Perri O'Shaughnessy - Presumption Of Death

Wish took one stumbling step toward him.

And saw several things. Danny, disappearing into the white soup. A wall of fire rearing up like a tsunami in front, bigger than Wish, ready to take him down.

And then two blackened hands reaching out from behind the tree trunk right next to him, holding up a big sharp rock with white stipples and granite lines. He saw the fingers raise it up. He saw the rock crash down toward him.

Wish lurched to one side. He howled, but the noise he made got lost in the belligerent, ripping, tearing fire. Losing his balance, he toppled to the ground.

N INA REILLY WIPED HER GOGGLES AND watched Paul swim. He stroked smoothly, kicking underwater, moving up and down the lane without stopping, like a pacing porpoise. He wore his yellow snorkel and goggles, and she could hear his lungs laboring when he came close.

Enjoying the pattern of the water on the ceiling of the condo-association pool, she returned to backstroking in another lane. Pull hard back with the arms, keep the legs stiff, and windmill that water. The two of them were going nowhere, but it felt like lovemaking, the cool slap of the water he churned up, the water rippling back to him, a water bed without the plastic.

She touched the wall. He turned at the far end. As he swam down the lane she had the strangest feeling about him, as if the pale watery creature before her solidified before her eyes. Hanging on to the rough concrete wall of the pool, she thought, he might swim toward me with that silly yellow snorkel for the rest of my life. How many years do I have left? Forty years, if I get lucky? She was in her mid-thirties, Paul was over forty. How long did they have? A lifetime? A summer?

Well, that’s what I came down here to find out, she said to herself.

He hit the wall and came up grinning, goggles fogged up. “Done?” he said. Then, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Your face says different.”

“I’m trying to see the future.”

“What do you see?” He pulled himself over until his face was inches from hers, his hazel eyes reddened by the chlorine, the lashes beaded, the water making rivulets along his nose, red lines across his forehead and cheeks from the goggles.

“You.”

“That is the correct answer. As your reward, I will sing you a song I just made up.” He pulled himself onto the edge of the pool and, legs dangling, sang in a gravelly voice:

I am the creature from the lagoon

You’re a blond coed starin’ at the moon

I’ll rise up drippin’, a scary sight

Baby, are you ready, it’s love-monster night-

“Like it?”

She hung in the water, her eyes at his ankle level. Tilting her head back and holding the wall with both hands, she let her gaze move boldly up his body, the strong pale thighs, the tight stomach with a little hangover of flesh at the waist, the sensitive nipples and broad shoulders. She said, “Are you going to wear your snorkel when you rise up?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“It won’t take much.” A look passed between them, and Nina reached over and squeezed his big toe.

“Let’s wrap up in our towels and get back home,” Paul said.

She mantled up onto the side of the pool, rested her knee on the concrete, stood, and adjusted her swimsuit bottom. Paul brought her the striped blue towel and they walked outside, down the path beside the bougainvillaea, below the neighbors’ balconies. In the misty late afternoon they saw lights come on as people came home from work. A line of birds sat quietly in the branches of the oaks, paired off mostly, looking around. Peter Jennings pronounced the news in fatherly fashion from somebody’s living room.

Paul hadn’t even locked the door to his condo. Inside, in the hall with the bokhara rug that led to the living room, he said, “How was it? The future?”

“Blurry.”

He said seriously, “You know, this could go on forever or a day. Either one is okay.”

“No, a day wouldn’t be okay.”

“You going to make me a declaration, Nina? Finally?” He folded his arms so the biceps bulged, Mr. Clean in a baggy wet pair of red trunks in his narrow hallway, and waited for her to tell him she was ready to link up her short time on earth with his. The conversations lately had been skidding into turns like these. Paul needed something from her, a formal statement, a closing of the box lid.

She couldn’t do that for him, unfortunately. “You can have the first shower,” she said, offering what she could.

“You are being oblique.”

“You can even use my loofah.”

“That’s fine. We’ll just continue to drift on the seas of uncertainty. Until the sun becomes a supernova and the seas all dry up.”

Nina said, “I’ll definitely say something before then. Just go get dressed. I’ll watch the sun go down on the balcony.”

“And get the fish marinating,” Paul reminded her.

“Sure.”

But he hesitated. He could see that she had a problem and he wanted to fix it. “The rash bothering you?”

“Yes. Go on, now.”

“I told you, you can go in and get a shot,” Paul said, still trying to fix the wrong problem. “You wouldn’t feel so irritable.”

They had been quiet at dinner. Now they held each other in Paul’s platform bed, under the red-and-yellow Hudson Bay blanket.

A seashell night-light in the bathroom glowed dimly. Under the covers, her nightgown was pushed up to her waist. Her ankles, rear end, and forearms itched like fury. Damn right she was irritable.

She had a grand case of poison oak, predator of the Central California hills, because, oblivious to it, she had gone hiking behind the condo last week. She had no one to blame but herself, which irritated her even more.

And all of this specific irritation had wrapped itself around a general core of irritation within her. Although Paul did not intend it, circumstance had made of her the girlfriend who lives out of the suitcase in the corner. She had no home anymore, only his home, his street, his doors, his walls. She floated in his pool.

Living together was a revelation. Paul kept guns all over the house and a locked gun case in the car trunk; she hated that. His study was full of high-tech equipment she couldn’t identify. He was physically exhausting; he worked out religiously at his gym, ran, played tennis, went rock-climbing, even played darts at his favorite bar. He cooked and loved to drive and he listened to jazz until late into the night. He had way too much vigor for her; he made her feel like a slug.

She liked to read all day, swim a bit, have a walk around the neighborhood with Hitchcock. She was a news junkie, loved to shop on the Net, enjoyed sitting at the kitchen table taking notes for that law-journal article she would write someday.

They weren’t kids, and melding their lifestyles didn’t come easy. And sometimes, damn right again, she found this irritating.

But she wasn’t ready to say these things, so instead she sat up and searched the nightstand for her cream and said, “I told you, I got a shot of prednisone when I was a kid when I had it bad. The next morning I couldn’t get out of bed, and my dad called the doctor. Oh, he said, steroids can cause muscle weakness. I couldn’t stand up, my legs wouldn’t hold me. I had to lie down for a week.”

“It cured the rash, didn’t it?”

Nina finished applying the hydrocortisone cream, slowly screwed the lid on, and set it on the table. That question of his pushed her irritation to a new flaming height.