by David Nickle
That was when the fish struck.
Later, the guide would proclaim it a parrot fish, so named because of the hard, beaklike jaws it had, perfect for biting off pieces of coral. It was not a fish known for its aggressive tendencies. It was not a very big fish.
But it could bite.
Ann actually watched it approach. It came close, circled her waist, spiralled down her legs. It slowed as it reached her knee. It was then that it made up what passed for its mind.
Ann screamed more in surprise than pain—although the bite certainly hurt. The fish took a small piece of her left knee with it as it spun into the deeper parts of the reef. Michael splashed over to her side, accompanied by two of the Venezuelans and a guide.
“Fuck!” she shouted as she hurried back to the boat. The mask dangled from her neck. Her knee hurt fiercely. She explained, at some volume, what had happened and that she was probably bleeding. The guides shouted to the others to come in.
“Sorry,” she said aloud.
It wasn’t as bad as she thought, but it was bad enough. The Calypso Empress had a first aid kit on board and the guides were trained. To take her attention away from the pain, the guide handed her a cold bottle of Red Stripe, and asked her to describe the fish. When she was finished, he nodded. “Parrot fish. Eats the coral, not the tourists. You didn’t make much of a meal for it if that makes you feel any better.”
“She is a pale girl,” said one of the Venezuelans, and his friend punched him, and added, “skin like alabaster, he means,” and the first said, “like fine coral.”
Michael held Ann’s shoulders and gave a squeeze.
“Maybe we should get a bit of sun tomorrow,” she said to him, “just as a precaution.” And she reached around and stroked his chin, and he laughed.
“Maybe,” he said.
Ann got the injury looked at properly at a clinic in Scarborough that Steve recommended, and after that they had a meal of fresh-caught sea bass and plantain, grilled for them by Thea, their
housekeeper.
That night, they had another go at it in the bedroom.
It would be wrong to call it a failure, at least from Ann’s point
of view.
Michael Voors was an attentive lover. He had a box of scented oils, which he would apply with great assurance, using hands here, a feather there, the tip of a tongue in the tricky spots. He would kiss her, and do this and then that—and then, with a piratical leer, he would vanish beneath the sheets for quite some time to “bring the boat home.” Ann wondered how he managed to get any air during these dives, but she didn’t want to discourage him, so kept the question to herself.
As far as it went, that was fine—wonderful, really. She only wished she could return the favour so adeptly.
In a series of failed attempts, she had developed a solid repertoire of tricks, and she drew on them that night, mixing up the order of things.
First—rather than waiting for him to roll off her, disentangle him from the sheets, she slid her right leg underneath him, brushing against him lightly with her calf, sliding up to tweak him with her toe. In the past, she’d lingered there to diminishing effect. This time, she pulled away, and rolled out of bed. She walked naked to the French doors, taking time to stretch with calculated languor. She glanced back at him, noted his eyes on her, and flicked the latch. She complained that she was freezing. But the moon was very nice. Michael obligingly got out of bed and joined her. He put his arms around her, rubbed warmth back into her arms.
Got him! she thought.
This was a new trick, and she held out great hope for it. With a nudge and a bit of pull, she manoeuvred his hands from her arms to her breasts. Hands free, she reached down behind her, and took hold of him. “Nowhere to go but up,” she whispered, too quietly (and just as well), because he only said “Hmmm?” as she pressed him against her hip.
Ann smiled to herself. This seemed to be working; Michael was stiffening appropriately, his breathing was quickening as it should. But she didn’t declare victory yet: they’d been here before.
So she proceeded with care. She turned. She pressed. She stopped pressing. Turned. Led. Sat. Stroked. Kissed. Stopped kissing, then started again, now with the tip of her tongue—in a different spot than the night before. Made sure to keep eye contact, as she drew him into her mouth.
“How is your knee?” he asked.
“What do you like?” she asked some time later.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. What’s your fantasy?”
“My fantasy?”
“Deepest and darkest.”
“Hum. I must think about this. My deepest, darkest fantasy . . .”
