An Ordinary Drowning, Book One of The Mermaid's Pendant (10 page)

That
night, Raimunda found him at his camping spot at Flamenco Beach. When she
finally slept, John lay on his back staring at the stars for a long time. He
found that, if he focused on the distant wash of wave on shore, he could
remember Tamarind’s song. He imagined that it sounded like the music of the
ancient seas, of the primordial ooze that birthed every living thing.

***

When
John went out on his second dive with Chris, he looked for Tamarind at the
dock, but she never appeared. This time, no humming reached him underwater, but
he played the memory of her last tune over and over in his head like that
refrain by Sheryl Crow—
All I wanna do is have some fun
. Whether it
actually kept his panic at bay or only acted as a placebo, he had no way of
knowing. On his third and final dive on Friday, he hummed to himself behind his
mask. Chris flashed him a thumbs-up at the end of the dive and John knew that
he’d earned his certification. He looked for Tamarind again after they docked,
but she didn’t show up. Much to his relief neither did Raimunda that night.

Now that
he’d completed his training, John had several days to explore other areas of
Culebra, especially its National Wildlife Refuge—and to lose himself in its
dusty isolation. He planned to check out Playa Brava and Playa Resaca on the
north coast where leatherback turtles swam ashore every spring to lay their
eggs in sandy nests. But his trek wouldn’t soothe him: his inexplicable
unfaithfulness simmered in his unquiet spirit. He prayed instead that hard
hiking might exorcise Raimunda. A part of him, the altar boy part, the part
that cared that he hadn’t been to Mass since his grandmother died, sought
absolution on the hilly terrain east of Flamenco.

But
first, he had to call Zoë. To hear her voice for the first time in a week, to
tell her. He woke too early, anxiety curdling his stomach. Forgoing breakfast,
he tried to read to pass the time. He’d already finished
Late Night
Listening to Mahler’s Ninth Symphony
so he read through the proposal for
his research mission again, trying to focus on the marine geology, which wasn’t
his area. When it was late enough, he biked into Dewey to use Chris’s phone.
Chris, his large eyes drooping, yawned and led him to the room in the back
where an old black phone sat on a metal desk. He waved at John, yawned again,
and left.

Zoë
sounded groggy when she answered. “God, John! Do you have to call so early?”

“Sorry.
I forgot you’re in the middle of your paper.” Had she been too busy to notice
that he hadn’t written to her?

“You
don’t know the half of it.” Already she sounded alert. True to her nature, she
warmed to her subject in zero to thirty. “Dan’s decided we need to run some new
simulations before we submit the final paper and I’ve been working
eighteen-hour days all week.”

Sympathy,
played well, could distract her. “He’s out of his freakin’ mind. Who does that
any way?”

“A man
who knows everyone in the security world and can get all the extensions he
wants. I’m sleeping in today as an act of rebellion.” She paused. Her voice
turned silky. “When I get down there next Saturday, there’s no way I’m sleeping
at the beach. This island of yours might be paradise, but I don’t need to do
penance to be let in, do I?”

“No, of
course not. I’ve already booked a cottage.” Let her think that Culebra was a
‘paradise,’ something from a travel brochure.
He’d
be doing penance when
she arrived. “It overlooks the ocean.”

“Beautiful.”
She paused. “Had any luck diving?”

“Yeah,
it went much better than I’d hoped. I won’t have any trouble.” The truth hadn’t
found its way to his tongue so he chattered on. “I saw some amazing sea life
last week. It was like I’d descended into a Disney theme park, the colors were
that bright.”

“I told
you there’s nothing like snorkeling along a reef.” Zoë’s familiar smugness
nettled him; he seized onto it to keep from drowning. “I’m looking forward to
getting in some snorkeling. How’s Playa Flamenco? Every bit as beautiful as you
read?”

He
counted to three, let out a steady breath. When he spoke, he sounded casual.
“Oh, absolutely. A mile of pristine white sand, which unfortunately is crowded
with drunk campers on the weekend. I took the ferry over with a few hundred
last Saturday. They start drinking at eight a.m. and sleep at the beach.”

