Lights Out

by Peter Abrahams

  “Hello, gentlemen,” he said. “Perry Trimble.”

  They shook hands with him, identified themselves.

  “JFK,” Trimble said. “An interesting name.”

  “That be my first name only,” said JFK.

  “And your last name?” asked Trimble.

  “Never be usin’ it,” said JFK, and turned to baste the pig.

  Trimble gazed at it. Overhead the sky was darkening quickly; the reflection of the fire danced in the lenses of Trimble’s thick glasses. “Pig, I believe.”

  “Wild boar,” said JFK. “Last of the big-game animals found in these islands. Ceptin’ for in the water, of course. Down there we got more creatures than my wife got excuses.”

  “You’re married?” said Eddie.

  “Formerly,” JFK replied, his eyes blank. “In the distant long long time ago.”

  Trimble was still examining the pig. “You don’t mean to tell me someone shot it, do you?”

  “Sure I do,” said JFK. “Ernesto Hemingway himself the great white hunter came to this very Galleon Beach fish camp to hunt the wild boar.”

  “But this particular pig. Did someone shoot it?”

  “The boss. He did shoot it. Mr. Packer he a sportsman, and a dead shot with the three-oh-three.”

  “I don’t call that sport.”

  “No?” said JFK. “What you be callin’ it then?”

  “Butchery.”

  JFK laughed. “Butchery be my job, man. Don’t need no three-oh-three for that. Just a cutlass and a dog to lick up all the lickins.” Still laughing, he dipped the brush in the kettle and swabbed lava-colored baste on the glistening carcass. The baste smelled of onions, garlic, pineapple, and something sweet and smokey that Eddie couldn’t identify. He was going to ask what it was when he noticed that Trimble was staring at him; at least, the twin reflections of the fire were angled his way.

  “You’re Jack’s brother.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He seems like a take-charge type. Not afraid of getting his hands dirty.”

  Eddie nodded.

  “A project of this magnitude needs someone like that. Although a little seasoning doesn’t hurt either.”

  Meaning he liked Jack or he didn’t? Eddie wasn’t sure and didn’t know enough about the project, or any kind of business for that matter, to know whether Trimble’s remark made sense. He said nothing.

  “And how about you?” asked Trimble. “What do you think of it?”

  “It’s a beautiful place.”

  “I’ve seen better,” said Trimble. “And worse. Beauty isn’t really that high on the list of prerequisites. Ever been to Cancun?”

  “No.”

  “Or Florida, for that matter. Complete absence of beauty. But I wasn’t asking about the site. I was asking what you thought of the project.”

  “I’m no expert.”

  “I realize that. I don’t need an expert. I was interested in your opinion.”

  “I’ve only seen the plans.”

  “And?”

  “It looks very … grand.”

  There was a silence. Then Trimble nodded, the twin fires blurring in the darkness like taillights in a time-exposure photograph.

  “In a well-chosen word,” said Trimble. “And what’s your involvement in all this grandeur?”

  “I’m just here for the summer, helping Jack set up the waterfront program,” Eddie replied. He had an idea. “Do you have time for a trip to the reef?”

  “I wasn’t planning on it. Should I?”

  “I would.”

  “Why?”

  “Hard to put in words. You really have to see it. Then the answer’s sort of obvious.”

  The twin fires blurred again. “And after the summer?”

  “I’m supposed to start college, at USC.”

  “Very wise,” said Trimble.

  A breeze stirred. The pig sizzled.

  Eddie joined the others for dinner. They ate in the bar, sitting at a round wicker table. In the middle was a big glass bowl filled with sea water. Hibiscus blossoms floated on top and tropical fish netted by Eddie a few hours before-tangs, sergeant majors, royal grammas-swam below. Candlelight sparkled on the scales of the fish, the cutlery, the jewels on Mrs. Trimble’s fingers. Packer poured champagne, then raised his glass.

  “A toast,” he said. “To our guests, Perry and the beauteous Mrs. T.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Jack.

  “And to this beauteous place,” Packer added. “To the Galleon Beach Club, Hotel, and Villas.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Jack said.

