Richard DuBois: Last Resort

“I feel so bad for that animal,” Gwen says.

“As I said, miss, don’t fret for this pup,” Owen says. “It won’t miss many meals, believe me.”

We bounce over pitted and crudely patched roads. Owen drives with self-assurance taken to the point of recklessness. Men and women—their skin dark and leathery from the blazing sun—walk on the cracked sidewalks and gutters alongside the narrow road. Some of them stop to watch us drive past. Can they see me through the tinted windows? More than once, I flinch as Owen nearly sideswipes one of the pedestrians, but he drives on without pause. The other drivers sharing the road are just as heedless, each behaving as if there were no other vehicles on the road.

At the center of town the homes are little more than shacks with sheet metal roofs and crumbling, graffiti tagged concrete walls as dividers. Serpentine roads twist among the closely packed homes. The afternoon sun casts long shadows in the alleys between the homes where I glimpse flocks of chickens and the occasional goat.

As we pass a white clapboard church, Owen points to a small building beside it. “Dis is our police station.”

Alexandra remarks, “It’s no bigger than a fast food restaurant.”

“Dere is very little crime on de island. Maybe every once in a while somebody steal a chicken.”

Gwen chuckles.

“We ban all de guns,” Owen continues. “We have no killings, no robbery. Safest island in de West Indies.”

Conner glances at the poverty all around us and whispers conspiratorially, “I think we’ll stick to the resort, thanks all the same.”

Once outside the center of town the homes scatter over the hillsides, separated by fields of switch grass and brush. Some of the homes are fairly large and modern—topped with satellite dishes drawing television channels from around the world to this remote outpost and probably used as vacation homes by rich foreigners—but most of the homes are similar in size and construction to the shacks in the town. Sometimes, through a break in the hills, we glimpse the sea. I am eager to sink my toes into the sand and feel the waves lap against me.

We drop Piper and Willow off at their hotel. Steep, rocky slopes bound the road to our resort. The slopes become cliffs that surround our resort in a protective bowl. At the end of the road lies a sizable hut where we check in. The staff, all native islanders like Owen, greet us with warm smiles and help the women alight from the van. While Owen removes our luggage, the staff offers us tropical cocktails.

“Now this is my kind of greeting,” Alexandra winks and sips her daiquiri from a coconut shell. Gwen handles our check in and I take the opportunity to wander. Tiny red lizards skitter along the side of the building. The lagoon spreads before me, surrounded by mangroves and dotted with flocks of migratory birds. On the far side of the lagoon lies the resort. A man drives an electric cart over the narrow wooden bridge that spans the lagoon. He parks the cart alongside the van so Owen can load our luggage onto the back of it

“I am Jonas Dunlap, the resort manager,” says the man from the cart with a courteous bow. He wears an elegant linen suit and has the dark skin and heavy accent of the other islanders. His closely cropped silver hair gives away his age, but his skin is unlined, his figure long and lean and he moves with the grace of a ballet dancer.

“I trust you had an enjoyable flight,” Jonas continues. “Now is the time for you to relax and let us pamper you. Leave the cares of the world behind. Should you have any request—no matter how small—please do not hesitate to bring it to my attention. We pride ourselves on our hospitality. I may be biased in my opinion, but at the end of your holiday I am sure you will agree that Isla Fin de la Tierra is the closest place to heaven on earth.”

Jonas drives us across the bridge to our bungalows.

“It’s beautiful,” Gwen enthuses upon seeing the interior of our bungalow. “We have to take pictures. Check out the bathroom. This is the nicest place I’ve ever stayed.”

I have to agree. The bungalow has a vaulted ceiling with exposed wooden beams and a massive ceiling fan with blades shaped like banana leaves. Our bed is on a platform overlooking a seating area that comprises a few comfortable chairs, a coffee table, and a couch. The bathroom is spacious with a large, walk-in double shower.

This is the first time I have been alone with Gwen since we left home. I collapse on the bed and kick off my shoes.

“You hungry?” she asks.

“Starving.”

“I’ll take a quick shower—then we can hit the restaurant.”

I hear the shower faucet turn on. I begin to unpack my luggage and notice a silver, ice-filled pail with a bottle of champagne sticking out of it. The card taped to the pail reads:

To Mr. and Mrs. Crane. May this be the first of many romantic nights. Courtesy, Jonas Dunlap.

Holding the pail, I feel like an impostor. It is a welcoming gift better suited for honeymooners—not for a man and woman just coming off a months long separation. If things on this trip go successfully, we can drink the champagne on our last night to celebrate. If the trip ends in disaster, I can always drink the bottle alone to get good and drunk. I take the pail, open the sliding glass doors to our small patio facing the beach, and toss the ice to the sand. The champagne I place far back on the top shelf of our closet. Gwen hums softly in the steamy shower. I do not mention the champagne.

“Honey, can you help me with my dress?”

Gwen is in the bathroom. I enter to find her topless, wearing only lacy panties. I am stunned. We used to walk around nude in front of each other all the time, lounging in bed for long hours, naked and carefree, but that was before I discovered her affair. This is the first time since we separated I have seen any skin on my wife past her collarbone. Before her exquisite beauty, my mouth hangs open and I stammer nonsensically. If she notices my awkwardness, she does not let on.

She puts the bra on and turns her back to me. “Can you buckle this?”

I fasten her bra. She slips into her dress—a flattering red cocktail piece that tempts me to run a hand over the smooth silk that hugs her curves.

“I hope you’re going to get dressed,” she says as she turns to the mirror to apply make-up. “They won’t seat us for dinner unless you’re in formal wear. Isn’t that exciting, Phillip? Getting all dressed up for dinner? I feel like I’m in a classic film.”

“Sure, I’ll get one of my suits.”

“Don’t you want to shower first? A hot shower is so refreshing after a day cramped on airplanes.”

The thought of stripping down and exposing myself to Gwen is unnerving.

“It will take too long,” I dodge. “Maybe I’ll take one later.”

She shrugs, and then turns to me eagerly. “Hey, Phillip, before we go to dinner can we walk on the beach?”

“I like that idea. I was hoping to hit the beach as soon as we arrived.”

“Great. When we walk on the beach, make sure you roll up the hem of your pants. I want to be near the waves. I find it so romantic—walking on the beach with my handsome husband.”

I blush.

“This might sound sort of silly,” she adds. “But there is something about waves washing on the shore—one wave after another, forever, endless—that strikes me as incredibly rejuvenating. The water wipes everything clean.”

Wipe everything clean. The subtext doesn’t escape me. We finish dressing and walk along the deserted beach. The sun has nearly left the sky. Without prompting, I take her hand. Across the dark bay, a lonely red light flashes on a small, barren island. Crashing waves spray a light, salty mist on our skin. The brightest spot on the beach is the restaurant. We say nothing as we walk towards it, enjoying this moment together. Gwen is right. The crashing waves are renewing.