“How can you navigate a plane, but not be able to get from point A to point В on the ground?” Marco asked her.
“Miami’s outgrown itself,” was all she would say. “It’s no longer interesting.” When USAir offered her a position in Pittsburgh, she took the promotion and the transfer with no qualms about leaving Miami.
They talked about Marco moving to Pittsburgh, but she wanted to get married and he wouldn’t—or, rather, couldn’t—do it. He loved her, but not enough to marry her. She was a woman who worked long hours in a high-stress job. On her nonflying days she liked to sit in the sun and read mystery novels. She had a short attention span and liked bars with pool tables. She drank beer straight from the bottle and ate vegetables without washing them first. Marco refused to talk with her about buying property on the Carolina shoreline because he sensed she was thinking about building a retirement home, and he didn’t like the idea of knowing where he was going to end up before he had celebrated his thirtieth birthday. Marco offered to help her haul her stuff to Pittsburgh, but she told him not to be ridiculous. The company would pay for a professional mover. When the lease on her apartment ran out, she went north to stay with some college friends. Over the weekend, the moving van came and hauled her things away. Marco was left in Miami without a place to stay.
He had been having financial problems since March, when he and ten other employees went through what the Miami Herald called a “schedule adjustment.” It meant that they were laid off, maybe fired, but definitely collecting unemployment. Marco had been one of the sports photographers. He covered Class A minor high school sports—soccer, tennis, fencing, swimming meets. He also did local stories—third-generation coaches in the Upper Keys, Miami rugby players who practiced by dragging tractor tires on the beach. He had tried to get the job as the Miami Heat photographer, but the paper hired a woman from the Detroit Free Press who had covered the Pistons’ two NBA championship seasons. The sports editor promised Marco that he was first in line for the Florida Marlins job when the Herald started its “schedule adjustments.”
The same week as the schedule adjustments, his car was stolen from the Taurus Restaurant parking lot. It was during a Friday afternoon happy hour, with at least forty people on the outdoor patio. Marco found it hard to believe that no one had seen anything. The valet, a tall, lanky kid with a missing front tooth, claimed to have been helping the busboys carry garbage out to the dumpsters when the thieves jumped the fence, smashed the window, and hot-wired Marco’s car.
Marco filed a report, and the police insisted on coming out to see the spot where the car had been. There was nothing there, just the empty parking space, but the policeman knelt and inspected the blacktop as if looking for clues.
“Dade County gravel.” The policeman scooped up some of the broken glass and held it up for Marco’s inspection. He seemed particularly pleased by the tiny glass slivers.
“Any chance I’ll get the car back?” Marco asked.
“About a zillion to one.” The cop shone his flashlight into the dark bushes. There was a pile of empty beer bottles and some Burger King wrappers. He made notes on a yellow pad of paper that Marco was sure he tossed in the garbage dumpsters before driving away.
“Your car is probably sleeping in Puerto Rico as we speak,” the policeman told Marco. “Tomorrow morning, those car parts will be all over the country.”
“Are you sure?” Marco asked, though he had worked at the newspaper long enough to know what happened to stolen cars in Miami.
“Positive,” the guy said and then told Marco not to worry. “That’s why we pay through the nose for insurance.”
Marco had meant to reinstate his policy ever since it had run out last November, but the first few times he called the company he was put on hold. Not crazy about Muzak, he hung up and tried again, only to get a busy signal. Then it was Christmas break, then New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, a presidential long weekend. Then he lost his job.
Marco liked living with Marybeth and Doug. They were only the second tenants to occupy their place, and every room smelled of paint and new carpeting. Marco’s bedroom looked out on the courtyard and the grove of ficus trees that blocked the noise of traffic. But with no car and Doug at work all day, Marco got bored. He missed his old girlfriend, who was lazy about returning his phone calls. When she did call, she talked about Pittsburgh. She liked landing planes over the rolling Allegheny Mountains and looked forward to the opening of the new airport in October. She did not invite Marco north even when he hinted that he’d like to see her.
Marybeth quit nursing at the retirement home to study for her GMAT right about the time Marco moved into the apartment. She had been unhappy working there and wanted to do something different with her life. Everyone she talked to suggested business. With her medical background and an MBA degree, lots of doors would be open to her. Besides studying for her graduate exam, she was using the time off work to have the toes on her right foot un-webbed. She had wanted to do something about her foot ever since she could remember, and Doug agreed. It was ridiculous to walk around with something that could be so easily changed. The operation was cosmetic, but she had never been able to afford it until she married Doug.
The procedure was not very complicated. It consisted of a series of operations to tear away the skin between the individual toes. Her foot was too sore to put weight on and walking was painful. Doug had an old pair of crutches, and she tried using them, but they were too tall and dug into her underarms. She spent most of her time on the couch with her study guides open on her lap. She flipped through them without reading a word and made doodles in the margins with the pencils she sharpened with her eyeliner sharpener. She was afraid that if she watched TV she’d get addicted to afternoon soap operas. Instead, she listened to the radio. She called in when they announced contests and tried to win prizes. She was the sixth caller once. The station was giving away front-row tickets to the U2 concert to the seventh caller, but the disc jockey took her song request and played it a half hour after her call.
