Lydia Millet - Mermaids in Paradise - A Novel

“What the hell?” said Chip, and dashed past me.

Sure enough, I saw from somewhere behind Chip’s shoulder, the man was holding one of my shoes. It was a Jimmy Choo. I knew now I wouldn’t wear it on this trip; it had a four-inch heel and there wasn’t enough pavement.

Chip snatched it away from him.

The man’s other hand was bloody from his scalp, which had a bloody dent in it made by the point of the iron. My shoe trembled slightly in midair as Chip looked down at the guy, unsure of his next move.

A thin drip of red trickled its way down the toe man’s forehead, so slow it seemed glacial. I had a sense of losing control, of borders fading loosely into fuzziness.

“Uh. You OK, man?” asked Chip, craning his neck to see the gouge.

The toe man nodded dazedly, then abruptly rose and zigzagged around us, through the living room and out the front door.

“Huh,” said Chip. “Hope he doesn’t have a concussion or something.”

I shrugged inwardly. I had no patience for the guy’s injuries, incurred during his shoe fondling. He hadn’t received them defending our free nation. He didn’t deserve a Congressional Medal of Honor.

I turned to the oglers loitering.

“Sorry, but it’s time for us to turn in,” I announced. The drinking and annoyance had finally emboldened me. “Chip and I are going to hit the sack now. We’ll see you again tomorrow. And thanks for coming, though.”

IT SHOCKED ME to see, when I struggled out of bed the next morning all headachy to answer a vigorous pounding on our door, that the man who stood there — visible through one of the large picture windows as I tottered out of the bedroom in my skivvies, nothing but a camisole and boyshorts — was the guy from outside the restaurant men’s room, two nights ago, who’d been wearing the Freudian slip T-shirt.

He wasn’t wearing the T-shirt now, but still I recognized him.

“What is it?” I asked, opening the door creakily. It felt like five minutes had passed since I collapsed into bed. I couldn’t have cared less that the Freud guy was seeing me half-naked and unkempt; all I cared about was sleep.

“I came to tell you, because I think you’re friends with — that is, I have some news, the news is bad, you might want to sit down, even? Can I come in?”

“Uh—”

“Thanks,” said the guy, whose face was bland, snub-nosed and friendly. It was mournful, too, mournful as an old hound.

He sat right down on our couch himself, quite heavily.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but I thought you should know they found a body this morning. A — a person died. A woman.”

“What woman?” I said, snapping awake.

“The one you’ve been spending time with. We — I saw you together at the restaurant, with your husband I guess? Her name is Nancy. A Dr. Nancy Simonoff.”

I sat down then myself, all the way to the carpet. My knees somehow gave out on me.

Chip stumbled out of our bedroom in even less underwear, rubbing his chin stubble.

“What did you say?” he asked. “Someone is dead ?”

“Sorry. The resort wasn’t sending anyone to let you know — I thought someone should — personally — I was just there, see, I was on the grass near her casita, we’re just a couple casitas down and like every morning I was practicing on my yoga mat—”

“Who? Who? ”

“Nancy,” I said robotically.

I wasn’t looking at Chip, but he must have sat down too, on the sofa near the Freud guy, and we were silent there, three rocks. Feeling surreal the way you do. In shock, or whatever.

“I don’t believe it,” mumbled Chip.

“A drowning, is what I heard,” said the Freud guy gently. “It’s not official yet.”

“But she was a great swimmer!” said Chip.

“In her bathtub,” said the Freudian. “Because they didn’t bring her in from the pool or the ocean, they brought her out of her casita. It’s how I even know any of this. I heard an EMT say drowned .”

“Drowned in the bathtub? Like. . suicide?” said Chip.

“No way,” I said.

“Never,” said Chip.

“I only talked to her a couple times,” said the Freudian, “but I’d have to agree it doesn’t seem likely. She was very, um, enthusiastic. She wasn’t a patient, but still — I’d never have pegged her for suicidal depression.”

I realized he might actually be a Freudian. Or something like it, in the therapy arena. Beyond the pun on the T-shirt.

“And she barely drank either,” said Chip. “She ate a lot but didn’t drink. Last night she was stone-cold sober.”

We sat.

“I mean. Murder? ” asked the Freudian.

We sat.

BY THE TIME Chip and I were dressed and hygienic, cold water splashed on our faces and teeth brushed with haste and vigor, the press had arrived. It was a strictly small-time crowd compared to the ravening media hordes back home, but it came on the heels of the police so it felt like a minor invasion — a white van with a satellite dish; two pretty women in pancake makeup who must be reporters; cops teeming. That is, there were a couple of cops in uniform, there was hotel security, and there were some official men in jackets and ties, of unknown identity. And then there were the other guests, passing, standing, gawking — the guests, gathering in small groups, craning their necks, whispering nervously and/or with ghoulishly titillated interest.

The police didn’t look like the cops we were used to — these ones had a faintly British, formal look. But the crime scene tape was universal.

We felt ourselves drawn to the Freudian’s cabana, as close to the furor as we could be. He’d invited us to go over there, before he cleared out of our own cabana so we could get dressed. Each of us felt disbelief that Nancy had stopped breathing. We couldn’t imagine it. We didn’t need to use our imaginations, technically — I get that — because apparently it was real, but sometimes you can’t imagine the facts.

First there’d been mermaids and now this. We wanted sanity.

Walking across the grass, between the palms, we caught sight of someone from the diving party, the substitute teacher, face stricken, lost as a child. We had nothing to tell him, no words to clear things up, so we just shook our heads at him, our bodies still heavy; he shook his head at us.

Then Chip knocked on the door of the Freudian cabana, and Steve let us in.

“Statistically it’s low-crime!” said his partner Janeane, the muumuu woman who was now wearing a tie-dyed sundress. I accepted a cup of in-room coffee gratefully, though I’m an espresso person in real life and knew it would taste like backwash. “I mean, there hasn’t been a murder on this island in six years! Before this one. Right, Steve? I know — I have a violent crime phobia. We researched it before we came.”

“I didn’t know that was a phobia,” said Chip, not unkindly. “Old friend of mine has a fear of velocity.”

“Interesting,” said Steve the Freudian. “Even related, possibly.”

“I visualize impacts,” added Janeane. “Bludgeoning. Face punches. I took a pill just now. Well, more than one.”

“But listen,” I said. “Who can we talk to? Who’s gonna talk to us? Is someone going to put out a statement? The police? Because the thing is — I mean, we can’t talk about it, it’s supposed to be embargoed, but Nancy had — she had news. She had information. A major discovery. It was going to break today, maybe.”

“She was murdered!” said Janeane dramatically, clasping her hands.