Last Resort

by Alison Lurie

  Several feet in the rear, Barbie Mumpson trailed behind her relatives, dragging her feet and looking sullen and sweaty in the damp heat. Wet, sticky patches had formed under the arms of her yellow-and-white-checked shirtwaist dress, and her hot, swollen feet hurt in their white pumps. She’d slept badly the night before, worn out by the effort of packing and by the knowledge that in a few days she would be in Washington with Bob, unless she could get up the nerve to go down to the beach and drown herself first.

  Barbie’s mother claimed that everything was going to be fine back in Washington. “You won’t have any more problems with Bob,” she’d promised. “I gave him a good talking-to. Put the fear of God into him.” The trouble was, Barbie didn’t want Bob to be nice to her because he was afraid of God, or of her mother. That wasn’t like love, she’d cried; it wasn’t even like marriage, not the way she had imagined it when Bob proposed to her.

  Mom had said Barbie’s romantic ideas were irrelevant. For better, for worse, her place was with her husband; it was in the Bible. It was her job to be her husband’s helpmate, especially in politics, where the wife was an important part of the public image. But probably she wouldn’t be of any help to Bob’s image anyhow, Barbie thought. She’d mess up again somehow, and make things worse for him, and everybody would be angry at her just like they always were.

  “Hey, Barbie. If you’ve seen enough, why don’t you go with Mumsie and get something to drink?” Jacko asked. “I’ve got to negotiate for some plants. There’s soda and stuff over there, under that big banyan.”

  “Okay,” she agreed listlessly; she had seen enough long ago. Like some lovers of animals (not including Wilkie Walker), Barbie had no particular love of plants. For her they were merely habitat and fodder; it was important that they be preserved to ensure the survival of mammals and birds, but they were without intrinsic interest. Many of the orchids on display looked kind of creepy to her, with their twisted and tasseled shapes, their quivering antennae, their thick, fleshy petals, their peculiar colors: neon purple, chartreuse, beefsteak.

  “Oh, this is all so glorious, isn’t it?” Aunt Dorrie murmured a few minutes later, sinking onto a bench with a paper cup of iced tea. The sun filtered through her green hat, giving her pretty, worn features a plantlike hue.

  “Uh-huh,” Barbie managed. She took a gulp of Coke.

  “Glorious,” Dorrie repeated. She gazed slowly round at the exotic foliage and the equally exotic clothes of several other visitors. “You know, dear, I’ve been so unhappy about Perry. But now I know he’s going to be all right, whatever happens. I’ve been praying about it so hard, and finally last night I just put everything in the hands of Jesus and I told him, now it’s up to you. And when I saw that beautiful big golden orchid back there, it was like a promise. It could even be that the doctors are going to find a cure in time for Perry.”

  “Um-hm,” Barbie muttered. She had prayed a lot too, off and on, ever since she was a little kid, and a couple of times she had tried to put her life into the hands of Jesus, but it had never worked out. The nearest she came was once when she was fifteen, in the new Baptist church her friend Nancy went to. The organ was playing and the sun was shining through the pink and green windows. Everybody was praying and swaying, and the minister was calling them to come forward and give their lives to the Lord.

  Barbie tried, but she couldn’t move into the aisle. She couldn’t get past the idea that the Lord didn’t want her life. “His eye is on the sparrow,” they were singing, “and I know He watches me.” But the way it always seemed to Barbie, it was like the Lord’s eye might be on her, but he didn’t care all that much for what he saw. He wouldn’t give a hoot if she drowned tomorrow morning, because she wasn’t any use in the world anyhow.

  “I’ve got the plants, Mumsie,” Jacko said, coming up to them. “I’m going to load up the truck now.”

  “I’ll help, darling.”

  “No, you sit right here. Or look around some more, if you like. Barbie’ll help me.”

  Outside in the sun it was hotter than ever. Because of the crowd, Jacko had had to park far down the beach road. By the time he and Barbie, heavily loaded with plants and pots and bags of orchid food, reached his truck, they were sweating and irritable.

