I say nothing. Behind us, the sounds of conversation begin to grow as more and more people get up with the sun. It’s becoming hotter, and I’m starting to feel a little rank and in need of a shower. Or maybe it’s the conversation that’s making me uncomfortable. Finally, I turn to Kat and give her a pathetic look.
She pulls me into a hug, laughing at my expression. “You’ll figure it out, sweetie.”
I hold her tight before we pull away. “Do you think Sin will come around?”
“Sure. Give her a little time.”
I sigh. “And what’s up with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for starters, what’s the deal with the diamond earrings?”
Her full pink mouth opens and closes. She throws a hand in the air. “They were a gift.”
“And that’s it?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
She seems irritated, but I’m not giving up on this. “If it’s that simple then why is Lindsey ready to rip them out of your head every time she sees them?”
“Sin is overprotective.”
“I’m confused. What does she think she’s protecting you from?”
“The Mad Hatter.” Saying her stepfather’s nickname usually makes Kat laugh, but her voice is flat. “She doesn’t like him.”
“Does anyone like the Hatter other than Patty?” Patty is Patricia Reynolds-Hatter, Kat’s mom. A high-powered publicist for the arts, she met the Mad Hatter when he donated a million dollars to some play she was working on. I’ve always called her Patty because Kat has always called her Patty. In fact, Kat has addressed both her parents by their first names since she was twelve, something I thought very cool when I first heard of it. Over the years, though, I’ve come to see that this habit shows a certain lack of feeling, a certain sterility in their family.
“Sin thinks he’s…well…” she trails off, finally adding, “dangerous.”
I scoff. “The Hatter? Please.” Phillip Hatter is a pompous, overeducated man with too much money and too much time on his hands, but he’s soft and harmless as a basset hound, as far as I can tell.
Kat shoots me a look.
“What? What happened?”
She brings a fist to her face, lightly tapping her mouth with it. All at once, I get a sinking feeling in my chest.
“What is it?” I say, more demanding now.
Still she won’t speak.
I take her hand, moving it away from her face. “Kat, what’s wrong?”
“He hit on me. Sort of.”
I blink a few times, caught surprised. “What does ‘sort of’ mean?”
Another shrug. “He kind of attacked me.”
“Kat! My God!” I say, completely shocked now.
“It’s no big deal.” She gives a mini shrug of her shoulders.
“No big deal? Are you kidding? He’s known you since you were a little girl.” Then a worse thought hits me. “Has this happened before?”
“No,” she says, her voice firm.
“So what exactly happened?”
She leans lower over the railing, staring at the water that’s churning against the side of the boat. “I stayed with them one night. We’d gone out for Patty’s birthday.”
“It was your mom’s birthday? His wife’s birthday, and he hit on you? The sick fucking bastard!”
She sends me a look to shut up.
“Okay,” I say. “Keep going.”
“I stayed because Patty and I were going shopping in the morning. I was asleep for an hour at least when I felt the covers being pulled back. I opened my eyes, and there was the Hatter.” She laughs, but it sounds brittle. “He had a robe on, this ugly silk thing he calls a ‘dressing gown,’ but it was open and…” Her voice dies way.
“He had nothing else on?”
“Nope.”
“And was he…?”
She nods.
“Oh, God.” The thought of the Hatter naked with an erection is not a pleasant one. Under different circumstances, it might even be funny.
“Yeah, I got to see the real Hatter.” Kat laughs that dry laugh again. “And then he lunged and grabbed me.”
I gasp. “Jesus. What then?”
“He was putting his hands all over me.” She shivers. “I was so surprised, it took me a minute to react, but then I kneed him, and that took care of the hard-on.”
“He left?”
She nods. “He ran out of the room holding his balls.”
She hunches over the railing, like she’s trying to protect her body from assault, or the memory of his, I suppose.
I reach out my hand and rub her back, not knowing what else to do. I can feel her ribs through her thin T-shirt. “So the earrings were a peace offering?”
She turns her face to me and nods.
