, brutal, totally insensitive voice and manner in that great beefy body made him seem doubly like an ape here in this place. A hairless ape. Unfortunately. And apparently even he sensed it this time. He kept looking around the place at the various men as if measuring them all to see if there was one man here that he could not whip. A sort of belligerent selfdefense, which seemed to be felt uncomfortably all over the bar. A week or ten days on a ship with that oaf seemed to Lucky to be beyond the call of duty even for a wife. And Ron seemed to be liking it all so much! So did Jim Grointon, who wasn’t even going along! Neither one of them had hardly spoken a word to her since Bonham and Orloffski arrived yesterday. She ordered another drink.
“Come on,” Irma said. “Let’s us wives get back over there.”
The upshot of all this furious map-reading, discussion and measuring appeared to be that the Nelson Islands, situated in their position halfway between the Pedro Bank and the Rosalind Bank, and too small to be shown on any map except possibly those of the very greatest scale, consisted of four major islands and twelve tiny uninhabited islets strung out along and between them. The two northern ones, named appropriately North Nelson and South Nelson, which were the largest, were only about seven miles long altogether with a half-mile pass between them, and were shaped like a crazy drunken U lying on its side with the pass running through the exact bottom of the U. Because of this there was good anchorage anywhere inside the U. The two southern main islands, called Dog Cay and Green’s Cay, lay sixteen miles to the south and were much smaller with a
pass of only a hundred yards between them. One of these, Dog Cay, had been bought up in its entirety by a group of wealthy Bahamians, Englishmen and Americans and was in effect a private club, run English-style, with a full-time British resident manager even yet. They were notoriously hospitable to private yachts putting into their small anchorage during the off season. Three of the tiny islets lay between these and the north islands, with the other nine islets strung out in a roughly straight line south of Dog Cay for another twelve or thirteen miles. Reefs abounded everywhere along the entire group. It was Bonham’s plan to head straight for North Nelson where the capital, named Georgetown naturally, was situated, spend a couple of days spearfishing and exploring there, then head on down the rest of the group, stopping off a day or so at Dog Cay, then sail straight for home— Ganado Bay—from the small islet end of the chain. Lucky couldn’t have cared less.
By the time all the chart-reading, calculation, discussion and measuring was over everybody had put away quite a large quantity of booze, including herself and Irma, who spent more of their time at the bar talking to Sam than at the table, and they all were ready to call it a day and go to bed. In a way Lucky was sorry, in spite of all the nautical shit. Going up to the suite every night now was the hardest thing she had to do in every day. She and Ron hardly spoke to each other again tonight. She herself was thinking about what Irma had said at the bar, and of the message Ben had had Irma relay. It was all getting to be that obvious, then. What must Jim think? She had a small instinct not to show herself nude in front of Ron, to do her undressing in the tiny bathroom where he could not see her, but it was only a tiny instinct and she didn’t bother to indulge it. It would almost certainly only infuriate him and cause another fight and she didn’t feel like fighting.
