I explain about how we were both sick and about the pill and giving it to Helen and her feeling better this morning.
“Aw, so now she’s nursing you after you made the big sacrifice and then nursed her?” Sam’s not usually an “Aw, that’s so sweet” kind of girl but that’s exactly what she says to me now.
“Not exactly,” I explain. And then I further explain about the beautiful day, me not wanting Helen to miss it and me urging Helen to get out there and enjoy herself.
“And she just went?” Sam says.
“Well, no,” I say. “I really had to talk her into it.”
“But still, she went.”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing. You wouldn’t have gone off and left her behind.”
I try to object to this. “Maybe I—” But Sam’s on a roll.
“You wouldn’t have. You’re Mr. I’ll Carry This Pill In My Mouth That Could Save Me And I Won’t Swallow It And Instead I’ll Bring It Back To You And Transfer It To Your Mouth—which, I might add, is kind of gross—So You Can Feel Better Quicker. That guy would never have left his sick wife behind.”
“But I was starting to feel better. It wasn’t like I was going to die or anything.”
“I don’t care,” Sam says. “You never would have done that to her and she should never have done that to you. Fucking women.”
I keep trying but no matter what I say, I can’t convince Sam that what Helen did was OK and by the time we hang up the phone, I’m starting to have my doubts too.
Was what Helen did OK?
But as soon as the doubts enter my mind, I shrug them off, push them aside.
So what if maybe Helen does a few things differently than I would.
Aren’t differences between people what make the world go around?
An hour later, I’m still lying there, digesting the death of Robin and what Sam said, when I hear the cabin door click open.
My wife bounces into the room, still in her bikini, her hair slicked back with water. Now there’s a face.
“I had the most amazing day!” she says, all exhilaration. Then she must see something in my expression, because her own changes. “What’s wrong?” she says, coming right over to me. “Are you still feeling poorly?” Looking sympathetic, she places a hand on my forehead.
“That too,” I say. “But also, Robin died.”
“Oh no!” She takes one of my hands in both of hers. “What happened?”
“She blew up in the lab, trying to save Jason. One minute she’s there and the next—poof!—vaporized.”
The image is still fresh in my mind because even though I never saw it when it first happened, they reran that part near the end of today’s episode. Soaps’ll do that.
“How awful!” She pauses, looks confused. “But who’s Robin? I never heard you mention any friends named Robin before. And you say she worked in a lab?”
“On General Hospital,” I say.
“Oh,” Helen says. And just like that, the comforting hands are removed from mine and she moves away from the bed, starts unpacking a wet towel and things from her carryall. “That’s too bad.”
Sam and me’ve tried getting Helen interested in GH, and she even watched it with us occasionally in the beginning, but she’s really never taken to it in the way that we have.
“It really is,” I say. “Too bad, I mean. Even though I’ve only been watching the show for a little over a year, I’ve seen flashbacks to when she was just a little kid on the show. She’s been on, like, forever. How can they do that to a legacy character like that?” I’m still in shock. “The mind reels.”
“I can only imagine,” Helen says.
And just like that I realize that Helen can’t imagine, nor does she particularly care.
“So, how was your day?” I ask.
She brightens. “It was amazing!” she says again. “I met a really great bunch of people—German tourists—and we played volleyball on the beach all day.”
“That sounds like fun,” I say. “Did you remember to put suntan lotion on? I’d hate to see you get burned.”
“Oh, it was fine. One of my new friends took care of it for me. So, do you want to get ready for dinner?”
I think of the idea of food. It’s been over twenty-four hours since I’ve had anything other than liquids, but after what my body’s been through, I’m still not ready for food.
I explain as much.
“So I guess, then, I don’t know,” she says, “I’ll go find something and eat it back here in the room?”
When she puts it like that…
“Why don’t you get changed and go to dinner?” I say. “Really, just because I’m not up for it, that’s no reason for you to be cooped up here.”
“You sure?” she says.
I assure her that I am.
And once again, after a quick clothing change, my wife is gone.
A few hours later, maybe around nine P.M., she returns.
The two nights I ate with her, we were in and out of the dining room in less than an hour.
“Wow,” I say, “you were gone a long time. Did Boris and Natasha and Tom and Daisy suddenly get more interesting?”
“No,” she says. “I didn’t eat with them. I ran into those German tourists I told you about and we decided to exercise one of the other dining options.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s great.”
And it is, right? I mean, I do want her to have a good time on our honeymoon, don’t I? Still, it’s inescapable that I’m starting to feel a little bit put out.
“You up for getting out?” she says.
I think of how tired I’m feeling. I know I didn’t do anything all day but being sick takes a lot out of a person, sometimes in more ways than one. Plus, there’s still that whole thing about the loss of Robin.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “I’m sure by tomorrow I’ll be good as new again.”
“You sure?” she presses. “There’s a lot going on tonight. I’d love you to meet my new friends.”
“I’m sure,” I say. “But why don’t you—”
Do I even need to say what happens next?
The red numbers on the digital clock switch over to 1:05 A.M. as I feel someone slide into bed next to me.
