Island Page 7

  She heard the car returning. She took a deep breath and tried to calm her heartbeat. Then she picked up the book that had been lying on the floor and pretended to be reading it. The door opened, but Roscoe held fast to the knob and teetered for a moment before entering. It was clear that he was drunk. “So,” she said, trying to sound composed but sounding something else, “what’s our friend Donald up to?”

  Roscoe laughed and threw himself onto the bed beside her. He hugged her and gave her a loud, foul kiss on the cheek. “Our friend Donald’s in love!” he cried.

  Belinda laughed nervously and untangled herself. Roscoe brought his legs up, work boots and all, and stretched them out on the bed. He laughed and shook his head. And then he started in telling her all the details, never even noticing that she had become a non-person and couldn’t hear a single word.

  And that is the end of the story of Maura’s Mountain … or at least it ended at that point for Belinda. Donald and Elaine came out together after that a few times, but they never stayed overnight. Elaine was a tall, prissy thing with dimpled thighs. She chewed bubble gum and stood around looking bored most of the time. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she would whisper something to Donald, and he would explain that they had to leave—and they left earlier and earlier each time. Belinda didn’t believe that Donald could love a woman like Elaine; she believed it was yet another manifestation of Roscoe’s powers and even began to suspect that maybe Roscoe’s father hadn’t been sick after all. She hadn’t actually seen the letter. Maybe that week Roscoe had really been over at the campus, living in the basement with the rats, hiding and spying, deciding which of the women he would bewitch and bestow on Donald.

  Once, when Donald had come to the garden alone to tell Belinda that Roscoe had found a young heron with a broken wing and wanted her to come down to help him doctor it, Belinda said, “You shouldn’t have left that night, you know.”

  Donald cleared his throat and looked down. “I had to,” he mumbled.

  Just before Christmas, Donald and Elaine left. Belinda and Roscoe didn’t see them again until their wedding two years later. But they always stayed in touch, with letters. Strangely enough, Elaine, who had looked on the cabins and the apple press and Roscoe’s outdoor tub with disdain, decided to make Belinda, whom she hardly knew, her confidante and lifelong pen pal. Her letters were short, brisk things written on fancy pastel-colored notepapers. Maybe, Belinda thought in the years that followed, Elaine had known all along that she, Belinda, was Donald’s one true love, and her letters, her banal descriptions of the things she and Donald were up to, were meant to remind Belinda of her loss and to confirm Elaine’s victory. Or maybe Donald had never told her anything, and her letters were nothing more than the pleas of a lonely woman for a stranger’s pity and compassion.

  Anyway, Roscoe and Belinda were the last people to leave the mountain. All the people who had ever come to it came looking to escape, but they’d all learned while they were there that escape is never possible. Only Roscoe the wizard continued to believe he’d escaped something; he would have stayed on the mountain forever if he could have. But as it turned out, one day he and Belinda received a letter from Maura saying that her mother intended to sell it after all. Belinda was hopeful then. She’d wanted so badly for so long to go someplace else, maybe somewhere where Roscoe could find a real job. She thought maybe now they could get married and live in a little house with a picket fence all around it and maybe a few ducks in the backyard. But Roscoe cast another spell, and a few weeks after Maura’s letter, they received another from some people Roscoe knew further south. Roscoe’s friends wrote about the sea and a pier. The kerb-hawkers were cleaning up down there; Roscoe would fit right in.

  Belinda begged him not to accept their invitation, but Roscoe wouldn’t listen. He had his flute, and everything was going to be okay. Belinda threatened to let him go alone, but he only said that was a decision that she’d have to make. And the night before he was to leave, she felt him working his magic on her. Roscoe the wizard had broken her will, and …

  I felt something dripping on me and woke up with a start. It was Carole, standing over me, brown and wet. “I hope I didn’t wake you,” she said.

  I sat up and tried to focus on her. “No,” I said, “I was wide awake.”

  “Want to go for a walk?” she asked.

  I sighed and rubbed my eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were sleeping.”

