Go to the Widow-Maker

by James Jones

  “Can’t you say Negro?” she demanded crisply. “Or say colored? Or, even better yet just say waiter?”

  “Whut the heull?” Harry said. “So whut if Ah do say nigra—”

  “Not ‘nigra’, Negro,” Lucky interrupted crisply.

  “Thas whut Ah said,” Harry said. “But whut the heull? Nigra, nigga, it’s awl the sa-ume thang, fo’ Chrast’s saike!”

  “Harry, don’t sweah!” Lois his wife demanded.

  “Yeaus, lo-ove,” Harry said without pausing for breath and continued. “A nigga’s a nigga, Mrs Gra-unt. He’ull aways be black. Bean black is bean a nigga.”

  “I won’t sit and eat with people like this,” Lucky said and got up.

  “Sit down, for God’s sake,” Grant said. He was already drunk-mad at her anyway. Jim Grointon!

  The situation was saved by lady Suzanne. “Aw, come on, honey. Siit dowwn. Eaat, we all lo-ove ouur niggas, nigros. We lo-ove the Greans, and the Greans lo-ove uus. It’s awl raat. The Wa-ah’s oveh. I was only kiddin yiou abaat all thaat. Say, what ahre yawl? A bunch of New York Jee-ews?”

  “Yes,” said Lucky. “And please don’t you forget we have a rabbi with us!” She indicated Ben. This impressed the Texans. And it wasn’t so far from the truth at that, Grant thought with an interior giggle, remembering Ben’s earlier rabbinical studies. Only where the hell was the happy rabbi when he had needed him back in Kingston? Jim Grointon!

  Dinner was resumed, but at considerable nervous expense. Lucky was a dyed-in-the-wool New York liberal if she was anything, and she spoke not a further word. But it was the Greens that Grant couldn’t understand. They obviously must hate these people’s guts, and were only taking it because they wanted their money and to hell with them, was the only way he could figure it. But later he was disabused of even this theory, or partially disabused of it. Later when the Great Diving Contest arrived.

  A lot of space, and a lot of time, came and went before that. And most of it he couldn’t remember. He was really very drunk by now. So was everybody else. After the dinner, outside on the cool walk, Lucky got him together with Ben and Irma privately, and suggested that they all just fade away and go to bed. “I can’t stand another minute with those drunks, those people!” she said.— “Yeah,” said Ben in his so-Midwest accent. “I guess me’n Irm’ll hit the old sack.” He was subdued. They had already inspected their rooms in the rickety hotel, taken in whatever they would need in the way of luggage and equipment to bathe, get clean, and change clothes. All they had to do was disappear and use their keys.

  “Well, I’m not!” Grant raged, suddenly. He was raging. Jim Grointon! “A’m gonna git mase’f darunnk,” he added in his best Southern accent. “Wif ma frien’s theah, and wif ma ol’ paal, Bunnum. You guys do whatever you want to do.”

  He did not remember when they left him. There seemed to have been a bit more argument, mostly from Lucky, before that occurred. He ran into, literally ran into, Bonham some yards farther on down the walk to the wharf. He did not remember getting there.

  “They’ve all went to bed,” he said. Strangely enough, his head was clear as a bell.

  “So’s Cathie,” Bonham said noncommittally. He had hardly spoken a word throughout the catastrophic dinner, trying mainly to keep people from attacking, fighting each other. A 320-pound peacemaker.

  “Well, I’m goin back to our boat,” Grant said, “and get drunk. Really drunk. I don’t care if I never see those asshole Texans again.”

  Bonham grinned his big stormcloud grin. “Well, I could always use a couple drinks more myself. I’ll come with you. They’re really something, those Texans, hunh?”

  “They’re rich,” Grant said, apropos of nothing. “I can’t stand them.”

