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

by Neal Reilly, LeAnn

  She wrapped her arms around her knees and stared at the sand near her feet. She said nothing. His grin faded. Maybe he’d gone too far.

  John took a long pull on his water bottle and changed the subject. “You know when the sea turtles start coming in to lay their eggs?”

  Tamarind pushed a clump of hair behind her ear where it sprang immediately to freedom. “They come to land after the rain starts, perhaps in a week or two.”

  “You ever helped out with counting eggs or monitoring beach conditions?”

  “No. But my family helps out whenever we see any on their way here.”

  “How d’you do that? You can’t put out a beacon or anything, right? I thought lights distracted the turtles from finding their nesting spots.”

  She shrugged. “We do whatever we can. Turtles aren’t very smart. They eat anything that looks like a jellyfish. You people dump a lot of garbage.”

  “You sound like a marine biologist.” As he spoke, he idly traced her name in front of his toes with his fingertip.

  Tamarind shifted so that she could bend her face nearer to the sand. Her elbows jutted out on either side of her torso and her hair fell over her face in riotous deluge as she studied the letters, the layer nearest her slender neck damp and smelling of the sea. For an instant, John thought he saw the iridescence of mother of pearl at the top of her spine, but when he squinted for a better look, her smooth skin was bare. She wore no jewelry at all.

  “What’s that?” She pointed at his tracing. “I’ve seen that before.”

  “I should hope so. It’s your name.” He touched each letter as he called it out. “T-a-m-a-r-i-n-d. Tamarind.”

  “It is?” She didn’t look at him. Instead, she reached her forefinger out and drew over the letters. Under her breath she repeated their names. Then she traced the letters again under his, repeating them as she did so.

  “You can’t read?” He said this gently but surprise still colored his voice.

  “No.”

  Something in the way that she hunched her shoulders told him not to ask anything else about the topic. She shifted back onto her buttocks and draped her arms around her bent knee. She hummed a bit, as though trying out a tune and then began in earnest. As abruptly as she began, she stopped.

  “Did you come just to learn to dive?”

  “Pretty much. I came to spend a couple of weeks getting used to the water for a research mission I’m going on next week. I got seasick once and needed to get my sea legs before I sail.”

  “Sea legs?” Then she laughed the same delightful burble that he’d heard when they first met. He hadn’t realized that he’d wanted to hear it again until now. “I have sea legs and I want land legs!”

  Turning to squint at the sky, he shaded his eyes with his hand. “I also came to spend some time away from a computer screen and cinderblock walls.” It felt safe to let that out.

  “So you aren’t going to be here much longer?”

  “Just another week. Then it’s back to the salt mines.”

  “There’s a lot of salt in the sea.” She looked serious.

  John whooped, a head-thrown-back, hand-slapping-thigh reaction. “That’s priceless! I’ll have to use that next time I want to take off when I should be working.”

  A sound in the bushes behind them caused John to turn around. A dark-haired, brown-skinned man wearing a khaki shirt and pants emerged from the path and stopped short when he saw them. He smiled, white teeth splitting his brown face. John guessed that he was a park ranger.

  “Hola.”

  “Hola.”

  “Hablás Español?” When John shook his head, he went on. “This isn’t the best beach for swimming, you know. The current here is very strong.”

  “No problem. We’re just enjoying the view.”

  The man looked at Tamarind, who sat humming and tracing in the sand. He grinned again. “I see what you mean. It’s especially lovely today.”

  John ignored the comment and he leaned closer to her. He almost put his arm around her but stopped himself. “I was wondering. You got all the volunteers you need this year to help count leatherback eggs?”

  The ranger, who’d been rummaging through a large olive-green duffel, paused to think.

  “Another pair of hands, they would make the work grow lighter.” Another grin sent a sparkle to his eyes.

  “Thanks.” After the ranger walked away from them, John turned to Tamarind and smiled. “Maybe you should volunteer. I get the feeling you’re going to need something to do after I’m gone.”

  “I can always find some other tourist to ‘stalk.’ You’re not much different from sea turtles, you know.”

