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flicked away. Mood of holiday. She had been confident of reconciliation, she
had brought hairbrush and toothbrush. And all the urgencies a girl could
muster.
In the morning a rare April rain was coming down hard, thrashing at the ports
beside the half acre of the captain's wrinkled and rumpled bed, bathing us in
gray ten o'clock light.
"Is your friend in trouble?" she asked.
"Who?"
"That respectable married lady friend, of course."
"Oh. No, she's fine. It turns out she's hiding from her husband. She went down
to Grenada."
She lifted her head. "Really? Henry and I went down there on the first really
long cruise we took in the Jilly III. The Grenadines are one of the great
sailing areas of the world. And the yacht basin at St. George's is really
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marvelous. You see people from everywhere, really. Yacht Services is very
helpful."
"She's staying at the Spice Island Inn."
"Quite expensive. Is she alone down there?"
"Apparently."
"She can get into all kinds of delicious mischief if she wants. If she's even
half attractive, she won't be lonely. The air is full of spice and perfume
down there, dear. It's a fabulously erotic island. Always so warm and lazy,
with the hot hot sun and the hills and jungles and the beaches. Quite near the
equator, you know."
"I didn't know."
"Well, it is. Don't you think we should go there one day?"
"I guess so."
"You don't seem exactly overwhelmed with enthusiasm."
"Sorry."
"Are you going back to sleep, you wretch?"
"Not with you doing what you're doing."
"This? Oh, it's just a sort of reflex thing, I guess. Darling, if you're no
longer worried about your friend, could we be ready to aim the Jilly toward
home on Tuesday? I can get her provisioned on Monday."
"What? Oh, Tuesday. I guess so."
"You don't seem to keep track of what I'm saying.
"I guess I'm easily distracted."
"You're easily something else, too."
"What did you expect?"
"I expect, my dear, if we put our minds to it, we might make the Guinness Book
of Records. Cozy? A nice rain always makes me very randy." After a moment she
giggled.
"What's funny?"
"Oh, I was thinking I might decide we should go to Grenada during the rainy
season, dear."
"Ho ho ho."
"Well ... it amused me. When I feel this delicious, I laugh at practically
anything. Sometimes at nothing at all."
The unusual cold front which had brought the rain ahead of it moved through
late on Saturday afternoon. She went back to the Jilly III. She said she had a
thousand things to do before we sailed on Tuesday. She said to come over on
Sunday, sometime in the afternoon. She said I could bring along some of my
clothes and toys then, if I wanted.
She left and I locked up again, hot showered, and fell into a deep sleep. I
woke at ten on Saturday night, drank a gallon of water, ate half a pound of
rat cheese, and dropped right back down into the pit.
I woke with a hell of a start at four on Sunday morning, and thought there was
somebody coming aboard. Realized it had been something happening in a dream.
Made a grab for what was left of the dream, but it was all gone too quickly.
Almost a nightmare. It had pumped me so full of adrenaline there was no hope
of going back to sleep. Heart bumped and banged. Legs felt shaky. I scrubbed a
bad taste off my teeth, put on jeans and boat shoes and an old gray
sweatshirt, and went out onto the deck.
A very silent night. No breeze. A fog so thick the nearer dock lights were
haloed and the farther ones were a faint and milky pallor, beyond tangible
gray. I could hear slow waves curl and thud against the sand. The craft on
either side of the Flush were shrouded in the fog, half visible.
Meyer's gloomy message had been delivered none too soon. Everybody else had
been tick-tocked to the grave, leaving one more trip to complete-mine. Then,
far away, I heard a long screeeeee of tormented rubber and a deep and ugly
thud with a small accompanying orchestration of jangles and tinkles. The thud
had been mortal, tick-tocking some racing jackass into his satin-lined box,
possibly along with the girl beside him or the surprised folk in the other
car.
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A few minutes later I heard the sirens, heard them stop at what seemed a
plausible distance. So stop thinking about this and that, McGee, and think
about what you don't want to think about, namely the lush future with the rich
widow.
I climbed to the sun deck and went forward and slouched behind the wheel and
propped my heels atop the instrument panel, ankles crossed.
That old honorary Cuban had simplified the question all to hell when he'd said
that a moral act is something you feel good after. Conversely, you feel bad
after an immoral act. But what about the act that is neither moral nor
immoral, Papa? How are you supposed to feel then?
Look, we are very suited to each other. There is a lot of control either way
on both sides, so timing is no problem at all. She pleases me. She knows how
to intensify it. I like the textures and juices, spices and rhythms of her,
all her tastes and tastings. We truly climb one hell of a hill, Papa, and when
we fall off the far side together, it is truly one hell of a long fall, Papa,
and we land truly and well and as zonked out as lovers can get. We laugh a
lot. We like to hold each other afterward. We make bawdy jokes. She has a lot
of body greed and finds me a satisfying stud. In her gratitude she takes a lot
of extra effort to keep things varied and interesting. So?
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