  But it was not to be. Since they would not go on board the Texans’ lovely yacht, the Texans came on their own crummy one. Poor old Naiad. A lot of time got lost here too. He seemed to remember some horrible thing about the Texas women, one or more, more he thought, going down belowdecks in the Naiad ostensibly to use the head but in fact sitting there on the yachtsman’s seagoing pump-up john and inviting them, the strangers, himself, Bonham, Orloffski, to come down and see them, do them. He was shocked and then horrified. One of them sat there with her skirt up around her waist, her legs spread wide, on that john in the head, motioning. At least one of them. As Suzanne had told him earlier—and truthfully—the Texan men would soon be dead drunk and asleep. However, while they were dead drunk, they were not asleep. They were standing there on board the Naiad discussing something loudly, between themselves. Skindiving, he thought. And down below the woman, whichever one it was, was motioning. Grant did not go. His self-imposed condition never to step out on his wife was still in effect despite Jim Grointon, apparently. Bonham did not go either. Orloffski went. Then some more time was lost somewhere, and then with a totally clear head again he found himself already engaged in the Great Diving Contest.

  Bonham was already collecting the money. They had apparently been able to get up eighty dollars cash between them, and Ferd the owner of the Lazy Suzanne matched it, in cash. Bert, who was perhaps the most aggressive of the Texans (if such a word could even be applied to them, after their women), fancied himself as a springboard diver. In his youth, of course, he pointed out. He was perhaps a year or two older than Grant. The bet was who could do the best back flip off the side of the Naiad. Bonham was holding the stakes. One of the younger Greens, the boss of the restaurant in fact had been selected to be the judge, apparently after great argument Grant did not at all remember. Bonham knew how good a springboard diver he was, had seen him dive in GaBay once, and gave him a wink: it was a cinch bet. Of course, Grant realized that the Texans thought that he was drunk. But at the moment he was in fact not drunk at all. His head was again clear as a bell. On the outskirts of the murmuring mob, which now—on the dock—included a raft of Greens, he saw Irma standing in the background, realized instantly that Lucky had certainly sent her down as a spy. He waved at her. Then the Great Diving Contest began.

  Grant was first. Bert had demurred about going first, so Grant offered. Bert, quite obviously, slyly wanted to watch the competition and see what he was up against. Grant on the other hand, was not worried at all. So he offered. “Sure. I’ll be glad to go first.”

  When he went off the rail outside the lifeline and into the air, the free air only springboard divers and trampoline artists ever really know, he went up straight, remembering to lean back just a little and flatten his arc. Unlike a springboard, the side of the ship ran straight down to the water, even bulged out a little. A tight backflip could throw him into the side of the ship. At the top he pulled up, his legs together and against his chest, feet pointed, made the head throw, and calmly watched the starry sky, the lights of the hotel then the water itself under him, all rotate around his open eyes. When the water’s edge of the ship appeared he made the snapout, hands straight at sides, feet together, then shut his eyes and blew out through his nose as he went under. It was a good dive, but it wasn’t perfect because he went in at a slight angle leaning a little backward. That was because he had flattened his arc that little bit to avoid hitting the ship. But it was a good dive. Then he surfaced and swam off a ways to wait for Bert, treading water. The Texans were obviously impressed.

  Then Bert made his dive, and it was a pretty bad one. He did not get his knees more than halfway up to his chest. His feet were at least a foot apart. And at his entry his right arm flailed out as if for balance before he was fully under. He went under almost sitting down.

  Grant swam lazily back to the boat pleased with himself, knowing he had won, the water feeling freshening and sobering. He climbed up the ladder, feeling good, to a lot of noise going on on board—and to find to his disbelief that the young Negro Green had already awarded the prize, the bet, to Bert. Bert, Ferd’s guest aboard the Lady Suzanne. Ferd was chortling. At first Grant couldn’t really believe it. He knew he had won it, and won it hands down. But the young Negro Gree
n insisted the man from Lady Suzanne had made the better dive. And he was the judge. And he remained adamant. A great deal of argument began. Grant got himself another drink, and after a while—though the argument seemed to go on a long time—he lost some more time somewhere. To hell with it. Finally he left. As he walked up the wharf toward the hotel, all his for-a-while-forgotten misery about Jim Grointon coming back on him, Bonham was just in process of throwing the wadded $160 over the side into the water. “You want it, you pricks, you go and get it,” Bonham was saying blazingly. “You’re all a bunch of fucking thieves. And rich thieves at that! You obviously paid that punk kid off to say what he did. Now get off my ship. All of you! Now!” Not even a raft of Greens, plus all the Texans, were about to dispute with Bonham. It must be great to be a really big man, a really big man physically, sometimes. Well, he wasn’t. And he would never be. He listened to the feet of the crowd on the wharf behind him.

