by April Hill
“How is it I look?” Emma inquired, already knowing the answer.
“Well, you’re, like, almost pretty—underneath,” Meredith ventured. It was as close to a compliment as Meredith had ever come.
“Underneath what?” Emma asked glumly.
“Underneath all that crappy shit you usually wear for clothes!” Meredith cried. “Until we landed here on this stupid island, I never even saw your belly button, and I’ve known you, like forever!”
“Well, in a couple of more weeks, you’ll be seeing even more of me,” Emma pointed out. “Everything we have is falling apart. I can barely keep my breasts and ass covered with this ratty shirt.”
Meredith grinned slyly. “We should all count our blessings, sweetie. My boobs and ass are my very best features, or so I have been told by dozens and dozens of men.”
Emma opened her torn shirt and studied her own sunburned chest. “And what would you say my best features are, Mom?”
Meredith looked at her friend very carefully before answering. “Your eyes,” she decided finally. “Definitely your eyes. Your lashes could be longer, of course, but still. Now, if you’d just learn to use liner and eye-shadow the right way.”
“Thanks, Mom,” said Emma, closing her shirt. “I really needed that pat on the back.”
Meredith didn’t take Emma’s meaning, but she did see a lesson in her friend’s sunburn. “My God! I’ve got to get out of this sun! I just hate freckles, don’t you?”
Emma rubbed her sunburned, freckled nose, and nodded. “You bet. See you later.”
Meredith turned and winked. “You know, McLean may not be up to my usual standards, but I may have to give the poor guy a tumble—out of sheer boredom. You wouldn’t care if I gave it a shot, would you?”
Emma shrugged. “Of course not,” she lied. “Why should I?”
“Okay then, I’ll keep you posted.” Meredith trotted away up the beach, giggling, her beautiful behind swaying adorably on her perfect, long legs. Emma kicked the sand, and painfully stubbed her big toe.
Chapter Three
The very next morning, as she had promised, Meredith set out on her mission to add Andrew McLean to her lengthy list of male conquests. Flirting with someone like McLean would be more in the way of boredom relief than genuine interest, of course. Meredith found men more than five years her senior tiresome, and usually clueless about the things she most enjoyed—like the club scene, and the hot new rock groups she liked. She was willing to disregard these shortcomings in a companion, however, should the older man in question be demonstrably wealthy and eager to spend his wealth on her. McLean’s financial situation was an unknown at this point, but Meredith had already prepared an arsenal of questions with which to explore the issue.
As she came out of the Hovel that morning, she saw her intended prey at the water’s edge, combing the sand for useful debris. Calling breathlessly to him, she scampered down the beach, waving.
“Hi, there!” she cried. “Wait for me!”
At this distance, Meredith was unable to see the pained expression that crossed Andrew McLean’s face at her call, but he turned and greeted her politely, nonetheless. “Good morning, Miss Von Kessel. You’re up rather early, aren’t you?”
“Emma says you’re going to fix up the shelter today,” she explained sweetly. “And I thought you could use my help.”
She ambled along just in front of him, chatting cheerily and conspiring at every opportunity to wriggle her undeniably gorgeous bottom in his direction.
“Look!” she cried, bending at the waist to study a small seashell. “Isn’t this the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen?”
Ignoring the possible double meaning in the question, McLean nodded. “Breathtaking.”
“I think I’ll take it to Emma,” she said, sticking the shell into the pocket of her shorts. “She looks absolutely awful these days. I keep telling her how wrinkled she’s getting, staying in the sun like she does, but will she listen? Of course not! She just works, works, works on that silly camp site.”
“Yes, she does,” he agreed. “Miss Douglas is a very resourceful young woman. She’s done an excellent job of constructing the camp for the two of you.”
“Well, I did some of it, you know!” Meredith said, pouting.
McLean smiled. “Of course you did. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. Anyone could see that one person would have been severely overburdened by such a task. Only a lazy, ungrateful, self-centered child would have permitted someone else to labor so hard on his or her behalf, without sharing that burden, am I right?”
