Before, During, After

by Richard Bausch

  6

  It seemed to Natasha, looking out from her balcony, that the beach was less crowded. The part of the sky not barricaded by clouds had turned darker. It was almost black at its height.

  Down in the lobby, she paused in front of the row of phones. People were still struggling to get through; others still waited to try. “Is anyone getting anyone in New York?” she said to a man who was holding a glass of something bright red with a little paper umbrella in it.

  “Are you kidding?” the man said, drinking.

  She felt the nausea returning and hurried into the ladies’ room, which was crowded and deathly quiet. There was something about a room this small that made for silence. Everyone had a protective shell of self-concern. She couldn’t breathe.

  Back in the bar, Nicholas Duego was still there, with a fresh drink, leaning on the shiny surface with both elbows, head down, one hand making a swirling motion to move the ice and dregs of orange juice and vodka in his glass. The bar smelled of fear and the sweat of exertion, alcohol and tobacco—mixed with several kinds of fried food. She ordered a bourbon on ice from the small man with the gold tooth, and when he brought it she swallowed most of it, feeling it as a cold and then searing place at her middle. She grasped the glass with both hands, eyes fixed on the glossy water-spotted expanse of the bar.

  “Are you all right?” Duego asked. “You have been gone a long time.” His eyes were not quite focusing. He drank and then put his head back down.

  She signaled the bartender, indicating her empty glass. He nodded at her but went on with what he was doing.

  The bar was growing more crowded, the noise level increasing. Alcohol and crisis had loosened some tongues. She couldn’t see clearly through the gathered faces, the crush of people pressing to the bar. She thought of Constance out by the beach somewhere, with Skinner, and the night coming on.

  She kept replaying Constance saying Faulk could not have been in either building when the planes struck, and the old couple on the path, and the woman who knew exactly when the towers opened for tourists. Nine-thirty. Nine-thirty.

  She went out onto the veranda, aware of herself now as being drunk, feeling nothing good in it, no release of tension or anxiety, but only the amplification of her fear, the need to hold on to it—as if to let it go would be to tempt God: it would be when she relaxed into the belief that Faulk was safe that she would discover something awful had happened.

  But in fact something awful had already happened, and the images of it were still being broadcast, in little windows above the talking heads on the TV. She saw the irregular light at the entrance of the lobby, where an elderly man stood with a stricken expression on his face, staring in at the screen. She felt selfish, looking at this. She thought she might speak to him, but when she got to where he had been, he was gone.

  It was like moving through a patchy, shifting dream.

  She wanted another drink and remembered signaling the bartender. Looking into the bar, she saw the disorder there and decided not to go back in.

  On the veranda, seated in one of the wicker chairs looking out toward the lowering red-daubed horizon, another woman sat quite still, with a handkerchief held tight in her fist. The backs of her hands looked bruised. There was nowhere to go—nowhere to escape these others and herself. She wanted sleep but feared being alone. The only empty chair was to this woman’s right. The woman sniffled and opened the hand holding the handkerchief and commenced folding and unfolding the cloth. On the other side of her was Ratzi. He glanced over at Natasha, held up one hand, and moved the fingers in an almost-sheepish little halfhearted wave. Beyond Ratzi, a young man was kneeling in front of a young woman, arms around her middle, making soothing sounds. But the young woman seemed to be laughing.

  Mrs. Ratzibungen walked out and stood speaking to Ratzi in German, not quite whispering, casting quick looks at the woman folding and unfolding the handkerchief. Then she stepped over to Natasha.

  “You vent to Kingston,” she said. “Ja? Mit Ratzi.”

  Natasha nodded, though the other didn’t quite wait for a response, tilting her head slightly in the direction of the woman with the handkerchief. “This is Mr. Skinner’s vife.”

  “Oh.” Natasha started to offer her hand but then decided against it. Nothing in Mrs. Skinner’s manner revealed any kind of tolerance for gestures.

  She only glanced Natasha’s way, sniffled, and then said, “Do you know where my husband is?”