  The hotel room door was locked when he got to it and tried to open it, though the light was on. He knocked. “Go away,” Lucky said from inside. “Go away forever.” Grant threw his shoulder against the door, shaking most of the rickety, jerry-built hotel.— “Open this door, or I’ll break it in,” he said, and meant it.

  This apparently influenced her. Lucky opened it. She was in her robe, a bottle of scotch and a half-filled glass were on the bed table. A book lay opened up and turned face down on the bed. She was pretty drunk herself, her eyes having that strange, mean, concentrated look they got when she was loaded. “You fool! You poor slobbering idiot fool! I’m ashamed to know you! I’m ashamed to be seen as your wife! You might have known those Texas bastards would cheat you, try to cheat you!”

  “You saw it then,” Grant said heavily. “Gimme a drink.”

  “No! Irma saw it. I wouldn’t be caught dead seeing you make such a ridiculous spectacle of yourself!”

  “Sure,” Grant said and sat down heavily on the bed. “But you’d send old Irm out as your spy to come and tell you. Oh, boy. What a happy marriage we’ve brought ourselves around to, hunh? What a happy marriage. I said gimme a drink.”

  “You’ve had enough to drink,” Lucky said viciously. “Far, far too much.”

  “That is not for you to decide,” Grant said. “Pass me that fucking bottle or I’ll tear this place apart! And I mean it!” Lucky handed it to him. “You’re drunk yourself, for God sake,” he said. “I can tell by that mean look you get in your eyes.”

  “You should see yourself.”

  “Yeah. I bet. I don’t want to.” Grant tipped the bottle back and drank down the straight scotch in what he knew was only a gesture, a bad, unhealthy, and stupid gesture, even as he did it.

  Some more time got lost somewhere. He knew only that he accused her openly, this time, accused her flatly of having slept with Jim Grointon. She fought back, saying she hadn’t, but he couldn’t remember her exact words or her arguments. Once in there somewhere she said, “I didn’t! I told you I’d never tell you anything else, didn’t I? So worry about it! No, I didn’t fuck Jim Grointon! But whether I did or not, I should have! As far as you’re concerned.”

  Then more time got itself lost. The last thing he remembered was her saying, “Get out! For God’s sake get out! Out of my sight! They’re going to throw us out of here! I can promise you!

  “Listen, I’m leaving! I’ve had it up to here with you! If this is what being married to a great artist is, I don’t want it! I’m leaving! Tomorrow! There’s a seaplane from Kingston I can radio for! I inquired! I want to order that plane and leave on it tomorrow!”

  “Then go,” he said. “Go, Captain Willis, and may God be with you on your journey downward! Go! Go!”

  “I need money,” Lucky said.

  “Ha!” Grant said and grinned a deeply drunken grin. “No money. You get the money. Get it anyway you can. But you’ll not get it from me!”— “You son of a bitch!” was the answer he got. “Just get out. Just get out of my sight” —“Gladly,” was his own answer.

  Then he was walking alone down along the beach under those beautiful royal palms, plodding heavily in the deep sand. Where to go? There was a beautiful moon. A lover’s moon. Finally after walking until he was tired, he lay down on the sand fully clothed and went to sleep. When the cold night air woke him in the deep dark after the moon had gone down, shuddering and deep-frozen to the bone, he covered himself with sand. Where to go? What to do? Thirty-six years old and already a cuckold! Thirty-six years old, and two months married, and already a cuckold. Still a cuckold. As the sand he had covered himself with in selfdefense against the cold slowly warmed him, he drifted off to sleep.

