Women Drinking Benedictine (12 page)

“You ruined my marriage,” Doug reminded him. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I wasn't,” Marco said. “I wasn't thinking at all.” Doug punched him again.

Marco's nose was broken, but the doctor at the Coral Gables Emergency Clinic wouldn't treat Marco until he sobered up, so Doug and Marco spent the rest of night on the bench outside the hospital. The sliding glass doors kept opening, throwing light onto the sidewalk, and neither of them slept. The next day Marco moved his things over to Doug's. He still didn't have a car, and he didn't want to ask anyone for help. The afternoon was warm, and his bags were difficult to carry. He stopped at every street corner, as if obeying the stop signs, to catch his breath. The brown shopping bags were ripping. A kid on a bicycle rode past and Marco called out and asked him for help. He promised him five dollars if he helped him get his things over to Key Biscayne. The kid agreed, but when they got to the condo, Marco realized he didn't have any cash. The six-pack of beer was still in the refrigerator and Marco gave him that instead.

Marybeth's stay at Marco's brother's became awkward after Marco left. She knew she should leave; she should never have moved in. Her best friend lived with her boyfriend in a small apartment in Coral Gables. They had terrazzo floors that smelled of mildew, and she told herself she was waiting for another plan, anything to avoid going there.

Some people thought Marybeth would start something with Marco's brother. She certainly didn't seem to be picky. But Marco's brother was dating a second-semester freshman from the University of Miami. A tall, blond girl, she was the ninth or tenth alternate on the U.S. Olympic diving team. She didn't make the cut for Barcelona, but she was only eighteen years old and Atlanta in '96 was something to look forward to.

Marybeth slept until ten o'clock most mornings. She was not tired, but she wanted to avoid Marco's brother. She couldn't, however, avoid the note he left on the kitchen counter. It was polite, full of apology, but the message was clear—he wanted her to move out. She could leave the key under the large flat rock in the front flower garden. “P.S.,” the note said. “Take a day or two if you need to make arrangements.”

Marybeth straightened the guest room. She made the bed, carefully fluffing the pillows, tightly tucking the sheets into the box spring. She packed her two bags and sat down to write Marco's brother a thank-you note for letting her stay there the last three weeks.

Outside she waited for the taxicab, making certain to leave the key in the flower garden. A lizard scooted out when she picked up the flat wet stone. She watched it slither away, then stuck the key in the ground.

The taxi was late, and while she was waiting she decided that she would go to the airport. She could fly to Maine and stay with her older brother and his wife. Maine, a long way from Miami, was a good place to be while she thought about her next move. She could charge the airline ticket to her American Express account—she and Doug still shared an account. Doug would get the bill, and though she planned to mail him the money to cover the flight, the bill would be a way of letting him know where she was. Marybeth called her brother from a noisy pay phone at the airport. They couldn't hear each other that well, but she told him she and Doug were having problems and that she needed a place to stay. “By all means,” her brother shouted. “We'd be thrilled to have you. Stay as long as you like.” Marybeth felt much better after her conversation with her brother—her mood was almost festive. A one-way ticket to Boston with connections to Portland in hand, she went into the small, smoky bar near her gate and ordered a beer. This was the happiest she had been in days. The bartender refused to charge her for the drink. “It's on the house,” he insisted.

Marybeth left some money under her empty glass, but the bartender gave it back.

“What I really want is your phone number,” he said. He had large gray eyes. His hair was combed away from his forehead and held in place with a generous amount of styling gel.

That money was the only cash Marybeth had. She told him she was a tourist, without any real plans to be back this way. She waved good-bye and hurried over to the gate where the attendants had already made several announcements, urging the Boston-bound passengers to board the aircraft.

Marco had become friendly with the woman who slept in the lounge chair while her kids played in the pool. She was a single mother—a nonworking woman who collected large child support checks from her ex-husband. Marco was surprised to find out that she didn't live in the condominium complex—she certainly used the pool more than any of the other tenants. She rented a bungalow down the street that didn't have a front yard, much less a pool. Marco had asked her out a couple of times, and she laughed as if she found this proposal hysterical. He didn't know what this was supposed to mean, so he was silent and watched her laugh. Finally she told him that she was giggling because she smoked a joint every morning before coming down to the pool.

“What about your kids?” he asked. “What if they run into some trouble in the water?”

“I can't swim,” she told him. “Stoned or not, I wouldn't be able to help them.”

“But you're their mother.” Marco found her attitude extremely casual—and he was no longer sure he wanted to date her.

“Being a mother doesn't make me less terrified of the water,” she told him. She crossed her legs Indian-style and used the side of her thumbnail to rub the berry stains off the back of her thighs. It was a provocative move, and Marco was attracted to her all over again.

“Besides,” the woman told him. “Look at them. They're great swimmers.”

The kids were good swimmers. Still, Marco didn't think it was a good idea to let them swim without supervision. He became a self-appointed lifeguard and kept a hawk's gaze on the kids when they were in the pool. He made them take half-hour time-outs where they would lie on their towels or on their multicolored floating raft.

It was during one of these time-outs when the police came by the condominium to put up the evacuation notices. Marco was at the soda machine trying to buy Cokes for everybody when the police car pulled into the parking lot. The red and blue lights were flashing, but there was no siren. Marco put some coins in the slot and selected the Coke button. Nothing moved. He tried the other buttons, but nothing came out, not even his quarters when he pushed the change return. A policeman called him over, and Marco walked gingerly across the pavement. There was no shade and the heat scorched his bare feet.

“We're evacuating for Andrew.” The policeman cupped his hands over his mouth as if he was speaking through a megaphone. Marco was confused. Marco thought the cop was talking about the scandal with Prince Andrew and his wife. The duchess had recently been photographed topless with her new American male friend, and the scandal was splashed on the cover of every magazine and newspaper.