  When we were about half a mile from the blanket, she said, “Roscoe tells me you’ve been together for about eighteen years now. That’s a long time. Do you have any children?”

  I said, “Don’t you guys talk to each other?” because you would have thought that Donald would have told her that.

  She looked up at me puzzled. But then she caught on and laughed. She said, “We’ve really only known each other a short time.”

  “We never had kids,” I said.

  We were walking slowly, because Carole was inclined to stoop down suddenly at intervals and retrieve the shells that struck her fancy. “I have a son,” she said.

  I said, “Oh yeah?”

  She said, “He’s spending the month with his father in Miami.”

  I said, “Well, that’s nice.”

  She picked up a conch shell and held it to her ear. Then she passed it to me, like it was a real find and I might want to admire it. I nodded and handed it back to her. I got to thinking that her face really wasn’t that bad after all, now that I had a good look at it. Actually, she looked a little like Sonia Braga, except she had an innocence about her rather than the Brazilian actress’s sexiness—yeah, a sort of mousey Sonia Braga. She turned her conch shell in her hand thoughtfully. Finally she let all the other shells she had gathered slide to the sand and held the conch shell in both hands, turning it over and over again. She said, “He hasn’t seen his father since he was a baby. His father hasn’t written or called since he was about five. It’s awfully ironic, don’t you think? I finally remarry and give him a stepfather, and his real father calls after all these years, out of the blue.”

  I said, “Yeah, that’s ironic all right.”

  She was still studying her shell, and I could see that she wasn’t done saying whatever it was that she wanted to say about her kid. I was pretty sure that whatever it was, it was something she hadn’t discussed with Donald. She’d saved this for me, for our walk, because I was a woman and she figured I’d understand. I said to myself, Don’t encourage her, because, Sonia or not, she’s still the enemy. The last thing you need, I thought, is another one of Donald’s wives writing you depressing letters year after year after year, like you don’t have enough troubles of your own. Yeah, you need that like a hole in the head. But she passed me her stupid shell and said, “You can have this if you like. I’d like you to have it, and I’ll find another one for myself.”

  So I gave in. I said, “Your kid’s old man been paying child support at least all these years?”

  She shook her head.

  I said, “Why the dirty bastard! What about Donald? Does your kid get along well with him?”

  That got her going all right. First she told me about how when the kid’s father stopped paying child support years ago, she was actually relieved, even though it was very difficult for her financially for a long time. To sum up her long roundabout way of telling things, him not paying support meant she didn’t have to kiss ass. She didn’t even have to let the old man see the kid if she didn’t want to. But the joke was on her, because the old man never tried to see the kid anyway, until now, when she felt the kid was too old for her to interfere with if he wanted to see his father. She’d always been afraid he would show up again one day out of nowhere.

  As for Donald, he and the kid got along fine. And Charlie, that’s the kid’s name, and Meredith got along just dandy. But Donald had made a few comments about her relationship with Charlie, and that was troubling her. “He thinks,” she said, “that I let him
talk back to me too much. He doesn’t understand that that’s our language. That’s how we’ve talked to each other for years. We just say what we’re thinking. We’re not always polite to each other. He thinks Charlie’s trip to Miami will be good for him, that he might respect me a little more when he gets back.”

  “And what do you think?” I asked.

  She said, “Would you like to sit down for a while, over there, on the dunes?”

  We walked over to the dunes and sat down. There were crab holes all around us. I stuck one end of the conch shell into the one nearest me, to keep it blocked up.

  “Do you ever pray?” Carole asked.

  “Sure,” I said, once I’d recovered from the shock of the question. “I’ve been known to say a prayer or two when things get rough. Why?”

  Carole shrugged and looked out at the horizon. “It’s silly,” she said.

  I said, “Shoot. I’ve heard it all. I’m a hairdresser, remember? You can’t tell me anything new.”

