by Randy Salem
"What else does he do?" Chris asked with disarming innocence.
Dizz hesitated for just a second. “I’ll ignore that remark," she said.
Dizz, Chris appreciated, was in rare good humor. It would not be safe to test it too far. But the bourbon or something had given her a sneaky courage. She decided to push on.
"Well," she said, "I thought maybe he does card tricks or parlor magic or some such thing that might bring him down to my level of comprehension."
Dizz turned to look at her, a puzzled frown on her beautiful face.
Chris remained serenely calm.
"Darling," Dizz said quietly, "have I made a faux pas? Should I go stand in the corner or something?" She was trying hard to be flip, but there was a slight tremor in the lower lip.
Chris saw it and was immediately consumed by guilt. What a lumbering ass she was, to take Dizz when she was happy about something and make her wretched. Sometimes months went by before Dizz got excited about anything.
"Honey," she said smilingly, "you know better than to listen to anything I say when I'm annoyed.”
“Annoyed about what?"
“Myself, for getting drunk. You go off and leave me for an afternoon and I behave like a child. Do all kinds of stupid things." At the moment she almost believed what she heard herself saying.
"But what on earth have you done?" Dizz asked, a little worriedly.
For ten seconds Chris tottered on the brink of confession. Then she said, "What doesn't matter. Just that I'm ;ling especially proud of myself."
Dizz breathed a sigh of relief. "Well," she said, "It probably wasn't anything you haven't done before.”
Chris looked at her closely, searching for the hidden barb behind the words. It was not often that Dizz spoke of her activities without condemning them. But she could find no malice on the gorgeous face.
Chris relaxed and laughed. "Sometimes you scare me, miss," she said. She pulled Dizz closer and hugged her affectionately. "And, honey, I didn't mean to pick on you. Or on George."
"I know, darling. And I didn't mean to babble on like that." She kissed Chris lightly on the cheek. "But let's forget about George."
"Gladly," Chris said. "How about a hot cup of coffee? I could use it."
Dizz crawled out from under the blanket and stooped to pick up the cup. "Would you like something to eat, darling? I've got some chicken and an apple pie in the refrigerator."
Chris put a hand to her aching head. "Oh, baby, don't mention food to me. I'll probably never eat again."
"That I doubt," Dizz said from the kitchen. She came back a few minutes later with two full cups and handed one to Chris.
Chris downed the strong black coffee in three gulps. "Thanks," she said.
Dizz handed her the second cup. "Dessert," she smiled.
Chris took a sip from the second cup of coffee. Her head was beginning to calm down. A few more minutes and she'd be feeling alive again.
Dizz moved Chris' clothes off the chair and carried them into Chris' room. She took her dress into her closet and hung it on a hanger behind the door. She was humming happily to herself and the smile on her face was from her heart.
Chris lay on the couch, watching her and pleased that her woman, for whatever reason, was in a light mood. At moments like this, rare as they were, she knew she was the luckiest person in the world to possess this woman.
Dizz came back into the living room. "I don't mean to be a spoil sport, honey," Dizz said. "But have you finished that article I was supposed to remind you about?"
Chris stared at her blankly for a moment, then sat bolt upright. "My God, I forgot all about it," she said. "You were supposed to remind me a week ago."
“I forgot," Dizz admitted.
They both laughed.
Chris stood up unsteadily and started toward her bedroom. "Look, kid, I've got all the material I need. Would you mind using a little of that rusty shorthand you're always bragging about?" She looked at Dizz pleadingly. "I promised to deliver the blamed thing tomorrow." She leaned wearily against the door jamb. "And, frankly, I couldn't hit a typewriter key tonight if my life depended on it."
"You mean this morning, but I get the idea," Dizz said. "Hurry up, darling. I'll get some paper."
Chris returned with a sheaf of neatly hand-written notes. She sat down on the couch.
Dizz took a seat on the floor beside Chris and leaned a notebook on her crossed knees. She looked up at Chris, waiting for her to start.
Chris took a sip of coffee, then relaxed against the couch. She began to dictate.
