Back in July 2006, this space recommended Fender Tucker's The Totah Trilogy; now Tucker has added three more stories about Farmington, New Mexico, to make it a Totah Six-Pack (Ramble House, $16). All are enjoyable, but the historical Western “The Best Revenge” is a particularly fine piece of writing, and the account of how it came to be is quite interesting as well.
Also recommended from a sampling: Lawrence Block's One Night Stands and Lost Weekends (Harper, $14.95), early stories previously available only in two Crippen & Landru limited editions; Harvey J. O'Higgins's 1929 volume Detective Duff Unravels It (Ramble House, $18); Stephen King's latest collection Just After Sunset (Scribner, $28); and Ian Fleming's complete James Bond short stories in Quantum of Solace (Penguin, $15).
Copyright © 2009 by Jon L. Breen
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Fiction: MY HUSBAND'S WIFE by Charles Ardai
Charles Ardai is an Edgar and ShamusAward winning author and the founderand editor of the acclaimed Hard Case Crime series of pulp-style paperback novels. His own work has appeared in dozens of publications, including Best Mystery Stories of the Year. His first appearance in EQMM was in 1988, at the age of 18. Later this year he will launch a new series of novels in the pulp adventure genre (as both some-time writer and editor). Look for The Adventures of Gabriel Hunt.
They took me in for walking naked on the beach, a crime in that country, as it turns out. It was twilight, and if they had not looked closely they would not have noticed.
I told them that I was an American, and they stood around me looking puzzled. They wore hotel security uniforms that made them look like bellhops. The uniforms were beige and included long pants with red piping, black lace-up shoes, and leather caps. They stood around me on the beach in their long pants and lace-up shoes, looking at me and each other. One of them took off his cap.
"Listen,” he said, pointing at me with his cap, “you can't walk around like this. This is a decent beach. Where is your suit?"
"I didn't bring one,” I said.
"Your robe, then.” He gestured with his hands. It was impossible for me to tell what his gesture was meant to suggest. “You wore a bathrobe?"
"No,” I said.
He looked around at the plastic-and-aluminum beach chairs scattered on the sand. None of them had a robe draped over it, or a swimsuit, or even a towel.
"How did you get down to the beach from your room? You didn't walk through the lobby like that."
One of the other two snickered.
"I'm not staying at this hotel,” I said.
He paused to parse the sentence. “Then you can't be here at all,” he said. “This beach is for guests of the hotel only."
I shrugged.
One of the other men put his hand on my arm. “Come with us, miss."
They walked me to the end of the beach, past the bar, which was closed now, and the changing cabanas, which were empty. One of them picked up a towel from a bin outside the cabanas and handed it to me. It was damp and smelled like suntan lotion. I wrapped it around myself.
"Now we're going to take you through the hotel to the parking lot,” one of them said. “Some people may look at you, just ignore them.” No one looked at me. There was only one old man in the lobby, and he was reading a newspaper.
In the parking lot, they put me in the backseat of a taxi and one of them rode with me into town. I was still wearing the towel when my husband picked me up at the police station two hours later.
He had to pay $200 U.S. as a fine and promise not to let me out of his sight for the rest of our trip. He didn't say anything to me all the way back to our hotel. We rode the elevator up to our room in silence. He didn't say anything until he'd shut the door and I'd started to unbutton my blouse. It was a blue blouse and it didn't go with the skirt. When they'd called, he'd grabbed the first two pieces of clothing he'd found in the closet.
"Are you insane?” he said.
"I went for a swim,” I said. “There was no one on the beach. It was dark."
"You were naked!"
"It was dark."
He threw up his hands. It was a self-conscious gesture, as if he had read somewhere that people throw their hands up when they are frustrated, and he'd wanted to try it. His hands stayed there, up in the air, as if he hadn't heard that people also put them down again. I finished unbuttoning my blouse and took it off. Underneath was the beginning of a sunburn.
"You're crazy,” he said. “What else can I say? You could have gone to jail. Do you understand? You were naked on a public beach—"
"It's a private beach."
"What?"
"It's a private beach. For guests of the hotel."
"That's even worse. You were naked on a private beach you weren't even supposed to be on.” He finally put his hands down. “Do you know what the jails are like in this country?"
"No,” I said.
"I'm taking a bath,” he said.
* * * *
While he was taking his bath, I went out on the balcony. The man staying in the room next-door was on his balcony, too, leaning on the railing. I said hello.
He looked at me. “Aren't you cold?” he said. There was a breeze, but it was still seventy or eighty degrees.
"No,” I said.
He came over to the side of his balcony that was nearest to ours. He extended his hand over the gap. “My name is David,” he said. We both had to lean forward to shake hands.
"That's my husband's name,” I said. “David."
He pulled his hand back.
"He's taking a bath,” I said.
"Maybe you'd better get back inside,” he said.
"He'll be in the bath for a while."
"Still,” he said, backing away.
