by Melissa Bank
—•—
That night, alone with all those empty beds, I couldn't fall asleep. I got up and went outside to the dock in my nightgown. I'd finished Gatsby, and I looked out at the lagoon, hoping to see a green light. But nobody's dock was lit up. Only one house had any lights on, and the light was just the blue of a television set.
I tried to understand what Henry had told me. But I worried about that, too. Other people might not try as hard as I did to understand him. I was always on his side, no matter what. My parents were, too. All he really had to do with us was show up. More had been expected of him as Julia's boyfriend and at that party. More would be expected of him everywhere. I didn't know what had happened between him and Julia. It scared me to think that my brother had failed at loving someone. I had no idea myself how to do it.
T H E
F L O A T I N G
H O U S E
Insisting on playing a game for which, after a fair amount of time, you show no natural aptitude is frustrating to you and annoying to all but the most complacent opponents.
—From Amy Vanderbilt's Book of Etiquette: A Guide to Gracious Living
It's the morning of our flight. Jamie sets my coffee and his on the night table and gets back into bed with me. This afternoon we'll be in St. Croix, the guests of Jamie's ex-girlfriend and her new husband. Now I sit up and, without giving myself the go-ahead, speak. "Honey," I say, "I suddenly have a weird feeling about this trip."
He looks over at me.
I try to think of how to say it. "I don't know these people."
He says, "You'll be with me."
Jamie has a beautiful voice, deep and private, and it stops me for a moment. Then I say, "It just seems awkward. Going on vacation with your boyfriend's ex-girlfriend."
He tells me that he doesn't think of Bella that way, she's just an old friend now.
I say, "What does your old friend Bella look like?"
He laughs and pulls me in for a kiss. "It was college." he says, pronouncing college the way I now pronounce high school.
While he takes his shower, I watch him through the clear parts, the oceans, of his world-map shower curtain.
When he gets out he says, "Trust me."
—•—
From New York to San Juan, Jamie sleeps. I take off his baseball cap and touch his hair, which goes back behind his ears and flips up. He wears a white T-shirt, old jeans, and sneakers. He is long and lean, all legs, like a colt.
Jamie is my first real boyfriend.
We are three months old.
For me, it started the night he told me he couldn't sleep with a woman unless he really loved her.
"I'm monogamous by nature," he said.
I said, "Same here."
—•—
We land in St. Croix and walk off the plane into a tiny airport. I see a man holding up a sign that says JANE AND JAMES, and I'm thinking, They sent a car for us? But Jamie laughs and says, "There they are."
Bella is turn-and-stare gorgeous—big dark eyes, long dark hair, smooth dark skin.
She says, "James," which sounds like "gems," and kisses him—cheek, cheek, cheek.
The man I thought was the driver introduces himself as Yves, Bella's husband, and when he cheek-cheeks me, I think, Grandmother, what soft lips you have.
Bella takes both my hands in hers, as though she has been waiting a long time to meet me. She says, "Janie," my childhood nickname, and I am so thrown off by her warmth that I say, "Belly."
For a moment I hope no one has heard, but, leading us out to their jeep, Yves whispers to me, "It's Bella."
The ride home is all wind. Jamie leans forward, in the space between the front seats, to talk to Bella.
When we pull up to the driveway, she jumps out of the jeep to unlatch the gate. First, though, she motions sweepingly to the sign on the wall, THE FLOATING HOUSE. Jamie squeezes my hand. I begin a joke about having known only generic houses, but the jeep lurches forward into the walled courtyard.
The house is cool and long, white ceramic tiled floors out to the veranda, and from every window you can see the blue-green Caribbean Sea.
Bella shows us the view from our room. When she speaks her voice is an orgy of accents. "My stepfather is the arr-she-tekk," she tells us. "He designed the windows so you feel the water. You will see," she says, "the house is cool." Her vowels and consonants are all off—trying to understand her is like picking fish out of the clover and goats from the ocean.
