The Condition

by Jennifer Haigh

  “I think it’s great,” he said flatly. “No game playing, no manipulation. Two hours of bullshit, as opposed to two months or two years.”

  Gwen nodded politely.

  “I’m recently divorced,” he said. “My wife lives in Denyle.”

  Where is that? Gwen almost asked. Then thought: Oh, right: denial.

  “She has issues with depression, inhibited sexual desire, past sexual abuse. That’s what I’m coming out of, you know? That’s what I’m trying to avoid.” He took a long drink from his mug. “I like this forum because I can come right out and ask. Are you being treated for depression? Any sexual abuse in your past?”

  “No,” Gwen said. “And no.”

  “See, that was easy. As opposed to fourteen years of prevarication and denial and passive-aggressive shit. Get it all out of the way in the beginning. It’s a huge time saver.”

  “TIME!” Jamie called from the back of the room. “Okay, time to move on. Everyone take a moment and mark your scorecards. Then you gentlemen are on to the next lovely lady.”

  Bobby rose, glancing at his scorecard. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Heidi Kozak,” said Gwen.

  FOR TWO nights in a row she ate dinner alone on her balcony. Balmy air brushed her bare arms and shoulders, lingering like a human touch. The second night the moon was full. Gwen imagined it hanging low, casting silver light over the gentle surf. She would take a walk shortly to verify this. Heidi and Miracle had booked a poolside room rather than a more expensive ocean-view suite. You could see the ocean anywhere, Miracle had explained. She was more interested in the human scenery, the bare pulchritude of the suntanned bodies cavorting in the pool.

  It was Miracle’s fourth trip to Pleasures. She and Heidi had met there a few years ago, vacationing with their husbands. Now that they were both single, they met each January for a week of sun and mischief. “It gets me through the winter,” Miracle said. “My mom takes the boys, and I’m like a kid again.” She was an X-ray technician from West Texas. Divorced, with two children, she came to Pleasures to recharge her suntan, drink umbrella drinks, and, she admitted, to meet men: “I’m forty, and I live in a small town. There’s no one left to date.”

  To these revelations Gwen had no answer. Her own social life was too bleak to discuss.

  Now music floated up from the flagstone patio, steel guitars, the tinkle of a keyboard. The musicians, in dark vests and white shirts, looked bizarrely formal among the near-naked drinkers and bathers. In the golden light of the tiki torches, the guests appeared sunburned or inebriated or both. Their exposed flesh looked sweet and meaty, like baking ham. The scene seemed appropriate to tonight’s dinner, the Lovers’ Luau, served poolside. The pool was kidney shaped, its tiled bottom displaying the Pleasures logo: a nude couple, their bodies curved like the yin and yang characters, swimming in a tight circle together for all eternity.

  Gwen stood, looking over the balcony. Dinner was winding down. Aproned black busboys were breaking down the serving stations, loading the leftover pig carcass onto wheeled carts. The air smelled of chlorine, citronella, roasting pork. The smiling drummer tapped gamely at his trap set. The singer warbled a familiar tune. Since landing at Pleasures, Gwen had heard it a dozen times. When I dance they call me Macarena. A woman in a flowered bikini stood at the edge of the pool, keeping time with her hips, going through the motions: palms down, palms up, hands on hips, roll the pelvis. Wait, she squealed, I forgot! The Jacuzzis were bubbling. The swim-up bar was open for business. In an hour Gwen would turn out the lights and blast the central air, as she’d done the night before. Its fan made a gentle white noise to screen out the laughing and shouting below.

  She glanced at the bedroom clock. It was early still, a Sunday night. She took the cordless phone from the bedside table and punched in a number. She never called her brother in the evening, but she was desperate to hear a familiar voice.

  “Billy, it’s me,” she said. “Sorry to bother you. Sounds like you have company.”

  “Sort of.” Voices in the background, a chorus of male laughter. “You landed okay? How’s it going down there?”

  “I did two dives today. Stingrays everywhere, like we saw in Grand Cayman.”

  “I’m a loser,” Billy said. “I should have come with you. Next year, I promise.”

  “How’s the training?”

  “Great. I did thirteen today, at race pace. My knee was fine.”

