He was still alive, in fact. He lived in a gloomy apartment and was cared for by an immense woman named Nancy, who believed, thanks to a diet of booze and prescription drugs, that Beverly’s grandfather had money and that she would be rewarded handsomely at the time of his death. Beverly went over for dinner sometimes, and she and her grandfather fought bitterly. That was about the only fun the old man ever had these days.
The young people in white shirts wanted quite a bit of money for a family membership at the Y, but Beverly didn’t blink an eye, she ponied up, writing cheques that emptied both her accounts, making up the shortfall from money she’d collected in the Dream Jar. As soon as they received their picture IDs, Beverly asked about swimming lessons. Oh, they said, you want to talk to Steve.
Steve appeared, a tall, tanned young man. He had a swimmer’s body and a nice smile. Arrangements were made to give Margaret swimming lessons on Thursday evenings and Sunday afternoons. Beverly thought that was inadequate, but there were no more openings. Steve told her not to worry, Margaret could always come to free swims and practice.
After the third lesson, Steve delivered Margaret into Beverly’s hands and asked her if she wanted to go out on a date. Beverly was flattered, if for no other reason than Steve was a lot younger than she was (by almost nine years, as things turned out).
Steve was a nice guy. He was a good listener, nodding with sympathy, never interrupting, twisting his head so that he might hear better. At first Beverly thought there was something wrong with one ear, but she noticed over time that Steve was as likely to twist his head one way as the other. Water, she realized. His ears were always plugged with pool water.
Here’s how nice a guy he was: On their third date, she began to speak of her early childhood, of Gerald and Brenda. It was the only time Steve ever cut her off. “Oh yeah, right,” he said. “Some guys told me about that. Weird, huh?” Then he resumed carving up his steak. You, young man, thought Beverly, are having big sex tonight.
Margaret started campaigning for marriage very early in the courtship. And Beverly didn’t quash the girl’s dreams. She only said, “We’ll see what happens,” or, “Give it time, give it time.”
There were a few weeks that were as good as mother and daughter ever knew. Except for the actual swimming lessons part. Steve told Margaret to forget all about her idiosyncratic swimming style. She did so immediately. The first thing she seemed to learn was how to sink to the bottom of the pool in a very alarming fashion. Beverly mentioned this to Steve, before any of the dating, and he only said, “Don’t worry.”
Steve always said Don’t worry. He didn’t worry about anything himself, and he didn’t truly comprehend that other people might. So, for example, when he and Beverly first had sex, Steve pushed her back onto the mattress and whispered, “Don’t worry.” He offered no explanation as to why she shouldn’t worry, if he was sterile or prescient or if he intended that they should wed or what.
But Beverly did worry, about a lot of things, especially the damned undertow. Week after week, Beverly watched the pool through a huge window in the YMCA’s lobby. Margaret’s crawl was a childish dog-paddle, her limbs crooked, her head bobbing above the surface. Steve attempted to teach her the breaststroke, but Margaret’s arms, twig-thin and rubbery, could not lift her upper body, and her kick propelled her toward the bottom like a tiny pink submarine.
As time passed, the world outside turned naked and cold. Inside the YMCA it was perpetually subtropical, but Beverly drove through all sorts of hellish weather so that Margaret would not be taken by the undertow. Once, Beverly drove her daughter through an early season storm that was actually responsible for three deaths. She didn’t even think about it, just drove through the wind and ice toward the YMCA.
THE PIRATE’S LAIR was a long room adjacent to the dining area, with large windows that looked out on the leeward side of Dampier Cay, the little cove where three small craft were moored. After dinner, people drifted into it, Maywell Hope first, because he did duty as bartender. He was surprised to find Lester at the bar, his golden hands folded together as though he were trying to hide the bottle of beer there. Maywell stopped and stared at Lester for a long moment. Then he threw open the hinged leaf, stepped behind and began to rinse out glasses. Finally he asked, “Did you mark that one down, Lester?”