Meredith smiled weakly, sensing something vaguely critical in the question.
“Yeah,” she relied uneasily. “That’s what I meant.” Feeling herself in unfamiliar territory, she quickly changed the subject.
“Tell me, Mr. McLean, were you alone on the cruise?” she asked.
“My first name is Andrew,” he said.
“And I’ll just bet that everybody calls you Andy,” she remarked, batting her lashes.
“Not unless they wish to be punched in the nose,” he said cheerfully. “But Andrew is fine.”
Meredith had tucked the lapels of her floppy shirt into the top of her bra to create a plunging neckline, and now, as she leaned forward to retrieve a bit of driftwood, her breasts swelled over the bra’s lace-trimmed cups exactly as she had planned, exposing her cleavage to excellent advantage. McLean smiled, and permitted himself a brief look at Meredith’s full, creamy breasts before he answered her question.
“Yes, I was traveling alone. I had never been on a cruise, before, and didn’t find the idea especially appealing, but the price was remarkably low, so I disregarded the good advice of the concierge at my hotel, and purchased a ticket on the ill-fated Orchid Princess. Which says something, I suppose, about a fool and his money. Still, this island is tropical, beautiful, and certainly private. It reminds me of Melville’s descriptions of the island in Typee.”
“Who?”
“Herman Melville, your great American writer, and author of what is arguably the finest novel ever written in the English language?”
“Oh, yeah. Melville,” Meredith repeated.
He tried once more. “Moby Dick?”
“That’s, like, a really famous book, right?” she asked.
McLean sighed. “Yes.”
At this point, Meredith had begun to wonder what she was doing here, talking about stuff like this, when she could be on the beach working on a tan. Now, she thought irritably, I’m going to have to find a way to make a graceful exit—without hurting the poor man’s feelings, of course.
“Well, the thing is,” she said finally, “I don’t read a lot. Because of my eyes, you see. I can’t wear contacts, because they make my eyes water.”
“What about glasses?”
Meredith looked at him as though he had suggested that she wear polyester.
“What do you do, usually, for a living?” she inquired, taking his arm to guide them back toward the beach. If McLean was amused, he said nothing, but continued scouting the sand for stray wood as they walked.
“I taught history,” he said, “To the sort of young women who regarded the coming of the Beatles as history.”
Meredith sniffed. “You sound like a snob,” she complained. “I think the Beatles were great.”
McLean smiled, and conceded the point. “I like the Beatles, actually, but you’re right. I am indeed a snob—a thorough-going snob, who believes the human brain should be exercised now and again, to keep it in shape.”
Meredith tried not to yawn. “I don’t know much about history. What grade did you teach in school?”
“Until six years ago, I taught at a small place called Oxford, of which I suspect you’ve never heard. I then attempted early retirement, found myself unable to live on my limited income, and accepted a position the following year at a private girls’ school—the sort of place you Americans call a finishing school, where miscreant but extremely wealthy yo
ung women who can neither read, nor write nor keep themselves out of jail are placed by indulgent and desperate parents. There, they are reshaped, and ‘finished’ into something approximating human, whereupon they are released upon society to find rich husbands and alas, pass on their unfortunate genetic code to their young.”
Meredith had heard almost none of this, worrying, instead, about what he had said about a limited pension. “I didn’t like school very much,” she said.
“I’m astonished.”
Once again, Meredith had a fleeting sense of disapproval.
“So, you don’t like the school where you teach?”
“Actually, I like it very much. The countryside is lovely, the fishing excellent, and I’m even able, on rare occasions, to snatch a promising young person back from the edge of certain doom.”
“Doom?”
“The doom of her future as what you Americans call a ‘trophy wife’.”
Suddenly, and to the profound relief of both McLean and Meredith, Emma walked up to join them, her arms filled with coconuts.
“These are the volunteers, who gave up without a fight,” she explained with a laugh. “I still haven’t been able to climb one of these palm trees, so we have to settle for the ones that are suicidal.”
