Living Room (19 page)

“Thou shalt not kill, unlike the heads of states and syndicates, who do. Self-defense has to be judged by third parties.”

Al touched her back with his finger. When he lifted his finger, it left a pale spot.

“I think you’ve had enough sun for the first day.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Quick dip to get the sand off.”

When they were drying themselves off, she said, “What’s the agenda?”

“I’m taking you under water.” He picked up towels and beach bag and was off.

She ran after him in the sand. “I can’t hold my breath under water.”

“You won’t need to,” he yelled over his shoulder.

*

In the taxi she learned their destination. Tinker’s boat took them and six others out to a reef. The first four—Shirley thanked God Tinker picked four of the others for the first descent—went down a ladder on the side of the boat until they were chin deep in the water. Then heavy helmets connected to air hoses were placed on their shoulders. With their helmets in place, Tinker motioned them down one at a time. Shirley and Al watched them disappear down to the reef floor, and followed their path away from the boat by the trail of bubbles on the water’s surface.

“How would you like to do something else?” asked Shirley.

“Too late to back out,” said Al.

“Is it safe?” asked Shirley.

“Is anything?”

After twenty minutes they could see the bubbles approaching the ladder. One at a time the four broke the surface, careful to have their heavy helmets removed before their shoulders were out of the water.

“What’s it like?” Shirley asked of the first man up.

“Freezing down there, but it’s great.”

The man took the cup of hot cocoa Tinker’s helper extended to him. His arms had goose pimples.

Then it was their turn.

The helper waved Shirley to go first. She wanted to protest, but he was leading her over, motioning her down the ladder into the water, and she dutifully went, felt the helmet’s weight for a brief instant and knew she had to submerge if she was not to feel its crushing weight, and found herself under water and going still deeper, to her death she thought, until she saw Al’s legs and then the rest of him following. Inside his helmet he was making faces at her. On the bottom she turned, only to encounter a very large fish swimming directly in front of her face. She wondered about the barracudas and sharks everyone said came fairly close to shore in these waters. How many customers lost legs and arms? Would Tinker tell?

When all four of them had collected, with Tinker in his frogman’s suit facing them, there were so many fish swimming about you could hardly see each other and the instructor. Tinker motioned them to hold their arms down, then he fished in his rubber pocket and thrust a mussel into each of their hands. As he did so, instantly a swarm of fish would dive at it, and you were left holding the empty shell. It got the fish far enough away from your helmet so you could see. Then Tinker did the most remarkable thing. He held up three iron hoops and beckoned to an angel fish, which swam through all three hoops, once, twice and a third time, at which point the fish was rewarded with a snack.

Tinker walked them to a high hill of coral and then handed each of them a large, round magnifying glass, indicating they should hold them in front of the helmet’s window. Out of another rubber pocket came what looked like small bits of ground beef, and Tinker held the bits close to the coral strands. Suddenly the coral was alive, moving its suction mouths, and as Tinker touched the meat to the coral, it actually took the meat and ingested it. Coral alive? Unbelievable. As unbelievable as a weekend in Bermuda with a man who spent his time rewriting the Ten Commandments.

Tinker led them to a sponge and dusted some talc over it. They could “see” the sponge exhaling as the talcum swirled upward.

A very large fish came into Shirley’s view and she looked at Tinker with alarm. He urged her to touch it. She did, thinking it was her last living act. The fish quickly swam away. It hadn’t even felt slimy, the way dead fish feel before they’re scaled. Things were pleasanter in their natural habitat, she thought,
and hers was on land.

How could Tinker keep smiling? If it was exciting for them, it must be routine or boring for him, or did he like it as much as he seemed to? People didn’t understand what Shirley liked about her work, why didn’t she understand about others? The real communication in this world is minimal, she thought: hand signals in a deep fog under water.

Shirley was first up the ladder, astonished when her helmet broke through the surface, as if the boat and sky might not be there. Tinker’s helper lifted the helmet off her, put it down, helped her over the edge, and quickly turned to Al, who was surfacing.