  Six

  Zoë arrived on Culebra the following Friday morning, an Amazon warrior barely civilized for life among unevolved men. John met her at the airport in a rented Suzuki Samurai and they drove to Tamarindo Estates to check in and drop off her gear. As Zoë dropped her duffel bag onto the queen-sized bed, she turned, lifted her arms and snaked them around John’s neck.

  “God, am I glad to be here. This trip has been one nightmare after another. First, some guy copped a feel outside the airport while I waited at the taxi stand. He wasn’t even very subtle about it, just grabbed my ass as he walked by me on the sidewalk. The employees at the Marriott weren’t much better. The man behind the counter slid the room key into my palm, rubbing his fingertips suggestively over my wrist. Then the bellhop just happened to caress my hand as he reached for my bag. What pigs.”

  “I doubt they would’ve pressed their attentions any more than that. If they did, you could’ve just kicked the shit out of them. Isn’t that what you study for?” John said this as casually as he could, aware that he spoke for himself as much as some yokel in San Juan.

  “That’s hardly the point, John! I shouldn’t have to depend on Tae Kwon Do when I’m traveling in the U.S. Puerto Rico isn’t exactly the third world.” She nuzzled the side of his neck. “Mmm. You smell good enough to eat, even if I am a vegetarian.”

  Her lips burned along the flesh of his neck, washing stillness down him as effectively as a fast-acting poison. He just managed to speak before the process was complete. It was a lame attempt to beg for forgiveness. “Where would the fun be if you didn’t have some real jerks to deal with now and again? It’s got to get pretty boring policing the misogynists at CMU.”

  “You’re just thrilled that these guys make you look so good.” She kissed him, pressing her whole torso against his. “It’s been too long since we made love.”

  She pulled away long enough to close the curtains on the window overlooking the canal. Then she twined herself around him again as if she feared his escape, but she had nothing to fear. He was already paralyzed.

  “Time to change that.”

  ***

  Later, John drove her around the island, or as much of it as was accessible by road.

  “Not much to see, really.” They turned north toward Playa Flamenco. “The beach is world-class, of course, but nothing else is here.”

  “It’s just because it’s not built up, John. Some people would think that was a good thing, you know.” She paused. “So whadya have planned for me this weekend, besides showing me how much you missed me?” At these words, she slid her left hand up his right thigh and into his crotch, squeezing gently.

  John kept his eyes on the road.

  “Actually, I wondered what you’d think about going out for some deep-sea fishing. There’s a crusty old barnacle around here with a forty-three-foot yacht, the Sakitumi. That is, if battling big fish in the name of sport appeals to you.” He held his breath. Given her rabid form of vegetarianism, he expected her to spit fire. He had no idea what had prompted him to antagonize her this way.

  She stunned him with her answer. “How Hemingway. I’d love to go. Absolutely.”

  She leaned against the passenger door and looked out the open window. The breeze as they drove dared to lift her heavy hair and caress her neck. In her dark sunglass
es and black camisole, she reminded John of a Hollywood starlet, exuding sex appeal as cloying as night-blooming jasmine.

  “Maybe a little development wouldn’t hurt,” she said after a few moments as they drove south on 251 toward town. “Something that would help pay to clean this place up.”

  “What? You don’t like having such an unobstructed view to the terraced dump?” John had forgotten the dump until it came into view and the sarcasm in his voice surprised him.

  “Not in paradise I don’t. They should plant some of those bright red flowers—what are they called?—in front of the trash.”

  “Bougainvillea. I think you’re thinking of that. Or maybe hibiscus.”

  It took John only an hour to drive the circuit of the island’s main roads. Perhaps it was Zoë’s presence or the view from the driver’s seat of the Samurai, but John surveyed all of Culebra’s eyesores for the first time in two weeks. As they neared Dewey, they saw cramped cinderblock houses huddling along narrow streets. Boats rested on concrete blocks in the patches of land that constituted yards and everywhere they saw more trash: pipes, tires, and beer cans. Zoë wrinkled her nose and shifted away from the window. Even after they drove south past Dewey and left the houses behind, lines creased her forehead. Little existed on the southern and eastern arms of Culebra beyond a few side roads leading to homes that, from their vantage point, seemed to promise privacy to transplanted gringos. But for John, the trip away from Dewey reminded him of the serenity that he’d discovered while visiting the Enchanted Isle: every rise in the road brought views of the ocean, vivid against the sere brown and dusty green of the landscape.

