Sanibel Flats

by Randy Wayne White

  "My stomach's growling. But I don't feel hungry. Can you hear it growling?" Whispering, her eyes closed, Jessica had her fingers in his hair.

  "Uh-huh. Like a mariachi band. Keeps playing the same song." Her voice was deeper, huskier in the quiet after-time, and he thought of Pilar Balserio. It had been like that with her, the change in voice. He'd admired Pilar for years, wanted her the whole time, but was in bed with her only once and then back to the States. Something that intimate, and no way to hold on. It left a yearning. . . .

  "Did I scratch you? You don't need any more scratch marks, Ford."

  "Minor cuts and abrasions, that's all. Well worth it."

  "Didn't bite too hard?"

  "Um . . . nope . . . everything intact."

  "It's just that ... it was the first time it ever happened with me. That release, like they write about. I used to think they were lying ... or I was frigid. God, I thought my heart was going to stop. Like in Cosmopolitan."

  "You're not frigid. I'll sign papers."

  "You believe me . . . that it was my first? It really was."

  Ford answered, "Of course I believe you," not sure that he did, but it didn't matter.

  She was silent for a time, stroking his head. "You were mad at me last night for going to the party."

  "No. I did some work. Tomlinson came over. I went to bed early. I wasn't mad. "

  "You haven't asked me anything about it, being with Benny. Are you sure you weren't upset?"

  "That's your business, Jess, not mine."

  She touched his jaw until he turned his head to look at her. "Sometimes I don't know when you're serious or when you're not. You're the warmest listener I've ever met. But then you talk, and it's that cold act of yours. I'll tell you anything you want to know, Ford. Anything. " And sounded as if she meant it; as if she wanted him to ask her things.

  Ford said, "Tell me how Benny tried to get you in bed," not because he wanted to know, but because it seemed like a safe question.

  "You're so sure he did. I was surprised."

  "He's a former lover. He came more than a thousand miles to see you. You live alone, he was alone. Tropical night with moon. And you were surprised?"

  "Your logical mind, I forgot. We left the party early, about eleven, and he wanted to take me to his place. He just invested in a condo and he was all excited, said he wanted my opinion on how it should be decorated. I insisted he bring me home. Then he said he'd pulled a shoulder muscle or something. Executive boxing is the current fad in Manhattan; the ex-Ivy Leaguers go down to the club and slug it out over lunch. He's supposedly very good; it was an excuse for him to say he was, anyway. He wanted a massage; a rubdown, he called it. His shoulder hurt. But he had to take off his clothes to do it properly, and that's when I told him to leave. He got huffy, then he thought the he-man approach might work, force me a little. I threatened to slap him, I really did." She giggled, an odd sound of delight. "That really got him. He had already unbuttoned his shirt, and he looked so silly. He left right after that. Benny likes to show off those muscles. You two are such opposites; you and those baggy clothes. You, I had to picture in my mind; imagine. It was nice."

  Ford was thinking about Jessica's porch light, but he said, "You're talking about the painting."

  "Yes. Painting . . . from what I imagined. I hope you don't mind, Doc. I think it's the best thing I've done in a long time. But I'd do it differently now. Your back's wider, your body hair is lighter. You're nicer in real life."

  Her hands were on his back now, sliding down, searching, and Ford rolled to his side. "Are we talking about the same painting?"

  "Well . . . you have to allow me some creative latitude. Not much, though." Smiling as she found him, inspecting. "I've decided to call the piece Sanibel Flats. I thought about Littoral Zone, one of those marine biology terms. Doc—" The touching stopped now, but she was still holding him. "There's something else I need to tell you." An edge in her voice, as if she had put it off long enough.

  "Umm . . . it's getting tough to concentrate." But listening carefully.

  "I'm leaving for New York day after tomorrow. It was Benny's idea, but I think he's right. I need to circulate more. People don't just buy art, they buy the artist. There's a big show and an auction on Wednesday. It's a private show, but they'll let anyone in who looks like they have lots and lots of money. A few of my pieces are going to be included. I'll be back by Friday. Benny flew out this morning, made the reservations. I insisted on a Friday return. I just don't want you to worry about Benny and me. There's nothing there. Do you believe me?"

