Arthur Clarke - Cradle

NICK’S message light was blinking when he walked into his townhouse after the meeting with Amanda and the encounter with Greta. He put the bag with the trident back in the closet and turned on the answering machine. Julianne appeared on the small three-inch monitor. Nick smiled to himself. She always left all of his messages, no matter how small, in video.

“Sorry to tell you this, Nick, but your Tampa charter for tomorrow and Sunday just called up to cancel. They said they heard a weather forecast calling for thunderstorms. Anyway, all is not completely lost ‘cause you get to keep their deposit.” She paused a couple of seconds. “By the way, Linda and Cotinne and I are going to Sloppy Joe’s tonight to hear Angie Leatherwood. Why don’t you stop by and say hello? I might even buy you a drink.”

Shit, said Nick to himself. I needed the money. And Troy did too. He automatically entered Troy’s name on the small keyboard near the phone and waited for Troy to pick up the receiver and turn on the video switch.

“Why hello, Professor. What are you doing on such a beautiful day in the tropics?” Troy was in a good humor as usual. Nick could not understand how anyone could be in such a perpetually good mood.

“I have bad news and bad news, my friend,” Nick replied. “First, Amanda Winchester says our trident is modern and almost certainly not a part of any ancient treasure. For my part, I’m not completely convinced. But it doesn’t look promising. Second, and probably more important for the short term, our charter has cancelled. We have no work for the weekend.”

“Ouch,” Troy said, a frown sweeping over his face. “That do present some problems.” For a moment it seemed that Troy couldn’t figure out what to say. Then the normal Troy was back, smiling cheerfully, “Hey, Professor, I have an idea. Since we now both have nothing to do this afternoon, why don’t you come over here to the Jefferson sanitarium for some chips and beer? I want to show you something anyway.” His eyes were twinkling.

Under almost any circumstances Nick would have declined Troy’s offer and spent the afternoon reading Madame Bovary. But the morning had already been heavy with emotion and Nick was acutely aware that he needed some levity. He smiled to himself. Troy was a very funny man. An afternoon of booze and mirth sounded appealing. Besides, Troy had been working for him for four months and they had not yet taken any time to socialize. Even though they had spent many hours working together on the boat, Nick had never once visited Troy’s apartment. “All right,” Nick heard himself respond, “you’re on. I’ll bring the food and you get the beer. I’ll see you in twenty to thirty minutes.”

When Nick stopped his car in front of the small frame duplex in one of Key West’s oldest sections, Troy was just arriving himself. He had apparently walked to a nearby store, for he was carrying a large brown paper bag containing three six-packs of beer. “This ought to hold us for the afternoon.” He winked as he greeted Nick and led him up the walkway to his front door. A paper sign was taped to the door. It said, PROF—BE BACK IN A JIFF—TROY. Troy took the sign down and reached up to a small ledge above the door to find a key.

Nick had never wondered what Troy’s apartment would be like. But he certainly would not have imagined the living room that he found when he followed Troy inside. The room was laid out neatly and furnished in what could only be called early grandmother style. The motley array of old couches and easy chairs purchased at neighborhood garage sales (none of which was the same color, which was of no importance to Troy—he thought of furniture in terms of functional units, not as pieces of decoration) were arranged in a rectangle with a long wooden coffee table in the middle. An assortment of electronics and video magazines were neatly stacked upon the table. Dominating the room was a state-of-the-art sound system whose four tall speakers were carefully placed in the corners so that all the sound was focused toward the center of the room. As soon as the two men were inside, Troy went over to the compact disc player on thc top of the stereo equipment rack and turned it on. A wonderfully rich, black, female voice backed by a piano and a guitar filled the room.

“This is Angie’s new album,” Troy said, handing Nick an open beer. He had been to the kitchen and the refrigerator while Nick was looking around the room. “Her agent thinks this one will go gold. Love Letters just barely missed, but she made more than a quarter of a million off it anyway. Not counting the money from the concert tour.”

“I remember your telling me that you knew her.” Nick said, taking a long drink from his beer. He had walked across the room to a box next to the stereo rack where sixty or seventy discs were neatly arranged. On the front of an open disc jacket on the top of the box was a beautiful young black woman, softly backlit. She was wearing a long dark cocktail dress. Memories of Enchanting Nights was the title of the album. “Is there more to the story of Miss Leatherwood?” Nick said, looking up at Troy. “This is one magnificent lady, if you ask me.”

Troy came over beside him. He programmed the disc player to cut eight on the album. “Thought you’d never ask,” he grinned expansively. “This song probably says it the best.” Nick sat down in one of the strange easy chairs and listened to a soft ballad with an easy beat in the background. The title of the song was “Let Me Take Care of You, Baby.” It told the story of a gifted lover who made the songstress laugh at home or in bed. They were compatible, they were friends. But he couldn’t talk commitment because he hadn’t made it yet. So in the last stanza the woman singing the song appeals to him to swallow his pride and let her make it easy for him.

Nick looked at Troy and rolled his eyes while he shook his head. “Jefferson,” he said, “you’re too much. I never know when you’re telling the truth and when you’re slinging bullshit with both arms.”

Troy laughed and stood up from the couch. “But, Professor,” he protested, “that’s what makes it more interesting.” He came over and took Nick’s empty beer can. “It’s hard for you to believe, isn’t it?” he said, still smiling while he looked directly at Nick, “that maybe your funny black first mate has a few dimensions you haven’t seen.”

Troy turned and walked toward the kitchen. Nick could hear him opening beer cans and putting the chips in a bowl. “So,” Nick hollered, “I’m waiting. What’s the scoop?”

“Angie and I have known each other for five years,” Troy said from the kitchen. “When we were first dating she was only nineteen and completely naive about life. One night we were over here, right after I first moved in, and we were listening to a Whitney Houston album. Angie started singing.”

Troy came back in the living room. He put the bowl of assorted chips on the little wood coffee table and sat down in a chair next to Nick. “The rest, as they say in Hollywood, is history.” He waved his arms. “I introduced her to the owner of a local night club. Within a year she had a recording contract and I had a problem. She was my woman. But I couldn’t afford to keep up with her.” Troy was uncharacteristically quiet for a few seconds. “It’s really shit when your pride stands in the way of your feelings for the only woman you’ve ever loved.”

Nick was surprised to discover that Troy’s intimate revelation had touched him. Nick leaned forward in his chair and dropped his hand lightly on Troy’s shoulder in a gesture of understanding. Troy changed the subject quickly. “And what about you, Professor? How many broken hearts are hanging in your closet? I’ve seen the way Julianne and Corinne and even Greta look at you. Why haven’t you ever married?”