  “Wow, good.” She hesitated. “I should let you get back to your guests.”

  “Call when you get back,” he said.

  “Okay.” Gwen hung up the phone. Usually his voice comforted her. This time it made her even lonelier. Years had passed since she’d visited Billy in New York, but she still had a clear mental picture of his apartment. The memory was so vivid that she doubted it was accurate; it might be a chic urban apartment she’d seen in a movie. She remembered that the place was exceedingly handsome—like Billy and Srikanth, like the many friends, all male, who’d come to visit Billy in the hospital. Meeting all those beautiful men had affected her strangely. Not the fact that her brother was gay, or that he’d concealed this from her; neither, knowing Billy, was surprising. What struck her was that Billy was the most handsome man she knew. He could have had any girl he wanted, any of the exquisite creatures Gwen had envied her whole life but could never be. That Billy disdained these swans filled her with tenderness and gratitude. It seemed to her a grand gesture of loyalty, the ultimate kindness of a brother to a sister.

  She replaced the phone in its cradle between the beds. Miracle’s was piled high with sundresses, colorful pareos, a pink straw hat. Borrow anything you like, she’d offered, though except for the hat, none of it was likely to fit. Gwen rarely paid attention to what she was wearing, but sitting in the Breezes Lounge she’d felt sweaty and disheveled in her jeans and T-shirt. It was her all-purpose uniform, worn to work, happy hour with Heidi, Pirates games, weddings, funerals, church. When her jeans began to look grubby, she made a quick trip to the boys’ department at Sears. Brushing her teeth took longer. Beyond this routine errand, she hadn’t shopped for clothes in years.

  Once, while waiting for a flight home to Boston, she had glimpsed another small woman in the Pittsburgh airport. A Turner, Gwen thought, her heart racing. Why was she so surprised? The condition wasn’t all that uncommon; there must have been Turners all over Pittsburgh, dozens, hundreds, who knew? Yet despite this, Gwen had never known one personally. Long ago, a doctor had told her parents about a support group in Boston. Her father had been enthusiastic, her mother apprehensive; but for once they’d agreed that it was Gwen’s decision. And Gwen had refused to go.

  The woman in the airport was her size exactly, and dressed for business: a wool suit, expertly tailored, and high-heeled leather pumps. Her hair was streaked blond and carefully styled, her face heavily made up. Did she look attractive, or ridiculous? Ridiculous, Gwen decided, her cheeks burning. Like a little girl playing dress up. But was her perception accurate, or clouded by her own insecurities? Did other people see the woman as she did?

  Gwen laid aside her newspaper and stood. Hi there, she rehearsed. Where on earth did you find those shoes? But at that moment a pack of teenage boys blocked her path, huge gumchewing boys in matching track suits, a sports team traveling to or from a game. Noisily they commandeered a group of chairs. Gwen felt suddenly timid. Years of savage teasing had left her with a lifelong terror of such hooligans. A tiny woman was conspicuous enough, a lightning rod for derision. Two of them together would make an irresistible target.

  Gwen sat again and hid behind the sports page. When she lowered it a few minutes later, the woman was gone.

  At that moment—a weak, self-pitying moment—she had considered calling her mother. Now the feeling returned to her in a wave. Gwen looked down at the Pleasures patio, the giddy strangers bobbing in the pool like dumplings in soup.

  There was a commotion in the hallway, a jingling of keys; then Miracl
e Zamora burst into the room. “Gwen?” She came out to the terrace and leaned in the doorway. “Hey there! Great dinner, huh?” Then she noticed the tray on the glass-topped table, Gwen’s half-eaten turkey sandwich, ordered from room service. “What, you didn’t go?”

  “I wasn’t in the mood,” said Gwen.

  “I know what you mean. When I saw that pig with the head still on it”—she grimaced as if in pain. “I mean, Jesus. They could have taken the head off.” She bent to unbuckle her highheeled sandals. “These shoes are killing me. Look.” She extended a bare foot, the toenails painted scarlet. An angry blister had opened on the sole, another at the heel.

  “Ouch,” said Gwen.

  “I always forget how big this place is. Last night I went down to the nude spa with that guy Brian. Have you been yet? It’s behind the tennis courts, on the other side of the bridge. Like, two miles away. I don’t walk that much in a month.”

