connected with it has to put five bucks in the kitty.”
Denise looked around the room, from the picture window to the flowered rattan chairs to the twin beds, against opposite walls, that featured tailored beige spreads and bolsters that disguised them as sofas. Forty-five dollars a day including color TV and the ocean view. What more could you want? Ryan said.
Denise said, “What I’d like more than anything is a glass of wine.”
Ryan went into the kitchen and dug into a grocery bag. He came back out with a bottle of Blue Nun and two jelly glasses.
“You mean it?” Denise said.
“If the corkscrew works,” Ryan said. He took it out of his coat pocket.
Denise watched him twist it into the cork. “You’re gonna have one, too?”
“So you won’t have to drink alone,” Ryan said. He got the cork out. Pouring the wine, he said, “It’s not cold, though.”
“I don’t care.” She took the glass he offered, with yellow daisies on it, and said, “Jesus, I don’t believe it.” Then took a drink and closed her eyes and opened them. “Jesus,” she said again, and watched Ryan sip his wine. “Why’re you doing this?”
“I guess-I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I want us to be like normal everyday people on a vacation. Not think-I don’t mean get drunk and not think. I mean not worry about anything, relax, and have a good time. We can have the steak and a salad, I thought, instead of getting dressed and going out someplace.”
“That sounds fine.”
“I got a bottle of red, too, we can have with the steak.”
“I didn’t see you get the wine.”
“No, well-we can have this before, then the red with dinner. You want to fix it, or you want me to?”
“No, I’ll do it.”
“You feel okay?”
“I feel fine. This morning, it seems like a long time ago,” Denise said. “I was going to take a shower, unless you want to eat right away.”
“No, go ahead,” Ryan said. “We’re not in any hurry. We’re on our vacation.”
They were polite, but it didn’t seem forced. That was the idea, to be natural.
Ryan went outside with his wine. He turned on the orange light by the door, then turned it off again and sat down in a deck chair, propping his feet on the low wall that separated the patio area from the empty beach. It was a good time of the day: alone, feeling the breeze and listening to the ocean as it came in out of the darkness and broke and washed in forty yards away. He was here and she was in the shower and Mr. Perez was somewhere and out there were the Gulf Stream and Bimini, the Bahama Islands, and way out there in the darkness some of Denise’s whales talking to each other, not giving a shit about Mr. Perez getting mad and tense as he telephoned and got no answers. Maybe he’d go out to Denise’s again. Then what? Ryan could think about Mr. Perez without putting five bucks in the kitty, but he wished he could turn the man off in his mind. Kick the habit. He didn’t know what he was doing with the wine. Playing a game. Helping her through a bad time. Having some with her so she wouldn’t feel like a drunk. Making excuses. It didn’t taste that good, yet. She was probably pouring herself another one. He almost got up, but he made himself sit there, looking out at the ocean, and smoked a cigarette, and then, after a few minutes, smoked another one.
“I was thinking about your whales,” Ryan said. “What do whales do?”
“What do they
“Make love?”
“When the cows are in the mood.”
“It’s up to the girl, uh?”
“I guess so, unless the boy whale’s really horny.”
Ryan was feeling good-when he came in, he saw the wine in the Blue Nun bottle at the same level-but he didn’t want her to think he was working up to something, talking about the whales making out. It was strange, last night she’d been naked, shoving her box at him; but now she was a different person and he was afraid to say the wrong thing.
They had finished the white while she broiled the steak. They were halfway through the Almadйn red now. When her glass was down, she wouldn’t pour her own. She’d wait for Ryan to pour it, and he’d feel or imagine her watching him fill their glasses, making sure he didn’t take more for himself. He imagined it because it was something he used to do. He didn’t look up to see if she was watching; he was afraid to.
When they finished eating, there were still two inches of wine left in the bottle. She picked up the bottle as she cleared the table and didn’t seem to know what to do with it.
“You want to finish this?”
“No, I don’t care for any more,” Ryan said.
He watched her set the bottle on the table again. While she was doing the dishes, Ryan drying, he put the cork in the bottle and placed it on top of the refrigerator. There it was for whoever wanted it.
After, they took their shoes off and walked down to the flat smooth sand and stood watching the surf, feeling the shock of cold as the water rushed in and the sand alive beneath their feet as the water was drawn back into the sea. He was at ease with her outside, on the beach, and then sitting in deck chairs on the patio. Even when they were silent he was at ease and felt good.
But when they went in again and were alone in the room he was self-conscious and wondered what she was thinking, if she expected him to touch her and make the moves. The night before, she had said, “I’ve been wondering when it was coming-all the times you’ve been here.” She had been drunk saying it; still, she had thought it and said it. He wanted to touch her and she probably expected him to. He didn’t know why he felt dumb and awkward. If she didn’t want to do it, she’d tell him. But it had to be natural.
She went in the bathroom and came out, and he went in and washed and brushed his teeth and combed his hair. When he came out, she was in bed. The slipcover had been taken off his bed and the light blanket and sheet turned down.
“Where’d you find the pillows?”
“In the closet.”
He took off his shirt and pants. “Well, good night.”
“Good night,” she said. “Sleep well.”
He got in bed and lay on his back staring at the ceiling with the good-looking girl lying in her bed fifteen feet away. An outside light from somewhere reflected on the ceiling.
Maybe she’d come over.
No, she was waiting for him. Go on, for Christ’s sake. She was going to think he was a fag.
In the silence he could hear the surf, a good sound, far away.
She said, in the darkness, “Ryan?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a nice guy, you know it?”
“Thanks,” Ryan said. “You’re nice too.” After a little while he rolled over on his side and rolled quietly a few more times in the hour it took him to go to sleep.
She had expected him to come over. She was ready and would have let him get in her bed. When he didn’t, she was surprised, but not disappointed. There was time and she knew it would happen, not with one of them making the move, but letting it happen, perhaps when they least expected it.
He said to her, “You better be careful the first day.”
She said, “No, I look like I burn, but I don’t. I get tan pretty quick, a couple of days. How about you?”
“Yeah, I used to burn, but I don’t anymore.”
That kind of beach conversation and talk about food-Do you like key lime pie? Do you like oysters?-and movies and movie stars and books they’d read, the one Denise was reading-“I know it’s dumb and she’s a terrible writer, but I love it”-lying in the Florida sun, rubbing each other’s back with lotion, going in the water to cool off rather than swim, neither of them was a swimmer-nothing about Mr. Perez. What was he doing? Who gave a