  They raised their glasses, drank. Eddie, looking up, saw the moon over the water. He had never seen it so white, so defined, so clearly not a disc but a ball, massive, powerful, even dangerous in some way.

  Mrs. Trimble, sitting beside him, followed his gaze. “Beauteous, isn’t it?” she said, too quietly for anyone to hear but him.

  Eddie smiled. Mrs. Trimble smiled back. She had platinum hair, an unlined face, plucked eyebrows, dark brown eyes. He couldn’t guess her age. Her husband looked about sixty.

  “I hear you’re quite a swimmer,” she said.

  “Jack’s the swimmer.”

  She studied his face for a moment, then glanced across the table at Jack. He was draining his glass. JFK, wearing a white shirt and black vest, arrived with the first course-spiny lobster tails, an hour out of the water.

  “Richesse de la mer,” he announced, in what sounded to Eddie like perfect, unaccented French.

  They drank champagne. They ate lobster tails, conch salad, roast pig.

  “The sauce is delicious, Evelyn,” said Mrs. Trimble. “Do you mind telling me the ingredients?”

  JFK was summoned. “Onions, garlic, pineapple, herb.”

  “Herbs?” said Mrs. Trimble. “What ones?”

  Jack spoke before JFK could answer. “Lots of different herbs grow on the island. They’ve all got local names.”

  “How interesting.” She turned to JFK. “Have you got an herb garden?”

  “Many many,” said JFK. “I could be carryin’ you to one in the morning.”

  “Wonderful. Let’s plan on it.”

  “Mind slicing me some more?” said Jack. JFK moved off to the cutting board.

  Packer poured more champagne. Eddie noticed that Mr. Trimble laid his hand over his glass, wondered whether Packer might leave his own empty. But he filled it to the brim, gulped, said, “Evelyn’s old man tells me you’re quite the world traveler, Perry-if you don’t mind me calling you Perry …”

  Trimble nodded; now it was the candlelight that was reflected in his glasses.

  “So tell me, Perry, in all your travels, have you ever come across a setting like the one we’ve got here at Galleon Beach?”

  Trimble laid his fork and knife on his plate in the all-finished position. “I’ve seen some nice places, B-Brad. But as I was telling your able employee here-” He nodded across the table toward Eddie; Packer’s eyebrows rose. “-it takes a lot more than setting to make a project like this work.”

  “He’d be a lot more able if he got a haircut,” Packer said with a loud laugh. No one joined in. Eddie saw that Evelyn’s fingers were wrapped tight around the stem of her glass, as though she were choking it.

  “What does it take, Mr. Trimble?” Jack asked, pushing his own glass away.

  “In a word? People. It all depends on the people.”

  “Christ, I’m glad to hear you say that,” Packer said. “Hasn’t that been my code since day one, Ev?”

  Evelyn said: “What do you look for in people, Mr. Trimble?”

  “Perry, please.”

  “Perry.”

  He gazed down at his plate. There was still a lot of roast pig on it, untouched. “Values, Evelyn. I look for values.”

  “Values?” said Packer.

  “Honesty. Integrity. Loyalty. Reliability. Faith-in spouse, in family, in God.” There was a silence, followed by a loud pop from the driftwood fi
re. Trimble looked up. “That’s all. It’s simple.”

  “What about imagination?” Jack asked. “Drive, determination, education, shrewdness, brains?”

  Trimble smiled. He had big, uneven teeth, angled, jagged. “That’s my end,” he said. “The question was what do I look for in my people.”

  Packer checked his watch. “How about a snort of V.S.O.P.? Then we can take a gander at the plans, if that suits you, Perr.”

  “I’m anxious to see them.”

  Not long after, Packer and Trimble were sitting at the cleared table with the plans and a bottle of Remy. Evelyn and Mrs. Trimble had gone for a walk on the beach. JFK was in the kitchen. Eddie and Jack stood by the fire, cognac glasses in hand.

  “What do you think?” Jack said.

  “About what?”

  “Everything. So far.”

  Everything was a lot: Fearless, JFK’s herb garden, Packer’s.303, the letter in the wastebasket, Mandy. “Unreal,” he said.