  “He was looking for you,” Natasha told her. “Earlier. I mean this morning. He was with my friend Constance. You haven’t seen him since this morning?”

  The woman’s expression was incredulous. “He has a drinking problem.”

  Natasha kept still. Mrs. Ratzibungen shook her head and looked out toward the beach.

  “And a heart problem,” Mrs. Skinner continued. “And liver trouble.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And psoriasis.”

  Natasha was silent.

  “And asthma.”

  “Oh.”

  “And kidney and prostate trouble.”

  “Really.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Ratzibungen moved off, saying something about having other guests who were scheduled to arrive and who were either stranded somewhere on the way or, worse, had canceled their plans altogether.

  “He had a stroke last year,” Mrs. Skinner continued, sniffling. “He’s in terrible shape. Well, you saw him. The doctors have told him over and over.”

  “I don’t know where anyone is,” Natasha said. “My fiancé—”

  The other cut her off. “What kind of person is your friend.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Is your friend a moral person.” Mrs. Skinner’s tone was devoid of the slightest hint of a question. “I’m asking you. Is your friend a moral person.”

  “Well—she’s my friend. And of course—of course, a nice person.”

  Mrs. Skinner clutched the handkerchief tight in her fist again and, looking at Natasha with an expression very close to rage, said “What?” as if the younger woman had said something so preposterous that it caused offense.

  Natasha gathered herself. “I said she’s a nice person. A good person.”

  “Where are they, then? Where are they? Where is my husband. And where is your friend.”

  Natasha said, “They came down to the beach.” She heard the grief in her own voice. “I was down there and they came down, they said, to get me. But that was earlier. And that’s the last time I saw them. I’m sorry. They came down and got in the water. My friend and—and Mr.—and your husband. She’s not that sort of person, really. Not at all. And he was looking for you. He said—he kept saying he couldn’t find you.”

  “I was right here. Right here in this—in our room. I told him he was definitely and certainly on his way to hell. He had four—four, mind you—four of those little airline bottles of whiskey in the room. This morning—right after it happened. Eight o’clock in the morning. Right after the planes hit. And I told him. And he got sad like he does. Do you believe in God?”

  Natasha was thinking now only of finding a way to extricate herself.

  “Well, do you?”

  “Perhaps it’s just a misunderstanding,” Ratzi said from his chair on the other side, leaning forward, glancing at Natasha and nodding as if to show his good intentions. “No one knows where anyone is at a time like this. I haven’t seen my brother all day. I think he’s in Kingston. We haven’t seen him.”

  “Do you believe in God?” Now it seemed crucial for Mrs. Skinner to know whether or not they were believers.

  “I do believe in God, yes,” Ratzi said, taking one of her hands into both of his.

  She pulled away as if he had scalded her. “Don’t touch me.”

  “I’m so very sorry, madam.”

  “I’m looking for my husband.”

  “We’re sure he’ll turn up.”

  “He’
s a cheater. Walter is. He cheats.”

  “Misunderstanding,” Ratzi said hopelessly.

  “Cheats at everything—everything. Cards, games—Parcheesi. He cheats at Parcheesi. A game like Parcheesi. Can you imagine. The man cheats at Parcheesi. And in an argument—you know what he does in an argument? He makes up statistics. Makes them up. He cheats. There’s no honesty in him at all. And physically he’s at death’s door and where is he?”

  “Could he have gone into the city?” Natasha asked her.

  “Do you believe in God?”

  “Yes—you’ve already asked us that.”

  “But what. What do you believe? Do you believe in a God who forgives everything the man does no matter what? No matter who he hurts?”

  They were both looking at her.

  “Well?” Mrs. Skinner said, turning her gaze from one to the other.

  “Yes,” Ratzi said, a little too loudly. “I believe in a merciful God.”

  “You?” she demanded of Natasha.

  “I believe in God,” Natasha said.

