The Beach Club (30 page)

Don’t do anything stupid
, Jem told himself. He found ten bucks in the pocket of his Nantucket red shorts: another tip success. That would be enough to get him to Maribel’s house or to his own, but not both.

A driver for Atlantic Cab idled in front of the bar, smoking a cigarette, reading the
Inquirer & Mirror
.

“I’m going to see her no matter what you say,” Jem told the driver. “Ninety-five Pheasant.”

“Hey, man, I won’t stop you,” the driver said. “Hop in.” He nuzzled his radio. “I’m at the Muse, headed for Ninety-five Pheasant. One passenger.”

“Two passengers.”

Jem turned around. Neil was standing next to him.

“Two passengers,” the driver said. “Let’s go.”

They climbed in and the cab pulled out of the parking lot.

“What was wrong with the young lady in the baseball hat?” Neil asked.

Jem slumped against the cab seat. “I’m going to see Maribel. I have to see her, man.”

“No, you’re not,” Neil said. He handed some money to the cab driver. “Take us to the Nantucket Beach Club, please.”

“We’re going to see Maribel,” Jem said. He was going to be sick. He raised his voice. “Driver, can you pull over?”

He must have had the sound of vomit in his voice, because the cab driver responded right away. “Pulling over.”

Jem puked onto the side of the road. Gravel, a little grass, his chunky vomit.

“Are you okay, buddy?” Neil asked, patting him on the back.

“Happens every night,” the cab driver said. “Believe me when I say, this is better than some. Had a chick last week blow chow into the back of my head.”

Neil pulled Jem back into the cab. “You can’t see Maribel tonight, my friend. You’re a mess. I’m going to take you back to the Club. You need a swim. You need to cool off.”

“Okay,” Jem said. Sour mouth, pasty mouth. Water sounded good.

Jem stripped to his boxers and waded into the cool water of Nantucket Sound. Water he couldn’t drink. What was that rhyme? Rub-a-dub-dub? He plunged all the way in, and the water lit up around him, a pale, glowing green. It was like magic; he had an aura, a body halo.

“Phosphorescence,” Neil said. He waded in behind Jem and dove into the shallow water. The water lit up around him like a force field. Neil surfaced. “There are living organisms in the water, and when we disturb them, they glow. There’s great phosphorescence off the coast of Puerto Rico. I send hundreds of people to see it every year.”

Jem floated on his back and looked up at the sky, the stars, the moon. His stomach relaxed, his shoulders loosened. Everything was going to be okay, he told himself. He pictured himself pounding on Maribel’s door until he woke up both her and Mack. Jem would have said something stupid and sappy to Maribel and he would have punched Mack in the face, thereby losing his job. And for my finale, lady and gentleman—vomit all over the step.

Jem found his feet and stood on the sandy bottom. Neil was off about twenty yards, waving his hands through the water like fins, watching them glow.

“Thanks for bringing me back here,” Jem said. “You kept me from embarrassing myself.”

“I don’t know about that,” Neil said. He went under and surfaced closer to Jem. He looked like a different person with his hair wet, and without his glasses. “You stranded a pretty girl on the dance floor of the Muse, and you hurled all over Prospect Street.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t let me see Maribel. Thank you.”

“You love her,” Neil said. “Your dead-drunk behavior proves it. You love her. True love always wins. That sounds like total bullshit, but I happen to believe it. You’ll get her.”

“You’ve smoked too much dope,” Jem said.

Neil kicked up his feet and floated on his back. “When I told you the man who gave me the weed is a professional, I meant it,” he said. “He’s a doctor.”

“A doctor?” Jem said.

“I have pancreatic cancer,” Neil said. “I’m dying.” He said this the way one might announce he’s a vegetarian, or a conscientious objector; he said it as though he wholeheartedly believed in it.

The water grew cold, and Jem started to shake. He swam to shore on one breath. He crawled onto the sand and cut his toe on something sharp. He flipped onto his ass and inspected the damage in the moonlight. There was a gash just below his toenail. He was bleeding.

“I cut myself,” he said softly. Tears sprang to his eyes. He felt amazingly sad, and thirsty. He needed water. He wiped a drop of blood from his toe and tasted it—ringing, metallic, sweet. Was that disgusting, tasting your own blood? He gazed out at the water; Neil floated on his back. “Hey, fuck you!” Jem said. “Fuck you for messing with me like that.” He was shouting but he didn’t care. He didn’t care if he woke up the whole hotel. “Fuck you for kidding around like that.”