“Give it up.”
“I’m thinking. Why don’t you tell me yours?”
“I just wish I knew what you liked.”
“Don’t be worried,” he said, and stroked her hair.
And she said, “I’m not worried.”
What she was, was more than a little pissed.
ii
While Ann was busy being pissed, Ian Rickhardt was on his way from Toronto. It was not until he touched down in Grenada for fuel, at about four in the morning, that anyone knew he was coming.
He contacted Steve with instructions: get a car to the airport at Piarco, and work out a route to meet the fast ferry: Rickhardt didn’t want to get on another plane after all this flying. It gave Steve just enough time to arrange a car at the airport. They drove through the morning to make it to the docks on time.
“Shall we call ahead?” Steve asked. “I have the numbers for Michael’s Blackberry.”
No.
“Do they have any idea you’re coming?”
“None.”
“Do you think they’ll be pleased to see you?”
“Don’t call.”
Ann and Michael weren’t expecting him, and they were out for the day. When they came back, they ran into Steve at the roadside by the drive to the beach house, sipping shandy and munching a double.
“He is inside,” said Steve, after filling them in on the back story. “Try to act surprised. I think he wants you to act surprised.”
The beach house smelled of the sweet curry that had been simmering stovetop for the afternoon. Thea was sitting in the dining nook with Ian. They could hear her laughter from the steps from outside.
“Surprise,” said Ian when they came in. He was wearing a white cotton shirt and nylon walking shorts. He had trimmed his beard down to white nubs. His bare feet were propped up on a chair. Thea, dressed as usual in a long red skirt, her hair tied under a yellow kerchief, covered her mouth and looked at them apologetically.
“Dinner’s comin’ up,” she said.
Ian nodded. “It’s fantastic. Coconut prawn curry on rice and peas. Side of okra. And there’s a fresh case of Caribe in the fridge. I brought it myself. Surprise,” he said again, and grinned.
Ann waved her hands at shoulder height, and said, “Surprise.” Michael took the hint, and went to fetch the beer.
“Sit down,” said Ian, moving his feet, and before Ann could say anything else, “Thea tells me you were bitten by a parrot.”
“A parrot fish, Mr. Rickhardt,” Thea said.
“Of course. It all gets mixed up in my mind. While I was at the airport, in Piarco—I picked up one of the local newspapers. There was a story about a widow who was convinced that her dead husband had been reincarnated in the body of her pet
parrot.”
Thea nodded. “They write the story once a year.”
“Hush my darling,” said Ian. “She knows he has returned, she said, because the parrot walks on her just the way he used to. Did you hear that, Michael?”
In the kitchen, Michael shut the refrigerator door with his heel. He had four beer bottles, two in each hand. “A parrot who walked on her? Did the husband walk on her
in life?”
Rickhardt appeared to consider this. “The article didn’t say. It also didn’t explain how it was that her husband was reincarnated in the body of a parrot that was hatched before he died.”
“This woman, she believe the spirit of her husband entered right into the parrot,” explained Thea, and tapped the side of her head. “She ain’t right here.”
“That’s not reincarnation,” said Rickhardt. “That’s possession.”
“Oh, best I not,” said Thea as Michael put an open beer bottle in front of her. He shrugged, slid the beer over to Rickhardt, who slid it back to her and she laughed and shook her head and sipped the beer. “Thank you Mr. Voors . . . Mr. Rickhardt.”
“You were bit by a parrot fish?” said Rickhardt. It took Ann a moment to realize he was asking her the question. She nodded. Bent her leg up so she could display the knee, a thick square of gauze conveying the enormity of the wound.
“The fish mistook me for coral,” she said.
Rickhardt squinted at the knee and shook his head. “That sounds farfetched. My money’s on possession.”
Tobago delivered up sunsets out of postcards every night. They used that one to set the mood for dinner: still waters, swaying palms, a flamethrower igniting the sky. As they tucked in, Ian laid bare the dual purpose of his visit. He wanted to show them the wedding video, and talk a bit of business with Michael. Either one by itself, he said, could have waited. Put together . . .