"My name is Carolyn,” I said. He stepped inside and slid the glass door shut.
v v v
In the morning, David went to breakfast without me, before I'd woken up. He'd written a note for me. I found it propped up on the ledge above the bathroom sink. It said: “Please, for once, stay out of trouble.” He didn't sign it.
I sat on the balcony until noon, watching people cross the lawn two stories below. Some of them looked up, but no one said anything, though I had to assume that sitting naked on a balcony was as bad as walking naked on a beach.
At noon, I put on my swimsuit and headed down to the pool. There were three little boys in the water, splashing each other and laughing loudly. I swam my laps on the other side of the pool. They didn't notice me.
At one, I went into the dining room and had a buffet lunch. They seated me at a table with four other people. One of them was David, our next-door neighbor. I said hello and he nodded at the empty chair next to me.
"Still in his bath?"
"My husband is at a conference,” I said.
"I saw they were having a conference,” David said. “There's a sign in the lobby."
"He's a molecular modeler working on rational drug design. It's a rational-drug-design conference."
"The conference runs all day?"
"Yes."
"Poor bastards,” he said. “Indoors on a day like this."
"My name is Carolyn,” I said. “Carolyn Hauser."
"My wife's name is Carolyn,” he said. “Just kidding."
I didn't say anything.
"I'm not married,” he said.
"There's a nice beach about five minutes from here,” I said. “Want to swim over to it?"
* * * *
We lay in their lounge chairs, under one of their yellow-striped umbrellas. I was wearing my black one-piece with the purple straps. He wore a pair of trunks with pictures of starfish on them. I counted seventeen starfish.
I fell asleep and so did he. We woke up to see a bellhop standing over us. I knew him from the night before. He was the one who had handed me the towel.
"Miss,” he said. “You cannot use this beach."
"I'm dressed,” I said.
"I have to ask you to come to the manager's
office."
David propped himself up on his elbows. “She's with me."
They exchanged a stare. “You are staying at this hotel, sir?"
"Yes."
"In which room, sir?"
"Nine twenty-one,” he said.
"May I see your key, sir?"
"Excuse me? Do you subject all your guests to an interrogation when they use the beach?"
"No, sir. But—"
"But nothing. Look me up in your computer. Gary Glassman. Room Nine twenty-one."
"Yes, sir."
"Asking me for my key."
"I'm sorry, sir, but this woman—"
"This woman is doing nothing wrong, and I will thank you to leave her alone."
The beach guard looked at me and at David again. “Yes, sir."
We swam back as soon as he left.
David's room was a mirror image of ours. The bathroom was on the other side, and so were the balcony door, the dresser, and the bed.
He had a tube of aloe vera gel and we took turns putting it on each other. We walked around the room stiff-limbed, waiting for it to dry.
"Nine twenty-one! Did you see his face?” he said. “'Yes, sir.’ That was good."
"Who is Gary Glassman?” I said.
"Boy I knew in high school. He died in Vietnam."
"Why did you pick him?"
"No reason,” he said. “First name I thought of."
I looked at my watch, put it down again.
"Do you have to leave?"
"No,” I said.
He stepped into my path, put his hands on either side of my face, kissed me. His lips were hot, or maybe mine were.
"Hold on,” he said. He went to pull the curtain. I lay down on the bed.
"Your husband,” he said, “his conference goes all day?"
"All day,” I said.
* * * *
He was in the bathroom when I woke up. Through the curtain I could see that it was dark outside. I opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony.
There was no one on our balcony. I watched for a while. David didn't come out. Neither David did. I went back inside.
He had a wet towel in his hands, crumpled up in a ball. He dropped it when he saw me come in. He rushed to the balcony door, closed and locked it. “Are you crazy? He might see you."
I faced him quietly for a few seconds, then I took my blouse from the back of his guest chair and started putting it on.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm not crazy,” I said.
"I didn't mean it like that,” he said.
I buttoned my blouse, even the top button.
"I didn't mean crazy, I was just scared. Come on, your husband's next-door. Carolyn—don't go."
* * * *
David was waiting for me in our room. He looked up from a stack of papers when I came in.
"Did you get my note?"
"Yes,” I said.
"So, what did you do today?"
I thought about what to say.
I slept with another man named David. I went back to that beach and almost got arrested. I said all this to myself.
"I stayed out of trouble,” I said.
"Good. Good for you. Let's see if you can do it again tomorrow.” He went back to his papers, underlining every third sentence.
"There's a man next-door,” I said. “He reminds me of you in some ways."
"Mm."
"His name is David, to start with."
"Carolyn,” David said without looking up, “that's very interesting, I'm sure. But I can't talk about it now, I've got to finish this."
"He's got a pair of swimming trunks with starfish on them."
He raised his head again. He was wincing, like a man with the worst headache in the world. “Can we talk about this another time? Now is really not good."
"Sure,” I said.
* * * *
"I want to apologize,” David said. He was wearing his starfish trunks again and carrying a beach towel. He'd knocked on our door after he was sure the conference had started for the day, and I'd let him in. “Are you mad at me?"
"A little,” I said. But the feeling passed.
