…
Marybeth woke to find a lithe brown arm wrapped around her. She felt Wendy’s warm, firm body pressed against her back. The heat of the two women spooned together under the covers—their pores opened, their sweat mixing—was a moist, reassuring sensation. Marybeth smiled as she remembered making love with Wendy. How they were tender and rough with each other. She remembered licking the sweat off Wendy’s neck; it had tasted salty.
Marybeth studied Wendy’s arm—the smooth skin, the simple bracelet studded with aquamarines looping over her delicate wrist. Wendy’s long and graceful fingers were capped by fingernails cut clean and short, recently manicured and coated with a pale gold polish that made her brown skin look like it was glowing. Wendy had the most beautiful hands she’d ever seen. Marybeth reached over and interlaced their fingers. Wendy let out a low, sweet moan.
Marybeth sighed contentedly. She’d never felt so relaxed, so comfortable in her own skin. She was deeply happy, ecstatic. So grateful for having found someone she could love that the emotions welled up inside her and manifested themselves as a little tear that appeared in the corner of her left eye and rolled down her cheek to be absorbed into the soft pillow.
…
Sheila opened the paper parasol, shading her face, and stepped out of her cabin. She had purchased the parasol at the gift shop and, at the time, hadn’t even noticed the brightly colored geometric designs on the stiff paper; she’d just wanted to keep the harmful UV rays off her face. Now that it was open, pulled taut above her head, she saw that the parasol glowed in the sun like an illuminated manuscript. She congratulated herself on being fashionable as she adjusted her long-sleeved cotton shirt, tugging the cuffs as far down as they could go, stretching them to cover her wrists. She set out for a walk along the beach, streaks of SPF 60 sunscreen still visible on her face and neck.
She strolled past the palm frond palapas lining the beach, past the early-morning sunbathers stretched out topless and oiled on the chaise longues like appetizers broiling on a grill. The soft sand was sticking to the sunblock she’d smeared on her bare feet, giving the impression she was wearing socks made out of sand.
She walked down to the end of the beach and stared out at the horizon. Somporn was out there somewhere—her pirate, her Captain. She hoped he’d gotten away. That he was safe and en route to Hong Kong or Singapore, wherever he was headed. She had to see him again, that she knew for certain. He was the only man she’d ever met who didn’t want her as some kind of accessory. He didn’t desire her because she made him look good, important, or virile. It wasn’t about his ego; Somporn desired her for who she was. It was plain, simple, and pure. She’d given him her e-mail address, and wondered how long she would have to wait before he contacted her. She hoped it was soon.
Turk sat on a chair on the beach and watched as a group of pelicans hunted for fish, swooping a few feet above the water, rising and falling with the waves. Every now and then one would dive into the water and come rocketing out with a bill full of raw fish.
The thought of sashimi for breakfast sent a fresh jolt of nausea through Turk’s beer-battered intestinal tract. A low buzzing pain had taken up residence in his head, and the gentle sloshing of the ocean wasn’t helping. It wasn’t the worst hangover he’d ever had to deal with, but you don’t drink that many beers and not pay for it somehow.
You’d think I’d know better.
Turk sipped some bottled water and waited for the tropical heat to open up his pores and sweat the toxins out of his body. That was the best plan he could think of, and it required no effort on his part.
He adjusted his heavy sunglasses and saw Sheila walking along the beach. She carried a brightly colored parasol, decorated with some kind of vibrant Thai design, and appeared to be dressed for dinner. He saw her look up and see him, so he raised his arm and waved weakly. He didn’t want to talk to her. Not that it would be painful or open up deep wounds or send him back to rehab. It wasn’t anything like that; it would just be kind of a drag. Better to leave all the details to the lawyers and tax accountants, the appraisers and adjusters, the mediators and judges who would soon be swarming all over their shit like a hundred hungry flies.
Sheila strolled up to him and took a seat in the shade of the palapa.
“I suppose I owe you an explanation.”
