The Night Swimmer (20 page)

Something pawed on the window screen, and I craned my neck to look. Branches, the holly tree that towered over the side of the house. No real snow this year. For Christmas, Fred had given me a flannel bathrobe and a Tiffany charm bracelet with two charms. The first was a heart shape that said: “If Found, Return to Tiffany & Co., New York City.” The other was a fish.

To mark our introduction to the island, he said. Each new adventure we'll add another charm.

Thinking of it, I wanted to roll onto him and give him a squeeze. I stuck my hand out.

Hey.

He reached out and clasped my hand.

We fly to Ireland on Tuesday, Fred said. We'll be in Baltimore again on Wednesday. Try and enjoy the time you have.

I think Beatrice is on something, I said.

And this is a surprise?

I can't believe it, I said, but I'm actually ready to go back.

I'm glad, Fred said. Me too. But first Atlantic City and Ham. You up for it?

Sure, I said. Always.

We held hands for a few moments, our arms stretched across the darkness.

Fred?

Yes.

I'm scared.

Of what?

A baby.

No need to be scared, he said. They're tiny little things. Not particularly aggressive. You can overpower them.

You know what I mean.

The old house wheezed and cracked with the press of winter. It was the only home I'd ever known.

Yes, Fred said. I do. But I'm not scared. Not with you.

*  *  *

The airport security screeners located a small penknife in Fred's bag and pulled him aside. We had a flight up to Newark to spend New Year's with Ham in Atlantic City. This knife had made the trip to and from Europe undetected, and lain forgotten in an obscure pocket for many years. The penknife was inlaid with mother-of-pearl and capped with gold, engraved along one side: “HJB—1930.” Fred's grandfather, the original Ham, would have been eighteen years old at the time, Fred explained, still in Virginia, working at a sawmill before he began his forays out west. It seemed a precious and expensive thing to procure during the Depression, but Fred said that his grandfather was known to run a little whiskey in those days.

The penknife would have to remain behind, and the security agents gave Fred the option of mailing it to himself. They provided him with a standard business envelope, which Fred addressed to our hotel in Atlantic City.

It was the day before New Year's Eve. Ham wanted to take Fred up in his new plane. I made him promise not to get in a plane piloted by his father, under any circumstances.

We arrived at the address with a frozen turkey in the trunk of the
rental car and a gallon of Canadian Club. It was a slate-gray afternoon, with a fine mist of rain, and the boardwalk looked particularly decrepit. Ham was meeting us in an Italian restaurant on a side street where black prostitutes gathered to seek out the lonely tourists who wandered out of the casinos. We found him perched in a giant booth near the door, with a window overlooking the parking lot. He was doing the
New York Times
crossword puzzle and drinking scotch. He seemed genuinely happy to see us, and after we shook hands he waved over the waitress, who took our drink order. Ham was looking better than when we saw him last; he had healthy color in his face and was wearing a well-tailored suit. His leather valise sat on the table. He reached over and stroked my arm.

Elly, how's the water over there?

It's great, Ham, thanks.

Good. Great to see you. You look great.

So do you, Ham.

The restaurant was full of pairs of people, black woman/white man, all slurping piles of spaghetti carbonara with carafes of pinkish Chianti. At regular intervals these pairs would wipe their mouths on their napkins and exit through a back door in the alley, returning a few minutes later and exiting out the front. Ham ordered for us, and a grizzled old troll trundled out vast plates of pillowy cream-colored ravioli the size of doughnuts, accented with artful splashes of marinara. Ham took out a crumpled pack of Camels and shook out a bent cigarette.

So what do you do here? I asked.

I have dinner. Do the crossword.

No, I mean for employment.

I'm a gaming consultant.

Ham popped a match on the table and lit his cigarette, leaning back and stretching an arm across the top of the vinyl booth. Some kind of little kingdom you have here, I thought. Congratulations.

Which casino? Fred asked.

The Golden Castle, Ham said.

Never heard of it, I said.

That's because you aren't a serious gamer.

Don't you mean gambler?

Gamblers flip coins and hope for luck, Ham said. Gamers are people who play to win. I'll show you what I mean. C'mon, eat up. Let's get out of here and go back to my place.

