I find a comfortable chair and sit on it. In the darkness, the creaking of the mattress is the only indication that Gwen rests on the bed.
“Now I understand why the cavemen were so terrified of the night,” I muse. “With the setting of the sun it must have seemed to them that the world was coming to an end. No wonder they believed in so many myths and superstitions to explain things.”
No response.
“I expect we’ll have power tomorrow after an emergency generator is brought in from outside the island,” I continue. “Though I doubt we’ll have full power for some time.”
“I’m leaving on the first plane out of here.”
Her words echo off the walls like a gunshot.
“There probably won’t be normal flights to and from the island for a few days,” I reply.
Pause. “Then whenever the first plane leaves—tomorrow, the next day—I’ll be on it.”
“You could always stay the rest of the week. We’ve paid for the time.”
“There’s nothing to stay for. This marriage is over. You do not love me; I don’t blame you. What we had is dead and I killed it. It will always be the biggest regret of my life. Staying here any longer would just drag it out.”
“But we’ve paid so much to come here.”
“Then at least one of us should enjoy it. The money doesn’t matter to me. You should stay.”
“If you leave I am leaving, too.”
“No. Stay. It was more your idea to come here than mine, anyway. Also, I want to fly back alone.”
So this is how a marriage dissolves. No screaming. No throwing things. Just this quiet discussion involving travel arrangements. I suppose I should feel a deep sadness, but I am numb. In a day or two, I’ll have this island to myself. Maybe I will do a lot of snorkeling. Sleep late in bed. Take meals in my room to avoid the curious glances of the other guests wondering why I am alone.
I wait for Gwen to say something more, but there is nothing more to say. I fall asleep in my chair.
Chapter Six
The air hangs on me like a warm, wet sheet. I open my eyes. A shaft of morning light falls into the room. I check my wristwatch. It is almost 9 a.m. The sheets on the bed are rumpled and it is empty.
“Gwen?”
No answer. I check the bathroom. She is gone. The absence of air conditioning confirms that we are still without power, but I test the lights anyway. The lulling rhythmic sound of the waves and the humid, stillness of the air brings about a strange pensiveness in me. I feel that it would be wrong to make a sound or disturb this quietude in any way. I touch the bed where Gwen slept. Her satin robe lies crumpled in a ball. Pressing it to my lips, I inhale the trace of her perfume that lingers on the fabric.
I use the bucket to relieve myself. If Gwen suddenly returns at that moment and catches me squatting over a bucket, I will likely die of embarrassment. Now what to do with the contents of the bucket? Will someone from the staff collect it? God, no—that would be too humiliating. I cannot—with any dignity—hand someone a bucket of my piss and shit. I have to dispose of it myself. Outside, I scamper to the side of my bungalow, looking around to make sure no one is watching, and I dig a hole in the sand into which I dump my waste and bury it. I tromp down to the sea and wash the bucket out with seawater. On the way back, I spot one of the refined grand dames doing the same thing with obvious revulsion. This is going to make for some crazy stories when I get back home.
Left to my own devices I would stay alone in the bungalow all day, but hunger forces me out. I throw clean clothes on. My face is oily, my hair unkempt. If only I could take a hot shower. Maybe I will go for a swim in the pool later to wash some of the sweat away.
Along the way to the restaurant, I pass other guests all looking ragged at the edges. The elegant ladies have lost their perfect composure. Their hair is frizzy and their faces have a pinched, sour expression. Two elderly white men are heading in my direction. One of them wears a blindingly garish Hawaiian shirt and has a sizable potbelly. His face is ruddy from the heat. He walks with the aid of his companion who wears a straw hat and seems to take the power outage in stride. From the tender way they lean on one another it is obvious they are a couple.
“Isn’t this something?” the thinner and spryer of the pair remarks to me as I pass by. “Our trip to paradise has turned into such an ordeal.”
“This is awful. Simply awful,” his red-faced companion adds. “Hey, we heard you in the restaurant last night. You seem to know what you’re talking about. Better than that manager anyway—”
“Jonas is doing the best he can,” his friend amends.
The plump man is not convinced and gives a dismissive shrug. “You said something last night about an explosion—about the power never coming back on…”
“Yes, an E.M.P. blast. It’s a likely explanation for how we lost power on our watches, cell phones, and flashlights. No other explanation makes sense.”
“I’m Nelson, by the way,” the slender man says. “And this is Curtis.”
I introduce myself.
“So, Phillip, let’s say for the sake of argument that you are correct—that we’ve had this electric, magnetic blast thing,” Curtis ponders. “How long should we expect to endure living like cave men?”
I scratch my chin. “Well, if I am correct then power won’t return until emergency generators are flown in from outside the island.”
“I am so glad we purchased vacation insurance,” Nelson chuckles. “We came here to celebrate our anniversary, you see.”
“Twenty five years,” Curtis says.
“This was a big expense for us. We’re not so well off as a lot of the people who come here,” Nelson whispers.
I laugh, and with the same conspiratorial tone reply, “Don’t worry. I’m in the same boat as you. We maxed out our credit cards to come here.”
