TOURIST ATTRACTIONS

by Molly J. Ringle

  There was Laurence in the crowd.

  Would he help me?

  No. He was looking at me with disapproval and turning away. Oh, come back, Laurence...

  The study room door, swinging open and shut, the loudest sound I ever heard in my life, jolted me out of the fever-dream. I jumped involuntarily, and almost gagged at the sudden motion.

  "Just as I told that bastard," Laurence said, leaning down to look at me. "Food poisoning." Then he looked alarmed. "Up we go, girlie, come on."

  With his help, I got to the fourth floor restroom in time to throw up again. He considerately stayed in the hallway until I came out. In fact, he must have gone down to the kitchen and back, because he was holding a glass of water in one hand and a mug in the other. Steam curled upward from it in the chilly corridor.

  "It's just hot water, with a teeny bit of ginger," he said. "You should try to stay hydrated. I thought I'd give you the option, cold water or warm, whichever sounds better."

  "Let me sit," I squeaked.

  "Okay. Come to my room. It's warmer. I cranked the radiator up."

  The room was lit with a soft domestic glow from a shaded lamp in the corner. He had hauled two spare cots into the room and spread blankets across them to make a queen-sized bed, but the sofa was still there, near the radiator, as was a wooden chair.

  He let me settle myself on the sofa, then set the two cups of water on the chair where I could reach them. I took the mug and sipped at it. It did feel a little better to have clean warm water in my mouth.

  "Did you say something to Gil?" I asked shakily.

  "Yeah." Laurence, who was wearing his navy-blue robe and matching pajamas, sat at the opposite end of the sofa and folded his arms. "When I went up to pay the bill, he said--rather rudely, I thought--'No tips from the American lassies?' I looked him in the eye and said, 'I think you're getting enough from the American lassies, don't you?'"

  I tried to giggle, but it came out a pathetic whimper. And it hurt, too.

  "He says, 'Ah, you must be Laurence'," Laurence continued, with a weak imitation of Gil's accent. "So I said, yes, very good, laddie; and he says, 'Right. Then you know that she's my date for tomorrow, so please take good care of her. She doesna look so well.'

  "'No kidding she doesn't,' I say. 'I think your lovely little pub has given her food poisoning. Take care of that, won't you?' And we left." Laurence shrugged.

  "You knew I had food poisoning?" I said.

  "Yes. Your eyes had--still have--a certain deathly shadow around them, which boozing doesn't do to people."

  "I hurt...so much," I said. It took a lot of effort just to say that. You never realize how many abdominal muscles are required for talking until you've been tensed up and doubled over with food poisoning for a few hours.

  "You don't have to talk," he said. "I can shut up too, if you want."

  "It's okay," I slurred.

  "Well," he yawned, "I'll be right here, and I'll leave on the light. But I might fall asleep again." He reached to the bed and pulled a blanket from it, which he draped over himself.

  I assume he did fall asleep then. I drifted off myself, only to be roused by a stab of nausea some 45 minutes later. One more speedy shuffle to the toilets--I didn't bother to wake up Laurence for the occasion--one more bout of throwing up, and finally my head started to clear. That apparently had been the last of the poison.

  I swished my mouth out with icy tap water, washed my face, and dragged myself back into Laurence's room. He was awake, curled up in the blanket on the couch and gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. The lamplight found traces of blond in his reddish hair. He looked younger and less certain than usual. I so seldom saw him without his glasses.

  Of course, it was 2:45 a.m., and nothing was going to look normal in my condition.

  "How you doing?" he asked.

  I knelt and took a few swallows of the now-lukewarm ginger water. "Better," I said. "Tired."

  My knees were, in fact, barely holding me up. I collapsed onto my end of the couch and rewrapped myself in the comforter. I started shivering again, but this time it was from cold and not from sickness. Exhausted and acting on bare instinct, I scooted across the couch, nudged my way past Laurence's flannel-clothed knees, and flopped my head on the throw pillow beneath his left arm.

  Laurence chuckled, and arranged the blankets across both of us; he even sat up to tuck them under my feet. When everything was smoothed to his satisfaction, he slid down so that he was stretched full-length beside me on the couch. My nose rested near his chest, in the folds of his thick robe. I could feel the tension draining away from me with the spreading warmth. Healing sleep was within my grasp.

  "I don't normally let girlies climb into bed with me," he said, sleepily, "but I'll humor you because you're sick."

  Due to my extreme weakness, tears welled into my eyes as I thought of all the kind things he had done for me in the last several hours. One tear slipped off my eyelashes and was sucked up into Laurence's terrycloth. "You're being nicer to me than I was to you, on the plane," I said.

  "Yes, I am. But then, Hitler was nicer to Poland than you were to me on the plane."

  I laughed, but it sounded half like a sob. "I'm sorry, Laurence," I whined softly. Sorry, I meant to say, for not being nice, as well as for being pathetic and disgusting and probably smelling like alcohol, pub smoke, sweat, and vomit, and climbing under his blankets anyway.