  Gwen smiled.

  “I’m heading over there now, once I find my flip-flops. Want to come?”

  “Maybe later,” said Gwen.

  “God, I ate too much.” Miracle stepped into the room, bent and rummaged through her suitcase. Her yellow thong underwear was visible above the waistband of her skirt. “I’ve been dieting for this place for a month, and I gain it all back the first night.” She slipped on plastic sandals decorated with yellow daisies, then kicked them off. “My calves look like telephone poles. I need heels.”

  “You’ll be naked in ten minutes. What’s the difference?”

  “Oh, no,” Miracle said seriously. “They let you wear shoes.” She slipped her room key into her pocketbook. “You’re sure you don’t want to come?”

  “Maybe I’ll see you over there,” said Gwen.

  “Okay.” Miracle eyed Gwen’s half-eaten sandwich. “Are you going to eat that pickle?”

  “Take it.”

  “They have negative calories,” Miracle said, chewing. “Less than zero.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “They do something to your metabolism,” said Miracle. “It’s true. I looked it up.”

  Gwen listened to her go, the click of high heels fading gradually down the hallway. It seemed that she and Miracle had known each other a long time. Not since childhood—the screened sleeping porch at the Captain’s House—had Gwen shared a bedroom, and she was stunned by the intimacy of it: the strange underpants on the floor, the sodden bikini top hung over the towel bar to dry. After only two days, she knew things about this near stranger that made her seem closer than family. No McKotch would speak so candidly of her digestion, her allergies, the vagaries of her menstrual cycle. The top of Miracle’s dresser resembled a pharmacy shelf. She’d invited Gwen to try her lotions and hangover remedies, her vitamins, suntan oil, and pineapple-scented shampoo. Miracle was prone to hives and urinary-tract infections; she took birth-control pills to keep her skin clear. In one way or another, she was always talking about her body. It was the kind of conversation Gwen’s mother frowned upon, and that Gwen herself avoided instinctively.

  On that subject she had nothing, nothing to say.

  They waited at the end of the pier, a group of nine, in swim trunks and T-shirts, bikinis and flip-flops. Gwen counted three couples—two young and American, one middle aged and German—and two teenage girls, deeply suntanned. Most had rented dive gear; except for Gwen, only the Germans had brought their own. They were tall and lean and blond, with look-alike short haircuts and identical wire-rimmed glasses. Their gear was well used and expensive. The woman wore an elaborate dive computer strapped to her wrist.

  “Jesus, where are they?” one of the girls complained. “I mean, was there a reason I got out of bed at eight in the morning?”

  Gwen glanced at her watch. The dive boat was twenty minutes late. Waves lapped the dock in a strange pattern, coming in from the west. The wake of a jet ski, or maybe a boat. She listened intently. A low rumble in the distance, growing louder. “Here it comes,” she said to no one in particular.

  Eight heads turned toward the horizon. A small boat with an outboard motor was approaching the pier. A red dive flag flew at its helm. The letters 2STE had been stenciled across its stern.

  “Well, what’s he waiting for?” said a short, beefy man with a crew cut.

  “It’s pretty rough,” Gwen said, surprising herself. In her real life she never spoke to strangers. “He can’t come straight in with this current. He needs to approach from the side.”

  Crew Cut frowned. “Well, he needs a bigger motor then.”

  Gwen glanced pointedly at the water. The 2STE’S wake had generated some powerful waves. Fifty yards away, at the Pleasures beach, disgusted swimmers were retreating to shore. A larger motor would have meant a virtual tidal wave.

  The Germans regarded Gwen with interest. “You are a sailor?” the husband asked.

  “Not really,” said Gwen. “I just like boats.”

  Finally the boat motored up to the pier. From the bridge the captain gave them a wave. A boy stood at the bow, brown and shirtless. “Hello!” he called, waving. “Are you ready to dive?”

  “We were ready half an hour ago,” Crew Cut muttered under his breath.

  The divers crowded onto the boat. “Watch your step,” said the boy, extending a hand to one of the girls. “It’s a bit slippery in here.”

  Gwen hefted her air tank to her shoulder.

