Salt Water

by Charles Simmons

  “What is ‘cut mustard’?” the surgeon said.

  “Fuck.”

  “Fuck, you can’t fuck. You open stomach.”

  “I did it on my side,” Mr. Mertz said.

  “Oh, on your side,” the surgeon said and shrugged.

  “So, since then,” Mrs. Mertz said, “I’ve felt if you do it on your side it doesn’t count.”

  The men were amused, although Mr. Cuddihy looked as if he wasn’t sure the story should be told in front of me. No doubt Zina had heard it before.

  With a conspiratorial look Zina left and joined the other group. By the time I could follow her she and Melissa were off by themselves. Melissa was in shorts and sandals. She wasn’t so much heavy as big. Her knees had indentations. She was doing the talking.

  “You are obviously the graphic type. Michael and I are verbal types. We like images all right, but when it comes to expressing ourselves we do it in words. Now here’s a test for the verbal type. Butterflies flutter by. If you think that’s pure magic you’re the verbal type. If it’s just words you’re not. There’s a difference, though, between Michael and me.” She put her hand on my arm. “You can deny it if you like, Michael, but the fact is I think, then say; Michael says, then thinks.”

  At the moment I was doing the opposite. I was saying nothing, but I certainly was thinking. What was she doing? I had never heard this kind of nervous chattering out of her. She was talking as if we were an item. I had never touched one part of her person. I had never even taken her out. Where was this coming from?

  Then suddenly Mr. Cuddihy was beside us. “Honey, is that wine you’re drinking?”

  “Mother said I could.”

  “Just one. How about you?” he said to Zina. “Can I get you something?”

  “I’ll come with you,” Zina said.

  I was furious with Melissa. “What was all that about, me talking first, you thinking first?”

  “You do.”

  “You don’t know me well enough to know that. You don’t know me at all.” I was losing my breath.

  “Why are you getting angry? I was only trying to pay you a compliment.”

  “What compliment?”

  “That you’re spontaneous.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

  She looked ready to cry.

  “All right, Melissa. I’m not angry. It’s just that I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”

  “You didn’t want me talking about you to Zina. That’s it isn’t it?”

  “That isn’t it.”

  “You like her.”

  “Melissa, everyone likes Zina. Your father likes Zina. Look, he’s all over her.”

  Melissa spun around and walked off the porch toward the beach. Mother was watching us and knew something was up. She nodded for me to follow Melissa. I didn’t want to, but I did. I caught up with her, and we strolled along the beach. I took her hand. I didn’t want to, but I did. By the time we returned to the house she was okay.

  Everyone had moved to the ocean porch to see the sunset. As the top of the sun went below the horizon Mr. Cuddihy said, “Going … going … gone,” and everyone cheered.

  We ate inside. The people who had been drinking liquor switched to wine. After the food Mr. Cuddihy played tunes on the piano. We gathered around and sang along. Zina went onto the porch and called Sonya. She loped over, was nuzzled by Zina, and settled down outside. Blackheart barked, and we bribed him with a dish of shrimp. Melissa turned out to have a pretty voice. So did Mrs. Mertz. After some songs—”Just One of Those Things,” “Night and Day,” “Stormy Weather “—she recited the lyrics in French as Mr. Cuddihy touched the appropriate chords.

  “Your mother’s terrific,” I whispered to Zina.

  “That girl’s in love with you,” she whispered back.

  “I’m not in love with her.”

  “You have a responsibility to someone who loves you.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, but if I told her I loved her would she have a sense of responsibility to me?

  “She gave you a book of poems. You give her something back.”

  “All right.”

  “Something that means something to you.”

  “All right.”

  But I didn’t. I went to my room for the copy of Yeats’s poems that Melissa had given me on another occasion, and I inscribed it “For Zina, page 114,” which had a line Yeats said he found in an old play:

  In dreams begins responsibility.

  I gave her the book in the dark as she stood on the sand with her mother, thanking us at the end of the party.