  Ford said, "You have no reason to lie to me, Jessi," looking for a reaction that didn't materialize. Jessica kissed him and they didn't talk anymore.

  Her nose touching the cool glass of the upstairs window, Jessica McClure watched Ford go down the porch steps, across the dark yard to the dock where moonlight broke free of the trees and showed him plainly. She liked the look of him, the shape of him and the way he moved, and when he stepped into his boat she could almost feel the weight of him on her; a good feeling both comforting and sensual, and she cultivated the feeling, reluctant to let it go, as she watched the little skiff carry him away.

  "Why don't you stay the night, Doc?" asking even though she knew his mind was made up; could tell by the methodical way he buckled his belt and found his shoes, but interested in what his excuse would be.

  "Because ... I don't want to."

  That simple. It made her smile, the honesty of it. Maybe that's what she loved in him most—his honesty, or at least his frankness; and just thinking that surprised her a little.

  What I love in him most. . . .

  She was in love with him, though she hadn't said it to him, or even admitted it to herself. In love with him . . . the way he looked, the way he felt, the way his hard hands touched softly, softly, and the way he settled onto her couch, his distant, driven expression slowly replaced by a look of contentment as she lighted the candles and put on music. He was becoming home to her, and maybe she was becoming home to him—and perhaps that's what love was.

  Jessica pulled jeans on over her panties, a baggy T-shirt, and went downstairs thinking about what it would be like to live with Ford, thinking she wasn't getting any younger, thinking of the way it might be: him out in his lab (a new lab in an old house they would buy and she would decorate) while she finished her own work, and they would take turns with the cooking (he was a good cook, that she already knew); two professionals with different work but one life, and she needed to start having children soon . . . and that was part of this new realization, that she was in love with Ford. Her biological clock was ticking away, and she needed to get started. She needed a husband. Ford liked children—he'd said so. The way he talked about those poor Indian kids in . . . Guatemala, was it? . . . hunting in the garbage dumps for food. The memory had hurt him; she could see it in his eyes. He was a strange man in a way, and his coldness sometimes frightened her, but he would be a good father. And at night, when the kids were in bed, they could sit together outside on the porch, talking about future things, things they would do together, and about their past. . . .

  Their past . . .

  The thought of that crackled through her fantasy, shearing it at the foundations and scattering it like so many leaves.

  You stupid, lonely hitch—mooning around like some soap-opera housewife.

  Why the hell didn't Ford ever ask her any questions about it? That would have made it so much easier. Would have made it seem less like a confession. But that was wrong, too, and she castigated herself: You call him out here to explain things to him, but instead you lie to him and hustle him into bed. He would have understood! He could help! Nothing surprises that man. . . .

  Jessica put the kettle on for tea, then walked back into the living room, patting each cat and whispering its name. She stood before the easel, flipped back the dust cover, and considered the painting. The wading man stared back at her, his faceless expression a pale void. She
hand-cranked the canvas higher on the easel wings and began to prepare the palette cups, the smell of gesso primer and linseed oil coming strongly from the sketch box. But then the telephone rang.

  Well, the big softy is calling to say good night.

  Smiling, she went to the phone, picked it up, and her expression changed. She said, "What do you want?" Then: "Goddamn it, Benny, I'm done with all that. No more! Absolutely not! You said we had a deal!" She listened for a time, and her voice grew dull: "Okay . . . okay . . . okay." Then she said: "Don't ever call me this late again, you son of a bitch," and slammed down the phone.

  The kettle was screaming, and she ran to the kitchen. She was trembling; she wanted to throw something, she wanted to curl up in a fetal position and bawl like a baby.

  Instead, she turned off the stove and went back to the easel, forcing a coldness upon herself, knowing that the only escape, for now, was in the oblivion of work, thinking: You've survived worse. . . .