We went to the beach and lay in the sun and after a few hours I told him what I wanted him to do with me. He covered his eyes with his forearm, lay in his chair with his eyes covered, and thought about it. Or pretended to think about it; that's what the gesture meant, anyway. Finally he said yes.
"But not while there are people around, coming back from the beach, going in for lunch."
"Now,” I said.
"Come on,” he said. “On the balcony? People will see us."
"So?"
"Your husband—"
"Now he's in his conference,” I said. “Later he'll be back in the room."
"Fine,” David said. He was smiling like a sixteen-year-old boy. He had thinning hair and a chest that had begun to lose its muscles, but for all that he smiled like a boy.
I led him back to his room, took him out on the balcony, took the starfish trunks off him. He looked around nervously, but there was no one around, not just then. When he tried to take his trunks back, I threw them over to our balcony.
"What did you do that for?” he said.
"Souvenir,” I said.
* * * *
We lay in each other's arms afterwards, but in his bed, not on the balcony. The hair on his body was coarse, it irritated my sunburn, but I pressed against him nevertheless. “David,” I said, “could you love me?"
He curled my hair around one of his fingers, first one way then the other. “You're a married woman."
"If I weren't?"
"Sure,” he said.
"Thank you."
"Sure."
* * * *
David had the question ready when I came in: “What are these?"
He waved an open palm at the trunks, still wet, on the top of the dresser.
"Starfish,” I said. “There are seventeen of them."
"Whose are they?"
"You have to count the ones in back. Otherwise there are only eleven."
"Cut it out with the starfish. Tell me whose they are."
"I told you last night,” I said. “The man next-door."
"The man—"
"His name is David."
"Tell me you didn't bring him here."
"I didn't."
"You're a liar."
"I didn't bring him here,” I said.
"So how did that get here?"
"I threw them over from his balcony."
David picked up the trunks and dropped them in the garbage can next to the dresser. They landed heavily, a sodden heap in the bottom of the can. “You don't stop, do you? You ought to be locked up. For your own good, I mean. One of these days you'll hurt yourself."
* * * *
The next day, David brought me with him to the conference. I sat through two presentations. I didn't understand one word they uttered. Not one word, not even “and” and “the.” It was just sound.
I snuck out of the room during the second question-and-answer session. David was in the middle of asking a question. People were looking at him with respect and curiosity. No one was looking at me, so I could leave.
The other David was waiting on the beach. He brought me a plastic tumbler of club soda and gave me his seat. He asked me where I had been.
He was wearing a different pair of swimming trunks. This one had seahorses on it. There were twenty-nine seahorses.
We went back to his room after an hour or so on the beach, stayed there for the rest of the day. The evening came. I didn't go back to my room. At nine we ordered room service.
I kept waiting for the knock at the door that would be my David coming to take me back, but it never came. In the morning, a note was slipped under the door. I found it on the way to the bathroom. It said: “Just don't embarrass me."
* * * *
We ate lunch at the grill by the pool. Through a window behind David, I could
see the conference going on. At first I didn't see my husband, but then he stood up to say something. I watched his arms wave as he spoke. He didn't see me.
We ate pan-seared tuna with rice. David drank a frozen margarita. I had water.
He speared a piece of fish, washed it down. “Carolyn,” he said, and then stopped.
"You're leaving,” I said.
"Yeah,” he said, “tomorrow. My week's up. Time to go home."
"I could come with you,” I said.
His face froze, then thawed into a cautious smile. “You're being silly."
"I suppose so."
"I'll miss you."
"I'll give you my address. You can write."
"Your husband might object."
My husband was jotting notes on a legal pad. The man next to him was George Brazel, his supervisor. We'd been introduced. We'd had the Brazels over to dinner. George Brazel was looking at me.
"Kiss me, David,” I said.
"What, now?” He leaned forward. “Someone might see."
George Brazel tapped David on the arm, pointed in our direction.
"No one will see,” I said, and leaned forward for the kiss.
* * * *
I was sitting up in bed when he came in. He slammed the door shut. “In front of George! In front of everyone! It's not enough for you to carry on in private, you have to humiliate me in front of the people I work with? My God, what's wrong with you?"
I shrugged.
"I want you gone. Tomorrow morning, I want you on the first plane home, and when I get home, we're going to talk to a lawyer about a divorce. Do you understand me?"
I got out of bed, walked to the balcony door. It was open, and the breeze was blowing the curtains into the room. It felt pleasant on the bare skin of my arms.
He came over. “Are you listening to me?"
"You want me to leave. I'm listening."
"Why do you do this, Carolyn? Why?"
I stepped outside, picked up a pack of cigarettes from the glass-topped patio table, took the heavy stone ashtray with me, balanced it on the railing.
"I asked you a question,” he said. His voice seemed distant. Further away than the night sky, and that was plenty far.
"I asked you a question, Carolyn,” he said again, but I wasn't listening, I was counting stars. It wasn't easy, because some seemed to be winking on and off, and it was easy to lose count.
EQMM, July 2009 Page 4
