by Mark Rogers
My latest piece of work had me excited. Audubon: Secret Agent. The idea had come to me during a Tobago press trip while hiking in the company of the island’s best birdwatching guide. With the sweat trickling down the back of my neck and my interest flagging, I began to daydream. What if the famous 19th-century naturalist John James Audubon was actually a spy for the U.S. government? His wanderings through the wilderness tracking birds was actually a cover for covert operations against the British, who were busy building up for the War of 1812. Audubon’s detailed paintings of birds contained coded messages meant for General Andrew Jackson and President James Madison. My version of Audubon would cast him as a mild-mannered naturalist during the day, with a secret side that was capable, violent, and cunning. I’d add some romantic friction for the married Audubon in the form of a sophisticated New Orleans Creole woman.
I opened up the current document, which was more a conglomeration of notes than an actual draft. My fingers hovered over the keys. My gin and tonic sweated onto a coaster. Audubon’s famous painting of a pink American flamingo filled my imagination. That was all. No story. No dialogue. No drama. Just a big pink bird.
I closed the iPad.
The black obelisk of the flat screen TV filled the wall in front of me.
Picking up the remote, I clicked it on.
Netflix. Modern Family. Season Five. Episode Three.
Resume Playing.
Chapter 3
Saturday. The way Sally and I had it arranged, I’d have Dylan on Saturday afternoons and early evenings. This was all simple enough until she signed him up for Saturday swimming lessons at the neighborhood lake. I’d mentioned it would be a good idea if Dylan learned to swim and had been surprised when she agreed.
During these Saturday pickups I’d taken to bringing a towel and a change of clothes for Dylan, so we could go straight from the lake to whatever we had planned for the afternoon, usually a movie at the mall and a meal at the food court.
My Miata was parked under a tree, not more than thirty feet away from where my wife stood on the sand. I’d parked my car at an angle so I could sit out of the sun while watching the small beach below. One part of the lake was cordoned off with buoys and a raft. Most days, it was solely women and kids on the beach, which suited me fine. I’m not sure why, but there was something uniquely sexy about a housewife in a one-piece sitting on a towel in the sand.
Sally stood with her body turned away so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact with me. She was dressed in a flowing beach coverup, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and sunglasses. Cancerous UV rays didn’t stand a chance.
Out on the lake, Dylan and five other kids splashed in the water, kicking their legs and chopping their hands in a clumsy swim toward the line of buoys.
A young lifeguard in red trunks stood knee deep in the lake. He had his hand to his mouth, shouting, “Kick… kick. You can do it. C’mon now. To the rope and back.”
There were two young mothers on the shore, mimicking the lifeguard.
One of them shouted, “C’mon Josie. You can do it.”
The second almost screamed, her voice pitched high. “Kick, Ralphie. Kick!”
None of these kids were Olympic material. Of the group, it looked like Dylan was struggling the most. I wanted to yell some encouragement myself but instead stayed silent. This was Sally’s turf.
Dylan totally lost his rhythm and swallowed water. I watched him lift his chin and spit. One-by-one the kids finally made the line of buoys and started the return swim toward shore, with Dylan bringing up the rear. It wasn’t a race but no one wants to be last.
I could tell by the set of her shoulders Sally wasn’t taking this well. She took a step toward the waterline then stopped.
“Little effort,” hollered the lifeguard. “You’re looking good.”
The first of the kids — a chubby little boy — made the shallow water and stood. His face was all smiles as he stomped the final few feet toward shore. The rest of the kids must have been encouraged seeing the chubby kid on dry land because they powered on and were soon splashing toward their mothers, who had their arms out to give them hugs. Their reaction made me think this was a watershed moment — maybe it was the first time the kids made it to the buoys and back.
Kids and mothers alike stood on the warm sand, watching Dylan flail. I looked down and noticed my nails digging into the palms of my hands.
Dylan stopped swimming for a moment and took in a huge gulp of water. I watched him choke as he struggled.
Sitting there in the car, I said out loud, only loud enough for me to hear, “Dig deep. You can do it.”
Dylan’s struggle was too much for Sally. I watched as she waded into the water, still wearing her hat and shades, her beach wrap floating around her. In a few strokes — keeping her head above water — she was at Dylan’s side. I watched Dylan clutch at her arm as she side stroked with the other. A half-dozen strokes and they were both standing in shallow water. Dylan looked exhausted from the effort and embarrassed from having his Mom haul him in.
Sally glared at the lifeguard. “Thanks for your help.”
The poor guy stood there, speechless. The other mothers and their children all stared at Sally and Dylan.
One mother said, “C’mon, Sally.”
“You c’mon, Susan,” said Sally. She still held onto Dylan’s hand. I watched him gently pull it away.
Sally looked down at Dylan. “That’s enough for today.”
Dylan, still short of breath, said, “But Dad wants me to learn to swim.”
Sally glanced in my direction. “Then let your father teach you.”
I opened the car door and stepped out. I didn’t have to say anything. Dylan picked up his sneakers from under his mom’s beach chair and headed my way.