  “Hey, not that way!” he cried as she began to lift a heavy plastic tray of cuttings; but he spoke too late. Startled, Barbie let the plants slide sideways, and some fell onto the pavement and broke.

  “Jesus, what a moron.”

  “I’m sorry,” she gulped.

  “Yeah.” Jacko repacked the tray, lowered the tailgate, and slid it in. Then, breathing hard, he leaned against the truck.

  “Gee, Perry, you look awful,” Barbie told him tactlessly. “You know what Mom says, she says the kind of work you do isn’t good for a sick person, outside all the time in the hot sun, in this damp climate, that’s what she says.”

  “Oh, does she,” Jacko half-gasped.

  “Um-hm. She thinks you ought to sell your property and move back to Tulsa.”

  “Yeah, that’s what she told me. So what do you think?”

  “I d’know,” she replied, confused. “Mom says—”

  “Oh, fuck it,” Jacko interrupted. “You know what you are, Cousin Boobie, you’re nothing but a mouthpiece.”

  “What?” Barbie said stupidly. She knew what a mouthpiece was, there was one on the trumpet she played in her high school band, when they marched onto the field at football games. She had a pretty red costume with gold braid and fringed epaulets, and most of the time she didn’t even make any mistakes. For years afterward she kept her trumpet in its case lined with green plush on the top shelf in her closet, and sometimes when there was nobody else in the house she would take it down and blow a tune. “What d’you mean?”

  “I mean Aunt Myra writes all your lines,” Jacko said. “God. You don’t know anything.”

  “Well, you don’t know so much yourself,” Barbie told him, choking back angry tears. His scornful expression, familiar since childhood, urged her on. “Like for instance you think Mom wants you to come to Tulsa so you can get well. She doesn’t care anything about that, she just wants to get ahold of your property, so she can give it to the Republican party.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Jacko said, ignoring Barbie’s tears, which he had seen so often. “I’m not going to give Alvin’s house to Aunt Myra.”

  “No,” Barbie insisted, still sobbing. “But she figures that you’ll die and leave everything to Aunt Dorrie, and Mom can get anything out of her. She always has.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jacko said, but his expression was uneasy.

  “I do too,” Barbie gulped. “Like why do you think Aunt Dorrie traded in her house for that little nothing condo out by the mall? That was Mom’s idea, when she needed money for Bob’s campaign.”

  “Hold on.” Jacko mopped his face with a green bandanna. “You’re saying Myra made Mumsie sell our house?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How come she didn’t sell her own house?”

  “Aw, she couldn’t do that. She needs it for fund-raisers and receptions. Aunt Dorrie’s place was no good for parties, it was too far out in the country.”

  For nearly a minute, Jacko said nothing. “Great,” he finally managed. “Just great. Well, thanks for telling me.” He slammed the tailgate shut, then frowned. “Hey, what happened to that other cattleya I just bought?”

  “Huh?”

  “That big white orchid with the orange center. The one I gave you to carry.”

  “I d’know.” Barbie looked listlessly along the line of parked cars. “I guess I didn’t bring it.”

  “Aw, shit,” Jacko said. “You really are totally useless. Okay, you wait right here.” Half running, half walking, he set off down the street.

  For a moment Barbie followed his instructions; then, beginning to weep again, she stumbled slowly away along the beach road in the other direction, for no reason except the need
to escape from Jacko’s accusations and her continuing misery, and a vague idea of drowning herself and all her troubles in the sea.

  The sun shone, the warm wind blew, the water shimmered deep violet and a clear, pale, liquid green, but Barbie saw none of this. She halted only when an obstacle appeared in her path, in the form of a folding table piled with books and pamphlets, and a hand-painted placard in large green letters:

  SAVE THE MANATEE

  Snuffing back tears, she stood and stared at this apparition, and then at the young man who sat behind the folding table on a folding chair, in the shade of a coconut palm. He had crimped yellow hair, a large sunburned nose, and dark sunglasses.

  “Hey,” she said finally, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. “S’pose I wanted to save manatees, what would I do?”

  “You’d sign this petition,” he said, pushing forward a clipboard.

  Slowly, Barbie took the pen he offered. “That’s all?”

