Red and yellow decorator lights were aimed at a trio of coconut palms in front—a particularly nauseating landscaper’s trick that only cheapened the place.
While traffic on the east end of the island was sparse to nonexistent, the tourist mecca of Seven Mile Beach was alight with neon and headlights. Newlyweds walked hand in hand and vacationing Americans roamed the streets in flowered shirts, looking in shop windows.
My confrontation with the Jag had made me a little late. I parked the Fiat in a visitor space as the sign ordered, then made my way up the stairs to the second floor. Her apartment was 23A. The door was made of steel with a little glass peephole. The hole darkened momentarily after I rang and then the door swung open.
I watched her face closely.
“Dusky!”
No trace of surprise in her voice—just a cordial delight in seeing her guest had arrived.
“Sorry I’m late, Dia. Had some car trouble.”
She led me across plush carpet, past modern bamboo and cast-iron furniture, saying as she went, “Now that you’re in the Caymans you mustn’t worry about always being on time.” She laughed pleasantly. “Believe me, no one else here does.”
The apartment had a veranda that looked out onto the harbor. Boats at anchor were lighted in the glaze of moon, and voices trickled across the water like wind chimes. I took a seat on one of the porch chairs that faced the water.
“Would you like something to drink? I bought Red Stripe beer just for you.”
“That would be fine.”
She handed me the cold bottle and poured a glass of white wine for herself.
There was that awkward pause of strangers in potentially intimate circumstances before she took a seat.
“Nice night.”
“Beautiful. I love the moon on the water. That’s why we chose this apartment.”
“You and another flight attendant?”
“Myself and two others. But we’re hardly ever here at the same time. It works out perfectly.” She hesitated. “There are two bedrooms—but only one double bed. And I hate small beds. Don’t you?”
She wore one of those terry-cloth running suits made by New York designers for people who never run. Short shorts and tennis shirt were both white with burnt-orange trim. It made her skin look three shades darker than it really was and added a coconut-oil gloss to her hair. The fingernails of the hand which held her wineglass were long and carefully manicured. She wore a few pieces of dainty jewelry: a slim gold chain around an ankle, a ring with birthstone, two folds of intricate necklace that draped toward the veeing of her terry-cloth shirt and the heavy thrust of breasts. When the light was just right, through the white material, you could see that she was quite braless. Her face was a beautiful composite of Cayman’s four hundred years of seafaring infidelities: Indian, Negro, Spanish, and Scotch—it was all there in the perfect curvature of cheeks and nose and delicate jaw. Her eyes were so dark that they seemed to suggest mystery, and when they caught mine, they seemed to glow.
With all of this was something else; something nurtured by Dia Ebanks on her own. It was a surprising air of sophistication, an air of the cosmopolitan probably developed through her profession.
Superficially, she seemed at ease. It was as if having a big blond stranger in her apartment was nothing out of the ordinary. But beneath that, I could see something else: a furtive nervousness that I couldn’t decipher. I couldn’t tell if she was uneasy because of me—or something else.
In her soft Cayman accent, Dia Ebanks asked, “You said earlier that you came to the islands on business, Dusky. Do you mind if I ask what your business is?”
“Not at all. I run charterboats in Key West. I came to Grand Cayman at the request of a friend to see about setting up a similar business.”
“Another charter boat service on this island?” She chuckled softly. “Heavens, I can’t imagine there’s any need. Every man and boy I know charters.”
“What, no woman captains?”
She cocked her head ever so slightly. Her long raven hair cascaded over her shoulder. “I thought about it. No—don’t laugh! I did. My father was a sailing captain, and my grandfather, and his father before him. All wind captains. They would hunt the green turtle. Sometimes they would take me with them on short trips when I was a little girl. It was all so ... fine. The men and their jokes, and the smell of the boat and seeing the big green turtles pulled up in the traps. I loved it. I did. I wanted to be a boy for the longest time.”
“I’m probably one of many who are very glad you didn’t get your wish.”
She laughed. “That’s kind of you to say—but I was horribly disappointed for a time. But then, when I was fifteen or sixteen, I began to . . . develop. There was no doubt I was going to be female. A New York fashion model was on the island shooting a display for a big magazine. He saw me, asked me to pose, and suddenly I was making more money than my poor parents.”
“You went to New York?”
“Yes. For one horrible year. When I was eighteen. It was an education. I learned to appreciate the finer things in life, though. But that exposure made it ... well, impossible to return to Cayman and live full time. Like that wonderful book
You Can’t Go Home Again.
It’s true. The people here hadn’t changed. But I had.”
“Why didn’t you continue your modeling?”
She smirked. “I wanted to. But they didn’t want me by the time I was twenty. How many ... full-figured girls do you see modeling clothes? And by the time I was twenty I was becoming a little overdeveloped. So I decided being a flight attendant would be the perfect job for me. I could still live in the Caymans, but I could also live away from them. It’s like living two lives.”
“And you’re satisfied?”
She thought for a moment. “Sometimes I’m sorry I ever left the island. Sometimes I wish I had just married one of the local fishermen and settled down with about a dozen kids and a couple of turtle traps. I feel that way when my life begins to seem a little too complicated. Like now . . . ”
“Now?”
I saw the old nervousness return to her eyes. The moon was high over the apartment balcony, and her face was lovely and easy to read. She suddenly looked at her watch. “I like you, Dusky.”
“Great,” I said. “Does that mean you’re about to tell me something, Dia?”
