T. Boyle - When the Killing's Done

Wilson is fast, he’ll say that for him. By the time he bolts down the steps Wilson’s already got the hatch in back of the table open and manages to grab one of the sacks from it before Dave can get there and slam it closed. The girls — the second bottle of wine, Anise’s chardonnay, is half gone and they’re eating something now, helping themselves to the sandwiches he’s made without even having thought to offer him one — look up in amusement as if he and Wilson are playing some sort of game, but this isn’t funny, not at all. It’s stupid is what is. Idiotic. And he won’t have it, not on his boat. The table is between him and Wilson and Anise is wedged in on the bench, right there in his way. “Put it down,” he says.

And Wilson, all teeth, bright as a toothpaste commercial, wags the sack out front of him. “No way, man. I’m just going to”—he drops his eyes to pull loose the cord at the neck of the bag even as Dave snatches for it and draws back all in the same instant, afraid of the dark shape within, of the fangs, and didn’t Stiles say they can bite through the bag? — “loosen this and show the girls. . the, ta-da, surprise!”

In that moment, the moment at which the neck of the bag falls open and Wilson, so quick of reflex it’s as if the bag has never been there at all, thrusts his hand in and comes out with the thing itself, his hand clamped behind its flat triangular head and its body twisting on itself like a hard sure slap to the face, Dave can’t remember ever having felt more powerless. And hopeless. He’s frozen there, both girls erupting with choked-back little shrieks of horror and amusement because that’s what girls are supposed to do in a situation like this and Wilson flashing that smile and brandishing the snake as if he’s given birth to it, and all he feels is that things have gone terribly wrong.

There it is, the snake, his snake, the one he’s bought with his own private funds to possess it and free it again because that’s his pleasure and it’s not secreted in a bag anymore, not wrapped in burlap and hidden from sight, but right there in his face, coiling and uncoiling, rattling its tail in a high furious buzz like a stirred-up hive of bees, thick, potent, menacing, revealed in its essence. A snake. A rattlesnake. Crotalus viridis . Its mouth is open in outrage, the fangs yellow-white and slick with wet, with venom. The cabin closes in. The sea moves. And he understands, for the first time, how wrong this is, how wrong he’s been, how you have to let the animals— the animals —decide for themselves.

Then the ship’s horn sounds, loud as a cannon blast.

Then the crash comes.

Then nothing.

S he’s never seen the channel so smooth. There isn’t even so much as a bump coming out of Ventura Harbor and at ten in the morning it’s as warm as midday. As far as she can tell there’s no hint of a breeze, nothing at all — it’s dead calm, the surf flat, boats fixed in place, the kelp fanned out limp on the water. There won’t be many sailboats out today, but the weekend sailors are just going to have to suffer, that’s all, because she doesn’t mind being a little selfish here — even if she had the ability to arrest the planet on its axis, she couldn’t have ordered up better weather for the occasion. Amazing, really. Though the Islander ’s full to capacity with Park Service and Nature Conservancy people and campers and day-trippers alike, everyone’s just standing around as if they’re at a cocktail party in a crowded apartment with unconquerable views. Nobody’s looking green, nobody’s got their head down and there’s no Bonine or Dramamine in evidence. It’s so flat that when Wade brings her a cup of tea in the recycled cardboard container, he’s able to walk from the galley and down the length of the cabin without flailing his arms or lurching like a tightrope walker — and he doesn’t spill a drop. “It’s not water out there, it’s glass,” he says, leaning into the table where she’s sitting with Annabelle and Frazier. “We’re not sailing, we’re just skating. And will you look at that sun.”

“You’re right,” she says. “It couldn’t be more perfect.” She’s thinking of the last end-of-project celebration, the one out on Anacapa three years ago, and so is he.

“Nobody’s going to freeze today,” he says, “that’s for sure. And the paper cups and plates and all the rest — shit, even the cake — aren’t going to blow out to sea either, right, Fraze?”

Frazier and Annabelle are dreaming over their coffee, their faces soft and content, their posture so relaxed they might have been in a trance. He’s cradling his cardboard cup in his left hand and she’s got hers in her right. They’re sitting very close, hip to hip, and their two otherwise unoccupied hands are interlocked and resting casually in Annabelle’s lap. Alma is thinking how serene and pretty Annabelle’s looking — she’s wearing an aquamarine jacket and yellow blouse set off by the dangling boar’s ivory earrings Frazier gave her and gazing soulfully off across the water to where Anacapa and Santa Cruz rise up in the distance like the original Eden, the one before Eve, before Adam, before names.

Frazier looks up, distracted from his thoughts. “I wouldn’t know, mate. I wasn’t here for that one”—he gives first Alma, then Annabelle a look—“because you people didn’t think to get us out here to put holes in all those scampering little rats. . at, oh, I don’t know, a bargain rate of let’s say fifty dollars per. Do I hear fifty?”

Wade gives him a quizzical look, as if he’s not quite sure whether he’s joking or not, then ducks his head and announces that he’s got to get back and make sure everything’s in order. “No screwups this time, right?” He flashes a nervous smile, rubs his hands together as if he’s personally molding the dough for the wood-fired pizzas. Alma can see he’s worked up. The party’s his to worry over, beginning to end — his and Jen’s. Jen is her new secretary and factotum, a month on the job now, and she’s a rock — a computer genie with two years of biology courses at SBCC under her wing. Jen can handle anything. And so can Wade. They’d better. Because she’s taking the day off herself. She didn’t even bring her laptop.

There’s an interval, Wade gone, people milling, the boat moving forward so imperceptibly they might have been at anchor for all anyone knew, and then Frazier takes a sip of coffee, glances up casually over the folded lip of his paper cup, and says, “So, this’ll be Beverly’s first sea voyage then? Or have you had her out already?”

This is Annabelle’s cue to roll her eyes and release his hand to give him a playful shove. “She’s only nine weeks old, Fraze, what do you think?”

The weight of the baby against her shoulder, her breast, the whole right side of her body, is like the weight of a comforter on a fogged-in night, light, reassuring, indispensable, nothing at all like the immovable lump growing inside her that had made her feel as if she were about to sink through the earth with every step she took. Beverly. She has Tim’s eyes, two bright flecks of green like forest leaves touched with sunlight, though Tim doesn’t matter, not anymore, and she’s got the strong ever-so-slightly bowed legs of the Takesue clan. She’s a greedy insatiable feeder. She gurgles. She laughs. Her smile could stop traffic. Alma says, “Uh-huh, yeah. First time.”

“She’s a good little traveler, I’ll say that for her. I haven’t heard a sound out of her.”

“Wait’ll she wakes up and realizes she’s hungry. My mother says she’s got the lungs of a prima donna.”