  “Can I help with that?” the boy asked. He was her height, and skinny. He might have been twelve years old.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

  The perimeter of the boat was lined with benches; the divers arranged themselves there in pairs. The captain cut the engine and stood. He was shirtless, his skin cocoa brown, his head shaved nearly bald. His arms were knotted with muscle. A silver medal hung from a chain around his neck.

  “Welcome to the Toussainte,” he said. His voice was low and musical, with a distinctive accent. “I am Rico, your dive master. You have met my nephew, Alistair.

  “Today we’ll be diving near what is known as the Blue Wall, on the leeward side of the island. It is a beautiful dive with a moderate current and an incredible variety of marine life. It takes normally half an hour to get out there, perhaps longer today since the sea is rough. But first some business. I need to see your dive cards.”

  The divers reached into backpacks and wallets. Gwen fished hers out of a back pocket and handed it over. Captain Rico looked closely at her photo, then back at her.

  “Your hair was darker then,” he said.

  She nodded, embarrassed. For a brief time, in graduate school, she’d dyed her hair sable brown, her mother’s color.

  “I like it better red,” he said, handing back the card. He moved on to the girls.

  “Just a second,” said one, a busty brunette with a spider tattooed at her ankle. She slid a finger into the back pocket of her shorts and squirmed. “I can’t get it out,” she said. “I guess they’re a little tight.”

  A burst of laughter from her friend, a broad-shouldered blonde. She reminded Gwen of the field-hockey girls she’d known at Wellesley. Same phenotype, her father would say.

  Finally the brunette offered her card. Gwen gave it a quick glance. It was the temporary kind all the resorts offered: for a few hundred dollars, a lifeguard took you to the pool, showed you how to connect your regulator and weight your belt, and just like that you were certified to dive.

  “Amanda,” said Captain Rico. “You have been diving before?”

  “Sort of,” she said. “Only, you know, in a pool.”

  He rubbed the dark stubble at the crown of his head. “No problem,” he said smoothly. He turned to face the group. “You will each choose a dive buddy whom you must keep in sight at all times. I will be Amanda’s dive buddy. So she has nothing to worry about. I am an excellent buddy. The best!”

  Amanda’s blond friend looked pained. “What about me?”

  Captain Rico glanced around the circle. “Who does
not have a buddy?” And, when Gwen raised her hand: “See? There is your buddy.”

  Gwen ignored the girl’s frown. Her brother Billy was an excellent diving partner, adventurous and capable, but she didn’t mind diving with strangers. She was confident in her skills.

  “Any other questions?” Captain Rico asked.

  “How deep is the water?” said Amanda.

  “Fifty feet. Give or take.”

  Amanda’s eyes widened. “I’m not a great swimmer,” she said, fiddling with her dive belt.

  “Don’t worry.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll make sure you’re okay.”

  Oh, brother, Gwen thought. The guy was shameless—but, she had to admit, very handsome, with his muscled shoulders, his musical voice. She noticed the sign, then, hanging at the stern: TIPS WELCOME. Handsome Captain Rico made his living by charming people, women especially.

  Your hair was darker then. I like it better red.

  Even me, she thought.

  THEY DROPPED anchor a half mile from the reef. One by one the divers slid into the water. Rico and Amanda first, followed by the Germans. Gwen lowered herself into the water, clear and shockingly warm. She took a moment to adjust to the sounds: the hollow gasp of her regulated breathing, the loud beating of her heart. She watched her dive buddy—Courtney, the field-hockey girl—plunge into the water. There was an explosion of tiny bubbles, a loud sunlit rush.

  Gwen swam toward the girl. Through the dive mask her eyes were wide with terror. Gwen laid a hand on her shoulder and gave her the okay sign. Courtney nodded and signed okay in return. Gwen pointed in the direction of the reef and Courtney began flailing toward it, the classic beginner’s mistake. She was a strong swimmer, but panicky. Slow down, Gwen wanted to tell her. Keep your arms still.

  It was one of the frustrations of diving: the desperate urge to communicate, the helplessness of being without speech. On dry land, where conversation was easy, Gwen maneuvered to avoid it. Underwater, its very impossibility made her eager to speak. That, and the practical considerations: if the girl continued her thrashing, she’d use up her air supply in twenty minutes.