Mark Chiusano - Marine Park - Stories

I’m fine, she said.

At the bottom of the stairs, Timothy waved off the valet, who was rummaging for the keys to their BMW. The valet stopped rummaging. The BMW had been one of the nicer cars in the lot, which surprised Timothy. Courtney was walking ahead of him, toward the water. He took long steps to catch up to her. When he did, she was stopped in the middle of the road, watching six deer stumble gracefully across.

Are those deer? Timothy asked, happily.

Of course they’re deer, she shushed. They were small, canine except for the long legs. They were eating at the seeds in the thick tropical grass in front of them, undisturbed by the human presence.

They should be moving, Timothy said. Like, running away.

Courtney took two steps forward and stamped her feet. The deer looked at her.

They’re caught in the headlights of your gaze, said Timothy.

What’s that? Are you really quoting right now? she said.

Sure, he lied.

The deer stayed where they were. They watched. I don’t like it when you do that, Courtney said.

Do what? Timothy asked.

Order for me, she said. He had, when the waiter from Hungary had come to their table surprisingly quickly.

He tried to put his arm around her, but she shrugged him off. Come on, he said.

No, she said.

She walked to the edge of the water, which was the bay. The beach was on the other side of the island. The hotel had been built here a hundred years ago, by J. P. Morgan and Joseph Pulitzer and Henry Goodyear and all the rest. They pretended to be duck hunting, but they were doing the things that millionaires did. They put the hotel on this side for ease of getting the building materials across the water, barged over from mainland Georgia. It had been in the guidebook that Courtney read on the drive down from Brooklyn. Courtney had woken up one morning and said, after they took their morning walk around the oval at Marine Park, I have to get out of here. The oval was sad concrete. The grass inside was tan and old. A block away they walked past the PTSD firemen outside the Mariners Inn. For a long time they’d been doing just the same thing. They found ways to get a week’s vacation. Timothy wouldn’t let her drive until they were well into Maryland. They didn’t talk on car rides anymore, like they had when they first started dating, five years before — even when they couldn’t find a radio station. For a while Courtney talked to her parents on her cell phone. Timothy felt that he knew them almost as well as he knew his own. He hadn’t stopped for a bathroom break until D.C.

The two of them looked out at the bay, where there was one red light blinking: a lighthouse. Timothy, rebuffed in his advances, settled for leaning backward on the railing so he could look half at her and half at the old hotel.

It’s creepy out here, he said.

I don’t think it is, she said. She had picked the place after hearing her coworker talk about it in a hushed voice on her office phone. More than romantic, the coworker had whispered. Southern. Timothy was convinced when she promised him there would be opportunities to swim, his largest indicator of a vacation.

Well, it is, he said, brushing a no-see-um off his chest. There’s no people around. It’s like there’s a curfew or something.

It seemed to Timothy that this bothered Courtney.

Why would there be a curfew? she said.

I don’t know, maybe it was in the fine print somewhere, he said. Half off the hotel reservations and free dinners as long as you’re in by ten.

But that doesn’t even make sense, she said.

Maybe it’s because of those wolves we just saw.

They were deer, Tim!

Maybe these are bloodsucking deer.

Courtney angled her body into Timothy. Bloodsucking deer! she fake squealed.

You never know in these places, he said. You just can’t tell.

They watched the lighthouse blink red and dark for a while. Timothy stroked Courtney’s shoulder. She didn’t pull away.

Maybe the vampire deer are owned by the hotel, Courtney said, her breath in his ear. Maybe it’s all a setup.

I bet the valets are in on the whole thing, Timothy whispered. That’s why they keep hopping into those go-carts — to let the deer out from their cages.

Courtney giggled. Timothy pressed on. By day, he said in his movie-announcer voice, they feed them the carcasses of dead guests, and once it gets dark, they go loose.

Courtney turned in toward Timothy and held each of his jacket lapels in her hands. She pushed her forehead into his chest. Save me, Tim, save me! she shouted.

He felt something triumphant. There was a heaviness in his throat. Maybe this trip would make him better at this. He was running out of ideas. He said, That’s my job.

He knew it was the wrong thing to say once her forehead stopped kneading his chest.

What the hell’s that supposed to mean? she said.

From the bloodsucking deer, he added.

She let go of his neck. For a while they leaned against the railing next to each other. Timothy waited for something to happen.

Aren’t you going to say something? Courtney said.

I don’t really know what the problem is, Timothy said. Courtney started walking back to the hotel.

Jesus, Courtney, he said.

I want to go home, she said.

Courtney, come on, he said again. She didn’t answer.

She walked the long slow curved lamp-lit path toward the hotel porch. There were plants hanging off the rafters, green overgrown ones, their pots sprinkled with dried-out petals and swaying in the dead air. She ignored the valet who tipped his cap at her and said, Evening ma’am. She planted herself on one of the white rocking chairs and sat in it, motionless, her face in her hands.

When eventually she spread her fingers apart and looked through them, to see what the night looked like, the valet was leaning against the railing with his back to her. His khaki shorts, she noticed, had the symbol of the hotel printed on them in white, on the side. He was wearing a white polo shirt, which was tucked into his pants. She imagined that this was emblazoned with the hotel signature too. It was only his belt that was something different, a pattern of red lobsters in a blue sea. Timothy always complained that she paid too much attention to little things. She never found a way to tell him that because he didn’t, he wouldn’t understand.

The valet stayed with his arms on his hips, looking out toward the path for cars coming in. After a while he said, I’m sure you didn’t mean to be rude.

Courtney arched her shoulders.

Excuse me? she said.

Rude, he said. You know, when you don’t respond to something that someone says to you.

Courtney had that feeling that the human body secretes when it starts panicking, though it’s in no immediate danger. She started to open her mouth, then thought better of it.

Go on, the valet said. I can take it. But she pushed her hackles down, and the panicked feeling began to subside.

I see people like you fellas all the time, the valet said. Courtney wondered how old he might be. This hotel isn’t getting any newer. And northerners don’t tip, you know.

Is that true? Courtney said. That’s not true for us. My boyfriend tipped you when we left yesterday.

The valet raised his eyebrows. Boyfriend? he said. Aren’t you a little old for that?

Courtney thought she would feel the panicked feeling again, but she didn’t. Who even knows, she said.

The valet squinted lazily out onto the lawn, toward the dock. He pointed his thumb at the chair Courtney was sitting in, and said, You’re sitting right where Sean Penn was sitting.

Really? Courtney said.

Yep, he said. Last Christmas. Big Christmas party. The heat wasn’t working in the ballroom, so they put outdoor heaters into a tent out here, and there must have been a thousand people.