“No. Meat.” Treece opened the door and held it for them.
Gail said, “Don’t you ever lock your door?”
“No. Like I told you, only the Spanish have faith in locks.”
Inside, Treece said to Sanders, “Fix me a bit of rum while I throw this beast on the fire.”
“Sure.” Sanders said to Gail, “You want anything?”
“Not yet. I’d like to take a shower. I feel like a week-old bass.”
“Know how to work the heater?” Treece said.
“Heater?”
“There’s a gas heater next to the stall. Turn the valve half a turn clockwise and wait about two minutes. That’ll start warming it, and by the time you’re finished showering, it’ll be nice and hot.”
“Thanks.” Gail left the kitchen.
Sanders handed Treece a glass of rum and sipped at his scotch. “Anything I can do?”
“No. Rest your bones.”
Sanders sat at the table and watched Treece light the stove, pour oil into a frying pan, drop in the meat, and dust it with herbs.
When he was satisfied that the meat was cooking properly, Treece turned away from the stove and looked at Sanders. “What’s pecking at your shell?”
“What?” Sanders didn’t understand.
“With the shark business. What are you looking for?”
Sanders thought: Oh Christ, here we go again.
“Nothing. It was stupid. I know that.” He hoped his admission would end the conversation.
“I think there’s more,” Treece said. “I think, inside you, you think you did something ballsy.”
Sanders blushed, for Treece was right. Beneath the knowledge that he had acted stupidly, impetuously, dangerously, there was a little-boy’s pride at having stabbed a shark. Though he would not say so, he had even fantasized about how he would shape the story for telling to friends. He said nothing.
“It’s natural enough,” Treece said. “A lot of people want to prove something to themselves, and when they do something they think’s impressive, then they’re impressed themselves. The mistake is, what you do isn’t the same as what you
Though there was no reproach in Treece’s voice, Sanders was embarrassed. “Sometimes. I guess…”
“What I’m getting at…” Treece paused. “The feeling’s a lot richer when you do something right, when you know something has to be done and you know what you’re doing, and
It’s learning things and doing things right that make it worthwhile, make a man easy with himself. When I was young, nobody could tell me anything. I knew it all. It took a lot of mistakes to teach me that I didn’t know goose shit from tapioca. How old are you?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“That’s not young, but it’s not next door to the grave.
You could start now, and spend another forty years learning about the sea without running out of new things to know. That’s the only hitch in learning: it’s humbling. The more you learn, the more you realize how little you know.” Treece drained his glass and stood to refill it. “Anyway, all that’s a long way around saying that it’s crazy to do things just to prove you can do ’em. The more you learn, the more you’ll find yourself doing things you never thought you could do in a million years.”
Sanders nodded. He didn’t know whether Treece’s attitude toward him had changed, or his interpretation of Treece’s attitude had changed. He felt curiously privileged, and he said, “Thank you.”
Treece seemed flustered by the remark. He snapped his fingers and said, “The tanks. I almost forgot. Better get that monster fired up now, or she’ll be chugging away all night.”
Sanders followed him out the door and stood with him while he started the compressor and attached the two scuba tanks.
When they returned to the kitchen, Gail was making herself a drink. Her feet were bare and she wore a cotton bathrobe. Sanders kissed her neck; it smelled of soap.
“You taste good,” he said.
“I feel good, all but my sinuses.”
“Headache?” Treece asked.
“Not a real headache. Up here.” She touched the bones above her eyes. “They feel stuffed up. It hurts to touch them.”
“Aye, they’re abused. Adam’ll dive tomorrow. You can tan yourself.” Treece turned the meat in the frying pan, reached into a bin beneath the sink, and took out an assort-ment of vegetables: beans, cucumbers, squash, onions, and tomatoes. He sliced them over a mixing bowl, added a dose of dressing, and stirred the brew with a fork.
The meat was dark red, almost purple, and it tasted strong.
“Do you hang your beef here?” Gail asked, dipping a piece of meat into the salad dressing, to mellow the flavor.
“I don’t know. Why?”
“I just wondered.”
“Like it?”
“It’s… interesting.”
“It’s not beef, y’know.”
“Oh?” she said uneasily. “What is it?”
“Goat.” Treece cut a chunk of meat, put it in his mouth, and chewed happily.
“Oh.” Gail’s stomach churned, and she looked at Sanders. He had been about to take a bite of meat, but now his fork was stopped a few inches from his mouth.
He saw her looking at him, and he held his breath, put the meat in his mouth, and swallowed it whole.
After supper, Treece put his plate in the sink and said, “I’m going for a stroll; probably see Kevin for a while. No need for you to wait up.”
“Anything we can do?” Gail asked.
“No. Enjoy yourselves.” He wiped his hands on his pants and took a bottle of rum from the cabinet.
“Kevin drinks palm wine, home brew. Rot your insides faster’n naval jelly.” He clucked at the dog, who was sleeping under the table, and said, “Let’s go.” The dog struggled to her feet, stretched, yawned, and followed Treece out the kitchen door.
When the gate had closed, and the sound of Treece’s footsteps had faded away, Sanders said, “Nice of him.”
“What?”
“To leave us alone.” He reached across the table and took her hand.
She neither withdrew her hand nor responded to his touch. “Treece was married,” she said, and then she told him the story Coffin had told her.
As he listened, Sanders remembered his conversation with Treece, and he realized that what had seemed like friendly advice had been genuine, heartfelt concern, that Treece had been trying to guide him away from a course that he, Treece, had taken and that had deprived him, forever, of the promise of joy.
Realizing this, Sanders felt a cold fear unalloyed by the thrill of adventure.
“I love you,” he said.
She nodded. There were tears in her eyes.
“Let’s go to bed.” He rose and put the dishes in the sink, then returned and led her to the bedroom.
For the first time, she was unmoved by his love-making, and after a few moments he stopped trying and said, “What’s the matter?”
“I’m sorry… I can’t…” She rolled away from him and faced the wall.
He lay awake for a long time, listening to the chug of the compressor outside. Gradually, the sound of her breathing beside him grew more even, and soon she was breathing in the rhythm of deep sleep.
Sanders’ sexual longing was not pure desire; he felt a need to impress his love upon her, as if to comfort her.