In a minute, all four of them stood on deck, shivering from the cold, each eagerly taking the offered cup of hot cocoa. “You’ll get warmer quicker,” said the helper, “if you get dressed. There’s only two dressing rooms, but husbands and wives can share.”

The helper opened one door for the other couple, who went in each with a bundle of clothes in arms, and then the boy offered the other room to Shirley and Al.

“Well,” said Al.

Shirley shrugged.

Gathering their clothes and towels, they went into the other dressing room, in which the throbbing of the air compressor seemed to vibrate the walls and floor. Shirley turned away from him, removed her bathing suit, rubbed herself briskly with her towel. His kiss on her back between her shoulder blades was a surprise. He was moving his lips down one side of her back and then the other, softly, lingering longer with each remove. Was her body suddenly in league with the vibrations of the air compressor, could she possibly be so terribly aroused so soon? She turned to face him. The angular man stood there, lean, the lightest of tans visible everywhere except for the band between his waist and thighs, the panorama of him dominated by the thrust-out penis which he acknowledged without shame. She wanted to touch it. There was no lock on the dressing-room door. Suddenly, he crowded his body to her, his arms around her, his salt lips finding her salt lips, and she could feel it between their bodies, the whole ridiculous circumstance of their environment exciting her through his person.

A knock on the door of the dressing room.

“I left my towel inside,” said a voice.

“Just a minute,” said Shirley, her back against the door in case the rudeness wanted entry, hoping her voice didn’t sound as out of control as she felt, pointed to the offending towel on the floor, which Al handed to her and which she passed through a slightly opened door, shut quickly again.

They dressed like demons, then sat out on the forward part of the boat, letting their hair dry in the wind, the rush of their hearts slowly decelerating to the slower rhythm of the engines.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THAT EVENING, AFTER DINNER, they sat on the terrace overlooking the pounding surf, watching the red sun sink in the darkening sky, Al drawing on a Jamaican cigar.

“Do you usually smoke cigars?” she asked.

“Only when I’m content.”

The blue-black sky was littered with stars in unfamiliar arrangements.

“Look, that star is winking,” said Shirley, pointing low on the horizon.

“That’s a lighthouse,” said Al. “Sorry.” Then, “Does learning something make you feel put down?”

“Not if it’s reciprocal.” Then, “Are we having an argument?”

“Of course not. We’re jockeying for position. We’re both standing on a round ball of earth, trying to keep our balance.”

Not bad, Shirley thought. Why did she feel that impish doodling in her chest? Anxiety?

“Hey, should I phone for some after-dinner drinks?” she asked, the sheer act of standing upright a relief. If she ran, the anxiety would stop, physical activity always made it stop. What was she running from?

“There’s some B & B on the left-hand shelf,” said Al, exhaling smoke at the night sky.

“You think of almost everything.”

“Why almost?”

“Nobody’s perfect.”

Pouring the drinks, she thought, he is undoubtedly planning to screw me tonight. Certainly no cause for
alarm.

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the glass.

She leaned against the railing. If she sat, the needling would intensify. Why was he examining her body that way, he had seen her in a swim suit, and nude on the boat.

“You’re staring,” she said.

“Just wanted to make sure your fulcrum was on this side of the balcony. Hate to see you tumbling over. Cheers.” He raised his glass.

“You’re all head,” she said.

“Some women would find that an advantage.”

Listen, Mom, why don’t you talk into his ear, he’s the biggest smart-ass around. Does it matter if he’s not your son?

“That thing you’re working on,” said Shirley. “The Ten Commandments whatever.”

“That’s a small part of the project.”

“What I meant was, the one about adultery raises a question.”

“Ask.”

“Are you involved with anyone?”

“Adulterously?”

“Anyone?”

“I’m involved with lots of people from time to time. I do not at this moment have a sexual relationship with anyone, counselor, if that’s what your question is.”

“I don’t think that’s what it was. Let it go.” The doodle was going wild inside.

“By the way,” Al asked later, “are you?”

“What?”

“Involved.”

“I am involved with my dead mother, who talks too much, and my father who I’ve skipped seeing too long, and the last time I got laid was three or four months ago. Any of those do?”