Yves fixes us drinks, rum and whatever we want, and carries the tray out to the veranda. Below, the yard is long and steep, bordered by flowering trees down to the dock.
Bella says to Jamie, "Alessandra sends you all her love."
While Yves asks me about the flight, the snow, the bracelet I am wearing, I overhear Belly telling Gems about close friends he's never mentioned who live all over the world. It occurs to me that all my close friends live in the tristate area.
"Can we swim down there?" Jamie asks her.
"Of course," she says.
Jamie turns to me and says, "Let's go swimming," like he's eleven, which I love.
We change into our bathing suits, both of us pale as larvae, and then we walk down to the water. As soon as I go under, I begin to feel like it's all going to be fine, wonderful, perfect. The water is turquoise and soft, and Jamie and I are somehow Jamie and me again. Then I look up and see Yves and Bella at the railing of the veranda, holding hands. When they wave to us it is like seeing a photograph move. I say this to Jamie and he tells me I've been reading too many South American novels, too much magical realism.
"That's not what I mean," I say.
"What then?"
"It has something to do with photorealism," I say.
"Painting," he says.
I realize that all I mean is that they seem posed, but I continue, bringing in the colors of the lawn leading up to the veranda, the brushstroke-like swirls on the pillars, anything to keep from sounding as though I'm criticizing his friends.
—•—
For dinner we have local lobster and eat on the veranda. Bella and Yves speak to each other almost entirely in French. At first, Jamie interjects stray French phrases, as though joking, but Yves says, "You speak very well," and soon Jamie does, with an ease that surprises me.
I have not spoken French since eighth grade, when I learned about a wholesome French family living on the third floor of an apartment building near the railroad station. I remember that sometimes they took the elevator, sometimes the stairs.
"We visited Yves's parents at Christmas," Bella says, in English, touching Yves's cheek with the back of her hand. "They are so nice."
To me, she says, "How is your lobsters?"
"Nice," I say, realizing only afterward that I've mimicked her, a bad habit of mine; I'm like one of those animals that imitates its predators to survive.
—•—
In bed, Jamie says, "How do you like Bella?" A voice tells me to say, Great, and I obey. He smiles. "I thought you'd like her." I say, "I myself have dated several mannequins." "Honey," he says, and reminds me that Bella is a good friend of his. I should give her a chance.
Here in the dark, I mouth, You're right, I'm sorry. By the time I get the sound to come out, he's asleep.
—•—
We drive through the hills on the ocean side. I sit up front with Yves. I keep seeing animals that look like bushy-tailed rats scurrying across the road. He tells me they're mongeese. "They were imported at the turn of the century from India," he says, "to kill the snakes. And they did. They killed the snakes, and today . . ." He takes his hands off the wheel and motions for me to finish the story.
"And today," I say, "the island is overrun with mongeese."
He smiles at me and tells me that boys trap them for fifty cents a tail.
We park when the road ends. Now I see how dry it is, the bald spots; what I thought were trees are cacti. Yves has prepared a picnic lunch. The beer and sun make me sleep, and I w
ake up to Yves rubbing lotion on my back.
"You are burning," he says.
Jamie is in the water. I stand up to join him, but then Bella surfaces. They're laughing. Ha, ha, ha, ho, ho, ho.
—•—
After showers, we're changing for dinner.
"You know," I say, "I think it would be easier if I spoke French."
"You probably could," Jamie says, "if you let yourself."
"Excuse me?"
"It's like Shakespeare—after a certain point, it just comes over you."
At dinner, I try to let it come over me.
Bella speaks, and I translate: Gems, you silly boy, you want to touch my breasts, is it not so?
—•—
Jamie is gone when I wake up.
The sky is white.
On the veranda, Yves rises when he sees me and gets me a cup of coffee.
I ask where Jamie is.
Yves says, "Maybe they went for a walk."
I go swimming. I take a shower. I read.