My son’s mouth was set in a thin line and he stared at his feet as he walked.
There was silence on the beach. All eyes on me.
I didn’t want the drama.
Dylan sure enough didn’t.
Times have changed. When I first started in the magazine business, male editors were required to wear a tie and dress shirt at their desks. It didn’t matter if I was going to be writing all day without even a lunch break outside the office. The tie signaled to the world I was part of a corporation. There’d be no surprises from me — I was part of the machine. Like a note placed in a symphony. Part of the harmony of business and human effort.
Somewhere along the way standards began to relax. Maybe it had something to do with globalism — with the Western necktie beginning to resemble a hangman’s noose. Casual Fridays eventually became the all week norm — although there was still a line to toe, which was crossed one day when one of our male editors showed up in hot pants. That was a bridge too far and the editor was sent home to change like an errant schoolkid. I’m not sure if it was the Daisy Dukes that did it, but a few months later the editor was let go, and more importantly, he didn’t surface at another magazine.
Myself, I tried to maintain a singular sense of style, steering clear of the Dockers and blue dress shirts the sales staff favored, and instead wearing microfiber pants that never wrinkled, and Gommino driving shoes from Tod’s. I also paid a little extra for custom made white shirts. These I customised even further by having the buttons removed and replaced with buttons of different colours. It was a simple, trademark look that got me remembered.
Today, I was going through my notes from the Cayman trip and writing three stories simultaneously; write-ups on Stingray City, Paradise Reef, and the multi-million-dollar expansion of Grand Cayman’s international airport. Tapping away at my keyboard, I felt a presence behind me. I was pretty sure I knew who it was. Looking over my shoulder I saw I was right. Boggs. The magazine’s general manager, the one responsible for the trains running on time.
“You know why I’m here,” said Boggs.
I went back to tapping the keys. “Fill me in.”
“Where’s the copy for the Cayman stories?”
/> “All three?”
“Don’t play dumb, Turner.” He pointed at the production schedule pinned to the cubicle wall in front of me. “Right there. In black and white.”
I spun my chair around. Boggs was standing too close and my eyes were level with his midriff bulge. A long day in the office is bad enough without having to stare at a man’s losing battle with the feedbag.
I gave him a nod. “I’ll have it by the end of the day.”
“All three stories modem at five.”
I tried not to show it, but I’d screwed up. I thought I had at least another day until my section had to go to the printer. I was going to have to fly through these stories.
“Okay,” I said. “Give me an hour to pull it together.”
Boggs favored me with one of his trademark frowns and walked away.
I hunkered over the keyboard.
Spell their names right. Make sure the URLs are accurate. That the hard numbers are correct.
The rest of it?
They’d probably never read it.
A lawyer’s office is rarely a good place to be. It wasn’t so bad years ago when Sally and I closed on our first home, but even that carried a heavy weight — the feeling it was the bank that really owned the house, and in a way, owned a piece of me. Today, sitting at a conference table next to my lawyer, with Sally and her lawyer across from us, there was a feeling of failure. Even if Sally and I were truly done with each other and we managed a clean break, there was still Dylan, forced to bounce back and forth between us.
Sally was dressed all in white. I looked closely and saw even her nails had white polish. With her being a painter, colours were important. Wearing white was an affirmation — the opposite of black mourning.
During our marriage, Sally made a small income from selling her paintings. The bulk of her money came from a trust fund set up by her grandfather. Having a cushion like that made it easier for her to burrow away from the world and coddle her agoraphobia. No business travel for her. No vacations to faraway places. Not even nights away from home. Over the years, the shell around her grew thick and hard.
I watched Sally sign one of the legal documents. Her lawyer examined the signature and pushed the document across the table. I signed it and initialed the other pages. Sally and I repeated this maneuver several times. There was no small talk and when we were done we were both presented with a substantial folder of legalese. Sally got the house, health insurance for her and Dylan, and child support. That was it.
Sally’s lawyer tapped both hands on the table. “We’re done then.”
Out in the hallway, I stood with my lawyer by my side, while Sally stood a dozen feet away, conferring with her lawyer. At least they weren’t laughing. That would have been hard to take.
My lawyer said in a confidential tone, a little too buddy-buddy, “In a divorce, you never get one hundred percent of what you argue for. Considering everything, I’d say you did well for yourself.”
“The way I figure it,” I said, “I have some money coming back from my retainer.”
The buddy-buddy bit did a 180. “Well,” he said. “We’ll see about that.”
“One thousand two hundred and sixty. Check your invoices.”
I turned and walked away. This was over.
Out in the parking lot, my eyes blinked away the blackness, adjusting to the sunshine. Off to the edge of the lot, a forsythia bush was shedding its bell-like yellow blossoms, filling the air with a floral scent. I shifted the file folder of documents under my arm and headed over to where my Miata was parked.
Two cars down, there was Sally with the hatch open on our — on her — white Honda CRV. I watched as she rummaged and withdrew a thick art book.
I should have kept my mouth shut but I didn’t. “Twelve percent royalties on the first printing.”
Sally didn’t even look my way. “Don’t talk to me.”
