That night she was too nervous to face him and faked a headache. She went to bed before he got home. Marco was somewhere—she didn’t ask where he was going. Doug did.
“The gym,” Marybeth lied. “I think he said he was going to the gym.”
Doug went into Marco’s room. She heard him click on the light. A minute later he clicked it off. “His workout bag is there,” Doug told her. “He wouldn’t go to the gym without his workout bag.”
“I don’t know,” Marybeth said. She didn’t have to open her eyes to know that Doug was looking at her. She turned to the wall and pulled the sheet over her head.
The next morning Marybeth got up before Doug. She made him breakfast and then went out to the pool with the morning paper after Doug left for work. She pulled a red-spotted lawn chair into the deep shade of the ficus trees and sat there staring at the sky. It was hot and she would have preferred to be inside with the air conditioner, but the apartment reminded her that she had cheated on her husband.
“That’s it,” she told herself. “I won’t do it again.” But Marco came out sometime before ten o’clock and asked her if she was upset.
“No,” she said and shook her head.
They were silent until she suggested a swim. The water was too warm, and the dull film on top of it kept them from diving, but they stood in the shallow end, where they moved around slowly. Their hipbones touched once and Marybeth reached out to steady herself. Marco put his arms around her waist and they began to kiss. She did not tell him that the stucco wall was biting into her legs or that the water made her un-webbed foot feel weightless.
Marco pulled down the straps of her bikini top and kissed her throat. Marybeth told herself that since they had already slept together once, there was no reason not to do it again. The woman and her two kids were there. They were staring at Marybeth and Marco, not at all embarrassed by their own curiosity.
Marybeth had no answer when she asked herself why she was cheating on Doug. She was not a stupid woman. She knew sleeping with Marco was wrong. She knew that it would hurt Doug if he found out. She was bored, she reasoned. The days were long, her foot hurt, there was nothing to do, and Marco was there. He was there, all the time, every day. Instead of the soap operas she had vowed to stay away from, she was addicted to sleeping with Marco.
The goalie on Doug’s soccer team wasn’t the only one to see Marco and Marybeth together, but he was the first to tell Doug.
“Where?” was what Doug asked.
“Señor Frogs,” the goalie told him. “They were in the back booth, kissing. Eating tortilla chips and guacamole dip, but mostly kissing.”
“Are you sure it was them?”
“It was the middle of the afternoon,” the goalie said. “They didn’t act like they were hiding anything.”
Marco and Marybeth were betting quarters on the final Jeopardy question when Doug got home that night. He walked in, kicked over the coffee table, and told them he never wanted to see them again. The ashtray holding their coins flipped onto the floor. Marybeth, wanting to be busy, knelt forward and began picking them up. Her foot bent under itself and she cried out in pain. It was a mistake. Her cry made Doug look at her, and he took the expression on her face to be one of pained guilt.
“I want you out of here by tomorrow morning,” Doug shouted at them. “Out.”
Neither Marco nor Marybeth asked him what he was talking about. They did not ask him how he found out about their affair, and Doug didn’t ask them any questions.
“Everything,” Doug said before he went in the bedroom and slammed the door. “All your shit.”
Marybeth’s stare was fixed on the carpet. Her heart was pounding and she thought she was going to be sick. Doug came out of the bedroom once more and told them again that he wanted them gone, ASAP. No questions, no answers, no expianations, he just wanted them out of his sight.
Marybeth agreed that Marco should move, but she felt she deserved forgiveness. She was sorry for what she had done. It had been stupid and wrong. She thought she could get Doug to understand, but he refused to speak to her. Marco moved into his brother’s place, a small house in Coconut Grove, and when Marybeth understood that Doug’s silent treatment was going to last as long as she was in the apartment, she went over and moved in with Marco and his brother.
Marco’s brother had been bitten by a shark two years earlier when he was snorkeling in the Bahamas, and his house was filled with sharks and things that looked like sharks—pot holders, bookends, rubber rafts for the pool. The scar was bright red—the hair on his calf no longer grew. Marybeth showed him her toes and they talked about how much their scars itched when it rained. She knew he wasn’t thrilled with their being there, and she tried to make herself useful around the house. She cleaned and polished the floors and did the dishes until Marco’s brother found her on her knees scrubbing the toilet bowl. “I hire someone to do that,” he told her. He was polite enough, but she caught a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “They come in once a week and get paid to do that.”
The school year was about to start, and even in south Florida there was a slight change in temperature that told people the rainy season was over—it was almost fall. Marco felt the rush he used to get in college when classes started up every year. September meant sports, and he wanted to be out taking photographs.
Marybeth’s period was late. She did not think she was pregnant, but she told Marco that something might be up.
“It’s not mine,” Marco said in a way that reminded her of a high school boy she had approached with the same kind of news. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve always used a condom. Your husband doesn’t.”
“They’re not 100 percent,” Marybeth said. She felt cranky and heavy and knew that she was probably going to start her period soon. She was unhappy with Marco and did not want to be living with him. She knew she should leave, but she wasn’t sure where she wanted to go.
