An Ordinary Drowning, Book One of The Mermaid's Pendant

by Neal Reilly, LeAnn

  He glanced at his watch for the first time in hours. There was still time before the sun set to write a few postcards. He thumbed through glossy photos of old San Juan with its Spanish colonial fort and images of Caribbean parrots, orange and green and yellow like sweet-and-sour lollipops with beaks and claws. What should he send to Zoë? Historic buildings or living creatures? What would he write in the two-inch by two-inch square that would strike the right balance between “having a good time” and “it’s no big deal that I’m here without you”?

  After shuffling through the postcards, he sighed and decided to put off writing. Instead, he pulled out one of Punta Soldado that he’d bought this morning and scrawled a note to Stefan, who’d joked about John never returning to Pittsburgh:

  They named this point of land after a soldier who went AWOL when he came to Culebra. I feel like going AWOL, too. The beauty of the ocean calls to me, like a siren.

  What would Zoë think if he admitted that Culebra answered some primeval need in him? She’d take it personally, of course. An image of her large black eyes radiating angry hurt flickered to life in front of his eyes. Perhaps he’d better keep his note chatty and impersonal. After staring toward the setting sun for ten minutes, he finally wrote this on the back of a postcard of Ensenada Honda, Dewey’s harbor:

  Jackpot! I’ve found the last unspoiled spot in the Caribbean. No casinos, no swanky resorts. I’m up with the rooster, literally. Lots to see, do. The food’s great and the locals are friendly. I’ll call this weekend to talk about our plans.

  He’d filled the four square inches; his writer’s block had unfrozen once he’d discovered the appropriately casual tone supplied by the exclamation “jackpot.” There was hardly room to sign his note, but he hesitated anyway. He never wrote a closing in an email to her, but a handwritten note demanded one. If he signed just his name, would that be intimate enough? Did she expect a “love” or would “cheers,” just squeezed in, do? He waited for the answer and when it came, he knew that he couldn’t write “love” no matter what she expected. If he was going to fall in love with her, it hadn’t happened yet. He was still falling. So he signed only “John.”

  He stayed at Punta Soldado until the sun sank into the water, its brilliance extinguished in the rhythmic blue. Afterwards, he biked in the deepening dusk through town until he reached Isla Encantada. Standing just inside the entrance, he searched the dim interior, but only a handful of customers sat at the bar drinking. Tomás looked out from behind them and when he caught John’s eye, nodded and returned to drying a rack of glasses.

  The scent of hot corn oil and fried dough made John’s stomach grumble. He ordered arepas stuffed with queso and a Medalla. The dumplings’ flaky crust tasted so wonderful that he found himself ordering more. Tomás grinned at him when the waitress brought over a second plate heaped with extra arepas. John ate these so quickly that the bubbling cheese burned his palate, but still his stomach felt hollow. Perhaps he’d better order something more sustaining, something more basic like rice and beans. When the waitress set the bowl of arroz con habichuelas in front of him, he started to sigh until he caught sight of the chunk of ham, a dark pink iceberg floating in a sea of rich brown. Even then, he almost tasted it. His mouth watered while he struggled against the complex scent of cilantro, garlic, and smoked meat. The waitress, who’d come to check on his food, saved him from himself. He sent the bowl back untouched.

  Tomás came over looking concerned. “The arroz con habichuelas, they are bad, señor? They are una especialidad de mi esposa.”

  John squirmed and made an embarrassed face. “I’m sure they’re deliciosa, Tomás. But I don’t eat ham.”

  Tomás’s face cleared. “Oh, I see, señor. No problema. I will tell her to make you some without.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Oh, it’s no problema. Many people, they don’t like ham. We often eat it without ourselves.”

  Thankfully Tomás hurried away before John could protest again. He longed for the ham, but everything tasted so good here that he shouldn’t give in to his baser cravings, even though the hollowness in the pit of his stomach had spread down his thighs. To distract himself while he waited for the vegetarian beans and rice, he pulled Zoë’s postcard out and laid it on the table to consider.