I yawn, half asleep as Helen turns her back on me but scooches backward until she’s nestled into me so I can spoon her from behind.
“Nice night?” I say.
“It was great,” she says. “We finished off by having drinks in the casino after the late show. But before that, we went to karaoke. They all got up with me and we did ‘Fernando.’ In Spanish.”
“Wow, I’m sorry to’ve missed that.”
This is both true and not.
I love seeing my wife have a good time, but listening to a bunch of German accents sing one of an awful Swedish band’s worst songs in Spanish?
“Oh, and between karaoke and the late show,” she says, “we went bowling.”
“In that dress?”
Obviously, she’s not wearing it now, but when she left earlier for dinner she was wearing a green version of the red dress she’d worn on the first night out.
“I took my heels off,” she says, as if that would be the problem with bowling in that super-tight mini-dress. She snuggles closer. “You’ll be well enough to do things tomorrow, won’t you?”
“I’m sure of it.”
On the Beach
The next morning, when I open my eyes, I see that my wife is up bright and early again, already in her bikini. This one’s cut just like the skimpy Cerulean Sky one, but if it was paint I’d be forced to conclude that the color is Canary Yellow. I’ve never actually been a fan of Canary Yellow—I’ve seen too many kitchens ruined with that clichéd color—but anything looks good on Helen.
“Are you going to finally get out of the room today?” Helen says. “This is our last stop before heading home.”
When she says it, it hits me that it’s true. We were at sea t
he first two days and then I missed the next two days when we were in the Bahamas and then Tortola because I was too sick. If I don’t get off today, I will have spent my entire honeymoon on the boat.
“Of course,” I say. “I’m feeling terrific.”
But the truth is, I am not feeling terrific.
As we hit the beach, a private island owned by the cruise line, I am not feeling terrific at all. It’s paradise here—the sand is practically pink, the blue-green ocean clear with the vista only broken by the cruise ship anchored in the distance, the temperature a perfect eighty-five degrees with no humidity—but the kind of sick I’ve been is worse than anything since I was a kid and I’m still feeling weak.
So Helen and I find two lounge chairs under an umbrella down by the water and after I put suntan lotion on her—wow, whoever did this for her yesterday did a great job, I think, as I notice there aren’t even any tan lines as I shift the strings of her bikini to make sure I’ve got her covered—we settle in to read.
She’s got some work she brought along while I’m reading a literary novel by one of those Jonathans from Brooklyn. It’s actually not half bad. It’s about this family and then some stuff happens.
About an hour into the sunbathing, Helen puts aside her work.
“I think I’m going to go see if anyone’s up for volleyball,” she says. “Want to come?”
“Nah, I’m good here,” I say. Really, I’m not up for volleyball. Normally I’d love to play—I love any competitive sport, including tackle bowling—but in my weakened condition, with what little food I’ve consumed in the past few days, I’d probably go up for a spike and just pass out.
“You going to be OK here with your book?”
“Absolutely. It’s just getting to the good part. The patriarch, The Uckoy—he’s known as The Used Car King of Yonkers, right, like in the title of the book? He let his descendants take charge of his fleet of dealerships but it turns out he hates retirement and now he wants it all back. Everyone’s so mad, I’m thinking a lot of people will die before this is all over with.”
Turns out I was right about that. An hour later and both the oldest daughter’s husband and the trusted accountant of The Uckoy have bit the dust in a spectacular fashion. For a literary work, there’s a lot of graphic death going around, but I suppose so long as the author keeps throwing around words like ineluctable, termagant and enisled, no one will label it a mystery.
Truth to tell, I’m feeling pretty enisled on my lounge chair, but that state will not hold for long because apparently I have a visitor.
“Would you care for a drink?” The voice is very young but given the question, I’m expecting the questioner to be an island waitress, so I’m half surprised when I look up.
Standing before me is either a little girl or a midget. She’s only about three feet tall but it’s hard to tell how old she is because she’s all covered up, wearing a pink terrycloth robe that comes down to her ankles, a matching towel wrapped turban style around her head and big sunglasses that cover most of her face. They’re so big, they slide down her nose and she pushes them back into position with an annoyed forefinger. On her feet, she has bunny slippers, so I’m going to go with the theory that this is a little girl and not a midget.
Geez, she looks a little young to be hustling drink orders.
“My mother says that when you’re out in the sun,” she continues before I have a chance to answer, “you should drink something every hour. I’ve been watching you for an hour. You haven’t had anything to drink.”
Her sunglasses slide again. Clearly, this is a source of ongoing annoyance because this time, after she shoves them back into position she just holds her forefinger there. Insurance.
“You know, you’re right,” I say, feeling a little lightheaded as I rise to a more sitting position. “Maybe I should—”
“I’m Willow,” she says, cutting me off. Now she thrusts out the hand that’s not attached to the finger that’s holding the sunglasses in place. “Just give me your keycard and I’ll get us some drinks.”
