Эд Макбейн - Last Summer

“Beautifully,” I said.

“Will you go, Rhoda?” Sandy asked.

“Will you come with me?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you’ll stay with me? You won’t leave me alone with him?”

“Not for a minute.”

“And you promise we won’t try to make a fool of him?”

“Why would we want to make a fool of him?”

“I don’t know, but...”

“Say yes, Rhoda.”

“I...”

“Say yes.”

“All right,” Rhoda said, “but...”

“You’re a darling,” Sandy said, and hugged her. “Come on, let’s get in the water. I want to show you something.”

She spent the entire afternoon with Rhoda in the shallow water, painstakingly instructing her in the use of the mask and snorkel, showing her first how to wash the inside of the face plate with spit so that it wouldn’t cloud underwater, and then showing her how to fit the mask to her face, and how to quickly lift it to release any water that might seep in, showing her how to pop her ears in case she ever went into deeper water and the pressure started to build, showing her how to blow water out of the snorkel, working patiently and calmly and gently, allowing Rhoda to progress at her own speed, without any insistence, until she was swimming freely around the cove, face in the water, and at last taking a few tentative dives with Sandy, who held her hand while they explored the bottom together.

On the boat, David said, “Did you look?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you check out your father’s stuff?”

I hesitated. The thought of going through my father’s belongings had scared hell out of me. I had tried to bring myself to do it, telling myself there was nothing to fear. But each time I started into the bedroom, I had the feeling I might discover something that would shock me, and I didn’t want that to happen. So I hadn’t done it. And here was David, asking about it.

“Did you?” he said again.

“Yes,” I said. This was the first time I’d ever lied to him in all the time I’d known him. I felt as if he could see clear into my skull, as if he knew instantly that I wasn’t telling the truth.

“And?” he said.

“I guess he doesn’t use them,” I said.

“Mmm,” David said, and shaded his eyes to watch the girls as they surfaced. “I want to get moving on this,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” I said.

“We’ll be on the mainland Saturday night,” David said, “when we go to meet Gomez. We’ll have to get them then.”

“Okay,” I said.

“It ought to be a riot,” David said.

“Well, I don’t think we ought to make fun of him,” I said.

“No, no, of course not,” David said.

“I mean, we promised Rhoda.”

“Sure.” Looking out over the water, he said, “She’s really coming along nicely.”

“Mmm.”

“You still feel the same way?”

“What do you mean?”

“About her.”

“What do you mean?”

“That there’s no chance.”

“Oh. I don’t know.”

“She’s got great tits,” David said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Is something the matter?”

“No.”

“You sound funny.”

“No. I’m okay.”

“If you’re worried about Saturday night...”

“No, no.”

“... I’ll do the asking.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you come in with me, I’ll do the actual asking.”

“Oh. Okay. Sure.”

“Then maybe we can try it sometime next week.”

“Okay.”

“Right here. This’d be a good place, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I said.

“You sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

That was on Wednesday.

By Friday, we had Rhoda diving from the boat in the deeper water just outside the cove and spending half the afternoon below the surface. The water was exceptionally clear, and very warm now that it was August, but otherwise as disappointing as the cove itself had been, with little or no marine life to observe.

Our routine was unvaried.

We floated on the surface, masks in the water, until one or another of us spotted something that looked interesting. A finger pointed, a head nodded, the original discoverer jack-knifed into a surface dive and headed for the bottom, the rest of us following in formation. A glistening explosion of tiny bubbles trailed behind the kicking fins, I could see Sandy’s long blond hair flowing free in the water like a live golden plant, David’s powerful arms thrusting, Rhoda beside me. And then the discovery, whatever it was, a gleaming bottle top, a fishing lure and broken line tangled into a smooth piece of driftwood, a lumbering horseshoe crab, a school of tiny shiners, a pink bathing cap. Each new discovery delighted Rhoda; she would nod her head vigorously and then break into a wide grin around the snorkel mouthpiece, scaring me to death each time because I kept thinking she’d take in a mouthful, and choke, and panic, and forget everything we’d taught her.

Our underwater world was silent and exclusive.

We moved through it like conspirators.

Aníbal Gomez looked like an accountant.

He was wearing a simply tailored brown tropical suit, a pale-beige shirt, and a dark-brown tie. His socks were brown, as were his shoes, and he wore brown-rimmed spectacles. We identified him on the dock at once, the only individual there that Saturday night who looked even remotely civilized, standing apart from the ferry company personnel, who wore dungarees and chambray shirts, and the islanders coming and going in varied colorful and sloppy attire, and the sports fishermen in white shorts, windbreakers, and yachting caps.

The four of us had dressed for the occasion, too, though certainly not as elegantly as Gomez. Sandy had put on her mother’s red wig, not in any attempt to further baffle her Selecta-Date suitor, but only as defense against possible recognition by any of the townies who had chased us in July. She and Rhoda were both wearing thonged sandals and crisp cotton shifts, hers yellow, Rhoda’s blue; they both looked very pretty. David and I were wearing pressed khakis, sports shirts and jackets. The jackets had been put on under duress. Sandy had suggested that we wear ties, too, but we’d absolutely refused and threatened to blow the whole evening if she insisted, which she did not. As we came off the ferry and onto the dock, David whispered, “There he is.”

“Is everybody ready?” Sandy asked.

“I’m terrified,” Rhoda said.

“Let me handle it,” Sandy said.

“I feel like a hitchhiker with three friends hiding in the bushes.”

At the far end of the dock, Gomez stood watching the passengers as they unloaded, waiting for his date.

“Here goes,” Sandy said, and walked to him with her hand outstretched. Clearly expecting a brunette (On the phone, he had specifically asked about the color of her hair), Gomez was startled to see a redhead approaching him and offering her hand. He was a short person, coming eye to eye with Sandy, who, in the wig, looked easily as old as he did. His face was smooth and very white, his eyes brown. A gold tooth showed at the side of his mouth when he opened it in surprise. Tentatively, he took her hand.

“I’m Sandy,” she said, shaking his hand vigorously, and then dropping it. His eyes widened behind their glasses when he saw Rhoda and David and me walking over, and he seemed utterly baffled for an instant, seemed in fact as if he were about to run clear off the dock and all the way back to Manhattan. “Let me explain,” Sandy said quickly. “This is my friend Rhoda, she’s your date for tonight, she’s the girl who filled out the questionnaire.”

“But...” Gomez said.

“She’s very shy,” Sandy said, “which is why she used my name.”