Marco was caught by surprise every time he walked in the house and saw Marybeth sitting on the couch. He never got used to being with her. Mostly, though, he missed Doug. He couldn’t stand not talking to him.
His life was not something he recognized anymore. Once he had lived with an ambitious woman. He himself had once been ambitious. Now he felt like a slug. Lazy, no direction, no savings—he was ashamed of the way he was living. He did not even have enough money to go into the Grove and buy a nice meal.
One afternoon he stopped by Doug’s condo on Key Biscayne with a six-pack of beer. He was so nervous that he could feel the sweat beads running down the backs of his legs. He stuttered when he said hello and stood outside apologizing for coming over. Doug acted as if Marco’s visit was the most natural thing in the world. He took the beer, complained that it was cheap, that it was too warm to drink, then suggested that they go out and get something to drink.
They drove to the sports bar on the edge of Coconut Grove where a couple of Doug’s soccer buddies were watching an Olympic basketball game on the big screen. They called Marco a wimp. They didn’t mention Marybeth. This was how they talked when they were drunk, and Marco agreed with them—he was a wimp. He bought a round of Heinekens and after the game they threw darts for a couple of hours. By midnight they were too drunk to drive and rather than call a cab, they decided to walk.
Halfway home, Marco began to cry. Apologizing, but mostly crying, he repeated over and over how he had ruined their friendship. Under the bright lights of the EasyKwik liquor store, Doug stopped and punched Marco in the face.
“You ruined my marriage,” Doug reminded him. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t,” Marco said. “I wasn’t thinking at all.” Doug punched him again.
Marco’s nose was broken, but the doctor at the Coral Gables Emergency Clinic wouldn’t treat Marco until he sobered up, so Doug and Marco spent the rest of night on the bench outside the hospital. The sliding glass doors kept opening, throwing light onto the sidewalk, and neither of them slept. The next d
ay Marco moved his things over to Doug’s. He still didn’t have a car, and he didn’t want to ask anyone for help. The afternoon was warm, and his bags were difficult to carry. He stopped at every street corner, as if obeying the stop signs, to catch his breath. The brown shopping bags were ripping. A kid on a bicycle rode past and Marco called out and asked him for help. He promised him five dollars if he helped him get his things over to Key Biscayne. The kid agreed, but when they got to the condo, Marco realized he didn’t have any cash. The six-pack of beer was still in the refrigerator and Marco gave him that instead.
Marybeth’s stay at Marco’s brother’s became awkward after Marco left. She knew she should leave; she should never have moved in. Her best friend lived with her boyfriend in a small apartment in Coral Gables. They had terrazzo floors that smelled of mildew, and she told herself she was waiting for another plan, anything to avoid going there.
Some people thought Marybeth would start something with Marco’s brother. She certainly didn’t seem to be picky. But Marco’s brother was dating a second-semester freshman from the University of Miami. A tall, blond girl, she was the ninth or tenth alternate on the U.S. Olympic diving team. She didn’t make the cut for Barcelona, but she was only eighteen years old and Atlanta in ’96 was something to look forward to.
Marybeth slept until ten o’clock most mornings. She was not tired, but she wanted to avoid Marco’s brother. She couldn’t, however, avoid the note he left on the kitchen counter. It was polite, full of apology, but the message was clear—he wanted her to move out. She could leave the key under the large flat rock in the front flower garden. “P.S.,” the note said. “Take a day or two if you need to make arrangements.”
Marybeth straightened the guest room. She made the bed, carefully fluffing the pillows, tightly tucking the sheets into the box spring. She packed her two bags and sat down to write Marco’s brother a thank-you note for letting her stay there the last three weeks.
Outside she waited for the taxicab, making certain to leave the key in the flower garden. A lizard scooted out when she picked up the flat wet stone. She watched it slither away, then stuck the key in the ground.
The taxi was late, and while she was waiting she decided that she would go to the airport. She could fly to Maine and stay with her older brother and his wife. Maine, a long way from Miami, was a good place to be while she thought about her next move. She could charge the airline ticket to her American Express account—she and Doug still shared an account. Doug would get the bill, and though she planned to mail him the money to cover the flight, the bill would be a way of letting him know where she was. Marybeth called her brother from a noisy pay phone at the airport. They couldn’t hear each other that well, but she told him she and Doug were having problems and that she needed a place to stay. “By all means,” her brother shouted. “We’d be thrilled to have you. Stay as long as you like.” Marybeth felt much better after her conversation with her brother—her mood was almost festive. A one-way ticket to Boston with connections to Portland in hand, she went into the small, smoky bar near her gate and ordered a beer. This was the happiest she had been in days. The bartender refused to charge her for the drink. “It’s on the house,” he insisted.
Marybeth left some money under her empty glass, but the bartender gave it back.
“What I really want is your phone number,” he said. He had large gray eyes. His hair was combed away from his forehead and held in place with a generous amount of styling gel.
That money was the only cash Marybeth had. She told him she was a tourist, without any real plans to be back this way. She waved good-bye and hurried over to the gate where the attendants had already made several announcements, urging the Boston-bound passengers to board the aircraft.