Marco was afraid Marybeth would get tired of seeing him all the time, so he tried not to bother her. Job hunting was tough—no one was hiring—but he made a few calls every morning. Mostly he called friends, who loved to talk but couldn’t help him connect with a job. They planned their evening workouts and gossiped like guys do, as if everything they’re talking about is business.
With no income, Marco couldn’t go anywhere except to the gym, where his job at the Herald had guaranteed him a lifetime membership. Mornings he spent at the pool. Built right in the center of the condominium complex, the kidney-shaped pool was surrounded by trees that shed tiny red berries on the lounge chairs. A woman and her two kids were always there. No matter how early Marco got up, the three of them would be there before him. The kids had neon-colored floats and played a stupid game called Marco Polo. There were only two of them—one kept his eyes closed and called out Marco, the other was supposed to answer. Hearing his own name was irritating, as was their cheating. One didn’t keep his eyes closed and the other pretended to be underwater and didn’t answer. They splashed water everywhere and never got tired. The mother—perhaps she was the baby-sitter—napped all morning long. Their screaming didn’t seem to bother her, and she seemed just as oblivious to the red stains the berries were making on the backs of her thighs.
After an hour at the pool, Marco would take a walk around the neighborhood. The Key Biscayne library had odd summer hours that he could never keep straight, but the librarian had once asked him if he was one of the boat people, and Marco, misunderstanding her question, answered yes. She issued him a marina library card for people who had boats in the bay. Books wrapped in plastic covers could be checked out for two months at a time.
Marybeth was bored out of her mind. She flunked every single one of the practice exams and figured she wasn’t business school material. She thought about going back to her nursing job, but when she called the retirement home, they said they wouldn�
��t need her until September.
She started going through the Miami Herald every morning, when Marco was finished with it. She carefully crossed out the jobs she had already called about or the ones she wasn’t qualified or wouldn’t take. There weren’t many options, and Marco kidded her about not calling up the “dancers with good attitude wanted” numbers. The ads never said topless or nude, but they said they were looking for women interested in fun and adventures.
“Would you ever consider doing something like that?” Marco asked. Marco worked out a few mornings a week in the gym, and his body smelled of the weight room—like steel.
“I used to work in a bar,” Marybeth said. “Never topless, but I thought it was a great way to make money.” She was suddenly anxious to be doing something besides sitting around the apartment.
“I remember,” Marco said. “I was there the night Doug met you.
“Really?” Marybeth asked.
“Shows you what an impression I make on women,” Marco said, though he did not believe this. He thought women paid an awful lot of attention to him. He had always been pleased with the way women noticed him.
“You were probably too drunk to remember me,” Marybeth said. It didn’t feel like they were flirting, but she was aware that Marco was looking at her, and she wondered what he saw. The operations had made her tired. She rarely bothered to put on anything besides a T-shirt and a pair of shorts.
“Not as drunk as Rodney,” Marco said. “He threw up that coconut crap from those piña coladas for days.”
“If he had paid for his own drinks, he wouldn’t have been so sick.” Marybeth was not a firm believer in karma, but there were times when she thought she understood how it worked.
Marybeth’s toes were completely independent of each other, but the operation had changed nothing in her life. She hadn’t expected a miracle, but she had thought something would have changed. Her foot ached. She rubbed tiger balm around her toes, but the dull pain was always there. Marybeth was allergic to narcotics, so Marco suggested she drink.
“A glass of wine might help you relax,” he told her. She could not find the corkscrew, so they split a can of beer and played a game of cribbage. They finished the beers in the refrigerator and, after a while, her foot did feel better. She no longer felt any pain.
When Marco asked her if she wanted some time to study, she told him that she had given up the idea of getting an MBA. They went to lunch at the Mexican restaurant on Key Biscayne. It was a slow time of the day to be there—the waitresses were filling salt and pepper shakers, the bartender was watching soap operas. They ordered nachos and margaritas and discussed their dream jobs. Marybeth’s idea of a great way to earn money had something to do with clothes and glamorous people. No, she didn’t want to be a model, but she wouldn’t mind working on commercials. Marco confided that he had always wanted to be a deep-sea diver, then blushed, knowing this was a lie. He was terrified of the ocean. Like jumping from an airplane, deep-sea diving was something he liked to watch in movies but had no desire to try himself. I’m talking her up, Marco thought. I’m talking up my best friend’s wife.
“I’ve always hated swimming,” Marybeth said. “Because of my toes. I was afraid that people would look at me and think I was a duck or something.” She did not tell him about the fourth-graders on the playground, but he said he understood how cruel people could be.
