John smiled but refrained from caressing the calf that skimmed his left thigh. A wave of nausea swept through him at the thought.
“I must decline out of concern for your safety. And mine, I’m afraid.” He tried to smile and grimaced instead. “My girlfriend has spent years learning how to kick the shit out of any bastard who tries to hurt her. I’ve already earned a serious ass-kicking as it is.”
“Ah.” Raimunda toyed with the label on her beer bottle. “Perhaps she’s not the best woman for you, my friend.”
John scowled and gulped too big a mouthful of beer. Choking a little on the effervescence, he felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. For the first time since he’d nearly drowned in the canal, he felt his environment shrink around him. Señorita’s pastel-pink, green, and yellow walls loomed over him. Sweat slicked his palms, his shirt stuck to his armpits, and his face grew hot.
Raimunda squinted at him but said nothing. She swilled the remnants of her beer without taking her eyes off of him. After what seemed like half an hour but must have only been a minute, the walls receded and the breeze from the overhead fan dried John. A chill streaked up and down his spine and faded away. John leaned his forehead into his left hand, which was propped up by his elbow on the tabletop.
“You must be careful when you drink your beer.”
“Yes. No. I mean, that was more than a careless swig. I felt like the walls had shrunk around me so much that I was suffocating. I couldn’t breathe for a moment.”
“Your girlfriend must have quite some hold on you, my friend.” How had he never noticed how feral her grin seemed? Her teeth, small and sharp, gleamed in the dull restaurant.
John closed his eyes, willing her to go away. She didn’t.
“Look, you don’t know me. I’d rather not discuss my girlfriend with you.”
Raimunda pulled her feet down from the chair and leaned forward until her face came within inches of his, still propped in his hand.
“I know what your mouth tastes like. I know what your hands feel like on my body. I know what you feel like inside me.” She paused and held his gaze with her own. “I know what desperation feels like, gringo. Desperation and escape.”
She stood up. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave you to your misery, my friend.”
John watched as she turned, her hair thick on her shoulders. In the dim light of the restaurant, her skirt glowed. He couldn’t take his eyes off her hips as they swayed up the stairs and out into the Culebra sunlight.
***
Zoë’s head ached after so much sun and wind on the Sakitumi and she suspected that her sun block had either worn off or that John had applied it haphazardly. After leaving him outside the Dockside, she headed straight for Mayte’s supermarket—shaking her head at the generous use of the term “super”—to look for water, Tylenol, and Aloe Vera lotion. She bought a bottle of water, but after drinking some of it, she wished that she’d purchased a Diet Coke instead. Studying the label, she saw that it wasn’t spring water at all but distilled water. It tasted awful, like salty dishwater.
She left Mayte’s and headed southwest toward the ferry dock and the lowering sun. Along the way, she passed Dewey’s two churches, one Methodist, the other Catholic. A red rooster bobbed ahead and across the street from her, proudly leading several smaller hens to some unfathomable destination downtown. As she got closer to the intersection with the road in front of the ferry dock, she noticed a brightly painted figure leaning against a tree. Not having seen any other local art, she paused and studied it. The figure’s staring eyes unnerved her and she wondered if Culebra had any practitioners of Santeria or voodoo. On a nearby abandoned building someone had spray painted the words Culebra para los Culebrenses. Together, the figure and words presaged some eruption of cruelty or of violence against interlopers. She shivered and hurried away toward the bright plaza.
Zoë passed the island’s tiny post office and a Chinese restaurant on her left. Both appeared deserted, exacerbating her foreboding. Ahead, the pink and gray concrete blazed. A solitary figure sat under a tree on the small plaza. As Zoë got closer, she saw that it was a wizened old woman who sat on a mat or blanket. Dozens of small bottles and bags lay in neat rows before her. The old woman’s head nodded and her hands lay loose in her lap. Napping. Which made a lot of sense in this stultifying heat.