"The day isn't good," he says. He suggests we go into town.
I watch Yves as he drives. He has nice crow's-feet. I realize how soft he is, how unaffectedly feminine, like a boy raised by his older sisters.
He asks me questions about my job in publishing. I tell him I'm an editorial assistant, really just a secretary, but I get to read unsolicited manuscripts.
He tells me that he's written a novel.
I ask him what it's about, and he says, "The human art," or "The human heart"—I can't hear him above the wind—but he looks at me as though we two understand each other, and I nod as though we two do.
In Christiansted, Yves leads me through the courtyards of old fortresses and along the docks. He points his toe a little when he walks, like Marcel Marceau.
He takes me into a huge duty-free shop that sells perfume, china, crystal, and watches. He sprays perfume on me, smells it, and gives the verdict—"Sweet," "Musky," "Clean"—before I sniff. When we've used up my wrists and arms, he chooses one and buys it for me.
Outside it's raining. He puts his arm around me and shuttles me into a restaurant on the dock.
The waitress, blonde and Southern, says to him, "Where you been?"
"Resting," he says.
Before we leave, he goes over and speaks to her.
—•—
When we get home, Bella turns her head slowly and looks at Yves.
He says, "We had lunch in town."
Bella answers in French.
Jamie asks if I want to go for a swim.
"So," I say, once we're in the water, "where'd you go this morning?"
"Just for a walk," he says.
"Oh," I say. "I saw some old fortresses."
I realize we sound like strangers who happen to be staying at the same hotel. But he's waiting for me to finish, so I say, "They were big."
—•—
That night, we all drive back to Christiansted. Bella stops in front of the restaurant with the Southern waitress, but Yves suggests another, and we go to a bar with tables on the dock.
Jamie tells them about the restaurant he'd like to open and then the screenplay he plans to write, and Bella listens, leaning forward, watching his face.
"So what do you guys do?" I ask after my second drink.
Bella says, "We are just here until my stepfather sells the house."
"How is Alberto?" Jamie asks Bella.
I ask Yves, "What do you do?"
Bella stops talking and turns to listen.
"What do I do?" Yves says. "Take pictures. Write novels. Play the piano."
I say, "I didn't see a piano."
He tells me that Europeans are different from Americans—not so single-minded about careers. "The most important thing is to live freely."
I say, "Live free or die, I guess."
—•—
Back at the house, I smoke a cigarette on the veranda before going to bed.
Yves comes out. "Jane?" he says, and kisses my cheek so slowly it's like his lips are melting onto my skin. "Good night."
In the bedroom I ask Jamie, "What's going on?"
"What do you mean?" He's almost asleep.
"Well, something is."
He doesn't answer. I wonder if it is because he doesn't know.
—•—
In the shower, I say, "I was just noticing how we don't have sex anymore."
Jamie looks at me like I'm fully clothed.
I say, "Why did you and Bella ever break up, anyway?"
He doesn't answer right away. "She slept with someone else."
"Oh," I say.
He says, "She wanted to make me jealous."
I say, "Is that what she's doing now?"
"Why would she want to make me jealous?"
I stare at him. "I meant Yves."
"What are you talking about?" he says, and gets out of the shower.
I turn off the water and follow him, even though I still have shampoo in my hair.
I wrap myself in a towel and watch him smear a patch of the steamed mirror to shave.
I am trembling a little when I say, "I want you to stop this thing with Bella."
He tells me I've got it all wrong, she needs to talk to him about her problems with Yves.
I say, "How about if she talks to Yves about her problems with Yves?"
He turns around and says, "She doesn't trust him."
"So why'd she marry him?"
"It's sad," he says, and we are not arguing anymore, we are talking about a couple less fortunate than ourselves, and I believe him and trust him, and I let my towel drop and pull him toward me. I kiss his neck, his chest, his mouth.
There's a knock, and Bella says, "We have a court in fifteen minutes."
"Okay," Jamie calls back. To me, he says, "Later."
