Chris (19 page)

"Nothing's wrong with him," Jonathan said. "It's just that he's used to doing salvage work. He doesn't know the first thing about spotting shells."

Chris understood. She knew it was a matter of knowing where to look, of knowing what you were looking or and being able to recognize it when you found it. he realized that Nevins had no experience along these lines. He knew more about a blow torch than he would ever know about a Glory-of-the-Seas. It hurt her to say it, but she had promised Dizz.

"Jonathan," she said slowly, "this will break your heart. But I'm not going."

"What?" he screamed.

"Dizz chickened out on me," Chris said. "You said you wanted her to be along."

Jonathan paused for just one second. "Forget about her," he said. "Do you want to go?"

Chris walked to a chair and sat down. “I promised her I wouldn't," Chris said. "She's worried about my physical condition. I keeled over last night. She's afraid I'm not well enough to make the trip."

"Chris," Jonathan said, "that's not what I asked you. I asked you if you want to go."

Chris flushed red. She knew Jonathan was putting her on the spot for a good reason, and that he knew as well as she did that she wanted desperately to make this trip. He understood that behind all her physical misery and the tortured anguish of the past few days was still the old Chris Hamilton who would risk her neck for a good shell any day. And for this particular shell would risk everything she had.

"Yes, Jonathan," Chris said. "You know damned well I want to go. But—"

"But you promised Sheila," Jonathan said. "Look, Chris. This could be the chance of a lifetime for you." He looked at her pleadingly. "You said so yourself."

"Yes," she said, "I know. It could also mean disaster for you if I don't go."

"That's true," he admitted. "The Board of Directors would hardly approve of my having spent a small fortune on something that turned out to be a total flop."

Chris ran her fingers through her hair. She stood up and walked to the window. She walked back. She looked at Jonathan and shook her head sadly.

"Jonathan," she said, "I'm truly sorry. But I can't."

He sighed. "At least think it over, will you?”

“I’ll think it over," she said. She left Jonathan without saying goodbye. In the middle room a young man with sandy hair, wearing dirty white bucks and a bright red tie, was busily fussing over a new display. On a twelve-foot table had been laid out a detailed relief map of the Florida Keys, finished in sand-crusted plaster of Paris and sea blue silk. Tidily arranged in the appropriate spots were -the best of the specimens Chris had picked up on her last trip. A small white card, meticulously lettered in Carol's fine print, identified each shell. Chris spotted the "Hamilton" in the bottom right corner of each card. When she had carefully circled the table twice, Chris turned to the young man and said, "That's quite an impressive lay-out."

The young man blinked at her owlishly through thick black-framed lenses.

"I'd like to make one correction though, if I may.”

"Well," the young man hesitated, "I don't know, ma'am, I’m not supposed to let anybody touch it till Dr. Brandt says it's all right."

Chris smiled. "It's okay," she said. "I'm Chris Hamilton, brought these shells in."

"Oh, Miss Hamilton," he said breathlessly, “I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you."

"Forget it," Chris said. "There's no reason why you should have."

She moved along one side of the table. "This," she said, moving a tiny cone shell about three inches and setting it down, "belongs over here." She picked up the marker and put it down by the shell. She stepped back and surveyed the table. "That's better," she said.

“Thanks, Miss Hamilton," the young man said. “I’m Tommy Samson. I just started this morning."

"I'm glad to know you, Tommy," Chris said.

"Miss Hamilton," Tommy said slowly, "I've seen the collection of treasure maps they've got upstairs. All the ones you brought in, I mean."

"Yes?" Chris said.

"Well," he went on, "I've got about fifty old maps that I'm pretty proud of. I picked them up in book stores and second hand shops. I was wondering if maybe you would take a look at them sometime. I don't know if they're worth anything or not, but I'm sure you'd know."

Chris smiled. "I'd be glad to look at them, Tommy. I hope I’ll be able to tell you what you want to know."

As she limped into the solarium, Chris was thinking about Tommy and his maps. She chuckled wryly to herself. She could see herself ten years from now, sitting in an arm chair by the fire, giving the final authority on maps and travelogues and the like.

