“What would Dad think,” Baker asks, “if he could see us together right now?”
Cash raises his eyebrows. “The more relevant question is, what would Mom think? I talked to her yesterday and she didn’t tell me you were coming down. Does she even know?”
Baker eases himself into the pool and swims over to Cash. He peers down at Floyd, splashing in the lower pool. “She doesn’t.”
“Why didn’t you tell her?”
“I’m not sure,” Baker says. “Probably because I didn’t want her to stop me.”
“Legally, it’s her house,” Cash says. “I’m not trying to be a jerk but my advice is to call her and tell her you’re here.”
Baker knows Cash is right. “I will,” he says. “I’ll call her tonight after Floyd is asleep.”
Before Cash can respond, Baker hears the strains of “Blitzkrieg Bop,” by the Ramones—and Cash pushes himself up out of the pool. He pulls his cell phone out of his hiking shorts, looks at the screen, and says, “Well, guess what, it’s Mom.”
“Good,” Baker says. “Tell her I’m here. She’ll like it better coming from you anyway.”
Cash says, “Hello, Mother Alarm Clock, what’s up? Good, yeah…I saw Maia today. Ayers and I took her on a hike, or she took us on a hike, actually…yeah, I start Monday, they said I’ll be good to go in a week. Hey, listen, I have some news…oh, all right. No, you go first.”
There’s a pause during which Baker can hear the tinny sound of Irene’s voice over the phone and Baker grows hot and uncomfortable. He just wants Cash to spit it out already! Baker checks on Floyd, who is splashing around, happy as can be, like a model only child. Baker will check out preschools for Floyd.
When Baker phoned Anna and told her that he and Floyd were considering moving down to St. John on a somewhat permanent basis, Anna had accepted the news the way she accepted everything he said: with indifference.
“It’s nice there,” Anna said. “I’ll have to see what Louisa thinks—”
“It doesn’t matter what Louisa thinks,” Baker said. “She doesn’t get to weigh in on my decisions.”
“But Floyd…” Anna says. He recognized her distracted tone of voice; she was probably writing in someone’s chart while she was talking to him.
“Louisa isn’t Floyd’s mother,” Baker said. “You are. Now, assuming I find a suitable school for our child, do you have any objections to Floyd and me spending some time in St. John? The vacation schedule will be the same. Nothing changes except he won’t be in Houston. Do you object?”
“No,” Anna said. “I guess not…”
“Wonderful, thank you,” Baker said, and he hung up before she could change her mind.
Baker is yanked back into the present moment when he hears Cash say, “A week from Monday?”
A week from Monday what? Baker wonders.
“Well, you’re in for a nice surprise,” Cash says. “Because guess who else is here—Baker and Floyd!”
Pause. Baker hears his mother’s voice, maybe a little more high-pitched than before.
“Yep, I guess Anna took a job in Cleveland and so Baker and Floyd are…yep, they’re here now. Yes, Mom, I think that’s the plan.” Cash locks eyes with Baker and starts nodding. “Yes, it will be so nice, all of us together.”
All of us together? Does this mean what Baker thinks it means?
“Just text to let us know what ferry you’ll be on,” Cash says. “And one of us will be there to pick you up. A week from Monday.”
That night, they grill steaks and asparagus and Baker makes his potato packets in foil and he and Cash and Floyd devour everything and Baker remembers that it’s nice cooking for people who actually appreciate it. Floyd goes inside to watch Despicable Me 3 for the ten thousandth time and Baker and Cash stare out at the scattering of lights across the water.
“So Mom is coming a week from Monday,” Baker says. He’s not sure how he feels about this. “There are obviously pluses and minuses to this situation.”
“Agreed,” Cash says. “On the plus side, we have been through a family crisis. If Mom stayed in Iowa, I would worry about her.”
“I can’t believe she quit her job,” Baker says.
“She wants a change, she says.”
“But working on Huck’s fishing boat? Mom? She’s a fifty-seven-year-old woman. She must have been kidding about that.”