It was almost six when Dizz pulled the last sheet from the typewriter. Chris was stretched out on the couch, sleeping soundly. She had lasted till about five, then collapsed apologetically.
Dizz stacked the sheets neatly on the end table. She moved to the couch and smiled down at the sleeping figure.
Chris grumbled and opened her eyes when Dizz tried to lie down beside her. Then she smiled like a contented baby and opened her arms wide.
Dizz crawled in beside Chris and moved tight against her. "All finished, baby," she whispered.
"Thank you, darling," Chris whispered back. Even in her sleepy state, she felt the marvelous magic of Dizz begin to take possession of her. She buried her nose in the soft blonde hair and pressed her lips to the scalp.
Dizz stirred in her arms. She raised her mouth to Chris.
Chris held the girl close and brought her mouth down hard on the waiting lips. Their tongues met, searched. Like a whirlwind, desire grew in Chris. Her woman, lying in her arms, wanting her, wanting her, not turning away in disgust. Not stopping her eager hands.
Chris' elation knew no bounds. She had not touched Dizz like this, loved her like this, for many lonely, bitter months. She felt again the wild flow of passion she had felt that first night. Her body ached with the need to possess Dizz, to seek again the fulfillment they had never known together.
She put her lips against the soft smooth cheek.
"Dizz, darling, please," she whispered hoarsely.
"Yes, darling, yes. Love me, Chris. Love me."
For a long, long moment they were absorbed, lost in each other, oblivious of time, of the world, oblivious of everything but the moment. Then the aftermath, like the quiet after the storm. The predictable end. Dizz in the exquisite agony of frustration. Dizz staring into the darkness. And Chris alone and shivering in an exquisite agony of her own.
Lying behind Dizz, Chris put her arms around the girl's waist and bowed her head between the shoulders. Death would have been welcome at that moment.
Chris dug her teeth into her trembling lip and closed her eyes tight to hold back the tears.
CHAPTER 7
The phone rang that morning at ten.
Dizz stirred, but did not wake up.
The phone rang again and again. Finally Dizz moved an arm and pushed back the covers. She sat up and groaned. Then she reached for the phone.
Through a cottony haze Chris heard Dizz speaking to someone. She gathered the call was for her.
"Is it important, Jonathan? She's still asleep." A long pause. "All right. Hold on a minute."
Chris felt Dizz sit down on the couch beside her and tickle her ear with a fingertip. Chris swatted as though to brush away a fly.
"Chris, wake up," Dizz said sternly. "Jonathan's on the phone. I really can't figure out what he's trying to say. But he said to tell you Max is in town with something big."
"Max," Chris shouted. "Why didn't you say so?" She threw back the blanket and sat up. "Hand me the phone."
Dizz obediently did as she was told. Then she sat down on the couch, too curious not to listen.
Chris took the phone and barked into it, her voice thick with alcohol and not enough sleep. "Jonathan?" she said. "What's happening?"
"Chris, Max reached port this morning. He just called. He wants to see you. He wouldn't say much on the phone, of course." Dr. Brandt's voice rose to a shriek. "But he wants five thousand."
; Chris whistled through her teeth. "What's he got? Neptune's triton?" For five thousand, Chris thought, that's the least we should expect.
"Humpf," sniffed Dr. Brandt. ‘I wouldn't give him five thousand if he'd found Atlantis. I told him we couldn't go over five hundred. He'll take it," he said smugly.
"Okay," Chris said. "I'll see him this afternoon. Same place?”
"Yes."
"Right. I'll get in touch with you later." Chris banged down the receiver and stood up. She started toward the bathroom. "Just coffee, Dizz. I'm in a hurry."
Dizz sat looking after her in amazement. "So I see," she commented. "But you're not leaving here with a hangover and an empty stomach."
"Who's got a hangover?" Chris said from the bathroom. "I feel wonderful."
"Well, I've got one if you haven't," Dizz answered, following her into the room. She put down the lid on the toilet and sat down.