“I’ll try later,” McLean promised, taking most of the coconuts from her arms. “Tell me, ladies, did either of you happen to notice that plume of smoke this morning?”
Emma nodded. “I did. It seemed to be coming from the other side of the island. Not the area where you made your camp, probably, but farther that way.” She pointed vaguely north of where they stood. “Could a fire like that be natural?”
“There’s been no lightning,” he observed, “and I can’t imagine what else could have started a fire, unless …”
“You two are scaring me!” Meredith cried. “If there’s someone else on this island, they could be … well, anything! Drug smugglers, terrorists, maybe.”
“Or other survivors?” Emma finished.
“That was my thought,” McLean said. “A signal fire, I would think. There was too much smoke to be merely a cook fire. I believe I’ll try hiking across the mountain—tomorrow or the next day—to investigate.”
“No!” wailed Meredith. “I read in the hotel brochure that cannibals killed and ate that English guy—Captain Cook? You know, the guy who discovered all those islands? How do we even know it wasn’t this same island?”
McLean raised his eyes heavenward. “That, she read,” he groaned. “In any case, Miss Von Kessel, while the tale makes a delightful story, it’s untrue. Captain Cook was not killed and eaten by cannibals.”
Emma laughed. “So, Cook wasn’t cooked?”
“Actually,” McLean continued, “he was baked, and then preserved—quite respectfully. But, in any case, he didn’t die on this island, but on–”
“How do you know that?” Meredith asked suspiciously. “If you’re so smart, Professor, what’s the name of this stupid island we’re stuck on?”
“Typee,” he said, winking at Emma.
Suddenly uncomfortable with seeing her friend made fun of, Emma quickly changed the subject. “So, when do we start?” she asked. “Across the mountain to the other side?”
“It isn’t necessary for the two of you to come along,” McLean replied. “The hike may be difficult.”
Emma shook her head. “That’s all right. I’m in pretty good shape, and Meredith here ought to be up for a brisk walk. At home, she drops three hundred bucks a month for a gym and personal trainer.”
“That’s different,” Meredith whined.
“Do what you want, Merrie,” Emma said firmly. “But I’m going with him. There’s nothing to keep us, here, and besides, I’m curious. Aren’t you?”
“What will I eat while you guys are off exploring?” Meredith pleaded.
“Three guesses,” Emma said, dropping several coconuts at her friend’s feet. “All you need is a rock and some grim determination.”
Suddenly, Meredith’s face lit up. “I know!” she cried. “We can swim out and get the rest of the stuff from the raft!”
McLean looked puzzled.
“There was another footlocker on the life raft with us,” Emma explained. “Like the one we’re using to sit on at camp. It was full of canned goods, and a lot of other supplies. When we hit the rocks, we managed to get it out of the raft, but it was too heavy to drag ashore, and the surf was too rough that night. We always figured if things got desperate—if we ran out of rats, that is—we’d try to find it and bring it back. It’s not far; if it’s still even there, anyway.”
“As heavy as that sucker was?” Meredith scoffed. “Where would it go? I’ll bet you anything it’s still right where we dropped it, stuck in the sand or something.”
McLean shook his head. “A swim like that would be far too dangerous. It’s not as if you’ll be starving. You have plenty of coconuts, and the dried fish, as well.”
“But I don’t know how to do that fire thing!” Meredith complained.
“I’ll teach you,” Emma said patiently. “It’s not that hard. Ten-year-old Girl Scouts do it.”
“Well, when a ten-year-old Girl Scout shows up, I’ll let the little bitch do it!” Meredith snapped. “We need to take a vote, and my vote says we should go and get the damned footlocker.”