  "It's okay," he murmured. "Go to sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Juicy Gossip

  I ended up mad at him again the next morning.

  It started out in a friendly enough manner. He got up at 8:00, and told me he would call in sick to the Dalrykirk Hotel for me. I mumbled, "Thanks," and fell back asleep while he showered and changed.

  I woke up when he came back in to put his towel away. He was dressed, with damp hair and a clean shave. I caught the scent of shampoo from where I lay.

  "Feeling better?" he asked.

  "Yeah." I sat up. "My insides feel like a ninja sucker-punched me, though."

  "Guess you learned your lesson about pub fare, eh?"

  "Hey," I grumbled. "It was your suggestion that I eat more 'real food'; that's why I chose the fish."

  He smirked. "Pub fare is never 'real food.' Didn't think I needed to tell you that."

  I stood up with my blanket around me. "Sure, you're always right and I'm always wrong. I'm going to my bed now."

  "No, I'm always right and you're always annoyed about it," he said.

  "Do you never know when to let up?" I accused, halfway to the door.

  "Do you never show gratitude?" he answered.

  I was not up to mental exercises in ethics. With an exhalation of disgust, I said, "Bite me," and tromped out of his room.

  Even at the time, I knew this was not the proper way for the conversation to end, but getting some sleep seemed more important. Also, it did seem that he was gloating, and that struck me as rude. I had suffered, and I had suffered greatly. Did he have to rub it in with I told you so?

  Sharon had already left for work, and Eileen was still asleep. I had not been missed. I got into my bunk and fell into an immediate slumber.

  The afternoon found me awake and healthier. I felt good enough to venture out for groceries at 4:00. I thought constantly about the previous night while I walked down Princes Street and bought my food. A cautious appetite had returned--not just for food, but also for Gil. The agony of the food poisoning had put things in perspective for me.

  What had made me so sick was not simply the fish; some of my companions had nibbled at it, too, and they were okay. I had been over-stressing about this whole Gil-and-Tony business. Nerves and the food and the alcohol had done me in.

  I was entirely missing the point of an affair, which was to have fun. Because, let's face it, no matter how much this would end up hurting Tony, it could not hurt him as much as last night hurt me. He was simply too quick a healer and too forgiving a soul.

  Ther
efore, I reasoned in a twisted sort of way, I was free to have as much fun with Gil as I could stand. As long as I was responsible about the normal sorts of concerns, like pregnancy and STD's, why shouldn't I enjoy it?

  Because Laurence knew? The hell with that. He could tell Tony, for all I cared.

  After all, maybe this was how it was meant to be. Maybe this was what Fate sent me here for--to meet Gil, to have Laurence catch us, to have him tell Tony, and thus to save me from a mistake I might have made in Wild Rose. It was out of my hands, and that had bothered me last night, but now? Fine. Wouldn't have it any other way. What's done is done, and I might as well do it again. Would Tony care, in the end, if I kissed Gil 500 times rather than 400?

  And so the illogic went.

  I did have a conscience, though, at least regarding people I actually had to see. So I made an overture of peace toward Laurence a few nights later when I saw him in the kitchen.

  "I've decided to take your advice and eat better," I said. "I at least want to get off caffeine. What do you suggest for breakfast?"

  I hadn't really seen him since stomping out of his room six days earlier. When he had been at the front desk I had only nodded or mumbled in greeting as I swept past. Now he looked at me warily, but when he saw I wasn't being sarcastic, he rinsed a paring knife in the sink and answered, "Eggs are good. Quick to fix, too. If you eat something with protein and fat, you won't be as hungry later in the morning. And it steps up your metabolism."

  "What about oatmeal?" I asked.

  He told me that it was okay, but that I put too much sugar on it; and I defended myself by saying that oatmeal was horrid if you didn't add sugar; and he answered that, well, what could you expect; after all, the English used to tease the Scots for eating oats because really they were horse food; and so it went. We were on civil terms again.

  That put things back at what you might call normal, and there they stood for nearly a month. It got colder and wetter, and the days grew incredibly short. By mid-November, it was light only for about seven hours, and most of that was twilight, what with the clouds. Still, nights were a friend to Gil and me, in that they provided the necessary cloak of darkness.

  We did eventually hop on the bus and go to his house a few times, but only to warm up from the relentless rain or sleet. His family was around, and though they all shouted at him (and he back at them) at the slightest provocation, they treated me with friendliness and wouldn't have barged into his bedroom while I was there.

  Still, we did not actually become lovers in the most vulgar sense. We did almost anything other than that, and were both satisfied, but we were too shy to suggest buying some condoms and trying it.

  Probably just as well. How would I explain being four months pregnant when I got back to the States? After all, even ideal condom use had a two or three percent failure rate.

  Going back to the States...that wasn't an idea I relished.