“Hurricane Andrew,” the policeman told him. “They named the tropical depression two days ago.” He spoke of the storm as if he were already familiar with it—as if he already knew what kind of damage it was going to do. The sky was a light gray color, it looked like it might rain, but a destructive storm didn't seem possible.

“No heroics,” the policeman told Marco. “No macho stuff like trying to stay through the storm. It's going to be the big one, and we don't want to have to come through here picking up the bodies. If we find you here after midnight, we'll arrest you.”

Marco, suddenly full of purpose, went back to the pool, eager to explain the situation to the woman. But she and the kids were gone. He called her name and listened to the echo of his voice as it bounced off the high-rise. They had vanished, taking with them every one of their neon-colored floating devices.

The National Guard moved into Miami immediately after the storm. The majority of the troops were sent south of the city to neighborhoods hit the hardest. But others lined the streets in Coconut Grove, Key Biscayne, and parts of Coral Gables. They stood on every corner, dressed in camouflage uniforms, with guns slung over their shoulders. Hired to protect people's property from looters, they were also helpful carrying cartons of water from cars to kitchens or dragging tree branches off front lawns. The water pipes in Doug's condominium complex burst, and the building kept the storm evacuation. There was no word on when the tenants would be able to move back in, but rumor had it that the owners were not going to repair the building. It would be cheaper for them to cut their losses and simply abandon the place.

Despite the hassle crossing the Rickenbacker Causeway—the guards there had been ordered not to let anyone but residents with a current Florida driver's license listing a Key Biscayne address across—Doug went out almost every evening after the storm. His apartment was ruined. Water had damaged almost all of his possessions, staining everything and leaving behind a strong mildewy odor. Still, it was interesting to come and survey things. He liked being out there with the other tenants. He liked talking about the storm with them. Doug got friendly with the National Guardsman who stood just inside the driveway near the white stone griffins at the entrance to the condominium complex. The guard was bored—there was very little protecting to do—and he told Doug that for a couple of extra bucks he'd be glad to help Doug move some of the heavy stuff out of the apartment.

Marybeth was happy in Maine with her brother and his wife. Her brother had a small house in a resort town right on the ocean. The water was too cold to swim in, and most of the people who went there for the summer were older and did not sit out in the sun, but the feeling around the place was that of a beach town. Vacationing was high on everybody's list of things to do. Everyone had to have fun. No one watched television. No one read the newspapers. No one spoke of things they had to do. Her brother and his wife were big-time Boston lawyers. This month at the ocean was their only vacation, and they were aggressive about having a blast. There were parties, clambakes, cocktail hours every night, and although she was apprehensive about being an intruder, Marybeth was swept into the good-time atmosphere.

“This is what family is for,” her brother told her.

“Thank you,” Marybeth said. Her brother must have said something to his friends about Marybeth's situation. People were continually approaching her and giving her their views on marriage. The women were continually giving her their opinions of men.

“Pigs. Snakes. Clowns. A waste of time.”

Marybeth would sip her too spicy, too strong Bloody Marys and nod in agreement as people told her about their first divorces. No one asked about Doug. No one asked her to explain her situation. No one asked her what she planned to do next. She drank wine in the afternoon with her sister-in-law and helped out in the kitchen making cheese dips, saying nothing about what she had left behind in Miami.

After Andrew, the city of Miami became an overnight news sensation. People wanted to see other people suffering. Marco got busy right away. His expired press pass in hand, he was out taking photographs the morning after the storm. No one turned him away. With their homes turned inside out, they didn't seem to mind the fishbowl quality their lives had taken on. People let Marco take any kind of photograph. They would do anything he wanted.

He was getting paid by the
Herald
. No one had told him he was rehired, but the first day he went in with his photographs, the special features editor told him they were great. He splashed them across the front page the next morning. He told Marco he'd take a look at anything Marco had. His old co-workers acted like he had never been laid off. The only difference seemed to be that he didn't have a desk and found no reason to stick around, so he didn't.

He was in Homestead, an area the locals had nicknamed Tent City, when a woman approached him and asked if he had access to a darkroom.

“I'm with the
Herald”
Marco said proudly.

“Damn,” the woman said. “I'm in desperate need of a darkroom.”

Tent City was the place to be for hurricane photographs. It was here where they had the long water lines, where people sat on what used to be their front lawns watching people watch them. It was here that Governor Clinton, making a solid run for the presidency, landed his helicopter. Marco shot a whole roll of him hugging people. Clinton was a great subject—he'd hug anybody.

The woman held up a brown shopping bag and rattled it in Marco's face. Marco looked at her curiously.

“It's full of film that I'd like to get developed,” she said. “I'm working freelance, and this stuff should have gone to the majors three days ago.”

Marco did not tell her that three days ago nothing was happening in Miami except the heat. Three days ago, the majors—she was talking about the big magazines:
Time, Newsweek, People
—were not interested in the city of Homestead, Florida. Instead he took her to the apartment where he had been staying. He had run into the mother of a high school friend the morning after Andrew, and when he told her that he was photographing the aftermath of the storm, she offered him her garage apartment right across from the Coral Gables Golf Course, rent free.

Marco let the woman develop all twenty-seven rolls in the tiny, windowless bathroom. When she was finished he took her to the post office and she express mailed fourteen pounds of hurricane photographs off to magazine editors across the country. She offered to buy him dinner, and Marco accepted.

“I'm on my way to Hawaii,” the woman told Marco. “There's a ninety-five percent chance that a tidal wave is going to blow right across the big island.”

Marco was disappointed that she'd be leaving Miami so soon. She was not a beautiful woman, but she had great hair, and Marco liked the way she talked—full of speed and energy, as if she was late for something really important.