Ignoring the cool lure of the seawater near the dock, Zoë turned away from the withered form. A heat vise clamped around her forehead and temples. If she didn’t find an open, air-conditioned shop along this stretch of downtown waterfront, she’d have to head to the liquor store at the far end of the street and hope that the owner wouldn’t throw her out for loitering. A door opened ahead of her with a jingle and she drew close enough to see a line drawing of a mermaid and the words “The Mermaid’s Purse” on a sign protruding from the storefront. Sighing, she picked up her pace and reached the door panting.
Inside, air conditioning took the edge off the swelter but disappointed Zoë’s hopes. Scowling, she barely returned the owner’s greeting and drifted over to the far corner of the shop to pretend to study the cotton batik dresses until her headache abated.
“You’d look good in the red or the blue,” the owner, a deeply tanned, champagne blonde, called. “Although I think the red is more dramatic.”
Zoë lifted the colorful fabric away from the hanger and studied it. “I don’t know. I wear a lot of black.”
The woman came out from behind her desk and walked over to the rack where she folded her arms and appraised Zoë.
“Black is good, but red is bold, especially this color of red. It’s flamboyan red. You’re too early to see the blossoms of the flamboyan tree, but they’re unmistakable. Try it on and see how it makes you feel.”
Zoë accepted the dress and headed to the single, closet-like dressing room in the back. She thanked her lucky stars that her skin had dried and didn’t stick to the cotton. The material draped nicely along her hips and the camisole fit well, not too loose along the seams and not too tight across the bust. The dressing room lacked a mirror so she stepped out into the store. The woman waited for her.
“Sweet Mother! You look fantastic!”
Zoë smoothed the skirt. “You think so? Or are you just trying to sell me a dress?”
“Well, sure, I’m trying to sell you a dress. But I don’t need to lie to you. I’d kill to look like that in one of those dresses. You buy that, and you’ll be the best advertising I could get. Just to show you how happy I am to see someone look so good in one of my dresses, I’ll take twenty-five percent off.”
Zoë laughed. “Okay, okay! You sold me. I just hope you’re not feeding me a line….”
She kept the dress on and paid for it along with three turquoise and lime t-shirts emblazoned with a mermaid. When she stepped out into the plaza again, she scarcely noticed the heat that accosted her. The solitary figure no longer napped on the plaza but stared at Zoë, who felt a tingle. Was it curiosity? Whatever it was, it compelled her toward the figure. As she approached, the woman’s face clarified within her crazy white hair and crumpled skin. She peered at Zoë, who saw that a milky cloud swirled over her left iris. She was half-blind then, and harmless.
“What’s all this?”
The woman shrugged. “Just some tinctures for stomachache or headache or diarrhea.”
“Are you some kind of folk healer?”
The woman grinned, showing small, even teeth. “You might say so. Sometimes I heal other things, like broken hearts.”
“Really?” Zoë stepped forward a single step and then stopped. “Good grief! What am I doing? The Caribbean sun must have fried my brains good.” She turned to go.
“Ah, a skeptic. I just thought a woman who wore such a vivid color might take a chance for the right man.”
Zoë turned back. She stood looking down at the herbal remedies, trying to discern whether any of the bottles or bags held any merit. Nothing appeared especially enticing to her inexpert eyes.
“Is he here on Culebra with you?”
“Who? Oh, yes. ‘The right man.’ Yes, he’s here.”
“That dress is sure to get his attention.”
“I sure hope so. Being away from me for two weeks sure hasn’t whet his appetite any.”
The old woman sat up and stared at Zoë, her blue eye intent. “Perhaps it’s another woman.”
Zoë, who had been idly rubbing a small glass bottle in front of her, blinked. “Another woman?”
“Here.” The old woman picked up a green glass bottle in the shape of a tiny flask, slid it into Zoë’s limp palm and pressed her fingers closed with both hands. “Just a drop of this will spike his lust for you and drive away all thoughts of other women.”