Ignoring Meredith’s call for a democratic vote, McLean and Emma walked back to camp, discussing the coming trip across the mountain. When they were out of sight, over the dunes, Meredith plopped down on the sand and kicked at a passing crab, still pouting. A few moments later, her anger had turned to greedy thoughts about canned ravioli, fragrant gobs of greasy chili, and even about chicken noodle soup, with the familiar soggy noodles and rubbery bits of chicken she remembered from childhood. And before long, she had worked up a genuine lust for the dented cans of Spam that lay just offshore—an easy swim away.
Emma was packing what they would need for the trip to the other side of the island when she heard Meredith’s voice calling. When she walked to the top of the dunes to investigate, she saw Meredith a hundred yards from the beach, standing on a rock amidst the swirling surf, and waving her arms frantically. The wind had begun to pick up, the way it always did at this time of day, and it was obvious to Emma that her friend was having trouble keeping her balance on the slippery rock.
“I found it!” Meredith screamed over the noise of the waves. “Right where we dropped it! Come and help me!”
Emma hesitated for a moment, but finally shrugged her shoulders, and hurried down to the beach.
“You’re a damned idiot, Meredith!” she shouted. “Come back in, right now, before you drown!”
“No way!” Meredith called back. “I found all kinds of great stuff. I’ve made six dives already, and if you think I’m leaving it all here, you’re fucking crazy! Come on and help me! The wind’s awful, and the water’s getting rougher!”
Emma swore, and waded out toward the rocks. When the water was up to her chin, she swam the rest of the way, fighting a strong wind and the quickly rising surf. When she reached the rock, Meredith leaned down and helped her up.
“Just look at all this!” Meredith cackled triumphantly, pointing to two large rubberized-canvas duffel bags stacked on the rock by her feet. “Can you believe it? Canned peaches, for God’s sakes! And Spam! There must be a dozen cans of tuna fish! Can you imagine me, excited over Spam and canned tuna?”
“You’re still an idiot,” Emma said. “Besides, we’ll lose most of it in the surf, getting back.”
“No we won’t, “Meredith said smugly. “I figured it out. I just wish everyone around here would quit acting like I was some kind of a moron. Here, what you do is loop this rope-thing around your shoulders, like a backpack, you know?”
Before Emma could object, Meredith had picked up the top bag, straining with the weight, and slipped the bag’s cord tie loosely around Emma’s neck. “Now, see? It’s like a big back pack, so you just slip your
arms through here, get back in the water, and start…”
Emma had time to scream just once before her feet went out from under her on the slippery surface of the rock, and she slid backwards into the water, with the cord still fastened around her neck. Meredith screamed as well, and flopped down on her stomach on the rock, grabbing for Emma’s arm as she disappeared beneath the surface.
“Take the rope off!” Meredith shrieked. “Dump the bag!”
Unfortunately, on the side of the rock from which Emma had fallen, the bottom dropped off more sharply than at the front, making the water at that point a good ten feet deeper than in the shallows, and as the loaded bag pulled her downward, Emma struggled frantically to free herself from its dead weight, with no luck. As the cord slipped through the bag’s brass grommets, as it was designed to do, it tightened inexorably around her throat—like a noose.
When she hit the sandy bottom, Emma used both hands to pry the cord loose, and when that failed, she tried twisting around far enough to reach into the bag in the hope of emptying the contents. By now, the cord had tightened even further, making opening the bag impossible. Desperately, she clawed at the cord again, tearing her nails in what she sensed was another futile effort. On the third attempt, though, with Emma close to losing consciousness, the cord finally gave by an inch or so. Seconds later, after dumping most of the cans, she was free.
She fought her way to the surface, her lungs feeling as if they were bursting, and crawled back onto the rock, scraping her knees and ripping her nails with the effort. The next wave crashed over the rock with incredible force, knocking the breath out of her, and for a moment, she lost her grip and slid backward, again, down the rock’s surface. Behind her, she could hear Meredith screaming and weeping hysterically, and as she pulled herself back onto the relative safety of the rock, she saw McLean slicing through the water, swimming toward her. Moments later, exhausted, and with her grasp on the rock slipping, she felt strong arms pulling her from the water. She was choking and short of breath, but she was safe.