“I don’t know if I should—”
“Do I really look like a thief to you? What do you think, I’m going to find some kind of wizard who will take your card and then magically find a counterfeiter who will make a copy of your keycard for me out of the generosity of his heart so that late at night I can sneak into you and your wife’s cabin while you’re sleeping and take all your stuff? Puh-lease.”
I seize on the only thing I can make sense of in that nonsensical mess.
“How do you know I have a wife?” I say.
“You’re wearing a wedding ring, duh. I suppose that could mean you’re gay—I am from Connecticut—but I saw you with that woman before. Tallish—or at least taller than me. Red hair. Lousy taste in bikinis.”
I agree that that is an accurate assessment of my wife. While I resent having to admit to the last part, particularly since Helen’s taste in bikinis is only bad in terms of the Canary Yellow one, saying yes is easier than trying to explain why the answer is both yes and no.
When you’ve been sick for a few days, you need to forsake qualifying things.
“I knew it,” Willow said. “I saw her with you before and I see her with them now.”
“Them? Who’s them?”
“Them.” Willow gives a chin jut, causing me to look over my shoulder. “The volleyballers.”
And there’s my wife, in her Canary Yellow bikini, spiking the volleyball and then leaping around in triumph. The people she’s playing volleyball with are all tall, all blond, all men.
And they’re all wearing Speedos.
What the…?
“Keycard,” comes Willow’s impatient voice. “If I’m going to get us those drinks, I’ll need that keycard.”
Helen’s still celebrating her spike, jumping around in circles as her teammates high-five her and clap her on the back. Did one of those guys just pat her on the butt? I’m sure that didn’t happen. She’s jumping and circling and as she circles in my direction, she catches me looking.
“Johnny!” she calls, waving her arms. “Come on over here!”
I rise from my lounge chair and do as I’m directed.
“I want you to meet my new friends,” she says. “This is Dirk, Felix, Jurgen, Klaus, Maximilian, Sven, Swen, Uwe and Wolfgang.”
I feel numb as I shake hands, the handshakes I get in return all hearty, and I am unable to tell a Sven from a Swen. Really, in those Speedos, they all look alike. They’re all sporting their junk proudly in those tight suits and I vow to look anywhere but down. If I do, I know I’ll only feel insecure.
It occurs to me that when Helen told me she made new friends, she never said anything about them all being guys.
“And this is Johnny,” Helen says to them.
What, not even This is Johnny, my husband?
I try not to look as offended as I feel.
“Do you want to join us?” Helen says. “The teams’d be uneven but the other side isn’t as good as mine. They could use the help.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling unaccountably further miffed, “but I also made a new friend.”
“Oh?” Helen raises her eyebrows, questioningly. And now it’s her turn to look a little miffed.
“Yes. Her name is Willow. She went to get us drinks.”
“Hey!” a small voice behind me yells. “Where do you want me to put your keycard?” I turn, and there’s Willow, holding a drink and my keycard in one hand, a second drink in the other hand which is also holding up her sunglasses, different than the ones she had before; these are harlequins.
“So yeah,” I say to Helen. “I guess I’ll go have that drink now.”
“What’s with the new sunglasses?” I ask Willow.
“I thought they’d work better than the others, but they don’t,” she says. “I charged them to your card along with the drinks. I hope you don’t mind. If you’d like, we can set up a plan for me to pay you back. What kind of APR do you acce
pt?”
“What kind of…How old are you anyway?”
“I’m eight, if it matters. Do you think it matters?”
“I guess it doesn’t really. And, um, don’t worry about paying me back for the sunglasses.”
“I wasn’t,” Willow assures me. “What’s your name?”
“Johnny.”
“Johnny what?”
“Johnny Smith.”
“OK, Mr. Smith.”
“I’m not Mr. Smith. No one calls me that. Mr. Smith is my dad. Come to think of it, no one calls him that either. We’re not really a Mister kind of family.”
“My mother says you should always use Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. when speaking to your elders, unless of course they’re family members. My mother says it’s a damn shame that kids these days are brought up with no manners.”
“And that’s how she puts it? A ‘damn’ shame?”
“Not exactly. I edited that part in.”
“So what are we drinking?” I ask, tilting my plastic cup toward her in a toast.
“Virgin Pina Coladas. You don’t think they’d give me anything with hooch in it, do you?”
We sit in silence for a bit, watching my wife cavort with the German volleyballers.
“If she was my wife, Mr. Smith,” Willow says, sipping on her virgin Pina Colada, “I wouldn’t let her do that.”
“Marriage isn’t about letting or not letting your partner do stuff,” I say, like I’m some kind of expert. Really, this is only my sixth day as a married person, and already I’m feeling confused by it all.
“I’m just saying,” Willow says. More sipping. “What do you think the odds are that they’re all gay?”
At her voicing my secret hope, I choke on my own drink. Then I do the math.
It is estimated that one-tenth of the world’s population is gay. If that’s true, and I see no reason to doubt scientific fact, then if there are nine guys in Speedos playing beach volleyball with my wife, chances are, rather than all of them being gay, chances are that they’re all straight and their one gay friend stayed back home in Germany.
Isn't It Bro-Mantic? Page 6