  When the first light of dawn woke him, he trudged back through all that deep sand (how in God’s name had he ever made it this far down here, for God’s sake!), and found Al Bonham already up and about on the Naiad, preparing to don an aqualung and go search for the $160 he had with such a magnificent gesture thrown away last night.

  35

  WHEN AL BONHAM saw Grant trudging up the beach, he realized he was caught. That was his first thought. He was caught and he knew it. Caught right in the act. And since there didn’t seem to be any way to get out of it, lie himself out of it, he decided to do what all them military and political types did when they got in that situation: take the other side in on it, take the enemy—no, not enemy: antagonist; opposition—take the opposition in on the conspiracy. He grinned as Grant trudged up and came on board.— “Get yourself a lung and come on along,” he winked. “There’s one all rigged there. If we find it, we’ll split it fifty-fifty. You won it. And anyway there’s nothing like a good thirty, forty-foot dive early in the morning when you got a hangover,” he added.

  Because Grant looked like the wrath of God. His white ducks which had been so white last night were grimy all over, and although he had obviously tried to brush himself off, sand clung to him everywhere. It was in his hair. He had come trudging along from the direction of the beach that led down to South Point, the southern end of North Nelson, where the new luxury hotel was being built, was in fact nearly completed. And that will settle those goddamned sons of bitching Greens, Bonham thought with happy meanness. Those bastards.

  Bonham had, of course, expected Grant—or anybody—to come from the direction of the hotel. That was what had fooled him. He would have expected especially Grant to come from the direction of the hotel, where his room—and his wife—were. Lucky. Lucky, hell. Lucky my ass. She was about the most unLucky thing that had ever happened to Bonham.

  Orloffski, of course, was sound asleep below, sleeping off his hangover and his night of humping with that—or was it those; Bonham didn’t even know how many—Texas woman or women. And the Texans were now all quiet on their own ship, sleeping off their big drunk. They had still been ‘reveling’ wasn’t it they called it? on their own boat, when he had sneaked off to Cathie Finer’s room in the hotel. Naturally, he had to be back on board by daybreak. That meant his second whole night without sleep—though he had dozed a little upstairs it was true, between times, until she would wake him up again—(God, what a broad!). But since he did have to be back at daylight, what was a better idea than to have a look on all that sand bottom for that money at dawn when everybody else would still be sleeping off their booze, or sex —or both? He had, actually, folded it all up together last night with that express idea in mind.

  And now goddam Grant had to come trudging along at the very crack of dawn, looking like death warmed over. He did not quite know whether to ignore the way Grant looked or not. And he decided not to mention it. But then, since it was so very damned obvious, he decided it was better to mention it than not.

  “Where the hell’ve you been, and what happened to you?” he grinned. “You look like one of our proverbial hurricanes wiped up the island with you, but I don’t see no palm trees down anywhere.” He’d fallen completely back into his bad-grammar style again, he noted. Sometimes, of course, he did it on purpose, for business. But something about Grant made h
im do it, do that. Maybe it was because he was literary and a famous playwright. Or maybe it was because he, Grant, wrote plays about people who talked like that. Well, hell. What difference did it make?

  “My old lady threwn me out. Told me to get out. So I did.” Grant managed a feeble grin. But it was a very thin one. “Slept on the beach. Slept on the beach before. In my time.”

  “In the old Navy days, hunh?” Bonham grinned. “She mad at you over ‘The Great Diving Contest’, hunh? Well, come on and get out of those godawful lookin clothes and into that bikini of yours and we’ll see if we can find that dough. It might just still be down there. If it didn’t float off.”

  He waited while Grant changed; if they did find it, now, he would certainly have to split it with him, damn it. Then they slipped over the side quietly, using the ladder and putting their flippers on underwater so as not to wake anybody, grinning conspirators together. Though it was just after dawn and the sun itself had not yet risen above the horizon, there was still plenty of light to see by in the thirty-to-thirty-five-feet-deep clear green water. And as he swam over the weedless, clean, rippled sand bottom marred only by an occasional rusting beercan or old whiskey bottle, looking for the wad of money, Bonham thought about Cathie Finer and his problem, his problems. His problems and what Grant had said about them, that night during the all-night sail.