Zoë murmured something without being sure whether she said thanks or if she muttered nonsense. A fierce headache swelled and the next few minutes grew confused. She didn’t know whether a heat haze blurred her vision or whether sun block got into her eyes, creating a film over her sight. She clutched the bottle to her chest and whirled away from the old cretin. Scurrying across the street, she wasn’t aware of her steps or her surroundings. A cloud passed overhead, dimming her vision. Her heartbeat fluttered against her ribs. Almost as quickly as the cloud appeared, it scuttled away again and Zoë plunged down the street away from the plaza. She no longer felt the old woman’s piercing gaze on her back and her heart settled into its usual rhythm. She held her hand open in front of her.
“Fucking garbage.”
She looked around for a trashcan but saw none nearby. For a moment she considered smashing the bottle against the side of the nearest building, but then she caught sight of the painted figure and realized that she hadn’t paid for the promised aphrodisiac. Just thinking about returning to pay the creepy old witch made her shudder. She looked again at the innocuous little bottle and then hid it in the pocket of her skirt.
When she descended into Señorita’s colorful cave, she stopped at the bottom of the stairs to let her eyes adjust. At first, she didn’t see John because she thought he’d be waiting at the bar, but only Hemingway’s double sat there drowsing over an empty pint glass. She finally saw John sitting at a table in a dark corner. He stared out toward the small canal on the far side of the restaurant and his forearms rested on the table. A full glass of beer stood untouched in front of him. When she walked over to stand at his side, he didn’t stir.
“Is this seat taken?”
“What?” He looked at her. Catching her eye, he looked away quickly but not before she’d seen something there. Fear? Guilt? “Uh, no.”
She slid into the seat. “You’re on your fourth beer already? Drinking alone is a bad sign.”
John refused to look at her. “I haven’t even touched this one.”
“I see that.” Zoë picked it up and sipped it. “What is it?”
“A Heineken. They don’t have any microbrews around here.”
“Ugh. How can you drink so much of it?”
He shrugged. “It beats the water.”
She sighed and stretched her legs under the table. “That’s true. I bought a bottle of something euphemistically called water earlier and gagged on it.”
Silence fell between them while the waitress came at last to collect the empty glasses and take Zoë’s drink order.
“Did you get enough souvenirs?” John watched his hands playing with his Heineken bottle. As if nothing else mattered.
“Just a few t-shirts.” She held up the bag. “And this fabulous dress.” She winced at the bitterness in her voice. He still hadn’t looked her in the eye. “John.”
Now he looked up at her. His green eyes were opaque in the dim light.
“John, I–” She paused. “Is something wrong? You don’t seem as relaxed as I expected for two weeks away from the gray skies of Pittsburgh and the dungeon we lovingly call our office building.”
He seemed to struggle with focusing on her words. His lips worked a bit before he got an answer out. “There’s nothing wrong. I’m just really wiped out from the boat ride. I can’t believe you’ve got enough stamina to traipse around to gift shops after that struggle with the amberjack.”
“I do feel like I’m hung over. Another reason to avoid this.” She tipped the beer glass slightly, studying the amber liquid, which glowed in the dimness. She couldn’t bring herself to push harder, not here. Not now. Maybe later, when they were alone.
“Well, tank up on some bottled spring water here and then let’s head back to the room. Maybe a nap is in order. I’ve got just the island hangout for tonight.”
Eight
Tamarind waited until Black Urchin walked away from the old woman before she shifted her cloaking glamour to the aspect that she’d worn for John. When she felt certain that no one else ventured out during the heat of the afternoon, she sidled over to the woman, who busied herself with wrapping her sundry bottles and tins into the woven mat. Tamarind watched the efficient brown arms, little more than bone and sinew, as they scuttled around. She knew that the old woman kept her waiting.
“You’re an idiot, young one.” The old woman didn’t raise her eyes from her task.
Tamarind flinched but said nothing.
“I told you to stay away from that man, that he’s dangerous. His woman is on the island.”
Tamarind’s glamour wavered, but she clamped down on her control.
“His woman?”