“Don’t you remember the way she used to wake us up at dawn on Clark Lake to go out on Pop’s flat-bottom boat to fish for bass? Mom took us, not Dad. Mom baited our hooks. Mom taught us how to cast.”
“Yeah, I do,” Baker says. He hasn’t thought of it in eons but suddenly he has a vivid picture of being out on Clark Lake before the sun was even fully up, Irene yanking on the starter of the outboard motor, then Irene driving the boat to the spot where the smallmouth bass were biting. Irene had indeed taught both Baker and Cash to cast. She had shown them how to reel in a fish after they felt a tug on the line. She had deftly worked the hook from the fish’s mouth, using one gloved hand to hold the fish and one hand to maneuver her Gerber tool. Irene could snap fishing line with her teeth. She could fillet a bass or a perch so expertly that there were no bones to worry about when it came off the charcoal grill that evening at dinner. Baker had forgotten that his mother liked to fish, but even now that he remembers, he wonders if this is really what she wants to do for a living. Maybe she needs a break, a respite, a time to recharge and reset.
Maybe that’s what they all need.
“On the minus side,” Cash says, “we’ll be grown men living with our mother.”
“Sexy,” Baker says.
“But the house is big,” Cash says.
“The house is big,” Baker says. And it’ll be nice to have an extra person to watch Floyd. He won’t mention that, however, lest Cash call him a self-involved bastard.
Later that night, Baker wants to go out. The dishes are done and Baker has read to Floyd and tucked him in. Baker also showed him how their bedrooms connect; the house feels more familiar this time around.
Baker finds Cash collapsed in a heap in front of a basketball game. He considers slipping out the door—he needs to go to town; he needs to see Ayers—but he can’t just leave with Floyd asleep upstairs. “Hey, Cash?”
“Yeah.” Cash doesn’t move his eyes from the TV.
“I’m going out for a little while, man,” Baker says. “Or I’d like to. If you could just…keep one ear open in case Floyd wakes up?”
“Yeah, of course,” Cash says.
Baker lets his breath go.
“Are you going into town to see Ayers?” Cash asks.
Baker considers lying, but what can he say? That he’s going to the grocery store? Out for a nightcap? Cash will know better.
“Yeah,” Baker admits.
“She asked about you today on the hike,” Cash says.
Baker’s heart feels like a speeding car without brakes. “She did?”
“She said you didn’t call her after you left.” Cash pauses. “Were you really that stupid?”
Yes, Baker thinks, he was. There had been dozens of times when Baker thought to reach out, but, honestly, he hadn’t seen the point. He had been stuck in Houston…until Anna announced she was leaving. “I was that stupid,” Baker says.
“My guess is she has a thing for you,” Cash says. “Don’t mess it up.”
Cash’s tone indicates that he fully believes Baker will mess it up. It’s true that Baker’s track record with women hasn’t been great. He chose to marry a woman who didn’t love him, who may or may not have liked men at all. But Ayers is different. It’s as though Baker had been on a quest without even realizing it—until he found exactly what he was looking for.
He’s not going to mess it up.
Baker wonders why Cash is being so cool about Ayers. He seems relaxed and at ease in a way that is very un-Cash-like. Maybe it’s some kind of trap. Or maybe the island is working its magic.
“Thanks, man,” Ba
ker says. “I mean it, Cash. Thank you.”
“Good luck,” Cash says.
Good luck. Baker turns up the radio in the Jeep; the excellent station out of San Juan—104.3 the Buzz—is playing the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Baker sings along, woefully off-key, but who cares; he’s got the windows open and the sweet night air is rushing in. Baker hasn’t felt this sense of freedom, this sense of possibility, since he was in high school. He’s nervous. He has butterflies.
He drives into town at ten thirty and things are still lively; it’s Saturday night. He worries that to see Ayers, he’ll have to go to La Tapa for a drink—he really wanted to be sober and clearheaded tonight—but then he spots her leaving the restaurant, wearing cutoff jean shorts and a T-shirt and a pair of Chucks, a suede bag hitched over her shoulder.