  “Well, I believe that if you’re not good—if you cheat—then God will get you. I believe there’s a price to pay. And good people pay it along with the bad people. It’s in the Bible. You can find it in the Bible in plain English straight from God. And look at those people in New York and Washington, and the other place, too. They were all paying the price. And you can bet that a lot of them went straight to hell. You know it’s very probable that most of them were in a state of sin. And where are they now?”

  “What are you saying?” Natasha asked her. “Are you—” She couldn’t speak.

  “I’m saying I never did a thing in my life that was intentionally a sin. I have practiced my faith to the letter. And I don’t know where my husband went with that woman.”

  “They were both in the water,” said Natasha. She came very close to saying she hoped with all her heart that at this very moment on God’s earth they were fucking their eyes out. It occurred to her to say this as she rose, shivering with quiet fury, starting off in the direction of the beach, having to stop to gain her balance. She heard Skinner’s appalling wife say something about talking to drunks.

  “I’m very sober,” Ratzi said.

  Mrs. Skinner put the handkerchief to her mouth, but got out, “I’ll kill the little son of a—”

  He held his hands up, a shrugging motion. “Horrible time,” he said, though he now had a silly smile on his face. And then he was laughing. The woman had not meant to be funny, and she stood to walk away from him but ended up collapsing in Natasha’s vacated chair.

  “I’m very frightened,” she said. “Aren’t you very frightened?”

  Natasha walked on toward the beach. People were sitting on blankets in the sand, some with coolers and wine, as though nothing at all had happened and this was just the fine weather of cloudy twilight by the sea. One small circle had lit a hibachi. They were speaking Spanish and what sounded like German. It could not matter as much to those for whom America was not home. That was just life on earth. Two girls tossed a beach ball back and forth, and another was trying to make a figure in the sand. Still another walked among the patrons with a little tray of beer. Natasha stood at the water’s edge and looked toward the hills, then toward the open sea. People splashed and moved with the water a few hundred paces up that way. They were all shadows in the failing light.

  Someone was playing a guitar back toward the entrance of the resort. Someone else was hitting bongos. She heard the sound of a metal drum, too. It was almost full dark.

  She made her way back to the wide veranda, and standing there, staring out, was Constance.

  “Where have you been?” Constance wanted to know.

  “I was just looking for you.”

  “Is this your friend?” Mrs. Skinner asked from her chair. Ratzi was still sitting in his own chair, hands on his knees, his gaze darting from one to the other of them.

  Natasha addressed Constance under her breath. “Where’s Skinner?” To her surprise, she had to resist a manic urge to laugh.

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Skinner. Mr. Skinner—the one you walked down to the beach with.”

  “Why, hon-eh love,” Constance said, running the syllables together. “I been down th’ beach with two ’r three types this terrible day. Getting in the water and trying to get sober.”

  Mr. Skinner’s wife got out of the chair and moved to face her. “You listen. His name is Skinner. He’s an alcoholic, he cheats, and he can’t have anything to drink.”

  “Don’t you know what’s happ’nin’, hon-eh?” Constance said. “Ev’body’s drinkin’ t’day, sweetie. Ev’body. Whole world came down on us like a ton today. We don’ even know how many’s lost their lives today.”

  “His name happens to be Walter B. Skinner. He’s in need of help.”

  “Walt. Oh, yeah—okay. Him. Skinner. Walt. How could I not remember Walt.” She laughed into her fist. “You know—seriously, if yer innerested I—I ran into him jus’ now. Jus’ left’m in the bar. I swear he’s in there. Good man, ol’ Walt. He got a lil’ sunburned. And, hon-eh, I gotta tell ya, he’s been drinking.”

  Mrs. Skinner turned and hurried into the building, through the crowd that was still in the lobby.

  “Guy’s three sheets,” Constance said. “Very in-ee-briated man. She’s gonna be mad as hell when she gets to him.”

  Natasha said nothing, trying to keep from collapsing with laughter or crying—it felt like a form of psychosis—and she leaned into Constance, bracing herself against the pressure of the whole day.

  “Hey,” Constance said. “You look like you’re about to fall down.”

  “No,” Natasha told her. “I want another whiskey.”