But, damn it, she thought, I didn't pick mine up in book shops. I went out and found them. In Singapore and in Cuba and in a pawn shop in Paris. And I never spent my time setting up displays in a museum either. I went diving for those shells. In every puddle of water big enough to hold me. It's all wrong somehow.

The solarium had changed. Tommy had moved in. A striped chino jacket hung on the back of a chair. A container of orange juice sat where the coffee belonged. There were no signs left of Carol.

Chris sighed. She sat down at the desk and propped her foot on the other chair. She opened the middle drawer and took out the blue drawing pencil. She held it lightly between two fingers and drummed it against the desk.

Dizz, old girl, she thought, you and I are going to have a nice long talk this evening.

Talk about what, Chris? Dizz'll take one look at you and laugh in your face. And she's right. You're so beat up now you can hardly walk. And just what do you think will happen to you if you try to dive now? You'd better save that for the bathtub, old girl.

But, Dizz, you don't understand. Bathtubs are for baths. I'm not ready to retire yet. I'm not ready to die Dizz. Sure I'm scared. I'm scared as hell, all over again. I know now what it feels like to be trapped under water and look death straight in the eye. And I know the prettiest sound in the world is the surf on the head because when you hear it you know you won't drown.

In fact, I was so damned scared and so damned tired that I almost let you convince me that I belonged in dry dock. Almost, Dizz. I let you look at me and smile that crazy smile and hypnotize me like you always do. What for? Oh, no, Dizz darling, not because you're worried about me or what might happen to me. You never worried about anything in your life but good old Dizz. But because you don't like water and sand and sea shells.

Chris bit down hard on the end of the pencil. Maybe she wasn't being fair. Too harsh, maybe. Maybe Dizz really did care what happened to her.

She wondered for the ten millionth time if Dizz loved her. Not that it really mattered. The way she hung on to Dizz was her own sickness, her own pet form of masochism. It had very little to do with love.

Carol had known that. That's why she had pulled out. She'd had sense and strength enough not to get caught in this destructive web.

Chris put her face in her hands and wept without tears. She was feeling terribly, terribly sorry for herself. She felt as though she were running circles around herself. Muddled, muddled brain.

Chris knew that the confusion had started with Carol. Before that she had been miserable, but she had been able to live with it. In just one week, Carol had shown her what it was like to be loved and appreciated, what it was like to share love with somebody. And Carol had made her take a good look at this shabby thing she had with Dizz.

Carol had done everything, in fact, except tell her how—how to pick up and walk out on something that you've thought was your whole life.

Somewhere way in the back of her mind, Chris felt a fact demanding indignantly to be heard. The very simple fact that though Carol had not told her, she had shown her how to do it.

Chris felt a hand on her shoulder. "Is anything wrong, Miss Hamilton?" Tommy asked. His voice was worried.

Chris looked up. "No," she smiled. "Nothing's wrong." No, Tommy, nothing at all.

Chris stood up tiredly and moved away from the desk. "Bring the maps in any time," she said. Tommy grinned. "Thanks," he said. He watched her hobble out of the room and shook his head sadly.

Chris did not see him, but she felt it. And she cringed. To that boy, Chris thought, I must look like a hundred and ten and finished. Sad, he's thinking, to lose Miss Hamilton. She was good in her day.

Chris stood up straight and stopped limping. It's about time, she decided, for Miss Hamilton to stop feeling sorry for herself.

Chris entered the apartment full of the determination to blast Dizz off the face of the earth, if necessary. She'd be as gentle as she possibly could, but Dizz or no Dizz, Chris Hamilton was going to be on that plane to Tongariva tomorrow morning.

She had her mouth open to make the announcement as she came through the doorway. She didn't get the chance. Dizz was not there.

Chris swore bitterly to herself. Only she knew what it had cost her to work up enough nerve to assert herself with Dizz. And she wasn't at all sure it would last.

She walked into the living room and turned on the lamp at the end of the couch. She took off her shoes and lacked them under a chair, then went to the liquor cabinet and fixed herself a stiff drink from a half empty bottle of scotch. She drank it down quickly and poured another.