Now the ancient woman did look at her. She put a hand-rolled clove cigarette into her mouth and then lit it. After a moment, fragrant smoke clouded the air between them. “The term is ‘girlfriend.’ That was her in the red dress.”
Tamarind bit her lip. “That was his girlfriend?”
“Yup.”
“She’s as prickly as a long-spined urchin.”
The old woman barked a laugh. “For one so foolish, your description’s apt. Nevertheless, he’s leaving the island with her.”
Tamarind tossed her head. “No, he’s not.”
The old woman looked at her for a long moment. “Ah, you know something.”
“Perhaps.”
“He’s coming back to Culebra, isn’t he?”
The wind off the sound surged through the spirals of Tamarind’s hair, blocking her vision in a tangle of fine copper.
“Yes. He says he wants to volunteer to count sea-turtle eggs.”
“And you want to try winning his heart, don’t you? It’s not enough for you to sneak around on the island after I warned you. Now you want me to help you. Help you keep those lovely legs of yours?” The old woman blew scented smoke out of the corner of her mouth.
“Yes.”
“There is a way to put off your tail. But it’s dangerous and painful, not to be done on a whim. Your father won’t let you do it if he finds out.”
“He’s not going to find out.”
The old woman sucked on her clove cigarette again. Its scented smoke obscured her withered face, but Tamarind felt the sting of her barbed gaze.
“You’ll put your tail off, but you don’t really understand what it’ll cost you.” She paused but went on again before Tamarind could say anything. “It’s a terrible transformation, young one. You may die or worse—you may live but be horribly disfigured, neither mermaid nor human. Are you ready for that?”
A chill tickled Tamarind’s chest, but she nodded.
“It won’t be enough, you know. It takes more than legs. You’ve got to learn how to walk among humans. Are you really willing to give up all that being a mermaid means? For some man?”
“Yes.”
The old woman threw the cigarette stub on the ground and pressed it into the earth with a calloused sole. “I don’t think you’ve got it in you to make it as a human.”
There was a long silence. Laughing gulls mocked them from the fringe of mangrove trees along the nearby coastline. Tamarind studied the birds.
“You won’t help me then?”
The old woman sighed and then turned back to her bundle. �
�I’ve warned you, but you’re the one who has to choose, not me. I’ll help you, but my help doesn’t come without a price.”
“What do you want? Cone snails? Jellyfish? Sea anemone? ”
“Ha! Those are hardly enough for my help. No. You’ve got to be my servant and work off the debt until the rainy season ends.”
Before Tamarind could accept these terms, the old woman spoke one last time.
“And your legs disappear, too, unless you mate with this human. That’s why I want you to search your heart to make sure he’s worth all you’re risking. If so, return to me after the first rain.”
***
Tamarind wandered as far inland as the power she drew from the sea allowed her. With each step, the air around her threatened to suck moisture from her core and out through her pores. Each breath she drew seared her throat and lungs. After only a few dozen steps her head ached and her thoughts swam inside her head. She collapsed on the sidewalk under a flamboyan tree, wondering how she ever thought that she could sustain herself long enough to find John. Culebra might be a small island for a mermaid to swim around, but it might as well be a trip to the other side of the world for her to cross by land.
She looked up into staring eyes in the flamboyan tree behind her. In the space between two breaths, she switched to her cloaking glamour. When her heart calmed down a bit, she realized that the eyes and face belonged to a painted figure. The resemblance to mer art left at particular underwater meeting places reassured her. While she rested, she examined the distinctive dot pattern and wide mouth, the sightless eyes. Just as she began to hum to herself—a low, even hum devoid of clicking—she realized that someone had passed her on the sidewalk on the way to the plaza. She turned her head in time to see John pause and look around him, his eyebrows drawn together under a cap. When his gaze swept past her and moved around to the other side of the street, she switched aspects again.
“John.”
He jumped. “Good grief, Tamarind! How in the world do you keep sneaking up on me like that?” He sounded annoyed. And something else that she wasn’t sure about.
An Ordinary Drowning, Book One of The Mermaid's Pendant Page 10