“You’re wife is lovely, by the way,” Curtis says.
“Yes, it’s good to see young couples in love,” Nelson agrees.
My only reply is a wan smile.
Curtis sniffs the air. “Mmmm, something smells good.”
It certainly does. We reach the restaurant, filled almost to capacity. Jonas stands before the grill with a few of his chefs preparing a feast of mammoth proportions. I spy Don leaning heavily on his cane but still managing to balance a platter crammed with food.
Don asks, “Hey, kid, how you holding up?”
“The lack of electricity doesn’t seem to have affected your appetite,” I chide.
“Man’s gotta eat.”
Out on the deck the chefs grill food that is wholly inappropriate for breakfast, including lobsters and a whole pig. The guests help themselves to the buffet of food and stack their dirty dishes on several tables at the back of the room buzzing with flies. There are no waiters to serve us or collect the used dishes.
“You gotta help yourself, kid. They’re short staffed,” Don explains. “Most of the staff walked back into town last night; half of them did not come back.”
“Then this is as I suspected. There are no working cars on the island.”
“Seems so. If you’re looking for Gwen she arrived an hour ago,” he nods to a long table where Gwen sits next to Conner and Alexandra.
I pile some French toast and tropical fruit on a plate and find a seat at the end of the table. Gwen does not acknowledge me. She listens with rapt attention to Conner blathering on about the New York City blackout in the 1970’s and all the mayhem that ensued. Alexandra notices me sitting by myself and seems about to call me over, but she glances at Gwen, looks back at me and remains silent. The other people at the table, a mixture of Americans and Brits culled from the younger ranks of the resort guests, wash their food down with beer chilled in a cooler filled with rapidly melting ice. Compared to the other tables filled with dour faced, anxious, elderly guests, my table has the raucous energy of a gang of gamblers and scalawags on a hell bound train. Decorum is cast aside. They laugh louder and drink more than i
s appropriate.
I have the unenviable seat next to the young Brit who mocked me the night before. His laugh is like a braying mule. His name is Robby and I know this because he constantly refers to himself in the third person, saying such things, as “Robby won’t stand for that” or “They didn’t count on Robby coming to town.” Between Robby and Conner, I cannot tell who is more pleased with himself. Robby’s girlfriend is a pear shaped woman; plain faced with an amiable though vapid expression, like something I have seen on livestock.
Robby hands me a beer. “Drink up, mate. No tee-totaling here.”
“Shouldn’t we be conserving our supplies?” I ask.
Conner slams his bottle onto the table, barks out a laugh and leans forward. “My friend, this liquor is about the only thing making a bad situation bearable. Don’t be such a Nervous Nelly.”
Giggles all around the table.
“But you don’t even know when the power will be returning,” I press. “We’re consuming in one day what could last us for weeks if properly rationed.”
“Good morning, Mr. Crane,” Jonas stand besides me. “Why are we cooking so much food at once, you ask? You have heard the phrase ‘waste not, want not’. Without refrigeration, we risk the food spoiling. Better to cook it all at once than lose it.”
“Yes, but the bottled drinks wouldn’t spoil,” I counter.
“No, but they’re getting warmer by the minute. Better cold in my gullet than warm in a bucket of melted ice,” Robby interjects to general agreement at the table.
My voice rises in frustration. “I know this island is small, but they’ve got to have some kind of police force. Hasn’t anyone come by to tell us what happened?”
“Mr. Crane, there is no need to upset yourself. We are expecting someone from the authorities to arrive shortly and provide answers to all your questions,” Jonas touches my shoulder, his words soothing but his eyes nervous. “In the meantime, we have everything under control. Granted, we are short staffed today and I must beg your patience, but the resort is still here to cater to you.”
Jonas leaves his hand on my shoulder. I sense that if I raise any other doubts he will throttle me. This situation is not under control. I realize what Jonas is doing. His mastery of the situation is tenuous. He plies the guests with food and liquor, stalling for time. I see at once that he hopes with all his might for the power to return soon and for order to return. The last thing he needs is me blurting out that our predicament may be much direr than we comprehend.
I look to Gwen for support and get none. She does not look at me, as though I were not here.
Fine. I will keep my warnings to myself. To hell with all of them. Without another word, I leave the table and march to the farthest end of the beach where the cliff walls throw jagged rocks into the surf. No one swims in this section. Even walking here is treacherous.
On the way, I pass Pamela floating on the waves with a few other Brits. She waves to me. Bill reclines on a chair beneath a palm tree.
With an indulgent smile, he nods towards his wife as I pass him. “Pamela came here for sand and sea, and by God, electricity or no, she means to have it.”
“Yeah, I’ll probably be doing some of that myself,” I reply, and notice, despite the cooling sea breeze, sweat beads Bill’s forehead. “Are you O.K.? You look a bit flushed.”
He sips from a tall glass of some cloudy concoction. “I am feeling a bit spent.”
“Maybe you should go easy on the liquor,” I point to the three empty glasses on the table beside him.