Chris turned on the hot water in the tub and nipped the handle on the stopper to "Closed". Then she turned to the sink, took a pink toothbrush from the cup holder and squeezed out a long strip of tooth paste. She brushed vigorously and rinsed her mouth.
"Well?" Dizz said.
Chris turned off the water and stuck an inquiring toe into the tub. She added a dash of cold. Without pausing to answer Dizz, she climbed in and began to work up a lather.
"Well?" Dizz said again.
"Well what?" Chris said.
"Don't be difficult. Who is Max?"
"Max is a man," Chris said.
Dizz clucked irritably. "Look, child, you never got this excited over a man in your life. Who is Max?"
Chris laughed. "Wash my back, will you?"
Dizz came and leaned over the tub. She took the wash cloth and the soap and gave the broad back a good scrub. Then she stood up.
"Well?" she said.
"Well what?" Chris answered.
"Oh, go to hell!" Dizz said and stalked out, slamming the door behind her.
Chris grinned and fished for the soap. She lathered the cloth and briskly scrubbed one long leg, then the other.
She got a secret pleasure out of deviling Dizz that way. She knew it was mostly a sadistic urge, a desire to get even. For last night and for all the other nights, she had to hit back.
Chris frowned. Even in her frustration she knew it was not right to blame Dizz. God knows, Dizz isn't happy about it, Chris thought. The way she lies there, in an agony too thick for me to penetrate. A million miles away from me and from anyone who would try to help her.
Well, she sighed, not much I can do about that. Except live with it. And love her and want her and never really have her.
Chris opened the drain and stepped out of the tub. She picked up a towel and began to dry. She had put away her problem with Dizz and turned her thoughts to Max.
I hope it's something big, she thought. Something that'll get me away from a typewriter for a while and back into the sea.
By the time she had dried herself and combed her hair, Chris was full of hope. Hope for a chance to get away for awhile, from Dizz and from George and from Carol and from herself, and back to the stillness and peace of the underwater world.
When Chris reached the kitchen, dressed and ready to go, Dizz had just finished scrambling eggs with bacon. She carried two plates from the stove to the table. "Sit down," she said.
Chris sat. "What's eating you?" she grinned.
"You make me so damned mad sometimes. What's so mysterious about a bunch of stinking sea shells?" Dizz was furious and fuming.
"Who said anything about sea shells?" Chris picked up a fork and went at the eggs hungrily.
"Shut up. Just shut up!"
Chris finished her eggs and bacon and opened a fresh pack of cigarettes. She took one out and lit it. "Now, slavey, if you'll bring me some coffee," she paused and winked at Dizz, “I’ll tell you about Max."
Dizz put a cup of coffee in front of Chris and set the pot in the center of the table. "So tell me," she said.
"Well," Chris said, reaching for the sugar, "his name is Max Petersen. Fifteen years ago he was the world's leading marine biologist. Now he's sort of a sea-going hobo." She paused to take a sip of the coffee.
"What happened?"
"He got married," Chris went on. "Six months later his wife had a miscarriage and died. It nearly finished him. He hit the skids, started drinking. For a couple of years he just sort of leeched off his friends, people he'd worked with. Then he went on the bum. For the past ten years he's been drifting around on freighters."
Dizz looked at her blankly. "And what makes this sot such a fascination to you and Jonathan?" she asked.
"He's not just a sot, Dizz. He's a genius in his field—marine biology, that is. And his special charm is that he's been responsible for some of the best finds we've made. Remember that black pearl I went after a couple of years ago?"
"Of course," Dizz said. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"He told us where to find it. He used to belong to the museum. Now he just comes around for money." Chris paused thoughtfully. "Though sometimes I think he still cares. Anyhow, he hasn't done any diving since he took up alcohol. He lost his nerve."
"And you think he's found another pearl?"
"He's found something, at any rate," Chris said.
Dizz got up and carried the dishes to the sink. She carefully avoided looking at Chris.
"Darling, does that mean," Dizz said slowly, "that you'll be going diving again?"
"It could," Chris said. "In fact, I hope so. I don't get much of a charge out of picking up shells on the beach anymore." She pushed back her chair and stood up. "Why?"