  5

  The Day After

  NEXT MORNING I had breakfast with Mother. Father was working on the Angela.

  Mother could look older or younger. She looked younger when she was in a bad mood; she moved quickly, and her face was thinner. When she was in a good mood she looked plump, and her movements were round; she put objects down in a kind of curve and walked from one place to another in an arc. This morning she was in a good mood, and she talked about the party, which meant it had been a success.

  Mary Cuddihy was a “dear woman,” particularly because “as time goes by it’s hard to make new friends and impossible to make old ones.” Mrs. Cuddihy reminded Mother that for a semester they had called each other Charmian and Iras after two of Cleopatra’s handmaidens. “Cleopatra was Peebee Brooks, who taught us Elizabethan literature. I had completely forgotten that.”

  About Melissa, “She’ll be just fine as soon as she grows up a little.”

  “You don’t mean physically,” I said.

  “She does take after her father, doesn’t she. As for Zina, she’s intelligent and well-behaved.”

  “And beautiful,” I said.

  “She has an interesting face, and she really listens to what you’re saying. I like that in a person.”

  “How about Mrs. Mertz? Is she well-behaved? Do you think she’s a lady?”

  “She could pass in some crowds. Your father probably thinks she is.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “She’s female, that’s for sure. And Blackheart is too excitable. We should have had him fixed when we could.”

  “Father is against fixing.”

  “Your father is a natural-state romantic.”

  “Me too.”

  “You’re a romantic about women, Michael.”

  “Is Father?”

  She paused and then said, “I don’t know.”

  After breakfast I went to the bay. Father was checking the mooring chain for rust. He was especially handsome when he was intent on something. He was really not like a father at all, at least as far as discipline went. Mother was the one who told me what I could and couldn’t do. Father told me what I should and shouldn’t do.

  The tide was low, the water waist high beside the boat. I helped Father feed the chain aboard and asked him what he thought of the party. He said it was fun and asked me what I thought.

  “Okay. What do you think of Mrs. Mertz now?”

  “Life of the party, along with Frank Cuddihy.”

  “Mother thinks you like her.”

  “Did she say that?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Everybody likes her.” Exactly my words about Zina.

  “Not Mother,” I said

  “Did she say so?”

  “No, but I can tell. You like Zina, don’t you?”

  “Zina is not a simple girl, Michael.”

  “Who thinks she’s simple?”

  “You do. You think she’s perfect. Perfect is very simple.”

  “You once said to me that ordinary women stay near shore, extraordinary women swim out. Zina is extraordinary, isn’t she?”

  “Well, she does swim out.”

  As we got back to the house we saw a cabin cruiser anchored in the ocean a hundred feet off shore, new and shiny, bobbing and tilting. Father and I were snobbish about power boats. Our feeling was, you might as well take a
drive on the highway as sail a power boat. In a sailboat you hear and feel and smell only wind and water. You’re doing what people did thousands of years ago. Take the Angela. She was made of wood and cloth, like sailboats always. She enjoyed the ocean as much as the bay. She was a dreamer and rode so easily she turned you into a dreamer. Who dreams on a power boat? On a power boat you have ambitions, not dreams. The Angela liked to be pushed, but didn’t do tricks. She preferred a strong and steady wind, but smoothed out gusts, never got upset, and was perfectly happy to idle along in a breeze. If you didn’t always know what you were doing she forgave you. She was heavy for her size and preferred not to race. Father said if she were a woman she’d have had big breasts and buttocks, been a better mother than wife, and a better wife than mistress.

  There seemed to be no one on the cruiser. At first we thought the visitors would be in our house, but over her shoulder Mother pointed to the guesthouse. “Two exquisite males,” she said, “bronzed and up for a lark.”