Michael didn’t object.
Ann found herself in the kitchen as Thea was cleaning up for the night.
“Quite a fellow,” said Thea, lifting a thumb to the saloon door leading to the dining table, “that Mr. Rickhardt. He doh eat nice.”
“I’m sorry?”
Thea smiled. “He say all sorts of things, don’t he?”
“Did he say something to offend you?”
“To offend me?” Thea laughed. “Oh no. Nothing to offend me.”
Ann opened the fridge, took out another beer and a fresh lime. “Thanks, I’ll cut it myself,” she said when Thea offered.
“He pay for your wedding, that one. Must have a lot of money.”
“He does.”
“And you don’t like him.”
Ann carved out a wedge of lime and stuffed it down the neck of the bottle. It fizzed and twisted in the amber liquid.
“You should not like him,” said Thea. “Here he is, uninvited, on your honeymoon. He pay for your wedding, think he can do that? Come here and vex you so.”
Ann took a swig of beer. It was tart and hoppy and just what she needed. “I don’t like him,” she said. “But I suspect we won’t see that much of him once we’re settled.”
You suspect that, do you?” Thea smiled, shook her head. “He flew in a plane to show you a movie of that wedding he bought you. On your honeymoon. Ah,” she said, and turned back to the dishes, “I’m overstepping. None of my business. But I will tell you something, Mrs. Voors. He’s very charming that fellow, yet he not going to leave you be. That monkey know what tree to climb.” She smiled and shook her head when Ann tried to hand her a bottle. “No thank you. Better I loll off no more.”
Ann put the second beer back in the fridge.
“You’re not overstepping,” she said to Thea, “and I won’t tell.”
“Tell if you like,” said Thea. “It don’t really matter to me.”
“You were gone awhile,” said Michael when she came back and fell into her chair. Ann smiled at Michael, then at Ian.
“Just thought I’d give you two a chance to catch up.” She raised her bottle, now half-empty, and made as if to toast.
Ian and Michael had been hunched together, talking in low tones, as Ann was talking to Thea; Ann had noted it over the saloon doors from the corner of her eye. Now Ian was leaning back, hands behind his head—Michael, arms crossed.
They both looked, she thought as she sipped the dregs of her beer, vaguely guilty.
“You didn’t have to do that,” said Ian.
Ann smiled and said, “Liar.”
She’d meant to say it sweetly—but she’d had . . . three bottles of Ian’s beer now? That sounded right . . . and her ire must have leaked out. Ian and Michael shared a glance.
She tried to recover. “Nice liar, I meant. You two have business to talk about. I can leave you to it. . . .”
Ian smiled and shook his head. “Taken care of,” he said. “And really, I wanted to show you this.” He lifted a DVD in a plain white case from the table. “What can I say? I’m an old woman. They really did a fantastic job of it. I couldn’t wait.”
Ann shook her head. “I can’t believe you flew all the way down. Couldn’t you just upload it onto YouTube? Send it by courier?”
Ian’s eyes widened and he clutched at his chest theatrically. “YouTube? A courier? Heathen! This is special stuff! You don’t just fling it on the internet, give it to some lackey. It’s a treasure!”
Ann and Michael shared a glance themselves at that.
“Why don’t we watch it,” said Michael, “right now.”
“Excellent idea,” said Ian. He looked out the open French doors. “It’s about dark enough.”
It certainly was getting dark; the sun had pretty much set—there was just a tiny line of purple at the horizon. Stars were emerging overhead. But Ann didn’t see what that had to do with watching a video and said so. Rickhardt laughed.
“You didn’t think I was going to show it to you on the TV set they’ve got here.” The TV set being an old 27-inch Toshiba that occupied a corner in the living room. “I’ve set up something special,” he said, and got up.
“What—” Ann began, but Michael put a hand on her arm.
“It’s all right,” he said, “Ian told me about it while you were in the kitchen. Speaking of which—Thea?”