"Ever since that barracuda tried to make lunch of your leg, I've preferred to think of you diving in a quiet indoor pool," Dizz said.
Chris did not answer immediately. She was thinking of the scar on her leg and of the year she'd spent hobbling around the house. She had not forgotten the incident for one day of her life since it happened. It had nearly ended her career. And her.
Chris knew in her heart that she was as anxious as Dizz. But for a different reason. She had to find out, sooner or later, whether or not she was done for as a diver. This could be her chance.
"Dizz," Chris said, "look at me." She put her hands on the girl's shoulders and turned her around. She gazed down at her seriously. "Once you upset a pan of hot grease. You burned both hands and both thighs, and pretty badly too. Did you stop cooking?"
Dizz was silent for a long time. Then she said, "Okay, teacher, I understand the lesson for today." She looked up and smiled. "Just don't come home to me mauled."
"That's better," Chris said. "Now, I've got to get out of here."
Chris walked into the living room and picked up the typed manuscript. "I'll probably be gone all day," she said. “I have to deliver this, see Max, and then stop at the museum."
"Call me and I'll have dinner ready when you get here."
"Right." Chris gave Dizz a quick peck on the nose and started for the door. "See you later."
She left the house and turned right on Fiftieth, then right again on First Avenue. She walked rapidly, her hands deep in her jacket pockets, the manuscript under her arm. She had not worn a coat nor did she carry a purse. Her heels were flat. She was in a hurry and stripped for action.
At Fifty-Sixth she made a quick stop at the bank. When she came out, she was carrying five hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills. She folded them in a neat wad and jammed it into her inside pocket.
Then she hailed a cab.
"Forty-Sixth and Lex," she said. "Fast."
Two hours later she emerged from the offices of Marine Life irritated and beginning to suffer the first pangs of a hangover. She'd been kept waiting while Mr. Peale read, waiting while Mr. Peale conferred with Miss Macintosh, waiting while Miss Macintosh talked to Mr. Blutt, waiting while Mr. Blutt wrote out a check and gave it to Miss Macintosh who gave it to Mr. Peale who gave it to Chris. Then she had to wait for the elevator.
"Bromo," she said to the counterman.
"Bromo it is."
She swallowed the bubbles quickly, dropped a dime on the counter and went back out to the street.
She decided against a cab. Her head was in no condition. She turned west on Forty-Sixth and walked slowly toward Fifth Avenue.
People hurried all around her, bent on lunch hour shopping and business. A fat greasy woman in a yellow coat collided with her and swore at Chris over her shoulder. Chris sighed and walked a little faster.
A bus. She'd take a bus to Washington Square. The ride down Fifth was the only one in the city she could tolerate on a bus. Maybe if she closed her eyes...
She took a seat at the rear of the bus, next to the window. She rested her elbow on the window ledge and her head in her hand. The man behind her was reading the Times, folded lengthwise like you fold it hanging on to a strap in the subway. Every time the bus stopped, the edge of the paper hit her just below the neck. Stop, bump. Stop, bump.
She counted thirty-eight bumps before the bus rolled around Washington Square circle and stopped. The thirty-ninth came on schedule.
Chris walked to the ladies' room in the park. She got some paper from one of the booths, wet it at the sink, and pressed it against her eyes and her forehead. By now her head was not splitting—it had split. She took a small bottle of aspirin out of her pocket and shook out four. Then she scooped them into her mouth. She cupped her hands under the cold water, took a long drink and swallowed.
West on Fourth, south on MacDougal, west on Third, south on Sixth Avenue. Slow, walk slow, walk slow.
At the junction of Sixth, Bleecker and Carmine she went into a luncheonette and sat on a stool at the counter.
"Bromo," she said.
"Bromo it is."
She was beginning to feel about half human. It wouldn't pay to be shaky around Max. That boy was a shrewdie. He was out for money and plenty of it. You had to be with it to get what you came for.
She followed up the bromo with a cup of thick black coffee. She took her time. She raised a hand and looked at it. It was steady. When the rest of her felt the same way, she stood up.