So much
for letting her think Culebra was a paradise. At least he’d told the truth.
Maybe it would be easier to admit that he’d slept with another woman now.

“Okay,
I’ll cross Playa Flamenco off the list, then. Too bad, I was looking forward to
sunbathing topless.” The silkiness returned, inviting him to banter, but he
couldn’t respond in kind. He changed the topic to get his legs under him, to
give him control.

“I’ve
been going over the proposal again. The geology, what I understand of it, is
incredibly fascinating. These guys don’t really know what they’re going to see
down there, and it’s rife with speculation. I’m beginning to appreciate just
how important this is. It’s like we’re going to the moon for the first time.”

“Not
thinking about changing careers, are you?” It was a throwaway question.

More
truth leaked out, surprising John as he said it. “I wonder sometimes.”

If she’d
understood him, she would have mined this vein for all of its worth, but Zoë
didn’t follow up. She appeared to have another, more serious issue to confront.

“So,
have you met anybody on Culebra? Any sassy
señoritas
?” Her voice was
light, playful, but John knew better.

Now was
the time to tell her. He squirmed, grateful that she couldn’t see his face. He
couldn’t see hers, either, and in that moment he knew that he couldn’t tell her
over the phone. He’d have to take his punches in person.

“Except
for the weekends, this place is pretty quiet. There’s a guy here who is
Hemingway’s double. He was talking to a couple of American college students the
other day. I guess I could’ve sat at the bar with them, but I just satisfied
myself with speculating about what brought them here. Other than that, I’ve
spent most of my time with a guy from the dive shop.”

Zoë must
not have heard the tremor in his voice, only the escapism.

“You’ve
got a week ahead of you with nothing to do except visit some sea-turtle nesting
grounds and drink beer? I really wish I could’ve gotten away sooner to be with
you. But
I’m
not blessed with an advisor who thinks it’s okay to start
spring break a couple of weeks early.”

“What?”
John feigned exaggerated ignorance. He could hide in humor now that the crisis
had passed. “I’m here preparing for my mission.”

“Yeah,
yeah. Save it for the envious geeks you call friends. What are you
really
going to do with yourself? Daydream about what you’re going to do to me when I
finally get there?”

John
ignored the question. “When
are
you getting here?”

“I’m
flying into Dewey at 10 Friday morning where I’m sure you’ll be waiting
impatiently to see me.”

“Impatient
isn’t the word,” he said—honesty hidden in humor. Another relief to his sore
conscience, even if it was indirect. “I’ll see you on Friday then.”

“Okay,
I’ll see you on Friday. And John—I love you.” She’d slipped it in, just when
he’d thought that he was home free.

John
mumbled good-bye and hung up. He took the ponytail holder out of his hair and
raked his fingers through the thick strands a couple of times, looking out
toward the horizon. He shrugged and twisted the holder around his hair again.
He’d delayed the catharsis of confession; now all he could do was to throw
himself into his hike.

He
picked up his backpack and set out for Playa Resaca, the nearest of the two
nesting beaches. As he hiked the tortuous mile and a half, his mind emptied and
he soaked in the mid-morning sun like a solar cell. He wasn’t serene and
detached as he’d been on the bike ride; on the contrary, he experienced an
exquisite awareness of his body in its surroundings. The sun burned the back of
his neck and forearms and that knowledge consumed him until he focused on his
straining hamstrings and calves. He felt the heaviness of his footfalls on the
steep boulder-lined trail that led him 650 feet upwards through a forest of
cupey and jaguey, whose stilt-like roots shaded orchids, succulent bromeliads,
and agave with their stiff, sword-shaped leaves. The still air clung to him
like a wetsuit and he stopped frequently to drink water and shoot photographs.
Once he arrived at the eastern side of the mountain, the trail plunged to the
shore; and by the end of his hike, he panted and his skin was slick with sweat.

