table, pointing out something in the plans. Trimble wasn’t looking at whatever it was; he watched Packer’s animated profile. “He’s worth twenty mill, bro,” Jack said.
“How do you know?”
“Evelyn. Her dad was Trimble’s lawyer, when he was just starting out. Evelyn’s dad is a very useful guy.”
Something made a loud splash in the water, not far out.
“Fifteen footer,” Jack said.
“Shark?”
“That’s where they live. I’ve seen a dozen since I got here.”
“You’re going to need a special kind of tourist.”
Jack checked the bar again. “We don’t have to worry about it yet. Our worry is the shark over there.” Trimble had his hand over his glass.
“How did you meet them?” Eddie asked.
“The Packers? It’s a long story. And boring.” Jack sipped some cognac. “I’m starting to like this stuff.”
“Tell me about SC.”
“What about it?”
“What was it like?”
“Hard to say. In a word.”
“Did you like it?”
“Sure.”
Down the beach, Evelyn and Mrs. Packer emerged from the darkness; or rather, their white dresses did, floating over the sand. Their legs, arms, heads, were invisible.
“Then why did you leave?” Eddie said.
“I told you already.”
“That was it?” Eddie said, giving Jack a chance to bring up the letter.
“Sure. What else?”
There was another splash in the water, bigger, closer.
“But what if this doesn’t work out?”
“It will.”
“But what if it doesn’t? What if Trimble turns him down?”
“Trimble’s not our only shot.”
“But what if everyone turns him down? What will you have to fall back on?”
“This island has a lot of resources.”
“You mean you’d stay here?”
“Why not?”
“What kind of future is that?”
“You can be pretty dumb sometimes, Eddie.” Jack took another drink. There were scratches on his hand and forearm.
Eddie walked away for a moment; he had to, when Jack made him mad. Soon he had a thought, came back.
“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you meet the Packers there?”
“Where?”
“SC.”
Jack’s voice rose. “You’re full of questions all of a sudden. Like the caring mom we never had. Is that what your role’s going to be?”
“Lay off,” Eddie said. Packer and Trimble were watching them. “Why shouldn’t I be interested in SC? I’m going to be there for four years.”
An inward look appeared in Jack’s eyes. “That’s true,” he said, quietly now. He took another drink. “I met Brad through SC, if you must know. It’s not a secret.”
“What’s he got to do with SC?”
“He’s an alum. Swim-team booster. Okay?”
Eddie nodded.
“He’s not a bad guy, Eddie.” Eddie said nothing. Jack punched him in the ribs, not hard. “Why don’t you just cut your fucking hair?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Yeah, I’m joking.”
The women were closer now; their legs, arms, faces took shape in the moonlight.
“Can you go back?” Eddie said.
“Back where?”
“SC.”
“There’s more than one bore here tonight. What’s the matter? Scared to go away to school all by your lonesome?”
Now Eddie’s voice rose. “I didn’t mean now. Someday. Would you still have your scholarship?”
Jack looked up at the bar. Packer and Trimble were watching them again. “You don’t get it, do you?” said Jack, keeping his voice down. “I’ve outgrown all that nickel-and-diming. School is a means to an end. I’m at the end already.”
9
Champagne and cognac: a destablizing combination, new to Eddie. It made him restless, made him want to move, to disconnect from the grown-up world. He didn’t bother to say good night to the dinner guests; as soon as Jack returned to the bar, he just backed out of the fire’s glow into the darkness and started down the beach, shoes in hand.
The moon was higher and smaller now, but still a massive ball circling close by. It shone on the surf, breaking in orderly lines along the shore like waves of white-horsed cavalry in one of his history textbooks. Eddie came to the fish camp, went by his cabin, paused outside Mandy’s. It was dark and silent. He walked on, taking the path to the road, following it to the tennis court.
The backboard loomed in the silvery light, making Eddie think for a moment of JFK’s imprisoned brothers, jailed for losing their trials. Dime and Franco. Eddie crossed the court, damp with dew under his bare feet. He found the beginning of the short path, kept going to the shed.
He looked in. Moonlight flowed through the cobweb window, gleaming on the steel roller. Eddie sniffed the air, smelled red clay. All the other smells were gone.
Eddie stood there for a moment, thinking about what had happened in that shed, confirming the details to himself. Under the influence of champagne, cognac, the night, its importance grew.
Eddie went back to the road. He could have turned left; that was the way to the fish camp, to bed. But he wasn’t sleepy. He turned right instead and walked all the way to the flamboyant tree. For some reason-maybe it was simply the brightness of the moon-Eddie felt no unease at all about the night, as though he were in a place he knew well. He started up the path to JFK’s herb garden.
The walk was easier this time, partly because it was cooler, partly because the path seemed wider: no plants brushed his skin, nothing made him itch. Eddie mounted the long rise, came down toward the clearing, singing to himself:
Gonna get some goombay goombay lovin’
Gonna find a goombay goombay girl.
He couldn’t remember feeling like this, so elevated, so full of his own possibilities. Champagne, cognac,