  Cuddling on Gil's bed, gazing at the close walls covered with vinyl-album jackets and posters, breathing the scent of his hair and the wafts of the turkey loaf his mother was cooking, I felt almost like I was at home again. It was a better home than the hostel, anyway. And though Gil still made infuriating comments about Americans, apparently without thinking, he did seem to be growing fond of me.

  One evening, when it was clear and frosty, we stopped on the North Bridge, gripped the railing with our gloved hands, and peered down into the depths. The railway tracks gleamed below. "A fellow jumped off of here once and actually survived," Gil said. "Walked away without a scratch, even. It was back in the '30's or '40's."

  "Lucky," I commented. Quite so. It was probably a hundred-foot drop.

  "Aye. Or was he, I wonder?" Gil answered. "I've thought on that often. Probably he wanted to die, if he jumped."

  "True."

  He rested his chin on his gloves. "I used to consider it," he said. "Jumping here. Or I did consider it once, at least."

  "What for?" I asked.

  "When I lost my job at the studio. I couldnae bear the thought of going home and telling my parents what had happened, nor I couldnae stand the thought of having to find something else to do. There was nothing else I liked."

  I looked sideways at him. As he often did lately, he appeared more delicate to me than when I had initially seen him. Not less healthy, mind you; but now I could see past the Scottish smart-arse bluster and recognize a lad who sometimes hadn't a clue what to do with himself.

  "'Twas a bus that stopped me," he said. "Really, I was going to catch the bus from over near the studio, take it here, and jump. I actually bought the ticket and got on and everything. Must have been insane. But then there was a crash and a junction got blocked up, and they had to wait in traffic for over an hour. And in that time I came to me senses and got off, and walked home." He folded his arms on the rail and readjusted his chin into his purple coat sleeves. "I often wonder what would have happened if that bus had got to where it was supposed to."

  I leaned against him. "I don't think you would have done it. You like living."

  "I had a plan, if I survived the fall," he said. He was still looking down thoughtfully into the ravine. "The railway tracks, ye ken. I was going to stretch myself across them, and sure a train would come by before long and squish me, aye?"

  I was chilled at the thought of my poor Gil doing away with himself in such a lonely and ugly manner. I hugged him, and neither of us said anything for a few minutes.

  Then I asked, "If you could have any wish right now, what would it be?"

  "A new job," he said instantly, from my shoulder, where he was resting his head. "Back recording again."

  Well, he failed the Perfect Date test, wherein he would answer, To have you stay here always, or something unnecessarily sentimental like that, but at least he was honest. And it did give me some insight into his unhappiness.

  "Then look for one," I said, meaning a new job.

  He chuckled and lifted his head, letting the wind blow his hair away from his face. "Will ye help me find a proper suit to wear, if I get an interview?"

  "Of course."

  "Thank ye," he almost whispered.

  And arm in arm, we strolled away from the jump-off point.

  * * *

  Somewhere in the city, during those long nights, Sharon was spending time with Thomas and quite unguardedly falling in love.

  I would have worried for her if I hadn't met Thomas, more than once now, and known him for a good fellow. The sparkle in his eyes when he looked at my sister was quite endearing. It really was poignant, to think of the 5,000-mile distance that separated their homelands, and the heartache that would surely ensue when Sharon's visa expired. At least I was keeping one lad on either shore.

  But that was for them to work out, and they had four months yet. Marriages had lasted less time than that.

  Also, during this time, Eileen was continuing her adoration of Laurence--and supposedly with some success, to hear her tell it. He of course didn't talk about her any differently than he used to, but if anyone was guarded about his innermost feelings, it was Laurence.

  I still considered her crazy. Psychologically speaking, I attributed it to her father issues. Her mother was a divorcee; Eileen knew her father's name but had never met him. Supposedly he had finished paying up his alimony a decade ago. Neither she nor her mother knew exactly where he was, though they sometimes got a letter--an event that always made them distant and ill tempered for a week.

  Since Eileen grew up with an absent father and no other paternal figure to take his place, she would of course love being protected by the mature, responsible Master Laurence.

  One day in particular she told me some juicy news. Laurence was safely chained to the front desk, so we could gossip in the kitchen without the risk of him hearing us.

  "Last night," she confided, "Laurence and I went to this club with some of the Kiwis. The music was really loud, so I had to talk right up against his ear. After a while, we were standing in the co
rner, and I'd had some drinks and was being flirty with him, and-well..." She brandished her butter knife with a racy smile. "I said something suggestive to him, and then kind of licked his ear. He pretended to be all annoyed and embarrassed, but I could tell he wasn't, 'cause I laughed and hugged him, and he caught me around the waist for a second, so I was pressed against him, and Eva...I could feel that he was interested, if you catch my drift."

  "Eileen!" I choked. "This is Laurence. I don't want to hear this!"

  "Well, it's true," she said. She bit into her toast smugly.