Richard DuBois - Last Resort

The restaurant stands above the beach on a wooden deck. Thick ropes—the kind normally used to tie a ship to a pier—serve as railings on the deck. Calypso music from a band wafts into the night. Couples dance arm in arm on the deck. Most of the other guests are older than we are. Jewel bedecked women in flowing evening gowns sway in the arms of white haired husbands.

Jonas Dunlap converses with one of the kitchen staff, but upon seeing us, he walks over. “Mr. Crane, if I may say so, Mrs. Crane looks marvelous tonight.”

“Is a table for two available?” I ask.

“We are preparing one at this very moment. Have you visited the bar?” he gestures to the far end of the deck where other couples congregate around a circular bar. “While you wait for your table, our bartender would be pleased to mix any drink you desire.”

As we approach the bar, I notice the handful of people there are closer to my age group on the younger end of the spectrum. I spot Conner leaning against the bar holding court with Alexandra seated on a stool sipping another daiquiri. Off to my side through the foliage I glimpse the swimming pool. The idea of spending more time around Conner’s cheery perfection gives me an idea.

“Hey, let’s check out the pool you saw from the plane,” I suggest, steering Gwen away from the bar.

Water splashes along the faux rock formation into the pool. Ripples on the surface bounce undulating ribbons of light into the palm trees. Numerous people dressed in evening clothes congregate in small groups around the pool. Others lounge in bathing suits in a steaming Jacuzzi carved into the side of the rock formation.

“C’mon in, lovely lady,” an islander half submerged in the Jacuzzi beckons to Gwen. “De hot water will do you good. Let de heat penetrate your bones.”

Gwen is surprised the man singled her out, and holds up her hand in mild protest to his offer.

He brushes her refusal away with a hearty laugh and flashes a gold-toothed smile. “Dese good folks with me have the right notion.”

“He’s right,” one of the smiling guests in the Jacuzzi, an Englishman, adds. “This feels wonderful.”

“Perhaps after dinner,” Gwen begs off.

The islander resumes speaking with the guests in the water. The island sun has reduced his dark skin to the texture of parchment. He has the sunken cheeks and painfully sharp jawbones of a cancer victim. In a strange contrast to his cadaverous face, his body is all muscle and bone, as lean and strong as a high school athlete. Dread locks fall to his shoulders. A gold ring pierces his nostril. Another ring pierces one of his nipples and from it dangles a gold dolphin. At the request of one of the guests, the islander hops out of the steaming water and proceeds to contort his wiry body in freakish ways. Without any difficulty, he bends his legs over his shoulders, and walks on two hands in a way that reminds me instantly of a skittering crab. The small audience cheers and claps, and the islander accepts their attention with a leering grin.

I am the only one not applauding.

“This guy creeps me out,” I whisper to Gwen.

“I wonder if he works here,” she replies.

“Oh, no, he doesn’t work here,” a nearby Englishwoman interjects. “His name is Action. The resort doesn’t mind his presence because he entertains the guests.”

“We haven’t seen you two before,” standing by the woman, a silver haired, ruddy-cheeked Englishman adds. “You must have arrived today.”

I tell him he is correct.

“You are going to love it here,” the woman raves. “By the way, I am Pamela and this is my husband, Bill.”

We shake hands. Tall and thin, with a thick mass of blonde curls and a double strand of pearls, Pamela is vivacious and seems the more out going of the pair.

“Are you two waiting to be seated for dinner?” Pamela asks to which we reply that we are. “Come, Bill, let’s see if our table is ready yet.”

With the option of staying to watch Action’s one-man freak show or begin dining, I turn to Gwen, “Maybe our table is ready, too.”

Unfortunately, neither of our tables is ready.

“They will be ready in a moment more,” Jonas says. “If you would prefer to be seated immediately we do have a table for six available.”

Pamela looks at me with a friendly nod. “I won’t complain about your company if you don’t complain about mine.”

“But there’s only four of us,” Gwen says.

“Excuse me, young folks, I could not help but overhear you need two additional people to complete your table,” a tall, elderly man leaning on a cane interjects. “My wife and I will join you for dinner.”

Bill chuckles. “Young folks. Ha, I haven’t been called that in ages. Jonas, I believe the six of us will take that table, now, please.”

We take our seats at a table overlooking the surf. The man with the cane introduces himself and his wife: Don and Amy, wealthy real estate developers from one of the Hamptons in Long Island. He speaks with a deep, rumbling baritone and a slight New York accent. His salt and pepper hair is thick and slicked back from a high, heavily lined forehead and deep-set eyes. Don is easily the tallest person at the table, with Amy not far behind. Thin with a no-nonsense chic, her silver hair has a simple but flattering cut. Looking at her, I cannot help but think that this is what becomes of yesteryears fashion model. Amy has the regal bearing of someone who worked the runway for Christian Dior, but she offsets this with an easy smile and hearty laughter.

Pamela is an executive with a major airline and Bill is “in construction” which I take to mean a lot more than being a mason or carpenter.

“And what do you do?” Amy asks Gwen.

“Oh, I’m an executive with a major bank.”

Gwen is a first level supervisor of a local call center—hardly what I would refer to as an executive. My wife continues embellishing her career, discussing the banking industry at length but in vague terms. She does not look at me as she speaks. If she saw the surprised expression on my face, it would probably throw her off her game. Gwen lies with great skill. This is the first time I am seeing her in action with the knowledge of what she is doing. Our tablemates swallow it all. I cannot help but think how easily she deceived me not so many months ago. I think of how earnestly Gwen looked into my eyes and thanked me for accompanying her on this trip and how happy she promised to make me. Was she lying? Did she dupe me as easily as she now dupes everyone at the table?

“And, Phillip, are you in the banking industry, too?” Amy asks.

“Uh, no, I’m an adjunct professor for a science department.”

I mention the name of my university. No one has ever heard of it.

“An adjunct professor. Is that like a professor’s assistant?” Pamela asks.

“Yeah, it’s something like that.”

“I thought in your country that was an unpaid position—like an intern,” Bill says.

“No, no, I get paid—just not very much,” I answer with a self-effacing chuckle.

No one else laughs. I seem to have led the conversation down a dead end. I look at Gwen; she buries her face in the menu.

“I find teaching fascinating,” Pamela breaks the silence and comes to my rescue. “Filling all those young minds with knowledge. If I had not gone into the airline industry I would have very much liked to become a teacher. Besides, I adore children.”

“How many kids do you have?” Don asks.

“Oh, I don’t have any,” For the briefest second something flickers in Pamela’s eyes, a shadow of sadness swiftly gone. “Bill has a daughter from his first marriage—lovely girl.”

Now it is time for me to come to Pamela’s rescue. “Well, right now I work with adult students, but I worked with children at one time and I can tell you it is not all shiny apples and eager minds yearning for knowledge.”