  So she told me her little story, about how when her Charlie was a baby he didn’t like his father. His father treated him well enough back then; he bought him toys and tried to put him on his lap and read to him when he came home from work, but the kid always ran away screaming, looking for Carole. Carole could see that the old man was troubled over the fact that his little kid detested him for no apparent reason. She tried to talk to him about it, to explain that when kids are that small they often hang on the mothers to the exclusion of everybody else, etc., but he didn’t want to hear about it. He just wanted to brood. So Carole stayed in the background and watched as he tried harder and harder to impress the kid, and the kid backed away proportionately. Then, one day, Carole got this idea that she would say a prayer and set things right. Although Jewish, she had grown up in a Catholic neighborhood and she thought she knew something about the nature of Catholic prayers. So she prayed that somehow, someday, Charlie would come to love his father even more than he loved her. And she had this feeling come over her while she was praying, like God was really listening. I said, “Why’d you add that ‘even more’ bit?” And she explained that her little Catholic girl friends had always stressed the importance of offering a sacrifice whenever you asked for anything. So that was her sacrifice, the most valuable thing she had she offered so that the prayer shouldn’t fail. Of course at the time she didn’t know the old man would be leaving only a few months later. But now, with Charlie gone to see the sucker …

  I said, “Shit, no wonder my prayers were never answered! You don’t really believe all that, do you?” She shrugged and sifted sand through her fingers. I said, “So you think that God is going to go ahead and answer a prayer you made—how many years ago? And despite the fact that he knows you don’t mean it anymore anyway? If prayers got answered that easily, we’d all be living in mansions with maids to do our bidding, praying all day and watching the money growing on our fruit trees. What are you afraid of? That after all these years with you, the kid is going to dump you and move in with his bum of an old man? And then our friend Donald had to go ahead and put his two cents in too. What does he know about respect? He should look under his own nose with that kid of his. Boy oh Boy. That’s pure craziness. Your kid’s going to see what a bum his old man is, that’s what’s going to happen. You wait and see. Prayer or no prayer.”

  She turned to me suddenly, beaming. I was afraid she was going to throw her arms around me, because of the way she was eyeing my shoulders. Then she got hold of herself and merely grabbed my hand and squeezed it. I looked down at her hand, at the wedding ring on her finger, a simple gold band, shiny and new-looking. I thought, Shit, I should be canonized for what I’ve just done. Here I spent all those years kissing Elaine’s ass through the mail for no good reason that I can think of, and now when I finally don’t have to do that anymore, Donald finds himself a new wife, and I go ahead and kiss her ass as well. Yes sir, Saint Belinda, the ass-kissing saint.

  “Oh, Belinda,” she said. “I feel so much better. I guess I needed to say it all to someone, just to hear for myself how silly it all sounds. Let’s go back and see what the others are doing.”

  For a long time the others were little gray specks against a pale background of fading sky and colorless sand. Then we got closer and I could see that Roscoe was playing his flute for Donald and the kid. He was sitting cross-legged, facing the ocean. His thick curls were blowing back, and I could see where his hair was receding. He looked older with his hair blowing back like that. Looking at him, I suddenly felt all sad inside, like I might want to cry. I don’t know why.

  Donald said, “Oh, good. Here they come.”

  Roscoe put down his flute and smiled up at Carole and me. He said, “It’s about time. We’re all starving.”

  The Drinking Party—Part 1

  Carole Bartlett came into the room and closed the door behind her. Her husband Donald was still in bed, lying on his back with his hands folded on his chest. He had been staring at the ceiling fan, but when he saw that she had brought him a cup of coffee, he sat up.

  “Everybody’s waiting,” she said, sitting down beside him.

  He took the coffee cup from her hand. “I’ve decided to stay behind.”

  “Something’s wrong. What is it?”

  Laughing, Donald Bartlett reached behind her and placed the coffee cup on the snack stand. Then, moving her hair aside, he kissed a favorite spot on her nape and whispered, “What could possibly be wrong after last night? You were wonderful.”

  Carole smiled and brushed her nose against his. “No, you were,” she said. “Would you like me to stay behind with you?”

  “No,” Donald said, releasing her. “You go and have a good time. I have something I want to do today. Please don’t ask what it is.”