  “Well, no. If you want, you could really help us.” He removed his sunglasses to see her better, exposing watery blue eyes ringed with a rim of paler, untanned skin that gave him the look of a surfer or a raccoon.

  “Like how?” she asked, inscribing her name and (after some thought) Jacko’s address on the petition.

  “Well, you could give us a few dollars,” he suggested, evidently appraising Barbie as someone without extensive financial resources. “Or, you could address envelopes, hand out flyers at Mallory Dock, put up posters. Maybe sit at a table somewhere with this petition, like I’m doing now.”

  “Yeah?” she said thoughtfully.

  “If you’re really interested, you could come to the meeting next week with me.”

  “Yeah. I could do that,” Barbie said slowly. “Sure. I’d like to save the manatee.”

  10

  LATER THAT DAY, AS the sun grew even warmer, Jenny lay on the chaise longue beside the pool, protected by wire netting from the bugs that, since Mosquito Control, no longer existed. This afternoon the place looked neglected: Jacko was at work on other people’s gardens and hadn’t had time to sweep up the tropical debris that had fallen during the week of rain.

  Jenny was tired of the pool and of the house that went with it. What she really wanted was to see Lee Weiss, even though she’d seen her on Friday and would see her again tomorrow. But she felt something almost like terror at the possibility that if she walked into Artemis Lodge unexpectedly Lee would look not only surprised, but a little bored.

  Instead, she had thought, why shouldn’t she go to the beach with Wilkie? After all, he was her husband, and couples who were married usually went to the beach together. She’d approached him to propose it as he descended from the study at the usual time.

  “I thought I might come swimming with you,” she’d said, touching his arm, smiling nervously.

  Wilkie stopped cold. He stared strangely, fiercely at his wife, as if he were about to strike her. Then he said in the tight, controlled voice of a professor pointing out some obvious flaw in a student’s argument, “But you’re not ready.”

  “I’ll get my suit on now; it won’t take a minute,” she’d promised.

  “Sorry,” her husband muttered. “I can’t wait. Maybe another time.” Then he pushed past her, across the sitting room, and out the door.

  Jenny, stunned and faint, stood by the stairs, holding on to the ugly chrome banister so she wouldn’t fall. Wilkie had been abrupt with her often lately—but never so harsh, so rude. Maybe he doesn’t love me anymore, she thought. Maybe he hasn’t loved me for a long time.

  And maybe I don’t love him either, she thought suddenly. Because how could anyone love a person who was so cold and unkind?

  As she lay in the warm, dappled shade, a shudder went through her. Because if Wilkie didn’t love her, and she didn’t love him, everything was changed and wrong.

  Perhaps he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, she told herself. Perhaps she was just touchy because she was physically frustrated. After all, it had been nearly two weeks since Wilkie had wanted to make love, and even longer before that.

  Jenny wasn’t used to being troubled by desire: for most of their marriage, Wilkie had always been the more passionate one, the one whose need was greater and more frequent. Then, about fifteen years ago, his demands had begun to slow down gradually, until at last they were perfectly matched at once a week. Those had been wonderful years, years of harmony during which Jenny never had the unkind thought (not that she’d ever expressed it, of course) Oh no, please, darling, not so soon.

  But then, last autumn—It was because Wilkie was getting older, he claimed. One sad wet night he had mumbled those words, asking Jenny if she minded waiting a few days more. He had even asked if she’d like him to, as he put it, “stimulate her.” “Would that be nice for you?” he had said.

  “Oh no, thank you,” she had replied with an embarrassed half-laugh, glad that Wilkie couldn’t see her recoil and blush in the dark. No, that wouldn’t be nice for me at all, she had thought. If he didn’t want it too, it would be mechanical and horrible.

  “Just asking,” Wilkie had said, and he had laughed also, more freely. “I guess you’re getting older too.”

  But she wasn’t getting older, not the way he meant any-how, Jenny thought. Especially not—here in Key West where, as in most resorts, everything seemed designed to recommend and encourage sensual pleasure. In such a place, either you went along with it or, like Wilkie, you became more and more cross and tight and withdrawn.