  It was nearly 1 A.M. by the time Ford got back to the stilt house, dropping his boat off plane way early just in case the happy sea cow was around. The marina looked sleepy, all the lights shimmering and a few solitary silhouettes on the docks. He turned on the lights of the fish tank. There were the squid, back in among the rocks and the sea anemones. They looked a little pasty, lethargic. That worried him. He'd do a salinity check tomorrow. Check the oxygen content, too.

  He went upstairs, put hot water on for tea, tuned in Radio Havana, stripped off his clothes. The fresh water supply was a wooden cistern above and beside the tin roof, heated by the sun. The shower was outside on the side deck, and Ford stood under the shower lathering, rinsing, lathering again. Singing a little bit, too: "Moon River" in Spanish; good old Radio Havana. He was just reaching for his glasses when he heard a noise, someone clearing a throat. And there stood Dr. Sheri Braun-Richards, looking starched and athletic, holding one hand against her face like a blinder.

  "Hey!"

  "My gosh, I thought for sure you had a bathing suit on or something." She was laughing, not looking at him.

  "Hold it . . . I've got a towel here—" "People don't do this sort of thing in Iowa, you know. Walking around naked, singing in the middle of the night. I think there are laws against what you do in Iowa. I'm almost sure of it."

  "I just put it . . . someplace. Glasses all wet . . . wait; no, that isn't it—"

  "It's okay, it's okay, I'm a doctor." Laughing harder, coming up the stairs. "Here—here's your towel," handing him the towel. She stared directly into his eyes as Ford dried himself, amused, but a nice touch of frankness. Ford liked that. He said, "I have some clothes inside." "That's one way to keep them clean. Very innovative." "You and your friends stayed late. I was hoping I'd see you again, but I got held up." Already lying about Jessica. But he was just being friendly, he told himself, a good host, and there really wasn't any question of morality because he expected nothing from Jessica and she expected nothing from him . . . and now he was lying to himself, too.

  Dr. Braun-Richards was saying "Two of my friends went back to the hotel. Another is on the blue sailboat . . . probably for the night. For the first couple of hours, I stuck around hoping to see your lab. Then I didn't have a ride. So I've been talking to Jeth. I've heard all about you."

  Ford wrapped the towel around his waist, adjusted his glasses. "I can give you a ride. Or you can borrow my bike, my ten-speed. " Which sounded as if he were trying to get rid of her; he could see it in her face. So he added, "But, if you're not in a hurry, I could show you around. I usually stay up late working. " Which seemed to make her feel better. "Jeth told me that. He said you're like a hermit out here. All you do is work in your lab and drink a quart of beer every night. Sounds like a nice life to me, Ford. Oh yeah, he told me something else; told me several times, in fact. He said you never take any time for fun, not even women." Giving that a wry touch, aware of what Jeth was trying to do. "He said you're just too involved with your work. I admire that kind of dedication, but Jeth says you need to relax more. The people at the marina worry about you. Yes, they're very worried about you, Doc Ford."

  Jeth the matchmaker; a dangerous avocation for a man who stuttered so badly. Ford was rolling his eyes. He said, "I'm very touched," already computing his recovery needs, all considerations of morality abandoned. After the multiple sessions with Jessica, he wasn't sure his body was up to it, and it wouldn't do to disappoint a doctor. She'd diagnose some kind of structural infirmity, intellectualize it. He said, "Come on. I'll show you around," trying to buy some time.

  He did, too, and had a nice talk. Dr. Braun-Richards asked good questions, showed the right interest, had a nice way of listening; smiling, nodding, always a step ahead but willing to wait. When Ford offered again to drive her back to the motel, the doctor said, Tjn not going to be shy about this," sounding a little shy just the same. "Oh?"

  "You're going to make me say it? Okay. I'll say it. I leave for Davenport tomorrow, back to the same old routine. But tonight I'm still on vacation. Tonight I'm with a man I like; a man who doesn't live in singles' bars, wear gold chains, patronize women, or seem like the type I'd need to read a blood test before feeling comfortable kissing him." The shyness was gone, and she was closer now, touching his forearm, looking up at him. "I like you, Doc. And I'm in no rush to go back to my motel room."