The ravioli were excellent, and Fred and I ate a couple each while Ham polished off the crap wine. We were never given a bill, and Ham left no tip.

On the boardwalk the sky was the color of cement and a steady sleet pounded the boards. Ham's place was only a few blocks away, in a building with a series of unmarked solid steel doors on a stretch of wall decorated with a vaguely Mardi Gras–esque mural. Next door was Caesars, then Bally's, then the rest of the strip. The upper stories were blank, windowless, with more lurid paintings of carnival behavior. Ham seemed to choose a door at random. Inside was a cavernous warehouse area, naked neon bulbs and packing materials piled in the back.

Jesus, Fred said. What kind of place is this?

Ham grinned and beckoned with a finger, his shoes clacking across the concrete floor. He took us to the back of the room and into a freight elevator, the walls covered with heavy packing quilts.

This is a bit of a perk, Ham said. Watch this.

The elevator had no buttons or doors. Ham stuck a key in an unmarked slot and the car lurched upward, moving remarkably fast, the wall of brick a blur in front of us, cut occasionally by an opening, blinks of light and glimpses at various interiors as we flashed by the floors: a small stage with couches around it, tables with men playing cards, someone's bedroom, a woman holding a glass pitcher full of water, a room full of glowing computer screens. Ham's place was on the top floor, a vast loft space painted in muted colors, the kitchen great slabs of obsidian marble, gleaming stainless-steel appliances, polished hardwood floors and a wall of twelve-foot windows overlooking the Atlantic City strip.

Ham fixed us cocktails and the sleet stopped so we went out onto the veranda and up a small set of stairs to the roof. A covered and
heated patio with a teak wet bar and deck furniture overlooked a long, rectangular pool, the water glowing deep red.

Twenty-five meters long, Ham said. Regulation distance, right Elly? Climate-controlled. And salt water too.

The ocean pounded itself into the sand below us and there was the faint sound of laughter and shouting from the boardwalk, the lights of the casinos washing out the night sky. I bent down and felt the water. Perhaps sixty-eight, seventy degrees. I put my finger to my tongue and tasted the salt. It wasn't the briny, gritty taste of the ocean, more of a clean, sharp sensation, but delicious nonetheless.

Watch this, Ham said, and turned a small dial on the control panel. The pool lights faded to white then to emerald, then sky blue, then a hazy yellow.

This is incredible, I said.

I thought you'd like it, Ham said. I thought of you, actually, when I had it made.

He led us to a small table with cushioned chairs.

Wait here, he said, I need to get something.

This place is insane, Fred said as soon as his father went down the stairs.

How is it possible? What's this consultant thing he's talking about?

I don't know, Fred said. I don't know what he's doing.

Ham came up a minute later with his valise and a bottle of scotch.

Bring your suit, Elly? Dive in if you want.

I shrugged. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

Ham took out a yellow legal pad and slid it in front of Fred. On the pad was a list of names and dollar amounts. Fred's name was there at the top of the list. The amount next to his name was extremely large.

What's this? Fred said. I don't understand.

This is what I calculate that you owe me, Ham said.

What?

We just stared at him for a few moments, until he cracked up.

Kidding! This is a rough draft of my will. I'm gonna have it drawn up soon. I know a guy in Hoboken who can do any legal document in twenty-four hours that'll hold up in any court in the world.

How . . . Fred stammered. Where did this money come from?

Ham shuffled around in the valise and pulled out a folder.

All I need, is a signature on this here and it'll be all set.

You want me to sign . . . what?

Ham sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His fingernails were battered and chipped, gunked with dark material in the creases like a mechanic.

This whole thing is going to collapse, Ham said. This world will eat itself. I'm not just talking about Atlantic City. The whole thing. You guys have the right idea, going out to that island.

Our pub isn't on an island, Fred said, it's in Baltimore, on the coast.

Yeah, Ham said, waving his hand, but you know the island I'm talking about. Look, I've been thinking about what to leave behind. Something that will poke out of the ashes of this disaster, something to go into the next world.