Playa
Resaca—“bottom of the sack” in Spanish—was nearly as beautiful as Playa
Flamenco; Mount Resaca and the rugged terrain that he’d hiked sheltered the
beach and it remained deserted, even this late in the morning. John surveyed
Playa Resaca for several minutes, resting from his trek and sipping water. He
could well understand why the leatherbacks would avoid the noisier Playa
Flamenco for this beach; he himself preferred its solitude. When his breathing
had evened out, he continued through the thorny scrub toward the other main
nesting beach, Playa Brava, where he would take a quick dip.

Playa
Brava was much like Playa Resaca: sheltered and deserted. Here, however, the
surf was much stronger; hence its name: “the rough one.” John walked along the
length of beach, imagining awkward turtles swimming onto the shore. Once they
had cleared the water, their powerful flippers would be nearly useless in the
clinging sand; they would manage to propel themselves across the beach with the
drive to bury their eggs on land.

John
paused in mid-stride
.

Why
do female sea turtles split their lives between sea and land? Why do they leave
their eggs alone and vulnerable? Surely beaches are no safer than the sandy
ocean bottom?

He
looked up at the bright, flat sky.

There
must be hawks or something who like turtle eggs. Come to think of it so do
people and other animals. Why do leatherback turtles risk the survival of their
species by leaving the ocean?

No
answer came to him. As he stood, caught by these sudden questions, a lone
seagull glided overhead, arcing over his spot. John watched, turning to follow
it. The gull laughed and sped away toward the west.

Hot,
hungry and unable to sustain a coherent mental struggle, he strode back to his
backpack, which he’d left under a tree. He sat with his back against the trunk
and pulled a sandwich and chips out. As he ate, he glanced idly up at the tree,
which had numerous small green fruits resembling crabapples growing on it. He’d
seen fruit trees all over the island: orange, lime, banana, guava, and mango.
Perhaps the fruit of this tree was also edible, even if he wasn’t familiar with
it. He’d take some back with him to Dewey and ask a local what it was and if he
could eat it.

He’d
finished his lunch, including an orange and a banana, and stood up to pluck one
of the fruits when a woman’s voice behind him said, “No, don’t touch it.”

His
fingers slipped from the fruit, which fell to the ground at his feet. He turned
to face Tamarind, who stood fifteen feet away.

“Tamarind!
You surprised me.” He heard the happiness in his voice but didn’t have time to
wonder at it.

She
stepped toward him. “The fruit of the
manchineel
tree is very
poisonous.”

John
shook his head, smiling. “I wasn’t going to eat it, if that’s what you thought.
I’m not
that
stupid.”

She
frowned, her eyes a vivid blue-green. “It’s dangerous even to touch. It bleeds
white. It burns.”

John
stood and gazed at her. She held his gaze for a moment but then tilted her head
and stared off into the tree line. Strands of damp hair lifted off her neck and
danced along a finger of breeze.

He
teased her, hoping that she’d look at him. “Saved again in the nick of time.
How’d you find me? You following me?”

She
turned and looked back toward the water. “Yes.”

“I don’t
know whether to be flattered or worried.” Still teasing, he took a step toward
her.

“Worried?
Why?” When she looked at him, her amazing eyes had widened.

“I’m
just not used to being stalked.” He grinned at the thought of this girl
stalking anybody.

She kept
her gaze on him. He’d aroused her curiosity. “‘Stalked’? What does ‘stalked’
mean?”

“Follow
someone around a lot without him knowing it.”

She
tossed her head and the breeze caught her tangled hair and pulled it away from
her face. “Now you know I’m following you. Maybe I’ll stop.” Here she stuck her
hands in the pockets of her cargo shorts and turned away from him.

John
darted forward and caught her arm before she could walk more than a step. Her
skin and hair smelled salty. “No you don’t. Your abrupt exits are unnerving.
Besides, I know you’re not stalking me. Stalkers don’t usually act the part of
guardian angel.”

She
didn’t try to escape; if anything she shifted closer. “Guardian angel?”