  Fifteen minutes later, the waitress deposited another bowl in front of him with a thunk. John looked at her, but she’d already turned, disapproval in her meaty shoulders. John shrugged and scooped up a mouthful of the savory beans and rice. Before he could stop himself, he’d shoveled the contents of the bowl into his maw. Afterwards, he still felt empty. He’d hardly begun to study the menu when Raimunda, pink and brown and luscious, sauntered into his line of vision. She stopped at his table, a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from her fingers. She smiled, her dark eyes bold.

  “Find your mystery woman yet?” He couldn’t believe how attractive he found her husky voice. The hollow feeling spread to his chest.

  “Nope.” John hoped that he sounded casual. He nodded toward a seat. “You’ll have to do.”

  Raimunda sat down and pulled her chair closer to his. “Buy me a beer?”

  John waved the waitress over and ordered two Medallas. Raimunda put soft fingers on his wrist. He felt rather than heard his stomach growl.

  “A plate of alcapurrias, too. You do not mind?” She smiled. “I am ravenous.”

  When the basket of deep-fried yucca fritters arrived, John’s stomach did rumble aloud. He smiled and shrugged and focused on his order of sorullos, a cornmeal “log” stuffed with cheese.

  Raimunda picked up one of the alcapurrias, broke it in half, and offered it to him. John shook his head, but his gaze stayed on the tantalizing deep-orange pocket filled with what looked like ground beef. Raimunda took a dainty bite from her half, and John could almost taste the savory meat-and-yucca.

  “Have some, my friend,” Raimunda said and brought the alcapurria nearer to his nose.

  They sat that way for an eternity while John’s heartbeat filled his head and hunger filled his whole body. He leaned over and took a deliberate, large bite from the fritter. It was his first taste of beef in almost a year and it tasted out of this world. He took another bite, his lips brushing Raimunda’s fingers as she popped the last of the alcapurria into his mouth. She said nothing, just pushed the basket closer to him.

  He ate three more orders of alcapurrias before the hollowness inside him had been satiated. He’d had no idea how hungry he’d been until the relief at not being hungry left him drowsy and unfocused. He slouched in his chair and played with the label that he’d stripped from his Medalla bottle. Through its brown glass, he saw Zoë’s postcard lying under an empty basket. Grease spots speckled his handwriting. He found that he didn’t care.

  They sat drinking and talking for another half an hour. A few more customers wandered in and the conversation at the bar grew lively, but no one looked their way. John let words slip from his mouth, too overwhelmed by Raimunda’s scent, her throaty laugh, the hollow at the base of her neck, to have more than a passing interest in the sound of his own voice. He floated just outside his head, detached from himself and yet aware of how hot he was, how slick his palms were on his thighs. When Raimunda edged her seat closer, he knew only the reality of the pulse fluttering in her throat.

  “Let’s leave.” She spoke low, sending a thrill through him.

  “You got someplace in mind?” He heard the tremor in his voice.

  She stood up. Held out her hand. “Come, gringo.”

  They left his bike outside Isla Encantada. She held his hand in her warm, dry one and led him through Dewey, past the disapproving Catholic Church and the darkly officious post office. A few Culebrenses congregated on lit porches drinking beer and listening to tinny radios, their warm laughter muffling John’s steps. Raimunda padded along on cat’s feet. On the far side of the plaza a couple of sailors sauntered into the liquor store, but the pueblo was otherwise deserted at this hou
r. No one called out to them or even looked their way—they were wraiths. Near the clinic, Raimunda turned west and headed away from town. John tried to picture where they were going, but a fuzzy Culebra map only flickered and died in his memory.

  They walked close to each other, Raimunda’s arm grazing his every so often. As she moved, she exuded the spicy scent of cloves and musk that he already associated with her. It made him lightheaded. Perhaps Raimunda clicked no castanets nor seductively twirled any long skirts, but in her company he had no desire to meet a señorita. He’d just begun to wonder where she was leading him when he saw the sign for Playa Melones, a small stony beach near the southern tip of the canal. Except for a red navigation light glowing at the tip of a thin tower on the point, only the sound of lapping waves and the pungent odor of seaweed and salt greeted them.