What are you
talking
about? Fred said.

Probably be a lot like where you are now, Ham said. That sort of life. But anyway this document merely says that on the delivery of an heir this money will be rightfully yours. I don't even have to be dead! It's a win-win as we say in the business.

An heir? I said.

Dad, Fred said, that's kinda . . . fucked up.

Be that as it may, he said, here it is.

We're not signing that, I said.

You don't need to sign it, Elly, only my son here. You are merely an accessory to the fact.

Thanks, I said.

But with that money you could build a pool just like this, even better. Anywhere you want. Even on your island.

Ham stashed the document back in the folder and handed it to me. There was the smell of something burning, like plastic or rubber. Small plumes of smoke were drifting over the tops of the casinos.

You just think about it, have a lawyer look it over, whatever.
Really, if you don't . . . do anything, nothing will happen. It is only a reward system. No penalty.

I don't know, Fred said. This is kinda unorthodox.

Ham poured us fresh glasses of scotch.

You bring the turkey?

Yeah. In the trunk.

Good, he said. Leave it out to thaw. Bring it over tomorrow, say, noon. You'll want to pick up some tarragon, thyme, sage, salted butter, lemons. Stuffing, I prefer corn bread. And the usual sides. I detest that sweet potato–marshmallow shit, so none of that. I'll supply the wine.

What's that smoke? I said. What's burning?

Rome, Ham said.

*  *  *

The next morning the envelope Fred mailed to himself arrived. It was empty, with a small tear in one corner.

Motherfuckers! Fred screamed. He tore the envelope into shreds and threw it out the window.

*  *  *

At the airport Fred insisted on going into the smoking lounge.

It's like a circle of hell in there, he said, look at it. Got to check it out.

I read
The New York Times
while Fred entered the lounge, sans cigarettes, disappearing into the fog. At one point I looked up and he was crouching on the floor chatting with a seated man. When he came out we walked to the gate, Fred sniffing his clothes. He said the lounge was mostly full of young soldiers, deploying overseas.

They didn't seem scared, he said. Not at all. They were like kids before a football game.

Probably a good thing, I said. Better than being afraid.

I suppose.

We had a four-hour layover in JFK, our plane leaving at eight in the evening, so we decided upon a strategy of heavy cocktails and
light appetizers in order to facilitate the holy grail of international flight: to sleep through the whole damn thing. It never worked, of course, but it could be great fun as it gave your drinking the added element of unarguable purpose. We started with dry martinis, Bombay Sapphire, shaken, up, one olive.

After a few drinks a small band of soldiers rambled in with their rucksacks and took a table. They were laughing, punching each other in the arm. Rawboned, knobby heads, thin wrists poking out of their rolled-up sleeves, freckled and razor-chinned, they looked freshly skinned. I saw Fred eyeing them, and I asked if those were the guys he'd seen in the smoking lounge, but he said no. He called the bartender and told him he wanted to buy the soldiers a round of beers.

Whatever they're having, Fred said.

The bartender took a tray of drafts over to the table, and when they looked at her curiously she pointed to Fred, who held up his martini and nodded. Their eyes narrowed for a moment, taking both of us in, calculating, then they softened and a few nodded in return. Then one soldier picked up the beer and mimicked Fred's nod, and they all laughed. They all picked up the beers and nodded and blinked at each other in turn, slapping the table and looking over at Fred, shaking their heads. Fred stared for a moment before he turned back to the bar, his face wooden.

What pricks, I said. What assholes.

Yeah, Fred said. It was a dumb thing to do.

What?

It's so cliché, he said. Buying the soldiers a round.

But it was sincere, I said. It was a nice gesture.

Yeah. Still.

We rolled up to the gate just as boarding started. Fred was lumbering and drunk, his face all twisted up, and throughout the flight he punched through magazine articles and stared at the ceiling and scribbled in his journal, swearing under his breath, and neither of us got any sleep. But the great thing about Fred was that by the time we touched down in Cork six hours later he wrestled our luggage into
the cab with a frowsy, sleepy grin, giving me a squeeze on the hip, and we cuddled sleepily as the cab headed west to Skibbereen.