Richard DuBois - Last Resort

I look to Gwen for support and get none. She does not look at me, as though I were not here.

Fine. I will keep my warnings to myself. To hell with all of them. Without another word, I leave the table and march to the farthest end of the beach where the cliff walls throw jagged rocks into the surf. No one swims in this section. Even walking here is treacherous.

On the way, I pass Pamela floating on the waves with a few other Brits. She waves to me. Bill reclines on a chair beneath a palm tree.

With an indulgent smile, he nods towards his wife as I pass him. “Pamela came here for sand and sea, and by God, electricity or no, she means to have it.”

“Yeah, I’ll probably be doing some of that myself,” I reply, and notice, despite the cooling sea breeze, sweat beads Bill’s forehead. “Are you O.K.? You look a bit flushed.”

He sips from a tall glass of some cloudy concoction. “I am feeling a bit spent.”

“Maybe you should go easy on the liquor,” I point to the three empty glasses on the table beside him.

He gives a weak smile. “These, my lad, are fruit drinks. No liquor involved. No, I’ll leave the hard drinking to your rowdy friends in the restaurant. I think it’s the heat getting to me, that’s all.”

I am about to point out that in the shade near the ocean it is actually rather pleasant, but I prefer not to talk any further. Thunder grows in my heart. I want to be alone.

At the far end of the beach, I sit behind a large rock where the foaming surf is just inches from my toes.

I hate Gwen—sitting with those drunken jackasses, not even acknowledging me, not even giving me the courtesy of maintaining a pretext that everything is all right between us. Fuck her. The moment we get back to America I will file for divorce—something I should have done months ago. In a way, it is good I am so angry. This fury is something worth holding on to. It will put steel in my spine if I ever start to waver. The sooner I file for divorce the sooner I can move Gwen from my present to my past. God, this sucks. How many days am I to endure her hobnobbing with everyone but me in this damn resort? A hermit crab scuttles amongst seaweed cast on shore. I wish I had a shell to retreat into like this crab. Safe within the shell, I could let the whole world go to hell.

Lorenzo still signs out the water equipment, dutifully registering the name of each guest to ensure the return of the items.

“I’m surprised to see you here today, Lorenzo,” I sign out a snorkel and flippers.

He gives a slow smile. “Tings are very difficult now, to be sure. As you can see, much of de staff is not in today. It is a long walk from Rio Galera to de resort.”

“You walked all that way?”

“I have a bike. De electricity is out,” he taps his legs. “But dese still work.”

“I haven’t spoken to anyone from Rio Galera about the outage. Do they know anything that we don’t know here at the resort?”

He shakes his head. “No. We are still in de dark.”

“Literally and figuratively.”

I float over the reef, face down, observing the aquatic life. My fingers prune; still I float. There is nothing and no one to rush back to the resort for. Do my parents know about our power outage? Has it made my local news? I envision my mother watching the news, anxious for a call from me. If only I could communicate with them somehow—just a word to let them know what has happened and that I am okay—physically if not mentally. Such thoughts fill my head until hunger finally drives me back to shore.

I return the snorkeling equipment and walk by Don, Amy and some of the British guests huddled under some nearby palm trees.

“—goddamn ridiculous,” Don snarls. “I don’t even care about the money anymore. Just get me out of here.”

Amy nods gravely. “I know, I know. We are reduced to living like savages—like people you see on TV… the people who live in the Amazon… in huts.”

“Forget Jonas,” a wizened Brit adds with disgust. “That man is just shy of useless. We need to march into town and demand some answers.”

Don taps his cane. “That’s a farther walk than I can manage.”

Don spots me walking past. “Phillip, what about you? You could walk into town and demand something be done.”

“I thought someone from the authorities was coming here to explain what happened to the power,” I reply.

“They did,” Amy says. “A policeman, or sheriff or whatever the hell they call themselves—one of them pedaled here an hour ago. He was as clueless as we are.”

“But planes land here every day,” I point out. “They can tell the pilot what has happened. He can bring help from another island.”

“Tell me,” Don gestures to the sky. “Have you seen any planes? A flight was due hours ago. It never arrived.”

I inhale sharply.

“Yeah, kid, we’re prisoners here,” Don says.

“The blast that struck us probably hit our nearest islands, too,” I grasp for answers. “If that’s the case then it could be much longer before power is restored—days even.”

“Oh, God, I cannot go days living like this,” Amy covers her eyes. “This is becoming impossible. Impossible.”

I leave them and head to the restaurant where the grim news of the missing flight is the number one topic of discussion. Pamela carries a tray laden with dirty dishes to the sea.

“Phillip, if you wouldn’t mind,” she taps a stack of food encrusted pots with her foot. “I could use a bit of help.”

“Are things really that bad?” I scoop up the pots.

“They’re worse,” she grimaces as we walk on the beach. “You know, I could wring some necks around here. I thank you for helping me, but look at all the others, standing around, not lifting a damn finger. Useless. Utterly useless.”

We kneel in the sand, pour liquid soap on the pots and dishes, and wash them off with seawater. She holds a sea bathed wine glass to her critical gaze. “If anyone complains about spots on their crystal I will kill them.”

With his fine linen dress pants rolled to his knees to keep them dry, Jonas joins us.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Crane,” he scours a greasy pan in the waves. “I deeply appreciate your assisting us. I made an announcement earlier; perhaps you did not hear.”

“Announcement?”

“Obviously, I am unable to contact our home office, but when we finally establish contact I will insist that due to the hardships our guests have endured the resort will offer a full refund or a complimentary visit at some future date.”

This is the only good news I have had in days. “Thank you, Jonas. I appreciate that.”

“It is the least I can do given the circumstances,” Jonas sighs. “I am afraid this problem may drag on longer than any of us have anticipated.”

“And in the meantime used dishes and pots pile up and we have people standing around still expecting someone else to cater to them,” Pamela scrubs a plate with such anger I expect the pattern to vanish from the china. “Really! How galling. Bill would be here helping us, but he hasn’t been feeling quite himself lately. He’s back in our room having a lie down.”

I rise with a stack of clean pots. “Sounds like a good idea. I think after lunch I’ll do the same.”

Gwen is not in the restaurant. The breakfast buffet still sits out, covered beneath tin foil to keep the flies away. What looked appetizing at breakfast is far less enticing now. Congealed fat coats the sausages and eggs. The seafood remains untouched. From this faded menu, I gather enough food to hold me for a while and walk back to my bungalow.

I half expect to find Gwen there. She is not. I lay on the bed watching shadows move across the ceiling as day fades to night. If Gwen returns I will look pathetic, sealing myself in the room like a hermit, but wandering alone around the resort is not helping my self-image, either. Worst of all, this ordeal seems likely to stretch for several days, perhaps well into next week. This feels like a prison sentence, but I cannot recall committing any crime.