“Yes, sir, I marked it down. I’m not a thief.”
Gail and Sorvig came in next, heralded by laughter. They were animated and loud, never abandoning their hope that someplace on the damned island there was something going on. Their faces fell as they entered the lounge. They sat down at a little table and asked Maywell, a bit petulantly, if he knew how to mix a Boston Cooler.
“No, ma’am.”
“Ma’am,” Gail repeated, half amused, half pissed off. “How’s about a Cocomacoque?”
Maywell shook his head.
Gail looked at the liquor bottles arrayed behind Maywell Hope. “Tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you just pour that top shelf into a pail?”
“I’ll make you the house specialty,” said Maywell.
“What’s it called?”
“It’s called the House Specialty, ma’am.”
“Ma’am,” chorused both girls as Maywell began to mix their drinks.
Jimmy Newton and Caldwell arrived, climbing aboard stools at the long bar. Newton pointed toward a corner of the room. “Hey. A television.”
Maywell glanced up from his drink preparations. “True,” he said. “That’s what it is.”
“You know what’s amazing?” said Jimmy Newton. “You hit the little button that says power there, the screen fills up with all these dots of light, and they actually form images.”
“Here at the Water’s Edge, sir, we encourage conversation.”
“You encourage conversation?”
“Uh-yuh,” Maywell grunted. “That I do.”
Polly appeared, reached behind the bar to retrieve a rag and immediately began wiping the table where the girls sat. Sorvig told her, “He won’t let us watch television.”
Polly looked at the man behind the bar. “May?”
“It’s the first night,” said Maywell, slapping two house specialties on the bar before him. “Everyone’s supposed to get to know each other. What can I get you to drink?” he demanded of Newton and Caldwell.
“Beer,” answered Jimmy.
“What kind?”
“I don’t care. I’ll try the local donkey piss.”
“If the guests want to watch television …” began Polly.
“There’s never anything on the television but foolishness,” argued Maywell. “It’d be best if they talked, you know. Got to know each other.”
“Where are you from?” Gail demanded of Maywell Hope.
Maywell shrugged, tugged the brim of his baseball cap lower. “Around.”
“I’m from Orillia, Ontario,” said a voice. Beverly stepped carefully over the threshold into the Pirate’s Lair.
“There you go,” said Maywell. “And what can I get you to drink?”
“I don’t drink,” said Beverly. “I’m an alcoholic.”
Lester said, “I’ll have a beer and a glass of rum.”
“You’ll have another beer, Lester, and you’ll be happy to get it.”
“What school of bartending did you go to?” wondered Sorvig.
Maywell ignored her, addressed Beverly. “Perhaps you’d like a glass of pineapple juice.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“And sir?”
Caldwell looked at the liquor bottles. “I’d take some of that single malt. With a bit of ice. Please.”
“I’m from Orillia, Ontario,” repeated Beverly, getting on the stool beside Caldwell. “Which makes me Canadian. I noticed that you have a Canadian passport.”
“Right,” said Caldwell. There was a silent moment then; everyone expected the man to say more.
“This ‘getting to know each other’ is really not working out,” commented Gail.
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br /> “Let’s turn on the TV,” said Sorvig.
“I don’t see why I can’t have a rum,” argued Lester. “Miss Polly? May I please have a small glass of rum?”
“Lester, think about all the times you’ve specifically told me not to give you any rum.”
“But I didn’t mean now, Miss Polly.”
Maywell presented Beverly with a glass of pineapple juice. She had a sip, licked her lips with appreciation and then said, “Mr. Hope, why don’t you tell us some of the fascinating history of Dampier Cay?”
Caldwell couldn’t tell if the woman was for real or not. Neither could Maywell, who spent a long moment staring into her eyes, searching for mockery or condescension. Apparently he couldn’t find any, because he shrugged and stated, “Well, it’s called Dampier Cay after William Dampier, who was sent out to sea as the Queen’s official cartographer but took up pirating as a sideline. I expect because it was fun. William Dampier and his crew, the Merry Boys.”