  “I do believe in God,” Ratzi said. “But not like that.”

  “I don’ think God cares about us at all,” Constance muttered, mostly to herself. “All we do ev’ry goddamned day is kill ’n’ maim ’n’ starve ’n’ butcher ’n’ fillet ’n’ cook each other.”

  “Where were you all day?” Natasha asked.

  Constance seemed not to have heard. But then she said, tearfully, “Been tryin’ t’contact my daughter.” She rubbed her eyes vigorously and seemed to let down with a sigh, her hands dropping to her sides. “Well—ev’body’s unhappy. I’m gon’ go t’bed. You go too.”

  “Do you need help?” Natasha asked.

  But the other didn’t answer, pausing long enough to stare at Ratzi, half wave at him, and then move toward the entrance. Natasha saw sand on her back.

  “Nice lady,” Ratzi said. “It’s so sad for everyone today.”

  She nodded, then turned and followed her friend into the lobby. Constance had paused. There was commotion in the bar, several people standing around someone on the floor near the waiters’ station. Skinner. A group of men had crouched side by side around him. They lifted him—it took four of them—and moved falteringly to the long couch against the wall. Mrs. Skinner stood by with her hands clasped over her middle, muttering to herself. And here was Ratzi hurrying in, with two members of the waitstaff. Skinner’s head moved, but his eyes were nearly shut, and you could see he was only half conscious. Someone said an ambulance was on the way, and in a little while they all heard the siren. People were coming in from the veranda and the beach, and the paramedics moved through without looking to the left or right. They got to Skinner and started working over him while his wife stood closer, sniffling and saying to anyone who would listen that she had warned him, she had told him what was going to happen if he kept on. Now God had given his sign.

  “Hope he’ll be all right,” Constance said. She fixed Natasha with a stony look. “I’m not as drunk as you think.”

  “Oh, what can it matter?” Natasha said to her.

  “Well, I’m quite drunk enough, though. But look at ’m. He’s just passed out. Pissed, as they say.”

  The medics got Skinner onto a stretcher and took him out of the place. He was more alert now,
eyes open, taking people in as he was carried past them. Natasha looked around for Mrs. Skinner but could no longer see her. “Where did the wife go?” she asked Constance, who was moving unsteadily toward the elevators.

  “Got on her broom and rode away, I guess.”

  They stood by the elevators, Constance leaning on the wall there, head down, pale and clearly tired. The elevator door opened, and she got on, put her hands on the small faux-wooden railing inside, then turned and looked bleakly out. There was no recognition in her face, no sense that she saw anything or anyone.

  “Remember,” she said gravely. “They don’t allow tourists in th’ place b’fore nine-thirty.” The doors closed on her.

  7

  Natasha returned to the beach. The moon shining through a hole in the clouds made shadows of the palms. There were no planes in the sky, and though the palm fronds clicked when the breezes moved them, the quiet seemed deeper. The sea shimmered under the silver light, and she saw the silhouette of a passing ship out on the horizon, making its way east, probably with cargo. There was a faintly glimmering flash of movement in the water. Something jumped, and jumped again. A school of porpoises was swimming by, phosphorescence flickering in their wake. She had a moment of knowing that Faulk was safe wherever he was. Near the water she sat down on the damp, packed sand, supporting herself with both hands. So many people were suffering across the miles of darkness. The thought of her dead parents came to her, gone before she could have any memory of them, two young people in love, planning to have several children—according to Iris, they had wanted a large family—and the world had taken them. And now she could not unthink the possibility that this feeling of relief about Faulk was a great irony, and that the world had already taken him as well. She began to entreat the sea and sky, murmuring the words, “Please let it be all right.” And the loss of her parents seemed mingled with this badness, all part of the same pitiless chance. Everything was exaggerated by the fact that she could not find out, could not know for certain. And even as she recognized the morbid indulgence of the fear, it raked through her. She could not change it or make it stop. Because what if he really was gone? All that fire and falling debris, and why could she not get through to him?