Randy White - Shark River

Male or female, the possessive ones never feel secure. Nor do their mates.

So I went through the short list: Dr. Kathleen Rhodes, but she was back in the Yucatan, doing field work. Nora Chung was available, but now had a romantic interest in a solicitous, sympathetic physician and didn’t want to risk burdening the relationship so early in the game. Erin Bostwick was already scheduled to work the late shift all month at Timbers; Sally Minster (formerly Sally Carmel) was in the process of divorcing the neurotic abuser she’d married, but didn’t feel right about slipping away with me until the legalities were complete.

She was disappointed. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was, what? Eight years old? Since the days you were living with your crazy uncle Tucker Gatrell, the dear sweet man, on that funky little mangrove ranch of his. So now you call.”

Here’s one of the ironies of male-female association: With women of sufficient character and humor, it takes only a few weeks to forge an intimate relationship, yet their well-being remains a matter of concern even years after parting. Their dilemmas still squeeze the heart.

One night, I found myself in my little lab, sitting beneath the goose-neck lamp, making a list of desperate last-minute replacement ladies. Thankfully, I caught myself. I’ve reached a stage in my life in which the little social interaction I have is guided by a simple maxim: I’d rather be alone than with people with whom I feel no emotional connection. That includes women.

Solitude is much preferred to the more disturbing isolation of sharing loneliness with a stranger.

I made no more telephone calls.

When I told Tomlinson that Dewey’d backed out, he lost none of his enthusiasm. “You’re batching it? Perfect! Two weeks of island living. Fresh air, fresh fruit, plus lots and lots of cold, clean alcohol. It’s just what the doctor ordered. We’ll each have our own cottage, so the vacation ladies can choose for themselves. With the problem I’ve been having, escape may be the only sure salvation.”

Even then he was obsessed with his perceived problem.

Now he was sitting in full lotus position, balanced strangely on the roof next to the veranda where the hammock was strung between rafter and rail. We’d been there for nearly an hour in silence, listening to the ambient bird-and-breeze sounds of a day so warm, during a winter so tropical, that jacaranda trees were already flowering bright as lavender parasails on this late February afternoon.

“Joking about having Elmer Fudd tattooed on my ass?” he said. “I wish to hell I were joking. You refuse to hear the details, even though I’ve made it clear that I need to vent. I’ve got feelings, man. Listening is one of the things that friends are supposed to do.”

“I’m not a psychologist, for God’s sake.”

“You think I’d waste any more of my time with shrinks? Hey, let me tell you something, amigo… no, let’s put it this way: If psychiatrists gave frequent flier miles, I’d have my own charter service to Fumbuck Egypt. Half my shrink friends call me for advice. The other half worry about the possibility that I snuck off and slept with their wives-which I did in way too many cases. People in the mental health professions? They’ve got the horniest wives in town. Not that I’m in a position to help them these days.”

Tomlinson was pulling at his stringy hair, biting it nervously. I noticed that his hands, which often had a slight tremor, were shaking more than usual. “It’s not a physical problem. That much I know. The other morning, I woke up with a piss hard-on, and the damn thing nearly knocked the wind out of me when I rolled over too fast. My problem’s spiritual, man. The fucking wheels are coming off my Dharma nature and my daishinkon faith is way back on its heels. I need to talk.”

I had no idea what he was saying, but his tone told me it was important. I sighed, folded the magazine, and swung my feet onto the deck. As I did, I had a peripheral awareness of two young women below, jogging the footpath southward. One was blonde in a heavy blue sports bra and white tank top. The other was all legs and long chestnut hair, ponytail swinging like a flag.

I glanced at my watch, even though I knew the time: 5:30 P.M. plus or minus a few minutes, on a Wednesday, seventh day of February.

Every day for six days straight, an hour before sunset, I’d watched these two pass beneath our veranda, always headed the same direction. I’d seen them often enough to know that the blonde would be on the left, ponytail to the right and a half-step ahead. Blonde was the chatty one with a cheer-leader stride and the bold, dominant voice. Ponytail was stoic, tomboyish, quiet, the apparent subordinate member.

I’d never exchanged a word with them, yet I knew their pace and I knew their schedule, just as I knew that half an hour later, near the island’s grass landing strip, I’d see them once again on the little dock at the end of the nature boardwalk that trailed through mangroves.

The girls would be standing at the rail in a citrus-colored afterglow. They would watch the sun vanish before turning homeward, offering me the vaguest nod of greeting as I clomped up onto the dock, completing my second run of the day.

I am a creature of routine.

So, obviously, were they.

From old habit, though, and having once lived a life that required necessary wariness, I still practice a very simple precaution: I always vary my route and my routine. You never know who might be out there watching, logging your movements, waiting. I was never officially attached to any branch of the military, but I endured enough military training to have certain behaviors stamped so deeply that they have become part of the autosystem.

More than once when I saw them, that same ambient awareness noted the rich-girl genetics, knew the wealth that membership on Guava Key implied, and a secret little room in my brain sounded warning bells. It was an ancient alert, warning how easy it would be for a predator to become aware of these two women, track their movements, isolate them and take them.

As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

There seem to be more and more predators these days.

Tomlinson gestured toward the swimming pool. “See the woman on the beach chair closest to us? The one with the Egyptian skin and hair down to her waist? Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Oh, I’d noticed. I’m not a gawker; not the sly woman-watcher type, but there are certain females who move with such animal grace, who exude such a fertile sexuality, that it’s impossible not to react. It’s also impossible not to follow them with the eyes.

Through palms, the pool was a gelatinous blue. A dozen or so Guava Key members, mostly women, soaked or dozed in the late sunlight. Some day, a brave sociologist may write a paper that explores why a high percentage of very attractive women will predictably interact, socially and sexually, with only a tiny percentage of wealthy men.

It would be an unpopular paper, indeed, with the disingenuous and politically correct types.

These were the beautiful ones: women with sculptured hair and nails, wearing Saks straw Bahamas hats and boutique poolwear, women whose bodies illustrated the discreet attentions of plastic surgeons and silicone implants, and of hours spent laboring with personal trainers.

There was something different about the dark woman, though. She possessed a girlish reserve, a muscle and bone indifference that set her apart.

Now she lay on her back, one arm thrown behind her head, eyes closed, breasts flattened beneath their own weight, body a-glistening with oil. Her bikini consisted of three white napkin swatches connected by string. In contrast, the white fabric turned her skin a deep and vivid mahogany.