“Any of those pirates still around?” asked Sorvig.
Maywell nodded. “There’s some.” There was nothing in his voice to suggest that the answer was flip or ironic.
“’Cause really,” said Gail, “we’d like to meet one.”
“All the guys where we work are tweezoks,” said Sorvig. “A pirate sounds just about right.”
“A pirate,” said Gail, “wouldn’t freak and fuck off just ’cause of a storm on the way.”
“Amen to that,” intoned Sorvig. They raised their glasses and clinked them together.
“Let me guess,” said Beverly, aiming a finger at Maywell Hope. “You’re a Merry Boy. Your, what, great-great-great-great-great-grandfather … ?”
Maywell shrugged. “Something like that.”
“… sailed with this William Dampier. That is fascinating.”
“Perhaps.” Maywell was noncommittal. “The Merry Boys took wives from the islands, you know, which is why there are so many coffee-with-cream-coloured, like Lester. What’s interesting is that I have no black blood in me. My great-great-whatever-grandmother must have come on the ship with Dampier.”
“Sailing around on a ship full of pirates,” said Gail. “That sounds just about right.”
Beverly spun around on her stool. “What do you two do?” she asked.
“What we do is—” began Gail.
“—work for a cable network,” finished Sorvig.
“Planet Man, it’s called.”
“Yeah, only we call it Planet Dickhead.”
No one understood what the girls were talking about, so no one said anything for a few moments.
“It’s a television network,” Sorvig said, “for guys.”
Gail continued, “It’s got sports and shows where dick-heads talk about sports, and late at night it’s got movies with a lot of tits and ass and stuff.”
“No actual sex, though,” mentioned Sorvig.
“No,” Gail agreed. “Dickheads don’t seem to fuck.”
“That,” said Beverly emphatically, “has not been my experience.”
Everyone laughed except Beverly, who had confused herself by saying something unexpected and bitter. She waved at the television set suspended from the ceiling and said, “What the hey, let’s watch the boob tube.”
Maywell Hope shook his head. “Nothing on but trash.”
“Listen,” Jimmy Newton addressed Maywell, “if you’re worried about what they’ll say about the hurricane—”
“I’m not worried about it.”
“—don’t worry about it,” Newton finished.
“I don’t see the sense in worrying other people,” said Maywell.
“What will be, will be,” said Lester.
“Be quiet, Lester. Save it for one of your sermons.”
“She’s deflecting,” Newton said.
“It’s coming,” Lester whispered, draining the last of his beer and raising a hand in holy testimony. “The Lord hurled a great wind upon the sea, and there was a mighty tempest on the sea.”
“Just what you want,” muttered Gail, “when you’re on vacation.”
“Take me up and throw me into the sea!” shouted Lester. “Then the sea will quiet down for you; for I know it is because of me that this great tempest has come upon you.”
“That’s enough, now,” cautioned Maywell.
“And the Lord appointed a great fish to swallow up Jonah; and Jonah was in the belly of the fish three days and three nights. But,” said Lester, “that’s aside the point.”
“There is no storm coming, Lester.”
“There is goddam so, Maywell Hope!” Lester protested, striking the bar top, making glasses bounce the length of it. “And if you had been on the island before, instead of larking off fornicating, you’d know that a storm is coming. Because you’d be able to feel it, like I feel it.”
“You feel it, do you?”
“I feel it all around me, yes, sir. I feel the awesome power and fury of our Lord God. May I please have some rum?”
“The point is,” said Jimmy Newton, “as far as I can tell, Claire’s gonna miss this island. I could tell you more if I could get any of my damn phones to work. Hey! Do you have a two-way radio?”
“Aye.” Maywell took a step backwards and opened some cupboard doors. “There you go.”
Jimmy Newton stared with amazement. “What the fuck is that?”
“That’s a radio,” stated Maywell.
“Where’d you get it, from a museum?”