  Except for a few days last week, he’s been even colder to me here in Key West, which was supposed to warm us up, Jenny thought. I wish we’d never come—

  But she couldn’t wish that, because if they hadn’t come to Key West, she’d never have met Lee Weiss. And at the thought of Lee, she smiled in spite of her confused unhappiness.

  When she couldn’t see Lee it was nice just to think about her: Lee’s deep laugh, Lee’s smooth brown arms, Lee standing square on strong brown legs and feet below bleached cutoff jeans. Lee making salad in her big mahogany bowl: she never used a fork or spoon to mix greens, but tossed the lettuce and cucumber and tomato into a froth of green and white and red with her broad, tanned hands. Watching her, Jenny’d wanted to put her own hands into the salad with Lee’s.

  It was no use pretending, she said to herself, frowning now. It wasn’t just Lee’s intelligence and goodness and warmth she loved, it was the way she looked. She felt a sensual attraction to another person of her own sex.

  And this wasn’t anything new, not really. The only difference was that it was much stronger than ever before. Jenny had always thought that in general women were more beautiful than men. Most men, even good-looking ones like Wilkie, had scruffy hair in the wrong places—sometimes all over their backs, even—and coarse skin and rough hands and big, knobby feet, and unaesthetic red dangling parts that ought to have been designed to be more private. Women were more graceful, more elegant, more delicately made.

  She had always enjoyed looking at women’s bodies, Jenny remembered. For instance, one of the best things about swimming at the college pool was watching people in the showers and dressing rooms: women of all shapes and colors, and all ages from toddler to grandmother. All so different, and most quite beautiful, really, even when they had tan lines or freckles or long strings of dark wet uncombed hair, big hanging breasts or almost none. They bent to pull on bathing suits, or twisted round to soap narrow knobby backs, or broad fleshy ones, or raised long-muscled legs to limber up before their laps.

  Jenny had liked watching them for years without really thinking about it, or mentioning it to anyone. If Wilkie knew, he would be disgusted with her, even more than he probably was already. According to Wilkie, love of one’s own sex was either a freak of nature, or a sign of immaturity, a selfish refusal to face up to adult responsibilities.

  But that didn’t make sense if you thought of Lee, who was more mature and responsible than practically anyone Jenny knew. And there we
re lots of mature responsible people like Lee, or like Jacko, one in ten, she’d read somewhere, and it wasn’t their fault any more than it was anyone’s fault for being tall or short or lame or blind.

  When someone was handicapped in these other ways Wilkie was sympathetic, often generous. He gave money for the conversion of his books into Braille and tape, and he was kind to people with physical problems. A biologist friend of theirs at Williams had cerebral palsy, and at conferences and receptions Wilkie was always there to lift his wheelchair up steps or around obstacles, making a friendly joke of it.

  About sexual abnormality, however, he had always been rather unreasonable. This unreason had been socially inconvenient in the past, and it was even more inconvenient now here in Key West, where several of the most interesting winter residents were homosexual. “I don’t really need to meet him,” Wilkie had said of a famous elderly biographer and critic. “You know I don’t get along well with fruits.”

  Fruits—that was a strange term, without any apparent referent in reality, Jenny thought as she drowsed in the sun—a term nobody else she knew used. According to Lee, Jacko was “gay,” and the word made sense in his case, since he was usually cheerful. But nothing about him especially reminded her of fruit.

  Though if Jacko were a fruit, she thought sleepily, it would probably be a peach, because of the warm tanned bloom of his skin, and the slight down on his arms and legs. Whereas if she, Jenny, were a fruit she’d be an apple: a Mcintosh, or one of those white-fleshed Cortlands that were so good in salad. And Lee would be something more exotic: maybe a papaya, or a South American melon like the ones they sometimes had at the Waterfront Market. They smelled heavenly, and weighed heavy and warm in the hand; and when opened they showed firm, brilliant rose-orange flesh and exuded a rich sweetness. As Lee might if—

  Half-asleep, Jenny smiled. Then she sat up, shocked at herself. No, that was awful, she mustn’t think that way. Rising, she flung aside the thick flamingo-pink towel and plunged into the leaf-littered pool.