  Jack laughed. “That’s what we’re pitching, all right.” He glanced up at the bar. Packer was leaning over the table, pointing out something in the plans. Trimble wasn’t looking at whatever it was; he watched Packer’s animated profile. “He’s worth twenty mill, bro,” Jack said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Evelyn. Her dad was Trimble’s lawyer, when he was just starting out. Evelyn’s dad is a very useful guy.”

  Something made a loud splash in the water, not far out.

  “Fifteen footer,” Jack said.

  “Shark?”

  “That’s where they live. I’ve seen a dozen since I got here.”

  “You’re going to need a special kind of tourist.”

  Jack checked the bar again. “We don’t have to worry about it yet. Our worry is the shark over there.” Trimble had his hand over his glass.

  “How did you meet them?” Eddie asked.

  “The Packers? It’s a long story. And boring.” Jack sipped some cognac. “I’m starting to like this stuff.”

  “Tell me about SC.”

  “What about it?”

  “What was it like?”

  “Hard to say. In a word.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Sure.”

  Down the beach, Evelyn and Mrs. Packer emerged from the darkness; or rather, their white dresses did, floating over the sand. Their legs, arms, heads, were invisible.

  “Then why did you leave?” Eddie said.

  “I told you already.”

  “That was it?” Eddie said, giving Jack a chance to bring up the letter.

  “Sure. What else?”

  There was another splash in the water, bigger, closer.

  “But what if this doesn’t work out?”

  “It will.”

  “But what if it doesn’t? What if Trimble turns him down?”

  “Trimble’s not our only shot.”

  “But what if everyone turns him down? What will you have to fall back on?”

  “This island has a lot of resources.”

  “You mean you’d stay here?”

  “Why not?”

  “What kind of future is that?”

  “You can be pretty dumb sometimes, Eddie.” Jack took another drink. There were scratches on his hand and forearm.

  Eddie walked away for a moment; he had to, when Jack made him mad. Soon he had a thought, came back.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you meet the Packers there?”

  “Where?”

  “SC.”

  Jack’s voice rose. “You’re full of questions all of a sudden. Like the caring mom we never had. Is that what your role’s going to be?”

  “Lay off,” Eddie said. Packer and Trimble were watching them. “Why shouldn’t I be interested in SC? I’m going to be there for four years.”

  An inward look appeared in Jack’s eyes. “That’s true,” he said, quietly now. He took another drink. “I met Brad through SC, if you must know. It’s not a secret.”

  “What’s he got to do with SC?”

  “He’s an alum. Swim-team booster. Okay?”

  Eddie nodded.

  “He’s not a bad guy, Eddie.” Eddie said nothing. Jack punched him in the ribs, not hard. “Why don’t you just cut your fucking hair?”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m joking.”

  The women were closer now; their legs, arms, faces took shape in the moonlight.

  “Can you go back?” Eddie said.

  “Back where?”

  “SC.”

  “There’s more than one bore here tonight. What’s the matter? Scared to go away to school all by your lonesome?”

  Now Eddie’s voice rose. “I didn’t mean now. Someday. Would you still have your scholarship?”

  Jack looked up at the bar. Packer and Trimble were watching them again. “You don’t get it, do you?” said Jack, keeping his voice down. “I’ve outgrown all that nickel-and-diming. School is a means to an end. I’m at the end already.”

  9

  Champagne and cognac: a destablizing combination, new to Eddie. It made him restless, made him want to move, to disconnect from the grown-up world. He didn’t bother to say good night to the dinner guests; as soon as Jack returned to the bar, he just backed out of the fire’s glow into the darkness and started down the beach, shoes in hand.

  The moon was higher and smaller now, but still a massive ball circling close by. It shone on the surf, breaking in orderly lines along the shore like waves of white-horsed cavalry in one of his history textbooks. Eddie came to the fish camp, went by his cabin, paused outside Mandy’s. It was dark and silent. He walked on, taking the path to the road, following it to the tennis court.

  The backboard loomed in the silvery light, making Eddie think for a moment of JFK’s imprisoned brothers, jailed for losing their trials. Dime and Franco. Eddie crossed the court, damp with dew under his bare feet. He found the beginning of the short path, kept going to the shed.