“Yes?” she called from the kitchen.
“You can finish up,” he said and they stepped around the kitchen to the living room. Ian was already there, unzipping a black nylon case and pulling a laptop computer out. As he plugged it in, and pulled out what Ann recognized as a projector, Michael lifted down a framed lithograph of a tall sailing ship and set it aside. The frame left a faint outline on the white wall.
“You’re projecting it,” said Ann, “like a presentation video.”
She’d done this more times than she cared to admit in the service of Krenk & Associates.
Ian nodded. “Full cinema experience,” he said. “Nothing but the best.”
Thea popped in to say goodnight as she left, and patted Ann on the shoulder where she sat.
“Funny ideas,” she said, so only Ann could hear. “Don’t let ’im spoil things.”
And then she was gone, and Ian slid the DVD into the side of his laptop and said, “Enjoy.”
Michael set an open beer down in front of her and flicked off the lights.
And their wedding began, anew.
iii
A black screen.
A cool, descending bass line for a few bars, and then a trumpet joined in, blowing all over the place. The screen shifted to blue—the sky, over the Rickhardt Estates winery, two weeks ago—while on the soundtrack, Louis Armstrong put the trumpet down and wondered what good melody and music was without swing.
“Did you pick the song, Ian?” asked Ann.
“Hey, be thankful,” said Ian. “Michael wanted Sinatra. ‘Love and Marriage.’ Or was it ‘The Tender Trap?’”
Michael barked a laugh as Ann punched him in the shoulder.
The camera came down on the treeline, then the rooftop, and then the milling guests outside Rickhardt’s winery. The image faded to sepia and froze, and the title faded in.
THE JOINING OF TWO
And there was a date, and a location, and their names, and then the whole picture swam out of focus.
Literally.
&nbs
p; As the trumpet faded out, it seemed as though the picture spun—as though Ann were spinning herself, dizzily reeling in a dance across the floor of Rickhardt’s winery. She couldn’t say how he did it—the screen simply shifted from a sepia exterior to an interior pan across a row of inverted wine glasses, a fiery stand of maples seen through a window.
And yet . . .
“Wow,” she said, and looked down and took a sip from her beer.
“Wow,” echoed Rickhardt, softly.
The camera was moving along the floor now, or near to it, past
rows of guests seated in front of the dais where she and Michael would say their vows. Michael was at the front, hands crossed in front of him, smiling in genial terror. She would have been in the limousine still, sipping a small flute of champagne with Lesley at her side.
This was the part of things she hadn’t seen.
Faces, now—most of them strangers, some of whom she might know the name of—some of whom she knew more intimately. The lens drew across each of them, fading between so that sometimes one might seem to morph into another. Drew Sloan, one of the partners at Michael’s firm, laughed as he blended into the hollowed cheek of an older woman, who brushed a lock of her blonde hair from her eye and looked past the camera with wry approval, as she melted into the face of a young African boy, who looked bored and sullen, sitting in his chair beside his mother and transforming—into Jeanie Yang.
“Shh,” said Ann, as Ian kicked off a sandal, and it thumped on the floor. She leaned forward.
Jeanie was wearing a dark blue satiny dress, her black hair braided tight at the back of her neck. She was standing and talking and laughing, her purse under one arm, her other reaching out as if to touch the shoulder of her companion. But the camera pulled out to show her standing, alone. Who was she talking to? Someone on her Bluetooth maybe? Hard to say, because she quickly slid away. In her place sat Susan Rickhardt, Ian’s wife.
She had not been having a good day that day (Ann had never seen Susan having a good day), but this shot made the most of her. She was seated by a tall window that overlooked the vineyard. The sun came in at a high angle. It caught the fringe of her pageboy haircut, illuminated the ridge of her wide nose and perhaps, the hint of a smile—and bathed it all in a warm, golden glow. She might have been in Tuscany that afternoon. She saw the camera, turned, broadened her smile to just shy of Mona Lisa amperage, and with two fingers made a tiny wave.