It hadn’t occurred to Turk that there was anything to explain. To him, the feelings that he had were just part and parcel of the natural human experience. He assumed that Sheila’s feelings would be the same as his. Why wouldn’t they be? Marriage was a socializing agreement between two people. It had nothing to do with biology or human nature or the ways of the world. Turk supposed that, at the beginning of civilization, men and women got married to pool their assets, protect against invaders, and produce a line of heirs to either work the fields or inherit the wealth. Monogamy and marriage were for survival. It was a very practical invention.
But he’d come to realize that people weren’t necessarily built for that. Not in the modern world, anyway. It wasn’t human nature to be trapped with only one mate. In fact, marriage was a kind of denial of human nature; that’s what caused all the problems between men and women. Turk was beginning to believe that marriage was a setup, a con, a game of three-card monte with your heart and genitals. Marriage had an inherent design flaw; a built-in poison pill clause. It was made to fail because it didn’t take into account our very unmonogamous animal instinct. People expect to be monogamous and then when they’re attracted to someone other than their spouse, they overreact. They decide they must be in love with the other person, that the new infatuation is “the one.” Betrayals, heartbreak, recrimination, finger-pointing, and divorce follow.
Turk was coming to feel that if people would just be honest, just admit that they’re attracted to someone else, that it’s a natural thing and has nothing to do with marriage and everything to do with biology and chemistry, maybe they wouldn’t get divorced. Maybe they’d say, “Of course I want to fuck her, she’s hot,” but they wouldn’t have to do it. They would understand that it’s not “true love,” or the fault of their spouse, or a midlife crisis; it’s normal. Why else would Internet porn be so popular? So married people could indulge their innate, animal urges, without consequence. It’s life. We are all sluts; we just don’t want to admit it.
Turk had come to understand this, but he didn’t know how he could explain it to Sheila, and didn’t even know if he wanted to.
“It’s cool.”
“I should explain. I want to.”
Turk nodded. It looked like he couldn’t stop her.
“I should never have married you. I’m sorry. This was a mistake.”
Turk was sarcastic; he couldn’t help himself. “That’s your explanation?”
Sheila shook her head. “No. There’s more to it. I just don’t know if you want to hear it.”
“You want to split, I’m not going to make you stay. Anyway, I’m not sure I want you to stay.”
Turk felt a bile-filled burp crawl up his throat, a sign that his liver was beginning to fight back. He washed the bitter acid taste down with a gulp of water. Sheila watched him.
“You rescued me.”
He had rescued her; it was true.
“Why’d you do that?”
Turk shrugged. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”
Sheila couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She stared off at the ocean. Turk reached over and touched her hand.
“We had some fun. I can’t ask for anything more than that.”
Sheila turned and smiled at him. “Yeah. We did have fun.”
…
Heidegger stood on a wooden box in the middle of his room. Marybeth sat on the bed, drinking a cup of coffee. Takako Mitsuzake sat on the edge of the sofa, her laptop balanced on her knees. A tailor, an older Thai man, his mouth filled with pins as if he’d just swallowed a porcupine, busied himself around Heidegger, fitting a rough-cut suit pattern around his lanky frame.
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Heidegger was holding a book filled with fabric swatches. He flipped through the cottons, silks, and linens, looking for the perfect texture.
“Can you do one in seersucker?”
The tailor nodded. Marybeth snorted out a laugh.
“Seersucker? That’ll look great at the Spider Club.”
Heidegger cranked his head around and shot her an impatient look. “Don’t underestimate the power of a good seersucker suit.”
Takako dropped her head into her hands and moaned. “We’re screwed.”
That got Heidegger’s attention. “What’s happening?”
“It looks like the Post is going to run something about Sheila’s abduction.”
“How’d they find out?”
Takako shrugged. “They have sources. They’re like the CIA.”
“I don’t see how it hurts us.”
“Have you spoken to Turk yet?”
Marybeth saw Takako and Heidegger exchange a look. “What’s going on?”