  Culebra exists only to draw the spirit to the sea around it. On the heels of this thought, Tamarind’s ethereal blue eyes tantalized John’s memory, but he shoved the image aside. Funny that he should think about a slip of a girl with crazy hair and incessant questions while Zoë’s head rested on his shoulder—Zoë deserved better. He turned the Samurai onto the road to Tamarindo Estates.

  “Wow, that was short and sweet. After a winter in Pittsburgh, this sun is a godsend, but I wouldn’t want to live here.” She hadn’t moved even though he’d parked; instead, she ran her fingers along his forearm and the back of his hand.

  John switched off the engine and looked down at her black hair, glossy and thick. She was too close; there wasn’t enough room in the cabin of the Samurai to tell her the explosive news that he must tell her. So he settled for what he hoped was conciliatory humor. “Between the macho males and the roaming roosters, it’s probably not the best place for you.”

  Lunch was larger and more gourmet than John had eaten for most of the past week; he’d hoarded his money and eaten only one meal out—a cheeseburger at Señorita’s where he’d avoided seeing Raimunda, who managed to find him at the camp anyway. He had no idea why she kept seeking him out; more to the point, he couldn’t understand the queer state that came over him whenever she appeared. He felt at the mercy of his lust, his rational thought subsumed to the white heat radiating from his groin. At these times, a shadow fell over his spirit that left him in a funk until he went to sleep; and then the dream returned and washed away the darkness as oil is washed from skin. He felt cleaner, but a vile residue still remained. And then Tamarind would arrive somewhere on his journeys about the shore or cays and her smile was the sun burning away the clinging mist of night.

  He shook his head as Zoë addressed him while they waited for their Nuevo Caribbean chickpea stew. Now was not the time to think of either of these island women.

  “I need to call the vet’s before we go snorkeling. Stella had to have surgery on Wednesday and she’s staying there while I’m away.”

  “I bet that’s expensive.” It was perfunctory; he and Zoë’s cat had never gotten along and it was even harder to fake concern after two weeks away from the mercurial tortoiseshell.

  “Yeah. It’s got me thinking I should consider veterinary school after I finish my Ph.D.” She paused. “So Heath Garrett’s just been named as faculty researcher of the year. He won a two million grant from ARPA. But that’s not all. The rumor’s going around that he’s sleeping with his administrative assistant and she’s married with two kids.”

  “You sound shocked.” His tone was casual; he kept his eyes on his flatware, the water glass, anything but Zoë’s face. He felt as though he’d been slung up on a meat hook, however, and his chest tightened.

  “I am. The man’s got no scruples. Can’t he at least bang someone from another department?”

  He had to defend Dr. Garrett although he couldn’t stand the arrogant prick. Struggling around the feeling that his left lung had collapsed, he spoke in reasoned words. “C’mon, he’s a geek, Zoë. He doesn’t have any social skills and he’s not meeting many women holed up in that lab of his. He’s probably grateful to have the attentions of anything remotely female.”

  “Are you speaking from experience? If so, I’m not sure that’s a compliment.” Had he misheard? Was there menace in her voice?

  He picked up his ice water, choked on a sip, and wiped his mouth with his napkin. Time to take the self-deprecating route, seasoned with truth. He forced himself to look at her. “Oh, please. You know damn well you’re out’ve my league. That makes me an extra-grateful geek.”

  Zoë preened. “True, too true. I expect you’ll show me how grateful later.”

  Beneath the table, John felt her bare foot on his calf. He thought of the crescent kicks she often whizzed past his cheeks as they walked around campus. Once, she’d misjudged the distance to his head and connected with a kick. His ears rang for the rest of the afternoon. She’d apologized and given him a thorough body massage later, but he still couldn’t think of her feet without vestigial tinnitus.