  He looked in. Moonlight flowed through the cobweb window, gleaming on the steel roller. Eddie sniffed the air, smelled red clay. All the other smells were gone.

  Eddie stood there for a moment, thinking about what had happened in that shed, confirming the details to himself. Under the influence of champagne, cognac, the night, its importance grew.

  Eddie went back to the road. He could have turned left; that was the way to the fish camp, to bed. But he wasn’t sleepy. He turned right instead and walked all the way to the flamboyant tree. For some reason-maybe it was simply the brightness of the moon-Eddie felt no unease at all about the night, as though he were in a place he knew well. He started up the path to JFK’s herb garden.

  The walk was easier this time, partly because it was cooler, partly because the path seemed wider: no plants brushed his skin, nothing made him itch. Eddie mounted the long rise, came down toward the clearing, singing to himself:

  Gonna get some goombay goombay lovin’

  Gonna find a goombay goombay girl.

  He couldn’t remember feeling like this, so elevated, so full of his own possibilities. Champagne, cognac, moonlight, banana-shaped tropic isle, Mandy. It was perfect. Then he saw that JFK’s herb garden was gone. Not a stalk remained.

  Something rustled in the bushes. The first pulse of adrenaline went through Eddie. A little form darted from the bushes, scuttled across his bare feet. Not a pig this time-just a crab, but the realization didn’t come in time to block the second pulse. It washed the restlessness out of him. He wondered what crimes had sent Dime and Franco to jail.

  Eddie returned to the fish camp, no longer singing. Both cabins were dark. He entered his. Jack’s bed was empty. Eddie undressed, lay down. A breeze curled through the screen window above his head, soft and smelling of the sea, sleep-inducing as the strongest potion.

  Eddie dreamed of wild pigs swimming on a coral reef. Red bubbles streamed from their mouths. Something unpleasant was about to happen, but
it never did. Instead there was a scraping sound, insistent. Eddie awoke, heard fingernails on the screen. He raised his head, saw Mandy’s face, obscure on the other side of the screen. She didn’t say a word. Eddie looked across the room, saw Jack’s still form in the other bed, got up. He went outside, closed the door without making a sound, felt Mandy’s hand in his.

  Then her lips were at his ear. He heard her say, “I couldn’t sleep without you.” So quietly, she might have just mouthed the words.

  Mandy led him into her cabin. He smelled ripe pineapple. Her body was a white glow in the darkness. She pushed him gently on the bed. The sheets were sandy. “So many things I want to do to you,” she said. “I don’t know where to start.”

  She found a place. Soon Eddie stopped having clear thoughts. He entered a sensory world, where surfaces were liquid and the atmosphere was full of breathing. She entered it too. He was sure she did; he could feel her doing it.

  The moon sank behind the trees. In the darkness, almost complete, that followed, the bed seemed to move, to drift away, taking them on a journey, the way he and Jack had once sailed the Spanish Main.

  After, they lay in twisted sheets, her head on his chest.

  “I’ve died and gone to heaven,” she said.

  He stroked her hair, damp and grainy with sand. “No one’s going to die.”

  “The pig died,” Mandy said. “Just to impress a big shot.”

  There was a silence.

  “What did it taste like?” she asked.

  “Pork chops a la cannabis.”

  “Are you stoned?”

  “Yes and no. Mostly no.”

  “Me too.”

  A breeze rose again, cooling them. They abandoned their bodies to it; this was luxury.

  Then Eddie thought: Evelyn will be flying back to Florida soon; when she’s gone, Mandy moves down to cottage six. Questions began forming in his mind. Why was she with someone like Packer? How did they meet? Did he pay her? He realized he didn’t even know her last name. Eddie shuffled the questions, searching for a good way to begin. Finally, he said: “Where did you meet Brad?”

  No answer.

  “Mandy?”

  She was asleep.

  Eddie closed his eyes. There would be time for questions later.

  Something thudded through his dream, heavy and rhythmic. The dream began reshaping itself to incorporate the sound. Then the screen door opened with a snick and slapped shut, snick slap, and Eddie awoke, too late.