—•—
We play tennis at a nearby hotel, and before anyone says anything, I insist on being Yves's partner. We are all strong players so it doesn't much matter who plays with whom, but I watch her face when I say it. She looks at me and I smile, Hiya.
I compliment Yves on his shots. He compliments me on mine. We have huddles. We have strategies. We have signs. Across the court, Bella begins to double-fault.
After tennis, we walk by the pool, and Bella kneels down as if to splash water on her face, but she splashes Jamie instead. He splashes her. It escalates until Jamie throws Bella into the pool.
The lifeguard blows his whistle.
Bella climbs up the ladder, her wet hair sticking to her head like a helmet. Of course you can see her breasts through her soaked white shirt.
"Now look what you did," she says to Jamie.
—•—
In the middle of the night, I wake up to Jamie's mouth on mine. I reach for the light, as is our custom, but he pulls my arm back around him.
—•—
Once Jamie is asleep, I go out to the living room. I light a cigarette and call my brother, who introduced me to Jamie.
Henry answers on the first ring and says, "Hey," as though he's been expecting my call.
I tell him about the house and the view, the mongeese. I am talking just to keep him on the phone, and he knows it. Finally, I tell him about Jamie throwing Bella in the pool.
Henry says, "I'm sure Jamie's totally oblivious."
"I don't think that's possible," I say.
"This is you," Henry says, softly but with authority.
We don't talk for a long moment.
"Well," I say, "I should get back to guarding the bedroom."
"Jamie would never do anything," Henry says.
I say, "I think he likes it, though."
"You can't really blame him for that," Henry says. He tells me that the best man I will ever find will be attracted to other women.
I hear this as another fact I am too old not to know. More proof of how unprepared I am to love anyone.
—•—
Clearing the breakfast dishes, Bella leans into Jamie.
"It's a European thing," he says.
"A European thing," I say.
—•—
In the late afternoon, I tell Yves I'd like to buy perfume for a friend. He drives me to town, but the store is closed.
Instead, we go to the bar with the tables on the dock. I try to ask him questions, but I see this is not how to talk to Yves.
"You are so young," he says, "even for your age." His tone is charmed and only half avuncular as he describes me to me.
I start telling the story I always tell, about my loving family and the principles I grew up with, but I surprise myself, and I say, "I was afraid of sex before Jamie."
I'm about to tell him more, but he touches my wrist, making a soft spiral.
I want him to, and what makes me pull my wrist back is not fear of sex or love for Jamie but the restraint self-righteousness requires.
—•—
After dinner, I volunteer to do the dishes. Yves clears. He sits on a stool, watching me scrape the plates into the garbage. I can feel his eyes on me.
"Could you not stare at me, please?" I say.
I hear Bella's voice: "Where are the cards?" she says. "We'll play some poker."
Yves sets up the bar on the veranda. Bella counts out our make-do poker chips, olives and sword-shaped plastic toothpicks.
I tell Yves that my grandparents taught me to play poker when I was little. "I think I learned the shtetl version, though," I say.
"Let's play," Bella says.
I say, "I'm not very good at cards."
"Poker's not really a card game," Jamie says. "It's a money-management game."
We each roll an olive to the center of the table. "Seven card stud, high-low?" Bella says. She deals each of us two cards face down and one card face up.
I say, "Can someone just tell me the rules of this money-management game?"
Yves says, "It goes one pair, two pairs, three of a kind—" He stops to look at his hand. "Straight, flush—"
"Jack bets," Bella says.
"It's a mind game," Jamie says, betting an olive.
The game changes with each dealer, and I give up trying to learn. Instead, I decide to be The Big Loser, a playboy in an ascot, jumping trains to escape creditors. I raise everyone, not with olives, but swords. On Yves's deal, he shows surprise that I'm folding, but I mouth, "Nothing," about the cards he can't see, and I give a Lady-Luck-isn't-smiling-on-me shrug.