Heidegger looked at her. “We need them to stay together for a little while.”
“Why?”
Takako turned to her. “First we need to sell the story of the kidnapping and rescue. Let that sink in.”
Heidegger chimed in, “And sell a few million CDs.”
“Then we release the sad news that Sheila has post-traumatic stress syndrome related to her abduction and is being treated for it in a private facility somewhere.”
“Selling another five hundred thousand, easy.”
“Until the sad day when Turk tearfully announces that they have irreconcilable differences caused by her captivity and he wishes her well.”
“And we go double platinum.”
Marybeth stared at the two of them. “God, you guys are evil.”
Heidegger smiled.
“Evil geniuses, I like to think.”
The tailor stretched his measuring tape along the inside of Heidegger’s leg, measuring the inseam. He looked up at Heidegger. “Dress left or right?”
Heidegger smiled. “Like my politics. Long and to the left.”
…
Wendy was sitting at a table on the terrace, enjoying the beautiful view, nibbling on a mango, and drinking a cappuccino while she waited for Marybeth. She was dressed like the other guests, wearing flip-flops, khaki Capri pants, and one of Marybeth’s rock and roll T-shirts, and she had a room key that she’d showed to the hostess before she was granted a table. Yet she wasn’t like the people eating bacon and eggs and oversized waffles at the other tables. The other guests in the dining room were all Caucasian, people from Europe, Canada, Australia, and the United States. Wendy was the only Thai who wasn’t working, although most of the employees of the resort assumed she was working in a way.
It was a strange kind of disconnect for Wendy. She had come to Phuket at Marybeth’s request, fully expecting to have everything paid for in exchange for sex, secretly hoping she would secure some kind of offer to come to the United States. But now, everything had been turned on its head. Marybeth hadn’t mentioned anything about coming to Los Angeles, and Wendy was struck with the dreadful euphoria of infatuation, maybe love. It was the worst thing that could happen to a prostitute. A voice in the back of Wendy’s brain, the voice that gave her advice on survival and self-preservation, had told her to leave. To go directly to the airport and back to Bangkok. But Wendy couldn’t do it. She had it bad.
A seasoned sex industry professional, Wendy could see the faces of the men as they ate their breakfast. They were glancing her way, calculating her price; the retail cost of quenching their desire. It was the first time in her life that this unspoken appraisal made her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t invite the looks; she didn’t return them. She was off the market, out of stock indefinitely. She didn’t want to be for sale anymore.
It scared her, to be honest. She had never fallen in love before. In fact she had purposefully kept that dreaded, dangerous emotion in check, never once allowing herself to feel anything more than a passing affection toward another person, the kind of fondness you might have for a puppy. She was a Buddhist, so the practice of compassion and kindness were always present, but romantic love was something she avoided like a bad virus. Marybeth had somehow slipped through her defenses in a stealth attack, blindsiding her. Maybe it was because she was a woman, maybe it was just because she was who she was. There was probably some karmic connection binding them together in this life. Whatever it was, she’d never expected to be swept off her feet, to fall head-over-heels. But that’s what had happened.
As she sat on the terrace and felt the sun warm her skin, a cold shiver of fear crept into her heart. What happens next? Where do we go from here?
She turned her attention to watch a thin blond woman attack the buffet line like she was a refugee from a famine, stacking her plate high with cold cuts, salami, and chunks of cheese. Wendy shuddered. Could she live in the West? Could she live anywhere people ate whole pigs for breakfast?
She was relieved to see Marybeth enter the dining room and walk out onto the terrace.
The two women couldn’t help themselves; they couldn’t contain their feelings. They reached for each other, their cool skin touching, zapping each other with sensual static, and embraced. Marybeth gave Wendy a sweet kiss on the lips and then sat down to eat some breakfast. Wendy recommended Marybeth try something traditionally Thai for breakfast. Even though it wasn’t on the menu, Wendy convinced the waiter to have the kitchen whip up a couple bowls of khao tom, a soup of boiled rice topped with dried chilis and crispy squid.