  Ford glanced at his watch. Not even two hours' rest. He kissed her gently and felt her breath warm in his mouth. Then she was in his arms and she shuddered as he touched the small, sharp point of her breast, firm beneath the material of her blouse, but didn't understand at all when he said, "I'm in no rush either. ..."

  Two-thirty a.m., and Dr. Braun-Richards said, "You're looking mighty proud of yourself, Dr. Ford," yawning, stretching catlike, as sweaty as if she had just finished five sets at the club.

  "What? Naw, not really." Feeling like he should kick the floor and say Ah shucks.

  "You've got that kind of smile."

  "Well, naw, not really." Staring at her, liking the way she was prettier without clothes; a woman who seemed more at ease naked, comfortable with the animal skin.

  "I wish I would have met you a week ago."

  "That would have been nice. A whole week."

  "But we've got all night."

  "All night ... all night?" Ford caught his smile before it disappeared, just in time. "But you probably have to be up early—"

  "I don't have to be anywhere until noon. " She was sitting up on the bed, reaching for him. . . .

  Ten minutes later she was saying "Well, it happens," trying to sound warm, understanding, but sounding clinical nonetheless. "When a man gets into his thirties—"

  Ford stifled a groan.

  "—a man gets into his thirties, his ability to respond can gradually decline. It's absolutely nothing to worry about. There have been case studies done."

  "Not like tonight, there haven't."

  "What?"

  "I said don't be so anxious to leave."

  "I just thought you might want to get some rest." Like he was a doddering old invalid.

  "I have some beer around here someplace." Now standing naked in the dull light of his little refrigerator, letting his eyes wander over the contents, really taking his time, looking all around the beer.

  "I've read that vitamins can help."

  Diet Coke. Mayonnaise. Half a tin of anchovies. Four bottles of lab chemicals that had to be refrigerated. And that mackerel wasn't looking so good anymore. If he ever got a minute to himself, he'd dump it. "Beer has vitamins," he said.

  She came up behind him, wrapping her arms around him, as he finally took out a bottle of beer. "It's a food," he said.

  "Hmm," she said as she slid her head under his arm.

  "Lots of vitamin B. Or A. One of those." He took a drink.

  "Hmm," she said again.

  "Did you know that Viking sailors signed onto boats almost strictly on the basis of the quality and amount of beer the captain was taking? They didn't ask wha
t countries were going to be plundered, or how long they were going to be gone. Just what kind of beer and how much."

  "The Vikings discovered America," she said.

  "They also invented the pants fly."

  "I see," said Dr. Sheri Braun-Richards.

  "But who remembers?"

  "That's not what I see, Ford." Snuggling closer to him now. "I was premature in my diagnosis. That food of yours works."

  Ford said, "Oh?" Then: "Oh!"

  He put down the beer.

  SEVEN

  Bomb Blast Kills Masaguan President

  Masagua City, Masagua (AP)—Don Jorge Balserio, president of Central America's poorest and most embattled country, was killed yesterday evening when a bomb exploded outside the Presidential Palace. Five members of Balserio's notorious Elite Guard were injured in the blast, two critically.

  Three Masaguan left-wing revolutionary organizations and one ultra-right-wing guerrilla group have all claimed responsibility for the bombing. Masaguan officials, however, suspect one of only two groups: the Masaguan People's Army or a lesser-known guerrilla organization that calls itself El Dictamen. Neither group has claimed involvement.

  The Masaguan People's Army has long been at odds with Balserio's administration. Its leader, Juan Rivera, threatened Balserio's life publicly after the last election. Rivera, who openly models his dress and flamboyant style after Cuba's Fidel Castro, retreated to the mountains with his followers three years ago.

  The ultra-leftist group El Dictamen is reportedly an offshoot of Peru's Chinese Maoist terrorist organization, Sendero Luminoso, or Shining Path. It has been linked to numerous acts of terrorism throughout Masagua and the rest of Central America. In English, "El Dictamen" means "The Judgment."

  Balserio was elected president of Masagua in a controversial election that, according to some critics of American foreign policy, was orchestrated by the Central Intelligence Agency. Balserio was returned to office for a second term in an equally controversial election. He had seven months remaining in his second term, and was expected to run for reelection . . .