Randy White - Night Vision

“Marston,” Emily said, watching my friend’s face. “Emily Marston. Or Milly. Or Em. Or whatever you want.”

Tomlinson let that settle, retreating into his brain to think about it. “Marston, that’s not very tribal-specific. You have olive eyes… no, gray-green. Polish, maybe, which tells me Chicago, or maybe Detroit. A bit of Irish, too, plus some German? Doc,” he said to me, “this person is intuitive. She has a gift. I think she can help us find the girl-after I fill her in.”

Once again, the woman took charge, making me her ally by saying, “Nice try, but Marston isn’t my maiden name. Another night, maybe. Until then, Doc can fill me in just fine. We have a lot to talk about.”

“ Well… all righty, then,” Tomlinson said, aware that he’d just been dismissed. His inflection, though, suggested a truce but not capitulation.

“Doc could use some downtime,” Tomlinson offered, getting to his feet. “The dude has been pretty restless himselflately. He doesn’t have to say anything. Everyone at the marina can tell. He spends time looking at maps and listening to foreign news on his shortwave. He works out harder, he drinks fewer beers. The one sure sign?” Tomlinson gave me a knowing look. “His lab begins to smell of a very specific kind of oil that folks like me don’t associate with fish and boats.”

“Oil?” Emily said, confused, then sniffing. A moment later, I was taken aback by the look of recognition on her face. “Oil,” she said. “Yeah, I can smell it. Very faint, but it’s there.”

I stood and opened the screen door. “If you think of it, you might stop by the 7-Eleven and buy some beer. See you in the morning-but not too early. Okay? ”

Tomlinson was laughing as he headed out the door but turned to say to the woman, “Or maybe I’ll see you two at the Rum Bar later. We just got in a shipment of twelve-year-old Fleur de Cana from Nicaragua. Really superb stuff.”

I was heartened by Emily’s green-eyed gaze and by her response: “It’s entirely Doc’s call. Whatever he’s up for, I’m with him.”

Whatever concerns I had about Emily Marston’s vulnerability were set free when she slipped her arm through mine as we walked toward the marina and she told me, “I didn’t divorce Paul because I was unhappy with him. I did it because I was unhappy with myself. Oh, I pretended it was his fault. Came up with all sorts of reasons why we had to end the relationship and move on. He’ll always be the professor. To him, I’ll always be the student. And another big problem was…”

I waited through several seconds of silence before I told her, “Talk about it or don’t, that’s up to you. I was impressed by the way you stood up for him, after your argument this morning. That was nice. Unusual for an ex-wife or -husband to do.”

It was as if she didn’t hear me because she picked up the thread, saying, “For some reason, I want to be honest with you about what happened, Paul and me. One of the problems was, he doesn’t enjoy physical contact-not really. Not with me, anyway. But not with anyone, I think. I’m amazed at how many people dislike being touched. Aren’t you?”

No, but I didn’t say it. Instead, I walked and listened, giving the woman time.

It took a while. Finally, she asked, “Know what I was doing, Doc? I was making excuses. I was using a device that doesn’t make me look very damn nice at all. I blamed Paul to justify what I did. The truth is, I ended the marriage because I wasn’t happy and I wanted out. Blaming him was a way of getting what I wanted.”

I replied, “I think it’s common for the species Sapiens to do whatever it takes to justify pleasure by manipulating our own guilt. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“But that doesn’t make it right,” Emily countered. “Seriously, I’m not trying to punish myself. For me-and it drives me nuts sometimes-for me, the way my mind works, it’s important to get the facts straight. My dad used to say something that was cute at the time, but now it makes sense. He’d say, ‘You lie to your friends and I’ll lie to mine, but let’s not lie to each other.’ I try not to lie to myself, Doc. I think that’s maybe what he meant.”

I smiled and said, “The age difference between you and Paul wasn’t a factor?”

“Fifteen years is just about perfect,” she replied. “It puts the male and the female at about the same level of maturity.”

“You’re not joking.”

The woman said, “Maybe twenty years. It depends on the guy,” but didn’t hit it too hard, which told me the subject was unimportant to her.

We were walking through the shell parking lot, toward the marina docks, after stopping to admire the lady’s new car. It was a midsized Jaguar, black and tan, that didn’t mesh with her occupation or her probable income. Now I could see boats moored in rows, windows glowing, and an American flag at the end of the dock, flapping in a star-bright breeze.

I said, “Are you always this frank?” letting her know that I appreciated it.

“Doc,” she replied, “I’ll be twenty-eight in October, and I plan on living to be a spry and very active ninety. I don’t want to live a screwed-up, unhappy life. Or a selfish life. We receive peace in exchange for helping others. I really believe that.” Then she grimaced and said, “Jesus, I didn’t mean that to sound so naive and girlish. Did it?”

“You have it all planned out,” I said.

“It’s not being selfish,” she replied, “to take responsibility for our own lives. And that’s the only plan I have. This morning, when you laid that poor woman’s bones on the tarp and I saw that ring, I felt so goddamn sad I wanted to cry. Did it show?”

I lied. “No.”

Emily said, “It was my wedding ring I was looking at. That’s the way it felt. My ring finger, and I had been swallowed by something as predatory as any alligator that’s ever lived.”

“Predatory?” I said.

“By fear,” she said. “I think fear rules unless we fight it. But not many people do, you think? We just go with the flow, doing what’s expected. Letting our lives drain right down into the gator’s belly.”

“Some, maybe” I said. “I’m in no position to judge.”

“Well, that’s not for me. I’m going to try my damnedest to live a life that matters. Cut the safety net and throw it away. Which sounds idyllic, but it’s actually scary shit when I think it through. That’s what I plan to do, Doc. In fact, I’m already doing it. Starting two weeks ago.” She leaned her breast into my arm. “If I have regrets later, it’s not because I was afraid to, by God, try something new.”

I patted the lady’s hand and steered her past the bait tank, toward the bay, where dock lights were tethered to black water, golden shards roiled by wind. The fishing guides were in, their flats skiffs rocking in a buoyant line, and a whisper of big band music seeped from one of the sleeping yachts, out of sync with the tapping flagpole halyard.

It was a little after seven p.m. on a Wednesday. A quiet time at Dinkin’s Bay.

I was feeling good. The decision that Emily would come to my bed had just been made without even discussing it-an exchange made via silent subtext. The unspoken dialogue that takes place minute to minute between fertile males and females, generation after generation.

This female had not only said yes. She had fronted the wordless invitation. She had also put me at ease by allowing me to fish for answers to unspoken questions.

Was she emotionally stable? Yes.

Did the age difference matter? No.

I was enjoying the moment, aware that it was among the rarest of transitional times. I would soon undress this woman. “Unveil her,” in Tomlinson terms, for the first time. And there would never be another first time for Emily and myself.