  Before John could speak, Raimunda sank down onto her knees and tugged at a sandal strap. She braced her shoulder against his thigh and lifted his foot to remove the loosened shoe, running her warm fingers lightly up his calf afterwards. John let his hand drift to her shoulder where it rested among soft dark hair. He leaned into her as she stripped the other sandal off. Again she caressed his calf. Gooseflesh sprung up in the wake of her fingers, which traveled as far as his shorts. Just as they tickled the skin under the hem, she jumped up and pulled John toward the water. As soon as their feet touched the wet stones, she ran ahead of him on the thin strip of beach.

  John stood, gasping faintly.

  “Catch me, gringo,” Raimunda called over her shoulder.

  His legs carried him forward before his mind had chosen to act. As John ran after her, she swerved into the ocean. Water swirled around his ankles before he realized what he’d done and stopped. She appeared not to notice and continued until the water reached her thighs. She turned around to face him.

  “You must follow me to catch me, my friend,” she said. The warm huskiness of her voice made the night intimate. “Rescue me.”

  The soft sibilance of her rescue twined around him, tugged him toward her even though the rush of the water urged him to stay safe on shore. Heart pounding, he waded deeper, his eyes locked onto Raimunda, her head dark against the night sky and her face hidden in shadow. And then she turned and headed toward the path of flickering moonlight caressing the waves. Without warning, she slid under the surface and disappeared. John’s heart lanced his throat and he lunged toward the spot that she’d last been standing. Water cascaded over his head as he plunged into the suffocating ocean and grabbed for her. His hand closed on her hair. He snatched her head up and stumbled back until his feet touched the bottom.

  They stood there, panting, faces dark and streaming.

  “What did you say last night about making me glad to be alive?” The words tumbled out of him. Beyond recall.

  For an answer, Raimunda pressed her chest against his and leaned in to kiss him. Her hot, salty mouth clung to his. The water tugged at their shoulders, pulled at their legs. But it could not separate them.

  ***

  John woke up late the next morning, headachy and stiff—and bemused. He’d only had three or four beers last night, but the fuzzy feeling between his ears and along his tongue testified to former intoxication, as though the forbidden beef, or Raimunda, had made him drunk. He sat up and rubbed his temples, squinting against the light. He’d slept heavily, dreamlessly. A sense of regret filled him as he realized this. He’d missed something. Or someone. Regret and peevishness sharpened the ache between his eyes, but he managed to shoulder them aside as he ate a cold breakfast of bread and cheese. He had the campground to himself now that the weekend beachgoers had returned to the mainland so he left his sleeping bag unrolled when he left to go kayaking. He biked into town, passing parents kissing children good-bye at the school. It was a familiar, if unexpected sight. That sealed it. No paradise contained a school.

  He arrived at Luís Peña around nine-thirty and paddled around to the north side of the cay to the small beach there. Like much of the larger Culebra, the uninhabited Luís Peña Cay was covered with low-growing vegetation, stunted trees and dense shrubs; at its highest point, south of the beach, it reached nearly five hundred feet. Even though it was a nature preserve, day trips for hikes, snorkeling and swimming were allowed. Still, he was almost guaranteed to have the entire cay to himself on a Tuesday morning in March. He’d maneuvered his kayak without any difficulty, gliding smoothly and silently over the innocuous seawater, its clear depths hiding no dangers. After securing the kayak, he set out to explore the cay, taking forty-five minutes to walk its perimeter. By the time he returned to the beach, the fuzzy fatigue had burned off in the morning sun, taking his black feelings with it.

  While he drank some water, he imagined that he was Robinson Crusoe. Castaway and forced to survive by his wits. No hard drives. No fluorescent lights. No windowless lab space. Just him, his hands, and what God and nature provided. An image of himself, woolly bearded and tanned sinew, filled his mind. He laughed. He wouldn’t last three days let alone twenty-eight years. Still chuckling, he stripped off his sweaty t-shirt and shorts, leaving them to dry on a rock. After a few minutes, he added his sweaty underwear, too.