“That’s a radio,” Maywell insisted.
“Yeah, a fricking crystal radio. Jeez. We could listen to Ted Mack’s Amateur Hour on that pile of shit.”
“It works fine,” said Maywell, flipping a toggle switch. The radio was moulded out of Bakelite. Glass tubes sprouted from it, each containing a tiny flower of thin wire. Maywell waited for a moment or two, but nothing happened. “Hold on,” he remembered, and he reached underneath the bar and brought up the cardboard box that Lester had held cradled in his hands on the plane. Maywell took a knife and cut through the clear packing tape, pulled out some Styrofoam peanuts and tossed them away. He gingerly removed a tube and examined it closely, especially the socket end, where there was a rather complex arrangement of prongs. “It will work fine,” he declared, “as soon as I put this in.”
Beverly asked, “Mr. Hope, if you never believed the hurricane was coming, why did you send Lester to Florida to pick that up?”
By way of answer, Maywell raised his eyebrows and tilted his head ever so slightly toward Polly. She was just straightening up—she had joined Maywell behind the bar to sort through some invoices—and she caught him doing this. “Well,” Polly announced, “nothing is more important than the comfort and safety of my guests. And that’s what Maywell believes too. Isn’t it, May?”
Hope nodded grimly.
Polly suddenly kissed him on the cheek. “Which is why,” she said, “he’s going to turn on the television now.”
“All right, all right, we’ll see what’s what.” Maywell picked up a blocky remote control, aimed it at the set and pressed the power button. Then he began to plow through the frequencies, the screen lighting with image and then collapsing into grey static between stations. There were flashes of baseball players, women in bathing suits, a man putting some small, furry animal into his mouth. “What was that?” wondered the girls.
Maywell Hope set the remote control aside when he saw a map of the Caribbean. A line cut across the screen. The line was solid on the right side, and in the middle was a little symbol showing that Hurricane Claire was currently well out at sea. A broken-lined projection of the storm’s path extended from the symbol.
“What did I tell you?” said Jimmy Newton to Caldwell. “We ought to be in Cuba.”
“Shit,” said Beverly.
“What did I tell you?” demanded Maywell Hope. “You see that, Lester?”
“I see a map and some lines,” Lester answered.
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Sorvig.
“Although there’s still no guys around here,” said Gail, and with that the girls polished off their drinks and said good night.
“Okay,” said Jimmy Newton, climbing down from his bar stool. “I guess I’ll go figure out how to get off of this damn island.”
“I think you should just settle in, sir,” Maywell called after him. “This island’s hard to get off of at the best of times.” He looked at Beverly and Caldwell. “You people must be disappointed.”
Both shrugged, although for different reasons. Any larger action would have been too much for Beverly—her anger would overspill. Caldwell had no other reaction. His emotions were not available to him, in much the same manner as cable television is not available on the Galapagos Islands.
“But there’s many delights to be had on Dampier Cay,” Maywell continued, sounding like the chair of the chamber of commerce—which, as hard as it may be to believe, was a position he held. “For example, snorkelling. Or deep-sea fishing. But perhaps Dampier Cay’s main claim to fame is its bonefish. Do either of you people fish?”
Caldwell nodded. “That’s what I do.”
“I used to fish with my grandfather,” Beverly said. “That is, I spent hours sitting in a boat with him, threading pieces of worm onto the hook. Sometimes, though, when he got too drunk, I’d take over and fish.”
“Dampier Cay happens to be home to the finest guide in the world. Not to mention the All-island Fly-fish Champion twelve out of twenty years.” Maywell puffed out his bony chest to display the likeness on his T-shirt. “Bonefish Maywell, that’s me.”
“Well, then,” said Caldwell, “let’s do a little fishing.”
“Yeah, let’s,” Beverly said.
“We’d have to leave early in the morning,” warned Maywell. “High tide’s at first light.”
“I don’t care what time we leave,” said Caldwell. “It really makes no difference to me.”
Galveston Page 7