“Why would you wear them, though, if they’re from the Hatter?”
“Well, they’re gorgeous for one thing, but mostly because I want to turn it around. I want to feel like I got the good end of that experience. And I did, don’t you think?”
“Not really, Kat. It’s fucked up, and it probably messed with you.” The Hatter has never been the epitome of good stepparenting, but he has held a fatherlike role for over a decade.
“Oh, hell no.” She wriggles away from my arm. “Like I said, no big deal.”
“It’s a very big deal.” I begin to wonder if this has something to do with the overly affectionate kissing of Poster Boy at the table or fooling around with Guiseppe in front of me. Neither of those incidents were completely uncharacteristic of Kat, but they seemed a bit irrational, a bit over the top even for her.
“It’s really nothing,” Kat says.
“Well, you told your mom, didn’t you?”
Her body tenses. She shakes her head.
“Kat!”
I wonder for a second if she’s going to tear up, but she only shakes her hair away from her face and over one shoulder, a five-star, supermodel hair flip if I ever saw one, but these things come naturally to Kat. “I really don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she says.
“I think you need to.” This is true. I can’t believe the Hatter attack wouldn’t have completely freaked her out.
“No,” she says, and I can tell by the set of her mouth that she won’t go further down this road. “Not right now.”
Still I try one more time. “You’re sure?”
“Discussion over,” she says.
Waving to the German kid, who’s waiting for her like a forlorn kitten, she swivels around and walks away from me.
10
“Ios!” calls a heavily accented voice over a static-filled intercom. “Next port—Ios! All out for Ios!” A jumble of incomprehensible Greek follows.
With this, more than half of the ship’s travelers sling bags over their shoulders, roll up their sleeping bags, and gather their friends. With the combination of sun, humidity and the ship’s engine exhaust, the heat is oppressive. My arms are heavy and lethargic as I stow away my towel and sweatshirt.
Lindsey and I join the crowd shuffling to the exit, like cows being herded out to pasture. Behind us, Kat says goodbye to the German boy, who she’d flirted with the rest of the morning, avoiding my looks, making it clear that she wouldn’t discuss the Hatter business anymore.
“Did you get some rest?” I ask Lindsey. She’d spent the entire journey lying on her towel, either sleeping or reading her book.
“Yeah,” she says, smoothing her disheveled hair with her hand. “I needed it.”
She doesn’t attempt more conversation, so we fall silent. I want to be annoyed with her, but I’m stuck on the image of the Mad Hatter in all his glory, pouncing on poor Kat. It’s got to be eating at her. I mean, men of all ages and walks of life have always hit on Kat. That, I’m sure, she’s used to. But her stepfather? How can she even think of wearing those earrings? And how could she not tell her mom? It’s not that Patty and Kat are particularly tight. They’ve always been more like occasional girlfrien
ds than mother and daughter, but certainly Patty should know the man she’s living with. I want to get Sin’s take on it, but whether she’ll ever talk to me again is a whole other issue.
As we step off the ferry and onto the cement dock, I squint into the sunlight. Brown-skinned families rush forward to meet passengers. A gorgeous blonde in a sarong and pink bikini pushes through the crowd, throwing herself into the arms of a tall man, wrapping her legs around his waist.
At the end of the dock, people are lunching and lounging under umbrellas in a handful of unassuming cafés. Above them, the island is dirt-brown and mountainous, a sprinkling of pristine white buildings and a few broccoli-like clumps of green trees thrown in for good measure. One road winds up the island’s craggy terrain, making S curves until it disappears without a hint of what’s over the edge.
“Hey, girls!” we hear. “Over here!”
A few hundred feet away, the Irish boys are waving furiously, looking much more rested than we.
As we make our way over to them, we’re accosted by hostel and hotel owners. They grab our arms and shove placards in front of our faces, showing shellacked photos of their establishments.
“Stay here, ladies!”
“Best place on the island.”
“Free breakfast every day!”