  “So you got your paper out, I take it?” John sipped at his Medalla.

  “Thanks to yours truly, we not only got it out, but the data from the last-minute experiments actually got verified, graphed, and explained coherently. Not a single person on my project can write his way out of a wet paper sack without me.”

  “Good you know your own worth.” Not that he’d ever doubted that she did, but he meant it: women computer scientists often had to be their own champions even in so-modern an era as the mid-1990s. It felt good to be genuine and straightforward.

  Zoë picked up one of his hands with both of hers and rubbed his fingers with the pad of her thumbs. John wanted to take his hand away, to build on his slight honesty, but he couldn’t.

  “Okay, so that wasn’t so modest,” she said. “But I’m really speaking out of frustration. I hate to work so hard on research and have it documented by illiterate buffoons. Just because they can write an elegant piece of code or practically visualize where all the locks and keys go in a system doesn’t mean they get a pass when it comes to explaining what they did.”

  “Not everyone’s as well rounded as you. And take it from me, most people can’t write their way out of a wet paper sack. You should see the Trench proposal. I had to annotate it heavily during the kick-off meeting. Luckily for me Dave Pendergrass speaks better than he writes or I’d be completely lost.”

  “Now you’re really asking for something special.” She wagged a finger at him. “I never said I expected these guys to explain their work to people outside the field. God, that’s too much to ask for.”

  “That’s why the most brilliant scientists—Hawking, Sagan, Wilson, Gould, Glieck, Feynman—” John freed his hand to tick them off on his fingers, “stand out. They bring science to the masses. Maybe it’s your destiny to illuminate computer security issues for the average person. There certainly need to be more women science writers.”

  “Ugh. Forget it. I just want to win the Turing Award.” She smiled a coquette’s smile and John remembered their first meeting last September at an IC event for new grad students. She’d ignored Stefan’s full frontal assault and bestowed all her dazzling, dark radiance on him. No matter what happened between them, he’d never forget the thrill of b
eing her choice and the heady first days of their dating.

  “Now that would be a glass ceiling worth breaking.” He raised his Medalla and smiled, his empty hand dropped to his lap and freedom.

  Zoë picked up her beer in toast. “Here’s to the future. May it bring us many worthy research problems, outstanding recognition, and plenty of time to bask in the glory together.”

  John raised his beer and dipped his head, wondering if he’d promised something with his acquiescence that he couldn’t honor.

  ***

  John woke the next day stiffer and more tired than he’d been after two weeks of sleeping on the ground, even after hiking. He’d dreamt odd fragments filled with wraiths and foreboding. In one, Tamarind floated in shallow water, her arms uplifted to the sky; instead of skinny legs, a scaly, muscular mermaid’s tail undulated beneath her perky breasts. In another, Zoë crouched at the edge of a cliff overlooking the water, unblinking eyes staring at something, her black hair loose and tangled. When he tried to call out to her, she looked at him with zombie eyes, dark and devoid of life. At the same time, he saw Raimunda standing behind her, swaying and smirking. Then, as dreams tend to do, everything discernible dissolved, only to be replaced by fleeting snatches of color and emotion that left him feeling uneasy.

  He found himself alone in bed. He lay along one edge, his right arm dangling and his pillow covering his head. Lifting his face, he studied Zoë’s pillow. An irregular hollow wafted back a faint trace of spicy perfume. Her presence lingered there in some memory of density and form. He could not have relaxed into the expanse of the bed now any more than when she’d actually lain next to him. After a moment, he rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling fan in the clear early light, restless until he realized that he couldn’t hear the sound of surf or the sharp cries of seabirds. Releasing his breath at the thought, he pivoted on the bed and stood up. In the bathroom he took a piss, relishing the luxury of standing in a clean, lit bathroom first thing in the morning. He wanted to shave again—he’d already showered and shaved the night before—but he settled for brushing his teeth and washing his face. In the mirror, the dark stubble gave his face a haggard appearance.