  Because of the dune I couldn’t see them, but I could hear them. Father wasn’t interested, and I tried not to be. Were they Zina’s friends or her mother’s? I thought of returning to the Angela, but there was nothing more to do there. I thought of challenging Father to a game of chess, but he had already spread out on the north porch, reading. Finally I motioned to Blackheart, and we hopped over the hot sand to the guesthouse. On the way I plucked a blade of grass to chew and be a casual person, like Zina.

  Zina and her mother were glad to see us. Mrs. Mertz, in a bikini, kissed my cheek. Zina took my hand and introduced me to the guests. Henry ran an art gallery in town. Wilder, younger, was a photographer. Henry had a black tan and blond hair. He stood straight and shook my hand seriously. Wilder was friendly too, but not so formal.

  Zina told them how I had rediscovered cubism with my photographs of her. Mrs. Mertz hadn’t heard about them, and I promised to bring them over. Henry said that he had immediately seen that I was creative and that I could have sat for Egon Schiele, I was that “innocent and knowing.”

  “Henry,” Mrs. Mertz said, “stop the bullshit! You’re embarrassing Misha.”

  Henry asked me if I was really Russian, and Mrs. Mertz said I should stay for lunch.

  During the meal there was a lot of talk about Bone Point. It was just the place for Mrs. Mertz—nothing to worry about. I got the impression she was recuperating from something, although she looked perfectly healthy, except thin. There was also a lot of talk about photography. I guess they thought I would be interested. I didn’t recognize any of the names. One of the photographers specialized in nudes. Was his work pornographic?

  Mrs. Mertz said it was as arousing as a clothespin.

  “Women,” Henry said, “are notoriously insensitive to visual stimuli.”

  Zina said the pictures were “too three dimensional—nude Karshes.”

  She could see I wasn’t very interested and put her hand over mine to console me. This didn’t seem to bother anyone. Did it mean neither Henry nor Wilder was interested in Zina, or was I too young to be competition? By age Henry should have belonged to Mrs. Mertz, and Wilder to Zina. But I supposed it could just as well be the other way around.

  After lunch we swam out to the cruiser, which was named the Chelsea Hotel. For half an hour Henry sped her up and down along the shore and out to sea and back. He was showing off and pushed her to thirty knots, churning up a great wake. He invited me to take the wheel and from behind held my hands as I steered. Power boats are fun for a while, but they’re too easy. Anyone can run a power boat with two minutes instruction—just don’t hit anything.

  After that we settled on the guesthouse deck. Mrs. Mertz took orders for drinks, played a Nina Simone record, and sang along. Henry asked her to dance and immediately picked up a splinter. Mrs. Mertz brought out needle and tweezers and offered to remove it, but Henry said he wanted “a young, firm hand,” me. Actually I’m pretty good with splinters. We sat down on facing chairs, and I took his foot in my lap. I was poking around when suddenly Henry said, “Oh, my God, the pain! Don’t stop!”

  I didn’t understand he was joking until I saw everyone was laughing, including Henry.

  Suddenly Father was there, still in his bathing trunks. I suppose he had heard the music and general jollity. Mrs. Mertz put an arm around his bare back, as if he were a dear old friend, and introduced him as “the best-looking landlord in memory.” She asked Father if he wanted a drink, and when she came out with it, and one for herself, she asked him to dance. That was the scene when Mother arrived— Father and Mrs. Mertz, each holding a drink in their left hand, his right hand around her waist, hers on his shoulder.

  Mother was something else when she was angry. Mrs. Mertz let Father go and tried to introduce Mother to Henry and Wilder. Mother nodded to each in turn but wouldn’t take either’s hand. With a shake of her head she refused Mrs. Mertz’s offer of a drink. She didn’t sit when Mrs. Mertz asked her to, and she stepped away from Father when he came near her. To finish it off, Blackheart, who also had showed up, started sniffing Sonya’s behind and crooning. Mother gave him an awful whack. He yipped and scurried off. Father winked at me. Mrs. Mertz had retreated against the wall of the guesthouse and was taking it all in over the edge of her drink. Zina stared at the deck floor. Henry and Wilder looked confused. Mother, who was extra angry for having lost her temper with Blackheart, had the sense to leave. Through it all she hadn’t said a word.