Kat stops to view a brochure being held by a tiny, deeply tanned woman of about forty. The woman sends a gloating look at the other hotel people, who hesitate only a second before rushing off to tackle other hopefuls exiting the ship.
“Look how beautiful,” the little woman purrs to Kat, wielding tantalizing pictures of sand and surf. “We only one kilometer from beach.” She begins to run down the prices for the different rooms she has available, waxing poetic about how clean, how beautiful her place is compared to the other hotels in town, which she calls “slums.”
“You understand?” she says. “We best on island.”
Kat points to a picture of a lovely room with French doors and a woman sitting on a balcony, a dreamy look on her face. I’m sure this photo bears little resemblance to the actual rooms they’re selling, and I’m about to say so, when we hear the Irish guys calling us.
“No, no,” Billy says, jogging to meet us. “We told you—we’ve got a place for you girls.”
“Okay,” Lindsey chirps and, without a moment’s hesitation, lets him lead her away. I notice how good-looking Billy is, his lean legs stretching out of khaki shorts. Maybe Lindsey will lighten up if they get together. A little action might put her in a good mood for a change. Better than Prozac, Kat always says.
“I’m sorry,” Kat says to the woman, who looks dejected. “I guess we already have somewhere to stay.”
“Thanks,” I mumble to the lady, wondering if I should tip her or something.
Kat moves toward the Irish guys, and the woman sends me a nasty look before she sprints toward some new prospects, leaving me standing alone. What are we getting ourselves into? I wonder. Do these guys expect us to make like couples? Three of them, three of us. How convenient. They seem innocuous enough, but our trip has taken such a sharp turn at their direction, something that makes me very nervous. Billy is the only one who I find attractive, but I can tell Lindsey likes him. Johnny and Noel are both cute enough in their own way. Johnny with his shocking red hair and impish grin. Noel looks like a stocky rugby player, all muscles and brief limbs. Certainly none of them measures up to Francesco’s smoldering grace. And what do I care, anyway? I had my little fling in Rome, my little indiscretion. Now I’m done with foreign boys. The rest of my trip is devoted solely to relaxation. I vow to be chaste until I get back to John.
I trudge over to the group, feeling my back grow wet with sweat where the pack rests against it. Kat and Sin are talking and laughing with the Irish boys as if they’ve all known each other for years. No one takes notice of my arrival, and I have a flicker of that picked-last-in-gym-class feeling.
“Spiros should be here any minute,” Noel says. “We called weeks ago and told him when we’d arrive.”
“Exactly who is Spiros?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant and join in the conversation, but the question comes off snippy. The heat is getting to me.
“Oh, he’s great!” says Johnny Red, as I’ve decided to call him. “You’ll love him. He runs the Sunset—the place we’re staying at.”
I look at the girls. Kat is glancing around at the cafés, no doubt doing reconnaissance, searching for her next victim. Lindsey lets Billy slide her backpack off her shoulders. She smoothes her hair again, flashing him a smile that must feel alien to her mouth. I’m obviously not going to get any help from them in finding out about this Sunset place. Before I can press for details, a robust bearded man in shorts, thong sandals and a purple T-shirt pads up to us.
“Spiros!” the Irish boys cry out, clapping him on the back like a soldier returned from war.
We’re introduced to Spiros, who doesn’t say much other than, “Welcome to the island, friends.”
Noel asks if he can spare a room for us, and Spiros beams a large smile, nodding magnanimously.
“Sixteen thousand drachmas,” Spiros says. “We give you breakfast and dinner. Beers you pay for.” He chuckles, pointing to the Irish guys, who all guffaw and start the backslapping again. “Four hundred drachmas for the beers.”
I do the math in my head to figure that the room is the equivalent of $40.00 American, and each beer will run us an inexpensive $1.00. My concern about the Irish guys and this new place called the Sunset is replaced by a reminder of the thirty thousand dollars in student loans I have to pay off. It doesn’t take me long to decide that cheap is better.
“Sounds good,” I say to Spiros.
He holds out his large, tanned mitt of a hand, and I shake it.
