Before she'd become a social director at the Plantation Inn, Jane had been a high-school English teacher in Pierre, South Dakota. At twenty-one she'd married another English teacher; miscarried their future Joyce Carol Oates in a Pien-e shopping mall; was separated at twenty-three.
After that, Jane had decided to see a little bit more of the world than the Dakota Badlands. She'd traveled down to South America. Traveled up to the Caribbean. Haiti, finally San Dominica. Then Peter Macdonald. Crazy, funny Peter-who reininded her of a poem-also of a Simon & Garfunkel song called 'Richard Cory.'
Before he'd come to the Plantation Inn, Peter had been, first and foremost, the last and least worthy (in his own mind, anyway) of the six Macdonald brothers. Three college baseball stars, two academic big deals-and then Peter. Little Mac.
As a result, Peter had become a cadet at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point (like his fatherBig Mac). He'd left West Point after his second class year-become a soldier for real. A Special Forces sergeant; decorated twice; shot in the back once. A war hero-whatever that was in the midseventies.
With a little luck and good planning that winter, he'd wound up in the sunny Caribbean. R&R... 'Getting your shit together,' his suddenly contemporary-as-hell father had written in a long letter.... He'd met Jane in September, and they'd moved in together by the end of the month. Both of them living and working at the ritzy Plantation Inn... not bad.
Jane had only one question about the marines working down on Turtle Bay. 'What in heck do they do it for?' Peter found himself smiling. 'Rake dirt?.
don't know what for. they don't know. Somebody probably knew why at one time or another. Now they just do it. Soldiers rake dirt on every military base in the world.'
'Well, it's the dumbest thing I've ever seen. One of the dumbest. It's dumber than baseball. ' Jane grinned.
'It's a whole lot dumber when you're behind the rake. That's okay, though.... Let's walk.... By the way, baseball isn't dumb.'
they walked up through a lot of banana and breadfruit trees. A pretty jungle with a few parrots and cockatoos to spice things up. Kling-kling birds, too.
Macdonald took his baseball cap out of a back pocket and tugged it on to keep out bugs.
'What are you going to do now, Peter?' she finally asked him.
Macdonald sighed. 'I don't know what I should do.... Maybe the murders were just what the police say. Dassie Dred making sure his people get fair trials from now on. No more hanging sentences. Simple as that.' 'And the Englishman?'
'Ah, the bloody white man. The damn, tall, blond, Day-of- the-fucking-Jackal character. Complicating our beautifully uncomplicated existence.
Peter picked up a rock and sidearmed a high inside curve around a banana tree. 'You know what else?... I'm starting to feel bad about wasting my life all of a sudden.... Anything but that, dear God. Please don't make me feel guilty about feeling good. See, I was just in this fucked-up war and... '
Jane put her arms around Peter's slim waist. Behind him she could see sharp blue sea through palm leaves. It was all so perfect-that most of the time she didn't completely believe in it.
'Tell me this, Peter Macdonald. Where does it say that not killing yourself working is wasting your life?'
Macdonald sn-dled at the wise blond girl. He held on to one of her soft breasts and kissed her mouth gently. 'I'm not sure... but it's engraved on my brain. I feel that exact thought grinding away in there every day that I'm down here. Every time I dive into the deep blue sea.' He put his hand over his mouth. When he did that, his voice came out deep and strange. 'Get yourself a decent job, Macdonald, you bum. Shape UP before it's all over, Pete. Be somebody or be gone.... Anyway'-his voice came back to normal-'I guess I have to do something about the Englishman, huh, Laurel?'
Jane winced slightly. In their little South Seas fantasy world-their paradise life in the Caribbean-she was called Laurel; Peter was Hardy-haha.
'I wish you wouldn't,' the blond woman said. 'Really. I'm serious, Peter.'
'I have to try one more thing,' Peter said.
For that moment, though-at 8:30 on Thursday morning-the two of them made a little clearing on the pretty hillside. they lay down together like two missionary lovers.
Peter pulled gently at the white shirt knotted under her breasts. Jane lifted her slender arms - Let the loose white shirt go up around her neck, shoulders.
'I love you so much,' she whispered. 'Just thought I'd say that.'
He took a soft, cool breast in each hand. Unzipped her shorts - Slid shorts and panties down over her dark brown legs. She unbuckled red L. L. Bean suspenders, pulled at blue jeans, helped him out of underwear and baseball hat. He was kissing her everywhere, tonguing her nipples for a long, lazy time. Feeling soft, invisible down on her stomach. Smelling coconut oil.
Peter entered Jane slowly, an inch at a time, then long, slow thrusts..... they stopped each other twice. Delaying, saving Then they came with little spasms that made them dizzy. A long climax, both of them whispering as if they were in church.
When they finally sat up again, all the marines were gone. Turtle Bay looked perfect and innocent again. Raked neat as a farmer's field.
Chuk, chuk, chuk was the sound machetes made cutting sugar cane.
Chik, chik, chik was the sound Peter heard.
Chik, chik, chik.
Chik, chik, chik. Chik, chik, chik. Cashoo.
Peter had found Maximilian Westerhuis tabulating fancy yellow-on-white hotel bills in his eighthy-eight office,