Marco had become friendly with the woman who slept in the lounge chair while her kids played in the pool. She was a single mother—a nonworking woman who collected large child support checks from her ex-husband. Marco was surprised to find out that she didn’t live in the condominium complex—she certainly used the pool more than any of the other tenants. She rented a bungalow down the street that didn’t have a front yard, much less a pool. Marco had asked her out a couple of times, and she laughed as if she found this proposal hysterical. He didn’t know what this was supposed to mean, so he was silent and watched her laugh. Finally she told him that she was giggling because she smoked a joint every morning before coming down to the pool.
“What about your kids?” he asked. “What if they run into some trouble in the water?”
“I can’t swim,” she told him. “Stoned or not, I wouldn’t be able to help them.”
“But you’re their mother.” Marco found her attitude extremely casual—and he was no longer sure he wanted to date her.
“Being a mother doesn’t make me less terrified of the water,” she told him. She crossed her legs Indian-style and used the side of her thumbnail to rub the berry stains off the back of her thighs. It was a provocative move, and Marco was attracted to her all over again.
“Besides,” the woman told him. “Look at them. They’re great swimmers.”
The kids were good swimmers. Still, Marco didn’t think it was a good idea to let them swim without supervision. He became a self-appointed lifeguard and kept a hawk’s gaze on the kids when they were in the pool. He made them take half-hour time-outs where they would lie on their towels or on their multicolored floating raft.
It was during one of these time-outs when the police came by the condominium to put up the evacuation notices. Marco was at the soda machine trying to buy Cokes for everybody when the police car pulled into the parking lot. The red and blue lights were flashing, but there was no siren. Marco put some coins in the slot and selected the Coke button. Nothing moved. He tried the other buttons, but nothing came out, not even his quarters when he pushed the change return. A policeman called him over, and Marco walked gingerly across the pavement. There was no shade and the heat scorched his bare feet.
“We’re evacuating for Andrew.” The policeman cupped his hands over his mouth as if he was speaking through a megaphone. Marco was confused. Marco thought the cop was talking about the scandal with Prince Andrew and his wife. The duchess had recently been photographed topless with her new American male friend, and the scandal was splashed on the cover of every magazine and newspaper.
“Hurricane Andrew,” the policeman told him. “They named the tropical depression two days ago.” He spoke of the storm as if he were already familiar with it—as if he already knew what kind of damage it was going to do. The sky was a light gray color, it looked like it might rain, but a destructive storm didn’t seem possible.
“No heroics,” the policeman told Marco. “No macho stuff like trying to stay through the storm. It’s going to be the big one, and we don’t want to have to come through here picking up the bodies. If we find you here after midnight, we’ll arrest you.”
Marco, suddenly full of purpose, went back to the pool, eager to explain the situation to the woman. But she and the kids were gone. He called her name and listened to the echo of his voice as it bounced off the high-rise. They had vanished, taking with them every one of their neon-colored floating devices.
The National Guard moved into Miami immediately after the storm. The majority of the troops were sent south of the city to neighborhoods hit the hardest. But others lined the streets in Coconut Grove, Key Biscayne, and parts of Coral Gables. They stood on every corner, dressed in camouflage uniforms, with guns slung over their shoulders. Hired to protect people’s property from looters, they were also helpful carrying cartons of water from cars to kitchens or dragging tree branches off front lawns. The water pipes in Doug’s condominium complex burst, and the building kept the storm evacuation. There was no word on when the tenants would be able to move back in, but rumor had it that the owners were not going to repair the building. It would be cheaper for them to cut their losses and simply abandon the place.
Despite the hassle crossin
g the Rickenbacker Causeway—the guards there had been ordered not to let anyone but residents with a current Florida driver’s license listing a Key Biscayne address across—Doug went out almost every evening after the storm. His apartment was ruined. Water had damaged almost all of his possessions, staining everything and leaving behind a strong mildewy odor. Still, it was interesting to come and survey things. He liked being out there with the other tenants. He liked talking about the storm with them. Doug got friendly with the National Guardsman who stood just inside the driveway near the white stone griffins at the entrance to the condominium complex. The guard was bored—there was very little protecting to do—and he told Doug that for a couple of extra bucks he’d be glad to help Doug move some of the heavy stuff out of the apartment.
Marybeth was happy in Maine with her brother and his wife. Her brother had a small house in a resort town right on the ocean. The water was too cold to swim in, and most of the people who went there for the summer were older and did not sit out in the sun, but the feeling around the place was that of a beach town. Vacationing was high on everybody’s list of things to do. Everyone had to have fun. No one watched television. No one read the newspapers. No one spoke of things they had to do. Her brother and his wife were big-time Boston lawyers. This month at the ocean was their only vacation, and they were aggressive about having a blast. There were parties, clambakes, cocktail hours every night, and although she was apprehensive about being an intruder, Marybeth was swept into the good-time atmosphere.
“This is what family is for,” her brother told her.
“Thank you,” Marybeth said. Her brother must have said something to his friends about Marybeth’s situation. People were continually approaching her and giving her their views on marriage. The women were continually giving her their opinions of men.
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