  Carole squinted and cocked her head. “Okay,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “But we’ll miss you.”

  At the door she blew him a kiss.

  The others were waiting at the kitchen table. Roscoe Creedmoor and his longtime companion Belinda Cavinaugh had their gear with them—poles, tackle boxes, buckets, etc. Roscoe was wearing a thick coat of sun-protection lotion on his nose. On his head he wore a bright orange hat. The decal above its brim depicted a leaping marlin. Beneath the marlin were the words: I’m hooked on fishing, Key West, Florida. Belinda and Donald’s daughter Meredith both had similar hats. Belinda’s was on her lap. Meredith’s was on the table before her, beside her empty juice glass.

  “Let’s go,” Carole said. “Donald’s not coming.”

  “Ah, Jeez,” Roscoe whined.

  “Why not?” asked Belinda.

  Carole shrugged. “He says he has something to do today.”

  “If he’s staying home, maybe I will too,” said Meredith.

  “Ah, Jeez,” Roscoe reiterated.

  “I feel like reading,” Meredith said.

  “You can read any time,” Carole pleaded.

  “Yeah,” Roscoe said. “You read too much for a kid as it is.”

  “And exactly how much should a kid read?” Meredith challenged, her eyes flashing.

  “Listen,” Carole interjected. “We’ll take both cars. Then, if you decide later on that you’d rather be home reading, I’ll drive you. At least you’ll be giving it a chance.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll give it a chance. But remember, you promised.”

  Carole made an imaginary x on one of the sailboats that drifted across her t-shirt. “Cross my heart,” she said.

  When the house was quiet, Donald got out of bed and dressed in a pair of cut-off jeans and a white t-shirt. The t-shirt was baggy and had holes all about the bottom edge, the result of too many washings. He took a pencil and a pad of yellow lined paper from a dresser drawer and went into the kitchen. While his coffee brewed, he sat at the table and stared at the yellow pad. When the strong coffee was ready, he poured himself a mug full and returned to the table. He took a sip, swallowed, and expelled a long, deep, satisfied “Ahhh.” Then he cleared h
is throat and picked up the pencil. What little bit of heaven has fallen here, he wrote. He put the pencil down and considered the words. In a moment, a low growl emerged from the depths of his throat. Quickly he retrieved the pencil and scratched out “fallen.” Then, above it, he jotted, “tumbled.” He looked about the kitchen, as if to be further advised. His eye fell on the bottle of Kahlua on the counter behind the cantaloupe. He acknowledged it with a nod. Returning to the pad, he scratched out “little bit” and replaced it with “fragment.” Now he had, What fragment of heaven has tumbled here. He read it aloud twice. Then he shook his head and pressed his lips together and scratched out the entire line with swift, vigorous strokes.

  The action had cost him the lead point of his pencil. He tore the page from the pad, crumbled it, and set it aside. Leaning back in his chair, he was able to grab a paring knife from the drain board on the counter behind him. He used the knife to carve a new pencil point. When it looked ready, he wrote on the clean page before him, Donald Bartlett is a nit-wit. He inspected the words carefully, and then, having reached some conclusion concerning them, he took up the knife and set it once more to the pencil point. Donald Bartlett is a nit-wit, half-wit, po-it, he wrote next. “Better,” he said aloud. He tore off the page of thick and less thick assertions, crumbled it, and placed it beside the other.

  Donald rested his chin in the palm of his hand and positioned the improved lead point on the first line of the new page. He stayed just so for some time. Then his chin swiveled in his palm, directing his gaze once again toward the Kahlua bottle. Mumbling, he got out of his chair, snapped up the bottle, and returned to the table. He poured some Kahlua into his coffee and mixed it with his pencil. Then he wiped off the pencil on his t-shirt and took up his previous position.

  Forty-five minutes later, the porch door opened and Donald heard the wheels of his daughter’s chair rolling up the ramp he had rigged for her there. The ramp board was one of two which he had brought down on the roof of his car from New York. Meredith wheeled through the porch and into the kitchen. Belinda was behind her.