Jem heard a splash and seconds later, Neil was sitting next to him on the beach. He was kind of thin, now that Jem noticed, but he didn’t look sick; he didn’t look like a dying person.

“I’m not messing with you,” Neil said. “I’m not kidding around.”

Jem wiped at his tears angrily. Why the fuck was he crying? He’d only met Neil yesterday, for God’s sake. He barely knew the guy. So he was dying, so what? They were all going to die, every single person, no one would escape it. Jem was going to die, Maribel, Mack, the girl Jem left at the Muse, the cab driver, Jem’s parents, Gwennie, Mr. G, Mrs. Worley. Everyone. So why the tears? Maybe because life felt good—even though Jem was miserable about Maribel, it felt good to hurt, to yearn, to want. It felt good to drink twelve drinks in one night, it felt good to empty his stomach on the side of the road, it felt good to submerge his body in the cool water and watch it shine and sparkle around him.

“This is the big problem, then?” Jem asked. “It better be, because if you have one bigger than this, I don’t want to hear about it.”

“This is it.”

“Okay,” Jem said. He dug his wounded toe into the sand, and reached for his white shirt, pulled it over his head. It smelled like smoke. He looked around for his shorts, and when he found them, he said, “You had two messages, and I didn’t give them to you because you said you didn’t want them. But one was from Dr. Kenton. I should have told you.”

“No, you obeyed my wishes. Dr. Kenton was calling to tell me I’m not getting better.”

“You don’t know that,” Jem said.

“I do,” Neil said. “Who was the other message from?”

“Desirée.”

“My girlfriend full of desire. I guess she’ll be the next one to find out.”

“Man, don’t tell me I’m the only person who knows.”

“You and Dr. Kenton.”

Jem needed a tall glass of water, with ice. “Why me?”

“Have you told anyone else how you feel about Maribel?”

“I told Maribel. But that’s it,” Jem said.

“Well, then, why me?” Neil asked.

“Because you were there,” Jem said.

“Exactly,” Neil said.

Jem sat quietly for a little while, watching the water lap onto the beach. He turned around; every light in the hotel was off. Tiny had gone home long ago. He tried to picture Neil dead, closed up in a box, buried in a hole in the ground, or burned into ashes. It was impossible. After Neil left the hotel, Jem would never see him again—but that was true of all the guests who stayed at the hotel. Jem knew them for a time, and then they left, and if and when they returned next summer, Jem would be gone. That was the depressing thing about working at a hotel. No one ever stayed. How did Mack and Vance do it year after year, getting to know people and then having them leave, sometimes never to be seen again?

“I think you should marry Desirée,” Jem said. “For your daughter’s sake. Maybe when she finds out you’re…you know, sick, she’ll convert to Judaism.”

“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” Neil said. “I’ll know soon enough.”

Soon enough
. Jem wondered what kind of time Neil was looking at. Months? Weeks? More tears fell, and Jem let them go.

“You really think I can get Maribel?” Jem asked.

“No,” Neil said. “Yes. I don’t know.”

Jem fell back into the sand; he could go to sleep right there. “I should get home,” he said. He felt bad abandoning Neil, but he had to make it back to his tiny rented room. He had to drink some water. He managed to stand up and Neil stood as well and they looked at each other through the darkness. Then, as though they were meeting for the first time, Neil stuck out his hand, and Jem shook it.

Walking to work the next day, Jem thought,
I am alive
. He could move his feet, swing his arms, hear the sound of his own voice,
Hello. I’m alive
. He’d put some Mycitracin and a Band-Aid on his toe, and it throbbed as he walked.
I’m alive
.

Jem half expected Neil to be gone when he got to the hotel. Or maybe that’s what Jem hoped for—that Neil had disappeared in the night. Jem looked for him at breakfast, but he didn’t show. Then Jem got caught up in his daily duties—stripping the rooms, sweeping up shells in the parking lot, trying to clean the bar sludge from his shoes. He bought two bottles of Gatorade from the soda machine and drank them straight down, thinking it would help his hangover. He ate a bagel with cream cheese left over from breakfast, and then he asked Love, “Has Neil Rosenblum checked out?”

“No,” Love said. She consulted her notebook in that authoritative way she had, as though she were consulting the Bible. “He checks out tomorrow. You should know that, he’s your friend. Did you two have fun last night?”