He gives a weak smile. “These, my lad, are fruit drinks. No liquor involved. No, I’ll leave the hard drinking to your rowdy friends in the restaurant. I think it’s the heat getting to me, that’s all.”
I am about to point out that in the shade near the ocean it is actually rather pleasant, but I prefer not to talk any further. Thunder grows in my heart. I want to be alone.
At the far end of the beach, I sit behind a large rock where the foaming surf is just inches from my toes.
I hate Gwen—sitting with those drunken jackasses, not even acknowledging me, not even giving me the courtesy of maintaining a pretext that everything is all right between us. Fuck her. The moment we get back to America I will file for divorce—something I should have done months ago. In a way, it is good I am so angry. This fury is something worth holding on to. It will put steel in my spine if I ever start to waver. The sooner I file for divorce the sooner I can move Gwen from my present to my past. God, this sucks. How many days am I to endure her hobnobbing with everyone but me in this damn resort? A hermit crab scuttles amongst seaweed cast on shore. I wish I had a shell to retreat into like this crab. Safe within the shell, I could let the whole world go to hell.
Lorenzo still signs out the water equipment, dutifully registering the name of each guest to ensure the return of the items.
“I’m surprised to see you here today, Lorenzo,” I sign out a snorkel and flippers.
He gives a slow smile. “Tings are very difficult now, to be sure. As you can see, much of de staff is not in today. It is a long walk from Rio Galera to de resort.”
“You walked all that way?”
“I have a bike. De electricity is out,” he taps his legs. “But dese still work.”
“I haven’t spoken to anyone from Rio Galera about the outage. Do they know anything that we don’t know here at the resort?”
He shakes his head. “No. We are still in de dark.”
“Literally and figuratively.”
I float over the reef, face down, observing the aquatic life. My fingers prune; still I float. There is nothing and no one to rush back to the resort for. Do my parents know about our power outage? Has it made my local news? I envision my mother watching the news, anxious for a call from me. If only I could communicate with them somehow—just a word to let them know what has happened and that I am okay—physically if not mentally. Such thoughts fill my head until hunger finally drives me back to shore.
I return the snorkeling equipment and walk by Don, Amy and some of the British guests huddled under some nearby palm trees.
“—goddamn ridiculous,” Don snarls. “I don’t even care about the money anymore. Just get me out of here.”
Amy nods gravely. “I know, I know. We are reduced to living like savages—like people you see on TV…the people who live in the Amazon… in huts.”
“Forget Jonas,” a wizened Brit adds with disgust. “That man is just shy of useless. We need to march into town and demand some answers.”
Don taps his cane. “That’s a farther walk than I can manage.”
Don spots me walking past. “Phillip, what about you? You could walk into town and demand something be done.”
“I thought someone from the authorities was coming here to explain what happened to the power,” I reply.
“They did,” Amy says. “A policeman, or sheriff or whatever the hell they call themselves—one of them pedaled here an hour ago. He was as clueless as we are.”
“But planes land here every day,” I point out. “They can tell the pilot what has happened. He can bring help from another island.”
“Tell me,” Don gestures to the sky. “Have you seen any planes? A flight was due hours ago. It never arrived.”
I inhale sharply.
“Yeah, kid, we’re prisoners here,” Don says.
“The blast that struck us probably hit our nearest islands, too,” I grasp for answers. “If that’s the case then it could be much longer before power is restored—days even.”
“Oh, God, I cannot go days living like this,” Amy covers her eyes. “This is becoming impossible. Impossible.”
I leave them and head to the restaurant where the grim news of the missing flight is the number one topic of discussion. Pamela carries a tray laden with dirty dishes to the sea.
“Phillip, if you wouldn’t mind,” she taps a stack of food encrusted pots with her foot. “I could use a bit of help.”
“Ar
e things really that bad?” I scoop up the pots.
“They’re worse,” she grimaces as we walk on the beach. “You know, I could wring some necks around here. I thank you for helping me, but look at all the others, standing around, not lifting a damn finger. Useless. Utterly useless.”
We kneel in the sand, pour liquid soap on the pots and dishes, and wash them off with seawater. She holds a sea bathed wine glass to her critical gaze. “If anyone complains about spots on their crystal I will kill them.”
With his fine linen dress pants rolled to his knees to keep them dry, Jonas joins us.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Crane,” he scours a greasy pan in the waves. “I deeply appreciate your assisting us. I made an announcement earlier; perhaps you did not hear.”
“Announcement?”
“Obviously, I am unable to contact our home office, but when we finally establish contact I will insist that due to the hardships our guests have endured the resort will offer a full refund or a complimentary visit at some future date.”
This is the only good news I have had in days. “Thank you, Jonas. I appreciate that.”
“It is the least I can do given the circumstances,” Jonas sighs. “I am afraid this problem may drag on longer than any of us have anticipated.”
“And in the meantime used dishes and pots pile up and we have people standing around still expecting someone else to cater to them,” Pamela scrubs a plate with such anger I expect the pattern to vanish from the china. “Really! How galling. Bill would be here helping us, but he hasn’t been feeling quite himself lately. He’s back in our room having a lie down.”
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