“Then it goes up to sixteen percent,” I said. “You won’t see a dime.”
Sally looked at me for the first time that day. “Sixteen percent of zero is zero. You never wrote a book and you never will. You’re a hack.”
I tapped my head. “Like all great writers, I have it all up here. Just ready to flow.”
Sally gently closed the hatch. She was always on me for slamming it too hard.
“You call yourself a writer?” said Sally. “Forget about Hemingway — you’re not even Stephen King.”
“You wish I was Stephen King.”
“You write shitty articles about hotels,” said Sally. “A third grader could do what you do.”
Sally got behind the wheel, gentled the ignition and carefully reversed.
When she drove by she looked straight ahead.
Chapter 4
Blue water. That Caribbean blue that puts so many asses in airplane seats. Dylan’s head popped above the surface of the calm sea. I stood on the shore, in sunglasses and swim trunks, watching my son smile as he rubbed the salt from his eyes. With a kick, he began stroking toward shore.
Dylan staggered out of the water. “You were right!”
I nodded. “Salt water’s more buoyant. You learn in the ocean and the lake is a piece of cake.”
We were in the Dominican Republic, the eastern end of the country, Punta Cana. There was lots of culture in the D.R. — merengue and bachata music, high-end cigars, savory country-style cooking. You find all of that in Punta Cana, but a watered-down version. The region is mainly huge beach resorts catering to package tourists. I dealt with it by following one of my travel rules: Don’t try to make a place into something it isn’t. You don’t go to Punta Cana for authenticity. Punta Cana is beaches, buffets, and tropical drinks. Even at its most predictable, Punta Cana still beat sitting in an office cubicle.
Dylan lay sprawled across one of the twin beds, wearing his Stingray City T-shirt. He was watching a Spanish cartoon on TV. From what I could make out, it was a knock-off of the Rocky movies, with a fighting rooster standing in for Rocky Balboa.
Dylan said, “Is this going to be one of those boring dinners?”
I took a yellow linen shirt from the closet. “I don’t think so. But you know what? You don’t have a good time. You make a good time.”
Dylan buried his head under the pillow and said with a muffled moan. “Another one of your sayings.”
An eight-piece merengue band played full-tilt on a portable band riser. Above them flapped a banner proclaiming ‘Grand Opening of Cap Azul Resort’. The patio around the pool was hung with lights and packed with people.
I recognised a few familiar faces, including some of my colleagues from rival travel trade magazines. I got along with most of them but true friendship was out of our grasp. As Dylan and I held our plates in the buffet line, I gave a half-wave to Suzie Jenks. If I was Mr. Caribbean, Suzie was Queen Caribbean. At every resort press conference she asked the same question: Do you have any new features and amenities in the pipeline? One conference — out of pure boredom — I beat her to the punch, asking her signature question before she could get it out, at one press conference after another. It was a bit like slowly turning up the heat and boiling a frog — they die before they jump. Suzie eventually broke out with shingles and sequestered herself in her room for the remainder of the conference.
Dylan and I moved down the buffet, taking a little of this and a little of that. Dylan stopped and stared at a heaping platter of ceviche.
“That you have to try,” I said. “You’re not going to get that in the school cafeteria.”
Dylan didn’t look convinced. “What is it?”
“Ceviche. Fish marinated in lime juice. Go for it.”
Dylan took a spoonful and we moved on down the line.
I heard him before I saw him. “Turner. I was hoping you’d show.”
A Dominican in a spotless white linen shirt stood next to me, Renaldo. He was one of those good-humored guys who was always popping up with a new position: director of sales for a resort chain, deputy manager
for the D.R. tourism board; CEO of a new start-up. There was something effortless about Renaldo. People — including me — enjoyed being around him, hoping some of that free and easy swagger would rub off.
“We flew in yesterday,” I said. “You with Cap Azul now?”
“No, but it’s a lovely resort,” said Renaldo. He looked down at Dylan. “This is your son?”
“This is Dylan.”
Renaldo held out his hand and he and Dylan shook.
“Welcome to the D.R.,” said Renaldo. “Looks like you got some sun today.”
“This is Renaldo,” I said to Dylan. “If I need something he’s my go-to guy. He knows everybody in the Dominican Republic.”
Renaldo pointed at Dylan’s Stingray City T-shirt. “Your Dad must have brought that home for you.”
Dylan shook his head. “I picked it out myself after I swam with the stingrays.”
Renaldo gave me an approving nod. “You’re raising a world traveller.”
“Dylan’s a big help,” I said. “I like seeing things through his eyes. It gives me a fresh perspective.”
Renaldo touched me on the shoulder. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure.”
I handed my plate to Dylan. “Grab a seat. I’ll be right over.”
Renaldo was already walking to the edge of the pool. I followed him, feeling the rhythm of the merengue music as I walked.
Renaldo didn’t waste any time. “I’ve been hearing things to the west, in Pedernales. Hilton Hotels just invested $1.2 million in an environmental impact study.”
I shrugged. “They’ve been talking about developing the west for years. Nothing ever comes of it.”