  “I hope your wife … ,” Mrs. Mertz said. Father held up his hand. In the same motion he indicated that I should hang around for a while and went back to the house.

  “Well,” Mrs. Mertz said with a sigh and a smile, “shall we dance?”

  No one wanted to.

  Henry and Wilder said they had to get back.

  Mrs. Mertz said she was going to take a nap.

  “The trouble is,” Zina said when everyone was gone, “Mother has one drink and she thinks she’s Brigitte Bardot.”

  “The trouble is my father likes Brigitte Bardot.”

  “I hope you didn’t mind Henry’s camping around. He’s really not like that.”

  “How is he really?”

  “He’s been the best friend to Mother. When Father walked out she fell apart. Henry saved her life.”

  “You must like him a lot.”

  “I do. All right, your father’s had time to make peace. Now go home and tell your funny little dog to mind his manners.”

  Instead I walked to the bay and stood at the water’s edge. Blackheart showed up. We liked the low-tide stench of the sea-plant rot. The late afternoon sun had turned the sky violet. The Angela, unmoving in the glassy water, was the perfect boat. Blackheart was the best and most loyal dog in the world. Talking to Zina about her mother and my father made me feel closer to her. It was almost as if we had conspired.

  As I got back to the house, Father was walking off toward the ocean.

  I went upstairs. The door of my parents’ bedroom was shut. I knocked.

  “Go away!” Mother said.

  “It’s me.”

  “You too.”

  Blackheart followed me downstairs and watched carefully. Either he wanted an explanation or dinner. I fed him, and he wandered off.

  I didn’t know which way Father was walking. If north, toward the end of the Point, he would be back soon. If south, toward the mainland, he might never come back.

  The parents of my closest friend, Hillyer, had split two years ago. He was pretty depressed at first. He felt they should have waited till he and his kid brother were grown. I had just gotten a letter from him. His father was in South America, and his brother wasn’t talking to his mother. “There ought to be a better way of getting into the world than having parents,” he wrote.

  This would not happen to our family, I thought. Father knew how to handle Mother. He could always bring her around. He’d give her a hug, and she’d frown. He’d give her another hug, and she’d smile. Mother adored him.

  Howeve
r, if Father did fall in love with Mrs. Mertz, would they actually live together? It was hard to imagine Father living with Mrs. Mertz. She was attractive, even beautiful, but she needed a lot of attention of the kind Father didn’t give out. In a way she was like Father. They were both charmers, except he was an amateur, she was in the business.

  So how would they get along? He would probably be lively and talkative, and so would she. Or maybe with a different kind of wife he would be quiet and let her talk. I pictured Zina and me exchanging looks at things they said to each other. But whatever happened between them Zina would remain my stepsister. Or would she? Those were my thoughts as I waited for Father to get back.

  He walked in as I was rummaging through the refrigerator.

  “Any news from upstairs?”

  “Maybe we should go up and see,” I said.

  “Let’s fix something to eat, and I’ll take it up.”

  We made sandwiches. Father put two on a tray with glasses and a bottle of wine. He held the tray on his hand above his head and mounted the stairs like an actor playing a waiter.

  He came right down. “I left it outside the door. Where’s Blackheart?”

  “Asleep on the porch.”

  “He’s partial to sandwiches.”

  “Did Mother lock the door?”

  “Yup, but I have a plan. Let’s eat first.”

  “What did you think of those visitors?” I said.

  “You were on their boat. What did you think?”

  “They were okay. Do you think they’re interested in Zina and Mrs. Mertz?”

  “Romantically, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s just what I think.”

  His plan worked. We took the ladder from under the east porch, put it against the house, and he climbed through the bedroom window. Mother screamed, but before long she was laughing. He really was an expert. I wondered if I’d ever be able to do that with women.