As the canoe creaked and moaned through the water toward him, Harpo was lying on his back, singing “Sweet Adeline.” He stopped, but not until the little boat actually hit the dock, and he felt the bump and knew this one was real. A woman crawled up onto the dock. He’d been expecting the ghost, his brothers.
Harpo sat up.
She had dark hair and red cheeks, this strange woman, and shadowy deep-set eyes, and now he recognized her from the portrait on the registration desk. It was the lodge owner’s beautiful wife. Ayala. She was wearing a long white nightgown. It was sleek. It looked soft. She was breathtaking. He couldn’t have spoken if he’d wanted to.
“Good evening,” she said, struggling with something in the darkness, maybe to secure the canoe.
“How did you know to come?” Harpo croaked.
“I had brothers once.”
“Did you hear me calling?”
“I sent my little girl to listen.”
Ayala crawled toward him, and Harpo could see the material of that nightgown, translucent almost and clinging to her tightly, and through it he could see her skin as it glowed milky white, as her hips moved and swayed. She was wearing white panties. Ayala stood and Harpo gasped for air. She was wearing a white brassiere too. Ayala took Harpo by the shoulders and eased him to the edge of the dock. He felt the heat radiating off of her, her hot hands pressed to his shoulders.
Harpo dropped into the canoe and felt it bob, with him this time, not out from under him. And this time, the water in the bottom felt warm. It was like William said, exactly. Cold night, warm heart. Or cold water, warm weather. The canoe bobbed again, and abruptly Ayala was sitting across from him. She’d looked out for him. She’d asked her daughter to look out for him also. She was more beautiful now, this apparition, the wind messing her unbrushed hair, her dark watery eyes glittering brilliantly.
“You’re facing the wrong way,” said Ayala.
“Oh.” Harpo looked around. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right. I didn’t bring another oar anyway.”
Harpo leaned back. Ayala moved the oar from side to side, paddling slowly, pulling through the water languorously. Languorously! “But wait,” he said. “How could your daughter have heard me? The lodge is miles away, on the island.”
“You can see the island,” said Ayala.
“That’s New York,” said Harpo. “No, I mean that’s Kingston. That’s the jail on the shore.”
“Your brothers must have played a trick on you. The lodge is right there. You see those lights?”
There were little pricks of prison light in the darkness.
“That’s the lodge. They paddled you around the island a bit, that’s all.”
“Oh,” said Harpo.
“I’ll take you right home.”
Even though the sharp walls of the canoe were poking into his side, he was remarkably comfortable, listening to the breezes skimming the water, smelling the woodsmoke and watching this woman, Ayala, who was grunting adorably as she pulled the oars. Boy, was she beautiful. He’d do anything to see that smile again, to see those almond eyes tilt up. He wanted so badly to give her something back for all this kindness. “I think your family is from Russia,” he said.
“Yes,” Ayala said after a moment.
“I’m going there. I’m going on tour. I think I’ve decided. I can do things for you while I’m visiting. If there’s anything you need. If there are any people you’d like me to contact.” Because that’s what William had suggested, wasn’t it?
“Could you deliver a letter?” asked Ayala. “Could you bring me back a reply?”
“Sure,” said Harpo.
As they walked back through the forest, Harpo heard the lodge before he saw it, heard the gentle wail of the trumpets, not the tinny echo from a radio or record player, but real players, really swinging. He felt his hips swaying, the old forces taking hold. He peeked in the window, to one of the parlours, cleared of card tables now and full of women in beautiful dresses, men in suits and tails, dancing.
Harpo grabbed Ayala and pulled her close. She didn’t resist, pressed herself right back, and they began to sway, and he could feel the heat coming off her body. Women always responded to a man with rhythm, with pull. He put a hand on her lower back, then trailed his fingers lower. Then she kissed him. Her mouth was warm and she tasted like baking and he wanted more. They could lie right here by the window. Nobody would think to look out into the night, then look down. But Ayala broke free. She ran up the lodge steps, paused at the door and blew him a kiss. He grinned. Then he ran right after.
Harpo ran into the room of windows. Everyone was dancing, swaying together, and again, the rhythm took hold. His heart was beating faster. He didn’t see Ayala. He should find her. If he found someone special, someone he felt connected to, he should stick by her. That’s what his father would do. He definitely wanted to be more like his father, but maybe he’d start tomorrow. He grabbed the first girl he saw instead, twirled her, and soon they were pressed together, dancing. There were the musicians, in the corner of the room. He knew it. He knew music that good couldn’t be just so much wax and tin. Sounds this good had to be real. No wonder everyone came here. This lodge could swing.
A maid in a tight uniform eased between sweating bodies, and offered him a drink. He took it, and felt champagne bubbles pop straight into his brain. He nuzzled closer to his girl, used his hips to move her to the music. At the opposite corner of the room, he saw Chico pressed tightly against his own girl, caressing her from her head all the way down to her legs. He looked so put together, like a movie star. Chico always looked like he was radiating light. You always expected popping flashbulbs when you were around him.
Now Chico was on the move. He walked closer, edged right past Harpo without seeing him. Harpo’s breath caught. Chico looked different close up. His face was pale and yellowish, sweat slicked. He paused and leered at his girl, and he looked frightening and wolfish. He could be her father.
Harpo’s finger tingled. What had seemed fun a moment ago looked ghoulish now. Chico had a family at home. He had a wife and child.
Harpo felt a hand on his face, his girl caressing him, kissing his cheek. He pulled away.
“What’s wrong, Harpo?” asked the beautiful blond girl, her voice soft, like Susan’s.
“How do you know me?” he rasped. “How did you know my name?”
“I go to all the pictures,” she whispered in his ear. “And I read all the magazines. I know all the rich movie stars.” Harpo stepped back. He might not be a movie star anymore. They probably wouldn’t make another picture. And he couldn’t live this life forever.
“What’s the matter?” said the girl. “Don’t I look nice?”
“You look beautiful, sweetheart.” And she did. Harpo seemed to be seeing her for the first time. She was beautiful. Her blue silk dress hugged her curves, and she hugged herself against him. He hugged her back, squeezed her tight like she was a life preserver. Another song started, and more bodies pressed in. And in the middle of all these people, Harpo felt unbearably alone. “I have to get some air,” he said, pushing her away and sidling out of the room.
Harpo walked out into the hallway, then froze. There, alone in the corridor, was Ayala in her stark white nightgown. She was a knockout. Even in that plain thing, she was more beautiful than anyone at the party. And as soon as she saw him, she smiled mysteriously, then turned and walked up the stairs, hips swaying. But he couldn’t move. He just kept thinking about Chico. With that animalistic leer, he’d looked like a bad guy in a silent flick. Harpo closed his eyes and listened to the soft music, to the moans and creaks, house noises. He heard a pop and release, a door opening somewhere. Then he heard a steady groan and shift as Ayala made her way up and up and up. He could go up there. She was beckoning. He knew the signs. That meant her husband wasn’t around. But he couldn’t move. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He should follow. Wasn’t this why he’d really come?