XIX
On a Saturday in late September, I cruised the Sniper along the desolate point and white sweep of empty beach off Cape Sable. It was a flawless day: a world of soft blues and yellows; a world of sun and calm sea. And solitude.
The southernmost west coast of Florida is unlike anything else the Vacation State has left to offer. It is vast mangrove forests, trees eighty feet high, and dark tidal rivers and uncharted oyster bars where the tides have ebbed and flowed for a thousand years, known only to the snook and tarpon and redfish which hunt there. It is an immense sea and backcountry wilderness unblemished by the scars of the Florida epic: billboards and trailer parks, condominiums and fast-food stands and roadside attractions—the hallmark of progress and the idiocy of the Florida businessman.
It is a good place to rest.
A good place to disappear.
I nosed the Sniper toward shore, into the lee of Lake Ingraham Creek, far enough away to keep the bugs in the mangroves, but close enough so that it would be an easy swim to the desolate beach.
The woman had her back to me, naked and well oiled against the September sun. And when I gave her the word, she dropped the Danforth while I reversed the engines, churning the blue water, setting the hook. And then she turned to face me on the fly bridge; heavy thrust of now tan breasts, sweet glimmer of oil on body hair and perfect thighs.
“You want me to get you something cold to drink?”
She nodded and lay back down on the foredeck to bake in the sun.
Some woman. We had left Key West two weeks before; left to escape and rest and promise each other nothing. A boat trip to the wilderness is better than any hospital. Besides, I had had my fill of hospitals. And she had agreed.
So we had cruised across Florida Bay, stopping when we wanted to stop, swimming when we wanted to swim. She liked sitting on the deck with a book. I liked working on the Sniper: polishing and painting, trying to bully the horror back into hiding through manual labor. For the first week, we had been as shy and awkward together as children. If I saw her coming aft along the port walkway, I would back up and take the starboard walkway forward. When our eyes met unexpectedly, she would turn and look away as if there was something to see on the distant glaze of horizon. But slowly, through soft talk and laughter, the shyness dissipated, replaced by a growing, almost tangible sexuality. Janet, my Janet, was gone . . . and I would have to find a way of going on.
It happened on the eighth day. A twilight dinner of snapper, rice, and fresh lime, anchored in the clear shallows of Florida Bay. Sitting across from me, both of us flushed with the nearness of the other, I had found it impossible to eat.
“You’re not hungry?”
“Guess not.”
And when we both stood to clear the table, we bumped into each other. We turned and collided again. The cabin felt no bigger than a closet. She took me by the shoulders then and looked up into my eyes. I felt like I was on fire.
“Dusky, I . . . ”
Before she had a chance to finish, I had kissed her. It was like the breaking of a dam. She couldn’t get my weathered jeans off fast enough, nor I hers. It was the convalescence we both needed; an affirmation of love.
And God knows I had needed it. After the return from Cuda Key there had been the awful trip to the hospital. And then the meetings with Fizer; meetings and more meetings.
“You’ve done us a great service, Dusky.”
“Sure, Norm. Sure.”
“We’ve got plenty on the Senator—now it’s just a matter of getting him back to the States. The rest of his flunkies are already looking for lawyers. Except for the old caretaker. He was released and given protection. The prosecution will be using him.”
“Fine, Norm. Fine.”
Norm Fizer had looked at me, the concern obvious. “Look, Dusky, it’s over. I know how it is—like back in Nam. But you can’t let it eat away at you. So drop it.”
And I had smiled; a bitter smile. “And you also know how hard it is to ‘just drop it.’ ” And then: “Norm, I stole about twenty thousand bucks from Ellsworth’s stash.”
He nodded. “I know that. I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“And I got a money order and sent all but a thousand of it to Bimini’s folks.”
“I know that, too.” He had stood and clapped me on the shoulder. “As far as I’m concerned, captain, the case is closed. Take a month or so off. Drink some beer; drink a lot of beer. Get roaring drunk and hunt down some big fish with that boat of yours. And I’ll be in touch later—if you’re still interested?”
“Yeah, Norm. I’m still interested.”
So one night the girl had come down to the docks. She wanted a private audience. A two-week private audience. And I had agreed, not even daring to hope it would turn into a healing, loving cruise of hot sun and cold beer and idle, idle days.
I climbed down the ladder from the fly bridge and fetched the lady something tall and cold. And when I took it to her, smiling at the fine nakedness of her, she rolled over, sleepy-eyed, her breasts flattening the tiniest bit beneath their own weight, and she held out her arms to me.
“This girl needs something more than Pepsi, captain. In the mood?”
I was.
I stripped off my shorts without haste, savoring my anticipation, and I lay down beside her, feeling the oiled buttocks lift at my touch, feeling her warm lips, soft, coiling her long silken hair in my hands. And when she slid herself up and onto me, joining us with a low moan of ecstasy, I whispered her name, feeling it sweet on my lips:
“Lisa . . . Lisa . . . Lisa-lee. . . . ”