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Okay.” He let smoke escape his lips. “I think the best thing one can do for parents is to become an independent person fast, best for them, best for you. I guess we both had to grow up fast. When did you say your mother died?”

“I was seven.” After a moment, “What have you done with the one about coveting your neighbor’s wife?”

Was she hinting about Mary?

“The Chunin version is ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife unless thou has moved next door for that precise reason and have her assent.’”

She had to laugh. Al was glad she did. “Another B & B?”

“I can’t do this sweet stuff much without hangovering. How about some of that vodka on the rocks?”

He seemed to be examining her as he picked up the two empty glasses between thumb and forefinger of one hand.

“I don’t have a drinking problem,” she volunteered. “I have a nerves problem.”

“You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“My nerves don’t know it.”

“Anything I can do?”

She didn’t answer. He went for the vodka.

Ten minutes later there was only ice left in her glass. Al, his voice casual, asked her about her work, which was a mistake, and quickly switched to other subjects until Shirley stood over him, took his face in her hands, and said, “Let’s go inside.”

“Sure,” said Al, starting to get up.

“I mean the bedroom, yours or mine. Let’s fuck.”

He stopped in midstep, sat down.

“I’ve never known anyone as direct as you are.”

“You’re pretty damn direct in a different way.” She leaned back against the railing. “You have an invitation.”

“I heard it.”

“Well?”

“I
think not.”

“You’re incredible,” she said, sitting down.

Was he unable to? But in the boat’s changing room… Didn’t he
want
to…? She tried to keep her voice calm.

“People take it more casually today, don’t they? I mean fucking isn’t that important any more,” she said.

“To do it or not to do it?”

“Both I guess.”

“Then relax. If you want another drink I’ll get it for you.”

“Never mind.”

“It used to be,” said Al, “that the only person who had to be willing was the girl. The fellow was always supposed to be ready to jump. Things are getting more equal, aren’t they, I mean it’s elective for both partners, isn’t it?”

“You bastard.” She went inside and poured herself another drink. When she came out, she said, “I’m sorry. I never got turned down before. I usually don’t get turned down on anything, much less that.”

*

She went to bed without saying good night. Lying under the thin blanket, hearing the noise of insects outdoors, the thought, this is ridiculous, there are ten thousand men who’d love to be in this bed with me right now, nobody would believe me and that man were on this island together in separate bedrooms like a couple of nuns, it didn’t make sense, he had invited her, he had made that pass in the changing room. She burrowed under the covers, hating him for rejecting her, despising herself for having offered, condemning her own childishness, wishing she were not here on an ostensible holiday but anywhere else, even in a room with Marvin Goodkin, who had called her a cunt, screaming at him, that would be better than lying here, tempted to touch her own labia, and before she realized it, Shirley was standing in her nightgown in Al’s bedroom, snapping on the overhead light, yanking the covers off his bed. He slept naked. Startled awake, he was up on one elbow, looking at her with sleepshot eyes. There was his thing she was staring at, flaccid. She was tempted to hurl at him the epithets of all sexual history, to rape him—was it possible?—to fuck him to death, but it was he who was now pulling her toward him. She dug in her heels but her knees hit the side of the bed and she toppled over onto him, she could not wrench free, he was kissing her neck, she wanted to scratch him, his lips tried to find hers, she bit him hard, and the nerve—he bit right back! If she only had something like the handle of a tennis racket in her hand she’d club him with it, but the only club was his, hard as it’d been in the changing room, and he was rolling her into position, trying to fight his way in, she tried locking her ankles together and he put one strong hand down and took one leg away from the other and he was in, driving, no preliminaries, no gentleness, no lovemaking, just brutal, ecstatic pumping and her insides were vibrating as if independently alive, clutching at him, she was arcing her back, the friction, the frenetic pulsing, and she screamed “You bastard!” just as the explosion came, hers and then his, and he didn’t stop as she wrapped her legs around his lank body, and he was kissing her gently, her lips, her breasts, unbelievably gently after violence, her unprecedentedly long tremor now still shimmering, easing off. Whoever had compared it with a sneeze was crazy, they didn’t know!