“Yeah,” Jem said. “We did.”

At noon, Jem knocked on Neil’s door, but there was no answer. Jem scanned the beach: No Neil. Maybe he went to town, or maybe he was still asleep. Jem went back to the front desk.

“Are you
sure
Neil Rosenblum hasn’t checked out?” he asked Love. “Did the chambermaids clean his room? Did they say his stuff was still there?”

“He’s here,” she said. “I just saw him out in the parking lot.”

Jem hurried through the lobby and peered out the front doors. Sure enough, there was Neil standing between a Mercedes and a Range Rover, talking to a blonde. One of the girls from the Muse. Jem strolled over, and much to his horror realized the blonde was Maribel. Jem hesitated; he wanted to run away, but Maribel saw him and waved. Slowly, Jem approached. Neil could be telling Maribel anything—what did he care if he fiddled with Jem’s relationship? He probably thought that dying gave him license to say or do whatever he pleased.

“Here’s our boy now,” Maribel said. Jem smiled weakly. “Mr. Rosenblum was just telling me how he was going to invest in your business in California. He says he’s never seen anyone with more promise.”

Neil fingered his glasses thoughtfully.

“I can’t believe how lucky everyone is this summer,” Maribel said. “First, Mack gets a job with the Texas Rangers, and now you’re starting your own business in California. Aren’t you excited, Jem?”

Neil pounded Jem on the back. “Of course he’s excited. We’re both excited. This is the kind of guy you run across once in a lifetime.”

Maribel turned pink and nodded emphatically. “I agree.”

“Whoever lands this fellow is lucky. Lucky!” Neil looked at Maribel. “You should have
seen
the women after him last night at the bars.”

Jem glared at the pavement; he kicked a hermit crab shell into the tire of the Rover. “There weren’t any women after me.”

“I’ll bet there were,” Maribel said. Jem raised his eyes and let himself feast on her for just a few seconds. She was wearing crisp linen pants and a white tank sweater. Her toenails were painted silver; they glinted like chips of mica.

“Did you come from work?” he asked her.

“Actually,” she said, “I came down to see if you wanted to go to lunch.”

“Me?” Jem said. “What about Mack?”

“It’s August,” Maribel said. “He’s busy. Do you want to go?”

“We already have lunch plans,” Neil said. “Two of those women I was talking about are waiting for us in town.”

Jem narrowed his eyes at Neil.
Shut up! She’s asking me to lunch!

Maribel’s smiled drooped. “You’re meeting women for lunch?”

“No, we’re not,” Jem said. “At least, I’m not.”

“You are,” Neil said. “These women aren’t interested in me. I’m old enough to be their grandfather. They’re after you, buddy. They’ll be crushed if you don’t come.”

“You’d better go then,” Maribel said. She caught Jem’s eye and he almost melted in a puddle on the pavement.
I love you, Maribel!
He called out silently.
I really love you!
Maribel turned to go. “See you later, Jem. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Rosenblum.”

“It was nice meeting
you
, Maribel,” Neil said. He put his arm around Jem and wheeled him toward the lobby. “I know this hurts, buddy, but it’s for your own good. Did you see how crestfallen she was when she heard you already had a date? I know a jealous woman, and believe me, she was jealous.”

“You’re an ass,” Jem said. “I could be at lunch with Maribel right now.”

“But you’re here with me,” Neil said. “And your time with me is limited. You have the rest of your life to spend with Maribel.”

“And what was that about you investing in my
business
,” Jem said. “That was a lie.”

“Absolutely,” Neil said. “I was trying to help.”

“Stop trying, please.”

“Do you want to come to my room for a drink?” Neil asked.

Jem plucked his shirt away from his body. “I’m working, as you can see.”

“Come on,” Neil said. “Take a lunch break.”

“I could’ve taken a lunch break with Maribel,” Jem said. “But you ruined it.”

“I hope I’m still alive when it’s time for you to thank me,” Neil said.

That evening, Neil called Desirée and proposed. He did it while Jem sat on the deck, and Jem could hear the happy screams coming all the way from New York City. Neil held the phone away from his ear. “She says yes,” he whispered. Jem couldn’t help but feel sorry for Desirée, for the moment when her joy became shock and horror. It seemed unfair that Jem should know what was in store for her, when she didn’t even know herself.