She reaches up and releases her hair from its bun. She is so strong and composed and self-possessed. Baker is dazzled. He has been dazzled by women before, of course—when he watched Anna pull a splinter out of Floyd’s foot with one quick, precise movement; when his old girlfriend Trinity knotted a cherry stem with her tongue (Baker still doesn’t understand how people do that)—but Ayers is different. She’s flawless.
Baker drives up alongside her and rolls the window down. He thinks about trying to be funny—Hey, little girl, want some candy?—but there’s no way he’ll be able to pull it off.
“Ayers,” he says. “Hi.”
She stops, ducks her head to peer into the car. They lock eyes.
“Baker,” she says. She holds his gaze and the two of them knit together somehow. He can’t speak so he nods his head toward the passenger seat. She runs around the front of the car, opens the door, climbs in, and fastens her seat belt.
“Wow,” she says. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Where to?” he asks.
“Hawksnest Beach,” she says. “I’ll show you the way.”
Rosie
February 22, 2006
I’m afraid to write down exactly what happened with Russ but I’m afraid not to write it down because what if I forget and my weekend with him is washed away like a heart drawn in the sand?
There was sex, a lot of sex, and it was the best sex of my life, but I have only Oscar to compare it to and if there’s one thing I can say about Oscar, it’s that he’s selfish and greedy and arrogant and any time I opened my mouth to ask him to change his style, he took offense and kept on doing things the same way because in his mind, he knew the path to my pleasure better than I did.
I faked a lot with Oscar. I faked so much that I got quite skilled at it and I assumed I would have to fake it with Russell from Iowa City because, well, let’s just say he was older and grayer and not at all in shape. But, man, was I surprised at how…good he was to me. He was gentle and firm and confident when he touched my body and he was also appreciative, maybe even reverent. The sex was so sublime that I started to feel both jealous of and guilty about his wife, Irene.
At one point I said to Russ, “I hope your wife knows how lucky she is to have you.”
Russ laughed. “I doubt she would describe herself that way. And not that you asked, but my wife and I don’t have sex like this. We don’t have sex much at all. Like I said, in Irene’s eyes, I’m a day late and a dollar short in nearly everything I do. Her main attitude toward me is weary disappointment. Which kind of kills the magic.”
On Saturday night I sneaked out of his room at three o’clock in the morning and got back to Jacob’s Ladder at three thirty. I somehow managed to get in the house without waking Mama, who is a very light sleeper.
Russ and I had planned to spend the day together on Sunday but I had to be careful, so careful, because the island has eyes and very loose lips. Turns out, Russ’s friend and potential new boss, Todd Croft, had left behind the skiff from the yacht for Russ to use, although Russ admitted he didn’t feel comfortable navigating in unfamiliar waters. “Leave the driving to me,” I said. I was off all day Sunday and Sunday night, so I went to church with Mama, which normally I hated, but I needed to ask forgiveness for the sins I had already committed as well as the ones I was about to commit. I told Mama I was going to Salomon Bay for the day, then straight to a barbecue, and I’d be home late.
Mama said, “You got home late last night, mon chou.” (She uses the French phrases that she picked up in Paris when she’s displeased; it’s a signal I alone understand.) “I want you to tell me right now that you are not back involved with Oscar. I’ve heard he’s been sniffing around.”
Estella must have been talking to Dearie, who did my mother’s hair. I faced her on the stone walk outside the Catholic church and said, “Mama, I am not involved with Oscar.”
Her expression was dubious but my words contained conviction. “Better not be,” she said.
Even though we were traveling over water, which was a lot safer than land, I had to be sneaky. I left my car at the National Park Service sign as though I had indeed headed to Salomon Bay, but instead I hiked down to the public part of Honeymoon Beach and cut through the back way so that I popped out of the trees in a place where I could wade to the skiff, which I did, holding my bag above my head. Russ was waiting for me with a cooler and a picnic basket he’d asked the hotel to pack. I started the motor on the first try, and we were off.