Spiros leads us to a shabby looking pickup truck and tosses all of our luggage in the back, motioning for us to climb in. The pickup speeds up the road I’d seen from the port. I clutch the metal frame of the truck’s sides, willing myself not to be catapulted out as Spiros screeches around hairpin turns, raising a veil of dust around us. He reduces his speed as we reach the top of the hill and what is, apparently, the main village of the island. Little trinket stores, pubs and souvlaki stands dot the small space. They’re separated only by tiny, twisting sidewalks cutting up another hillside to our left, leading past white, flat-roofed houses and ending at a domed church on what looks to be the island’s highest peak. Spiros continues on the road, skirting the village, and then begins a steady drop past scrubby brush, the occasional rounded cement house, and a few campsites littered with worn tents. I see the water again as we make a steep decline to the other side of the island, a sparkling expanse of luminescent blue.
“Sin,” Kat says when the truck slows around a particularly harrowing turn. “Doesn’t this remind you of Monterey a bit?”
Lindsey nods, holding on to a stack of bags for support. “It looks like that hill by that bar with the great margaritas.”
“Exactly!” Kat says.
“When were you guys in Monterey?” I ask, trying to keep the gym-class disappointment out of my voice.
Their smiles subside.
“A few months ago,” Kat says. “Steve took us for my birthday.”
“Oh,” I say. Steve is Dr. Steven Monahan, Kat’s orthopedic surgeon father, a superfit, supersuccessful guy who likes to think he’s still twenty-one. In my opinion, this doesn’t make for a good dad, what with the heavy drinking and the late nights at the bars, but it can be a hell of a lot of fun when it’s a friend’s dad. I can’t help but think of all the events I used to be invited to with Steve and Khaki, his outgoing, outrageous third wife, who’s much closer to our age than his.
“It was the weekend you had to go to that wedding in Cleveland,” Kat says with a shrug.
“Oh, right,” I say, struck by opposing images in my head. On one hand, Sin and Kat sip huge margaritas at a chic outdoor bar, warm coastal winds blowing through their hair. At the other end of the sp
ectrum, John and I sit at a round folding table in a VFW hall while the deejay leads the crowd through a frantic version of the chicken dance. It was the first weekend in forever that we’d been able to get away together. Sure it was Cleveland, not Monterey, but I’d envisioned long walks, three-hour lunches with numerous bottles of wine, and John sweeping me around a candlelit dance floor. It hadn’t quite worked out that way. We had long walks, but only to and from the VFW hall, since John had booked late and the main hotel was already full. And we’d had an extended lunch that Saturday, yet it was due to the piles of work John had brought with him. So I’d forgotten the wine, pulled out my civil procedure notes for the bar exam and studied. There were no heartfelt talks, only the sound of pages being turned, the occasional cough.
Of course, the whole weekend wasn’t a total loss. John sensed I was unhappy, and when we got home, he made me a meal of grilled chicken with angel-hair pasta and poured me a glass of chardonnay. We made love that night, and I got lost in it, forgetting myself and my life for as long as possible, which was all I wanted to do that weekend, anyway.
A pothole in the road rattles the pickup truck, wrenching me away from my thoughts.
Kat catches my eye and mouths the word, “Sorry.”
I wave a hand, shake my head and say, “Don’t worry about it,” and I mean it. Kat probably had enough on her mind at the time. She’d just been pounced on by the Hatter.
The road turns dusty again, and after a few more turns, the truck lurches to a stop in front of a large cement building, very blocky in appearance. It’s painted white, like all the others on the island, but it has a wooden door that’s fire-engine red. Spiros gets out and yells something in Greek. Immediately, the red door opens and six children, ranging in age from about four to thirteen, race outside. They remind me of the Von Trapp family, although not as well dressed. The kids smile at us shyly, open the back of the pickup and pull our bags out. I want to stop them, thinking that there’s no way some child can carry my massive pack. But they’ve obviously done this before, the smaller ones sharing a load, each taking one end, the older ones dragging two bags at a time.
Burning the Map Page 9