She nodded. “When I saw you on the plane, I pictured you as another type of man. The self-important athlete type; big and brash and not easily hurt. But I was wrong. You’re quiet and understanding, and your eyes tell me you care for people. . . . ”
“Dia, just what in the hell are you getting at?”
Suddenly, there was a loud pounding at the door. “Oh Lord,” Dia said, “he’s here already.” She got to her feet quickly, wringing her hands.
“Dia, do you mind telling me—”
“Dusky! I’ve got to hide you.”
“What?”
“Really. I don’t normally just invite strange men to my apartment. Can’t you see—I was using you. Just trust me for a moment and hide.”
I grabbed her by the wrist and swung her around so that she faced me. The pounding on the door was getting more insistent now. “Dia, I’m not the hiding type. And dammit, unless you tell me exactly what’s going on, I’m going to answer the door myself.”
“No!”
“Then tell me. And make it quick.”
She took a deep breath. I held her hands in mine. She was shaking.
“Okay,” she said, “but then you have to hide.”
“Let’s hear it.”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Six months ago I became involved with a very important man on the island. A married man. I knew it was wrong, but for a time it didn’t matter. I loved him and I thought he loved me. But he didn’t. Later I found out that he was involved with several other women at the same time. For the last two weeks I’ve been trying to end it. I even had my locks changed. I knew that he would come to me tonight after his wife was asleep. He always does. So I just decided to make sure I had company when he arrived. He has a terrible temper, so I had to make sure it was a man big enough to defend himself. I know it was an awful thing to do . . . ”
“That’s right.”
“And I’m sorry, Dusky. I really am.”
I dropped her hands and went toward the door. She ran and jumped in front of me, knocking her wineglass over in the process.
She was almost begging now. “Please,” she said. “Please, just hide in the closet for a few minutes and let me answer the door.”
“Why the hell should I? Neither of us is doing anything wrong.”
She sniffed and brushed at her hair, gathering her composure. “If he’s not gone five minutes after I open the door, you can come out. I was wrong. I know that now. But I was also very frightened. Just this once, Dusky, do what I say. I know we really don’t know each other. But I can see there’s understanding in you, and you have to believe that I am normally not like this. It would mean so much to me.”
So I followed the old vaudeville routine, the one where the secret lover hides from the murderous husband. The fact that I was no secret lover and he was not her husband made it all the more ludicrous. I got down on hands and knees and crawled into the dark hall closet, hiding myself as best I could behind a rack of dresses. The closet smelled of lavender, and I kept wishing Oliver Hardy was there so he could turn, nod his head and say, “Here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into!”
I kept the door cracked so I could see into the living room. Diacona Ebanks hustled around the apartment, hiding my beer and straightening the cushions.
“Be there in a minute,” she yelled.
The man continued to pound on the door.
There was a mirror in the hall through which I got a partial view of the bathroom. She didn’t shut the door behind her. I watched her strip shorts and shirt off, got a fleeting glimpse of the large and perfect upturned breasts before she pulled on an old bathrobe and wrapped a towel around her head. As a final touch, she smeared some kind of green complexion gook all over her face.
“I’m coming,” she yelled, hurrying toward the door.
Her anxious lover was a tall man with conservative black hair. He wore a white dinner jacket and dark slacks. He was a lot older than Diacona, maybe forty-five. He had ruddy good looks and a refined manner.
Dia opened the door, blocking his entrance.
“What in the bloody hell took you so long?” His accent was British.
“Jimmy, can’t you see? I was in the bathroom.”
“Bathroom . . . humph. So I see. What, may I ask, is that mess on your face?”
Dia still stood in the doorway, refusing to let him enter. “Jimmy, I told you it was over. Please believe me. I’m still fond of you, but it’s an impossible situation and I don’t want to see you again.”
He had the cruel smile I had seen before on a certain type of English army officer. “Yes,” he said, “and you didn’t want to see me last week or the week before that or the week before that. But you always do, Dia. And you always will. You may loathe me in the bright light of day, but you can’t get enough of me in a dark bedroom—isn’t that right, Dia?”
For a moment she seemed on the edge of hysteria, as if she were about to launch herself toward his face. But she visibly gathered herself, voice still calm. “You couldn’t be more wrong, Jimmy. You must believe that. And I warn you—if you ever come to my home again I’ll have no choice but to call the authorities. Or your wife.”
And suddenly, his pomp and inflated ego fizzled like a worn balloon. He remained just long enough to save face, trying to shatter Dia’s composure with ugly words. But she let him have his say, then shut and locked the door when he was gone.
I got to my feet, banged my head on a shelf, and stepped out into the hall.
“You handled that pretty well,” I said.
She took a step toward me, opened her mouth as if to speak, then her face collapsed into one long uncontrollable sob. She hesitated when I opened my arms to her, then fell upon my chest crying.
“How . . . how . . . how could he speak to me that way? After all . . . all our times together. . . . ”
Her words fell apart as she sobbed.
So what do you do when a strange lady chooses your shoulder to cry upon? There’s not much you can do. You stroke the soft hair and pat the back and make comforting sounds, feeling like a fool all the while because there’s no way in hell you can help.
You can just be there.
She cried so long and hard that she began to hiccup, and that made her laugh, then cry some more and finally laugh again.
“My God, I must look a mess,” she groaned in her soft Cayman accent. “I’ve gotten this”—
hiccup
—“face cream all over your nice blue shirt, and I made you hide in a closet. Dusky, you must”—
hiccup
—“rue the moment you accepted my invitation.”
“No I don’t. I’ve had more excitement tonight than I’ve had in a long time.”