by Greg Jolley
“Hey fuck face, your moviemaking days are over!”
She lowered onto her rear and scooted back to the stern rail. She splayed her legs out, forming a V and waited, the flare gun trembling.
The door opened and Leonardo climbed out, dressed in warm and casual clothing, offering a kind and patient smile.
Paula tried to look past him into the white lights for Karen. When he stepped closer, she refocused the gun on Leonardo.
“You want to be careful with the flare gun. Lots of boats go down in flames because of fools and phosphorous.”
“Move to the side. Away from the door.”
“You poor darling—you must be freezing. Let me get you some heat packs.”
Paula shook her head and swept the gun to her left indicating to Leonardo to move.
“You barely got your lovely, silky hair wet. Girl’s got style.”
He turned slowly and reached back to close the galley door.
“Don’t,” she called.
He gave the door a backward kick, ignoring her. “Let her rest. I just started her I.V.”
The galley door extinguished most of the white lights from below.
“Remember me?” he asked.
“Sort of.”
“We danced. At the concert in Morro. Later, you and I went sailing.”
“You sick fuck.”
Leonardo’s pleasant smile faltered for the first time, melting to a frown. “Name calling isn’t necessary.”
Paula noted the damp cloth in his hand.
“So you know,” he told her, following her gaze. “The flare gun isn’t loaded.”
His smile returned. He took another step closer.
“Damned thing could be dangerous. And besides, there’s been no need, this being the first time the boat’s ever been on water.”
The light along the sides of the salon door wavered. Paula told Leonardo, “Step to the side.”
“Well, no.”
He took a step closer. His arms rose from his sides as though offering an embrace. His expression was patient and caring.
Paula pulled the trigger.
Everything went white.
The air filled with his screaming.
Turning away, Paula clenched her eyes tight to squeeze out the roaring light. She heard shuffling sounds under the high pitched screeching.
Then a splash.
Paula opened her eyes, her vision was full of red spots.
A glow was rising from the water over the port rail. Paula stood up on shaking knees.
Leonardo was floating on his back, his arms and legs outstretched, the meat of his chest boiling, bubbling with white phosphorus light. His head was tilted back, as in exaltation, his eyes under water.
As he sank, he carried the white light under the surface. Paula looked away.
Greasy chucks of Leonardo were sparkling with white embers on the smooth shiny deck.
Israel stood before the barbeque waving away smoke and commanding people. Emma was at the dining table setting out plates. She and Israel were arguing and laughing. Zack and Ross wore their usual black, including their sunglasses, but had donned colorful floral shirts for the event. They stood side by side with their backs to the Tiki hut sipping drinks with umbrellas and munching on peanuts.
Wyde was tuning their instruments and chatting. Weather sat at the dining table with the band looking at the swimming pool.
“Come on, big guy. Lunch is ready!” she called.
Brian raised his face from the water, shook his head, and looked across. He paddled his air mattress to the side of the aboveground pool.
Paula was looking the party over with satisfaction. The backyard was accurately furnished and decorated. Her design said 1970s suburban campiness. Japanese lanterns swayed in the warm breeze crossing the rooftop. Brian walked from the pool, and she tossed him a flowery beach towel.
Someone lowered the needle on the portable record player, and the surf guitar music played.
Paula made up a plate from the barbeque, the salads, and desserts on the serving table. She selected a bottle of Fanta from the open cooler, and set the plate and pop before Uncle Tim on the red-checkered tablecloth. He turned, looking grateful, and she rested her chin on his shoulder. Brian stood watching them with a towel around his hips and legs dripping pool water.
Road crew, friends, and family migrated to the dinner table. The evening air warmed with their sarcasm, laughter, and crossing streams of conversation. Israel closed the cover of the barbeque, sending up a white plume of smoke. He joined the others at the table.
The members of Wyde were the first to leave the table, taking last bites, and carrying their cups and pop bottles. The children left next, leaving Paula and Uncle Tim seated side by side watching the backyard party.
The record player was turned off, and Wyde began to play. They picked up on the last surf guitar song and played their own version. Brian climbed up into the pool carrying his air mattress. He lay down with his zip-lock bag and floated away. Ross and Zack got fresh drinks from the Tiki bar, and Weather sliced fruit for dessert on the serving table.
Crew, friends, and children began to dance.
Wyde played a second song, this one sultry and Latin. Paula took Uncle Tim’s hand and stood. He set his pop down and followed.
The two of them eased past the empty kitchen chair set between the drums and the upright piano. Paula led the way in among the other dancers, and she began a languid sway. Uncle Tim saw Zack and Ross beginning to do the Twist. He tilted his head back and laughed. Paula moved close, her open arms enveloped him, and he began to dance, badly. Paula laughed and joined his lurch-like stomp. She guided them in a slow circle.
The music had the audience swaying and bouncing.
A low cloud of boys and girls wandered away to the tall ivy wall and the canvas curtain. One held the draping open, the others stepped through, and they crossed the rooftop lawn to the lone avocado tree. The children danced around the very white lady in a summer dress and bare feet, who knelt on one knee as she played her violin.
THE END
THANK YOU
Nicki Kuzn
Michael Nesmith,
for the beautiful wide music of ‘Rio’
Nickel Creek
Dickey Betts
Greg Allman
John Kaluta,
Author of The Perfect Stage Crew
Sei Shonagon,
Author of The Pillow Book
Greg Jolley earned a Master of Arts in Writing from the University of San Francisco. He is the author of fourteen novels and a collection of short stories about the fictional Danser family. He lives in the very small town of Whitmore Lake, Michigan.