  He considered the ocean before him. Unlike the fear that had gripped him last night when Raimunda beckoned him into the water, this gently lapping expanse promised peace. As long as he went no deeper than waist high, he should be fine. He wandered fifteen feet into the water, which was too warm to cool off in, and swam across the length of the small bay twice. The desire to separate from his body as it moved, to recapture the sweet blankness that had freed him as he’d cycled yesterday afternoon flitted in his thoughts, but a shadow on his spirit stoppered them inside his head. He flipped over onto his back and floated, his hearing muffled by seawater and his eyes dazzled by the sun. Seabirds streamed overhead like bits of windblown confetti. He tried to distinguish different species, but outside of the laughing gulls he was familiar with and a variety of pelican, the rest remained unknown—just as his rescuer remained unknown. She was one more element of nature, inextricably linked to Culebra’s beauty and serenity.

  As if conjured up by this thought, an upside-down face blocked his view of the sky.

  “Ahhh!” He pulled his feet to the sandy bottom to right himself. His heart zigzagged and his breathing sped up.

  Saltwater streamed into his eyes and blinded him. He swiped at the water running down his forehead. When he could see again, he realized that a young woman swam nearby.

  “You scared the shit out of me.” Even as he said this, his heart righted itself and his breathing calmed.

  She flinched and backed away from him.

  He regretted his words, the sharpness of his voice. He extended a hand toward her. “No, don’t go. I didn’t mean to yell at you. You just surprised me, that’s all.” Could this be his mystery woman? Only her face, her hair plastered to her head, appeared above the water’s surface. Hard to know if she had the hair or the breasts to be the one.

  She stopped backing away and came closer. She certainly had the eyes, though. Her eyes mirrored the color of the sea. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.” Innocent concern turned her musical voice grave.

  “All right? Why wouldn’t I be all right?” Confusion and discomfort tangled his voice. His thoughts were as opaque as the water around him, full of the sand that he’d stirred up, shielding his nakedness only temporarily. He refused to look down, to call her attention to it.

  “The last time I saw someone floating alone, she—well, she didn’t need any help.” Something in her voice, some slight hitch, alerted him. He saw unhappiness cloud her wonderful eyes.

  “I take it she’d drowned?” He asked this gently, as if the word might startle her into darting away. She couldn’t go until he knew for certain if she were the one that he’d been looking for, if she were the one who’d saved him from drowning.

  The unhappiness surged into tears; she nodded but said nothin
g. He wanted to wipe them away, but he didn’t dare touch her. He tried to console her with words instead. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

  Again she nodded and the tears shone on her cheeks. He looked beyond her and then over his shoulder to the beach. He saw no other kayak and he was sure that he would have heard a water taxi or other boat.

  Seeing him searching, she looked away and said in slow words as though uncertain that she should admit to such a fabulous tale, “I swam from the other side of the cay.” She’d stopped crying. Her brief tears struck him as natural as a summer shower.

  “Really? I was told no one swam alone around here.”

  “I don’t do it often. My father doesn’t like me to go far from my family.” Her remarkable blue eyes, like stained glass, held his. An electric shock leapt between them.

  “Ah.” It was his turn to look away. He knew that the water around him had cleared and he was entirely at her mercy. He knew what she would see if he didn’t get a handle on himself. He had to keep her talking, had to work up the courage to ask her if she’d pulled him from the canal. “So you live around here?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes slid away again, fortunately not down. “My father’s a fisherman.”

  So far so good. Time for introductions.

  “I’m John.” When she said nothing, he continued, “Do you have a name?”

  She bit her lower lip, reminding him of his sister Cassie when she was in high school. He wasn’t any good at guessing a woman’s age, except for some vague sense that she was too young or too old, some rough guideline for the tenor of their interactions. The lip biting signaled extreme youth. Surely too young to have the breasts he’d seen. Too young to pull a grown man, thrashing and gasping, to shore.