…
Heidegger and Takako had spent the better part of the morning trying to convince Sheila and Turk that they should “stay together for the kids.”
The photographer had come and taken a couple of shots of Turk and Sheila—the parasol caused some lighting problems, as did Sheila’s steadfast refusal to stand in the sunlight or have it bounced into her face with one of those shiny reflectors—for the press release that Takako was crafting. The pictures didn’t do anyone any favors, Turk looking haggard and hungover, Sheila appearing underlit and distracted. The background didn’t help either—the palm trees and ocean making it look more like a vacation travelogue than a story of abduction and rescue—but the colors would reproduce well in the glossy magazines.
Sheila and Turk listened respectfully to Heidegger’s take on the situation. There were, according to him, millions of dollars to be made and a musical career to resurrect. Sheila wasn’t interested in the money or, for that matter, Turk’s musical ambitions. She had things she wanted to do. Things she didn’t want to talk about.
Turk was ready to take her side and just forget about it when she said something that pissed him off. She turned to him with an almost accusatory expression and said, “It’s your fault I don’t love you anymore. If you’d paid the ransom on time, I wouldn’t have discovered myself.”
Turk held his hands up in the air. “My fault? I paid it as fast as I fucking could.”
Sheila turned away from him. “Whatever. It’s too late now.”
“And what do you mean you ‘discovered’ yourself?”
“I had a lot of time to think. That’s all.”
Heidegger intervened. “You don’t have to sleep together. Just cohabitate for a little while. Until we get the record finished.”
Sheila was silent for a moment, as if she were actually considering it. Then she turned to Heidegger.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sheila. Please. You don’t have to decide now. Think about it.”
Sheila looked off at the ocean; she thought about Somporn.
“I want to do some traveling.”
Heidegger nodded. “That’s fine. No problem. You can come on tour with the band.”
Sheila shook her head. “I want to travel by myself.”
Turk could see that she was crying, the tears streaming down her face as she tried not to break down. He couldn’t stand to see her like that.
“Fuck it.”
Heidegger and Takako turned to look at him.
“What?”
“Fuck it. We’re not going to do it. We’re not going to pretend anything.”
“You need to think this through. As your manager, please listen to me and sleep on it. We don’t have to decide anything right now.”
Takako didn’t like the sound of that. “However, sooner would be better.”
Turk pointed to Sheila. “She can’t do it, and I’m not going to make her.”
Heidegger heaved a sigh. “Think about it, Turk. You’re throwing away a great deal. It’s everything you told me you wanted. You’d get to play music again, but on your own terms with your own band. Do you really want to give that up?”
They were all staring at him: Sheila, Heidegger, and Takako. They all wanted something from him. Each with their own agenda. But what did Turk want? What was his agenda?
What Turk wanted was a beer. In fact, he needed a beer now more than he could ever remember. He raised his hand to signal the waiter to order one; and yet, when the waiter came over and Turk opened his mouth to ask for a beer, the words “iced tea” came out instead, surprising everyone at the table, Turk more than anyone.
…
Roy stood in the taxi line and watched with growing irritation as the nice, air-conditioned cars took all the Western tourists. Eventually he signaled to a tuk tuk driver and climbed in. It was annoying, but he didn’t take it personally; he hadn’t planned on tipping anyway.
The tuk tuk took him to Ben’s hotel. Roy had already called the hotel manager and told him to seal off Ben’s room. If there was any evidence, say a loose hand grenade under the pillow, Roy wanted to find it before the housekeeper did.
He knew that Ben was dead; he just did. Not that he and Ben were on the same wavelength. Ben had never been the nicest boss—he was demanding, pushy, and always worried about germs. If Ben were alive he’d have been on the phone, yelling at him, telling him to do stuff, admonishing him to wash his hands with sanitizing gel.
Salty: A Novel Page 23