She looked at the mail Dizz had left on top of the cabinet. A brown envelope with a telephone bill and an ad for vitamin tablets. She didn't bother to look at the bill and dropped the ad into the waste paper basket.

She went into the kitchen and set the drink on the table. It left a ring of liquid on the polished surface. She took the sponge from the sink, wiped the table and dried the bottom of the glass. She put the drink on the stove and threw the sponge into the sink.

The well-trained spouse, she thought. She wrinkled her nose distastefully.

She opened the refrigerator. She was confronted as usual by neat packages of heaven knew what in aluminum foil. She hated the dullness of it.

She slammed the refrigerator door and turned to the cupboard. A box of crackers, soup, cranberry sauce, more soup, sardines. She took down the can of sardines and stuck it into the opener. She cranked the handle, then took the can on her palm and reached for a fork.

She ate standing up. She drained the glass. Then she dumped soap powder on the fork and scrubbed it hard to get off the fishy smell. She rinsed out the glass. She wrung the water out of the sponge.

She sighed.

She went back to the living room and sprawled out on the couch. She closed her eyes, hoping maybe she'd doze off and relax a little, get some of the ache out of that blasted leg and the shakes out of her body.

But she could not sleep. Her ears were straining toward the door, listening for Dizz. She figured Dizz ought to be back soon. She was probably just out doing some shopping, or walking Schnitzel.

She wanted a cigarette. Really wanted one.

A drop of water splashed into the sink. A branch creaked outside the French windows. Somebody upstairs flushed a john. Nobody came in the front door.

Chris lay on the couch listening and wanting a cigarette. Every ten minutes she looked at her watch.

The phone rang at ten minutes and twenty seconds after eight. It was Dizz.

"Chris," Dizz said. "I'm at Mother's. I've decided to stay over."

Chris made a nasty face, but said nothing.

"Chris? What's the matter?"

"I wanted to talk to you," Chris said. "I've been thinking about this Tongariva deal and—"

"It'll wait till morning," Dizz said impatiently. "Ill be back early."

"But–"

"I can't talk now," Dizz said. Chris hung up the receiver.

It'll wait till morning. You'll wait till morning, Chris. You'll wait until I have time to get around to you. You'll wait, Chris.

Chris went into her bedroom and took a pack of cigarettes out of the dresser. She took the lighter out of a jacket pocket. It was dry. She found some matches in the desk. She went back to the couch.

She finished the third cigarette before she decided to get really angry. Then she fumed. Here she was, tired and sick and needing somebody to take care of her. She had been sick enough to need a doctor last night. And she really didn't feel at all well now. And the person who was supposed to be catering to her, where was she? At Mother's. And Dizz hadn't even bothered to ask how she felt.

The pack of cigarettes was empty before she fell asleep. So was the bottle of scotch.

Her watch showed nine-thirty when the buzzer rang. Chris shook herself awake and got up and went to the kitchen to push the button.

She opened the door.

Dizz entered and walked straight to her bedroom. Schnitzel was not with her.

Chris closed the door and followed Dizz into the room. She was too furious to trust herself to speak.

Dizz was lying on her back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. She did not look at Chris.

Chris sat down on a chair to wait. She made herself comfortable, knowing from experience it might be a long time. This was one of Dizz's favorite poses.

When she could sit still no longer, Chris asked quietly, "What happened this time?"

"Nothing,'' Dizz said dully. She did not move. She did not bother to look at Chris.

Chris got up and went to stand beside the bed. "Look," she said, "this may sound indelicate of me. But I don't have time for a tantrum this morning. Sit up."

Still Dizz did not move.

Chris put out her hand and grabbed the lapels of Dizz's coat. She pulled her into a sitting position. "I said sit up," she said between her teeth. She pulled the coat tight in her fist and shook Dizz hard.

Dizz looked at her and straight through.

"Where's Schnitzel?" Chris said.

"With George," Dizz said.

"That's what I figured," Chris said. "You'd better have a good story, kid."

Dizz was still looking through her. "He got back early," Dizz said. "He came for Schnitzel."

"And?" Chris said.

"That's all," Dizz said.

"You're lying, Dizz."