He asked if he could see her foot and she said no, but after a third round of margaritas, when her tongue was heavy with salt, she pulled off her too-big sandal—the one she bought for sixty-nine cents at the drugstore—and pulled her knee up to the table. Marco leaned across the booth to have a look, and his right hand knocked the margarita into her lap. The blended drink was cold against her bare legs; she let out a short screech. Marco apologized and went up to the bar for some rags to clean it up. Her shirt was soaked, and they left the restaurant so she could change into something dry. The streets were empty. They walked down by the marina—the long way home. It was too calm and warm for sailing and the boats were tied up, the sheets clinking against the sailing shafts. The air was heavy with heat, but they sat at the end of the dock with their feet dangling into the mosquito-infested water until the sun and the margaritas gave them a headache. When Doug came home from work he found them both asleep—Marybeth in the bedroom with the air conditioner on high, Marco on the couch using the want ads as a pillow.
Doug and Marco were jogging when Marco asked how Doug felt about Marybeth giving up on business school.
“What’s this?” Doug asked.
“Marybeth,” Marco said. “Her change of heart about business school?”
“That’s a surprise to me,” Doug said. It was almost midnight—the only time to exercise outdoors in Miami—but the heat was still making it difficult to breathe. Marco made a noise in his throat and this made him cough, which tired him further.
“Did she say something to you?” Doug asked.
“No,” Marco exhaled. He didn’t have to pretend to be having problems with his breathing—he thought he was going to faint from lack of air.
“Has she quit studying?”
“I don’t know,” Marco said.
“You must know something,” Doug said. “The two of you are there in the condo every day.”
They were at the water’s edge. The ocean smelled of gasoline. Marco slowed down, then stopped altogether. Doug jogged in a tight circle around him.
“You go back, buddy,” Marco told him. “I’m beat.”
“You’re stronger than this heat,” Doug coaxed his friend without much enthusiasm.
“Not tonight,” Marco said and bent over to rub his calves. “I’m dogged to the bones.” His muscles were stiff and his body felt heavy, as if he were running with ankle weights.
Doug, a much better runner, was glad to leave Marco behind. He short-cutted along Sonesta Beach and down by the Sheraton. A few people were sitting on the outdoor balcony, but most were inside in the comfort of the air-conditioned bars. He ran quickly—it felt good to move at his own pace.
Marybeth had just turned off the news when Doug came bursting into the apartment. It was the third time she had watched the news that day.
“What is it that makes you tell him things before you find the time to mention them to me?” Marybeth, thinking Marco was in the condo, asked Doug to close the door.
“Is there something going on that I should know about?” Doug slammed the door.
“Of course not,” Marybeth said but her heart began beating and she felt slightly dizzy. She sat on the edge of the bed, refusing to look at her husband. He asked her if they were sleeping together, and she said no. “I wouldn’t cheat on you,” she promised.
“He’s my best friend,” Doug said.
“I know who he is,” Marybeth said.
Doug’s running shorts were soaked with sweat, and the steady cold air from the air conditioner made him shiver. She told him to take a shower before he got sick. They continued fighting when he came out of the shower. He had wrapped himself in three towels—something that irritated Marybeth—but Doug pointed out that they had a washer and dryer two feet from their bedroom. If he wanted to use all the towels in the world, he could. He was paying for that luxury. They made up before going to bed but did not make love.
The next day Marco asked her what they had been fighting about. He knew, of course. The walls in the condo weren’t soundproof, especially when he cupped his hand around his ear.
“He thinks we’re having an affair.”
“He’s fighting about us?” Marco asked, and Marybeth nodded.
Marco and Doug had known each other since before they were born. Their mothers were best friends who had met on a high school double date when they went on a Sea-Escape cruise to the Bahamas. The memory of that night still made their mothers laugh—it had something to do with one of the passengers jumping overboard and his friends not reporting it until they were in Freeport—a fact that seemed to bond the wom
en. They were still close, close friends.
“He should trust me.” Marco crossed his legs. She could see the darker leg hairs on the insides of his thighs. “Especially with his wife.”
“What does that mean?” Marybeth asked.
Marco was eating a mango. It was too ripe, and he had turned the skin inside out. The juice ran down his chin, and he licked himself like a cat.
“Especially with his wife?” Marybeth said. “What does that mean?” She went to the kitchen and pulled down a section of paper towel. Her swift movements pulled the roll away from the wall.
“I mean if you were just his girlfriend that’d be something different,” Marco explained when she sat back down. “But you guys are legal and all.”
She handed him the paper toweling, and he wrapped the mango in it and wiped his chin with his T-shirt. He had jumped into the pool on his way back from the gym and his T-shirt was damp from his wet suit. The white cotton was stained slightly orange.
“He should trust us,” Marybeth said. But she did not trust herself, and two days later, it was Marybeth who made the first move. They made love on the living room floor with the radio tuned to a talk show about the upcoming presidential election. They continued commenting on the program while they were having sex, as if they could ignore what they were doing. Afterward, Marybeth was so filled with guilt and dread that she almost called Doug at work and told him what had happened. It would have been such a relief if she could call, confess, and be forgiven. She wasn’t used to having secrets from Doug, and she wasn’t pleased with the secret she had now.
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