It was an idyllic day. The water sparkled in the sun; the air had a rare scrubbed-clean feel, as though it had just received a benediction. It was as fine a performance by planet Earth as I had ever seen. Russ had on bathing trunks, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a baseball cap that said IOWA CITY ROTARY CLUB, which made me chuckle because, really, what was I doing with this guy? And yet I liked him. Just as I thought I had him pegged as one kind of person—he had just ended his second term on the Iowa City school board; he was encouraging his mother, Milly, to move into a retirement community but she was having none of it—he would pull out a surprise. Like the way he stroked behind my knee in a spot so sweet and sensitive, I had a hard time concentrating.
We anchored off of Little Cinnamon because the cliff above was undeveloped so no one would be spying on us with binoculars for voyeuristic purposes. Russ unpacked the cooler—there was a nice bottle of Sancerre for me, the Chavignol, which I loved, and a couple of cold beers for Russ. There were slender baguette sandwiches with duck, arugula, and fig jam, and as I ate one, all I could think of was Remy the chef preparing them, having no idea that one was for me. There was also a container of truffled potato salad and a couple of lemon tarts, and I thought of how nice it was to be on the receiving end of Caneel’s hospitality for once.
We puttered along the north shore as far as Waterlemon Cay, where we stopped again because, although we hadn’t brought snorkeling gear, you could watch turtles pop their heads above the surface for air and Russ loved that. It was hot enough that we both decided to jump in for a swim and Russ held me in the water, his arms incredibly strong for a corn-syrup salesman or whatever he was. We kissed, and I thought, What are we doing here at Waterlemon Cay when we have a perfectly good hotel room?
I said, “Do you think you’ll take the job?”
“It’s hard to say no. The signing bonus is nearly as much as I make in a year right now.”
“If you take the job, will you spend more time down here?” Unfortunately, my voice betrayed what I was really asking: Would I ever see him again? I was afraid the answer would be no; I was afraid the answer would be yes. What we were doing was wrong. He was married with two sons in high school and he must have been trying not to imagine what they would think if they could see him at that moment. But…it was as if we were living in a sealed bubble. One weekend in February in the sixth year of the new millennium, this happened. I had a vague idea that affairs like this could actually improve a marriage. Russ would return to Iowa City with not only a big job offer but also a sense of power and virility, and Irene would see him in a new light. They would renew their vows, go on a second honeymoon.
And for me—well, things wouldn’t be a
wful for me either. I had faith in men again. The ghost of Oscar was permanently banished; every time I thought of him helpless and whimpering in Russ’s grip, I thought, How pathetic. I would venture forth with my self-esteem and self-worth restored. I would meet someone like Russ—kind, thoughtful, secure, adult—and that would blossom into the relationship that this could never be.
Our affair would be almost excusable if this all turned out to be the case. But even as I had these pretty and nice thoughts about us both going our own ways after this without any looking back, I felt my heart stirring up trouble. Maybe Russ was experiencing the same thing, because he looked genuinely crestfallen as he said, “You know, I’m really not sure. I know there will be travel with this job but I think it’ll be in dull places like Palm Beach and Midland, Texas. I think Todd just brought me down here to woo me.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to keep my tone light and unconcerned. “Let’s go back to the hotel, then, and properly enjoy the time we have left.”
We did just that, and it was wonderful—not only the sex, but also falling asleep in that luscious bed with our limbs intertwined.
When I woke up, he was staring at me just like the leading man in the movies looks at his leading lady—right before he betrays her or kills her or carries her off into the sunset.
“You’re exquisite,” he said. “And just now, watching you sleep, I felt so…privileged. Like I’ve been granted a private viewing of the Mona Lisa.”
“Everyone says the Mona Lisa is so beautiful,” I said. “But frankly, I don’t get it.”
This made Russ laugh and he reached over to the nightstand and plucked a pale pink hibiscus blossom out of a water glass. He tucked it behind my ear.
“You’re right,” he said. “You’re far prettier than the Mona Lisa.”
I swatted him to downplay how happy that made me—show me a woman who doesn’t like being compared to a masterpiece—then said, “I’m starving.”
What Happens in Paradise Page 13
