They had both pool and ocean at the resort, but Ed managed to find a place for his bathing suit under the bed. Unfortunately for him, they sold them downstairs in the mall, and his wife of 72 hours bought him one of a vivid, marine-blue. That first day, Ed went down to the white sand of the beach amid the cackles of the birds, and the screams of the monkeys, carrying a towel and a paperback, as if they were his sword and shield.
When he said he was ``too tired'' to go swimming, Rachel didn't put up much of a fuss. She was excited about going into the water herself. Ed snuck looks at her as she danced in the knee-high waves, arched gracefully into the turquoise water, and swam out to sea. She waved once, and called out his name; yelled about how warm, how wonderful it was. The trade wind carried her voice, and it was as if she was sitting beside him. Ed waved back, and started covering himself with sand.
Water. He hated it. In a glass, fine, preferably with ice. You had to have it to make coffee, and to keep yourself clean. They said it was necessary for Life Itself, and even more astounding, made up 97% of a person's body. But as for swimming ... didn't mankind come out of the ocean already? Crawl out once and for all, leave it behind for a far better place? Why go back?
Ed had tried to learn how to swim as a child, but once he floundered through this rite of passage, that was it. His entire adolescence involved avoiding pool parties, beach outings, and trips to the town swimming hole. However, even now, he never admitted he was unable to swim. In some irrational part of his mind, he was convinced, if he had to, if he fell out of a boat, if he fell off a dock, he could manage to save himself. This combination of fear and arrogance had kept him away from large bodies of water for most of his adult life.
By the third day of their honeymoon, Rachel was getting edgy. At first, Ed thought it was that she missed her co-workers in the purchasing department, but then realized that was a foolish thought. After all, he had been glad to escape the stockroom of the company where they both worked. He wondered if the age difference ... he had 15 years on her ... was rearing its ugly head. He had also feared ... but, that part of it had been, well, like riding a bicycle, just like they said. Perhaps a little under-inflated in front ... but, in all, the wedding night had been great. No, that wasn't it ...
``Ed?'' she said. ``Honey?'' They were down beside the pool for a change, sitting in lounge chairs under the bright sun, sipping tropical drinks endemic to the Italian West Indies, reading fat, big-print horror novels. A large, swirling rainbow of a beach ball floated over their heads. A native fiddle and ocarina band roamed in and out among the baking throng.
``Yes, Sweet?''
``Is your sunburn still bothering you?''
Ed lifted his dark glasses, and glanced down at his arms, the only flesh he dared expose. They were a vivid pink, and holding.
``It's better,'' he admitted, ``although ... ''
``And your knee,'' Rachel went on, ``the old football injury? Did that massage I gave you help?''
``Of course it did,'' said Ed, flexing his leg.
``And you can't tell me you're still being affected by jet-lag ... ''
``No, I guess ... ''
``So, why won't you come into the water with me?'' Rachel asked, her voice rising.
``Ah ... well,'' Ed said. ``I'm at a really scary part of this book ... sort of a shame to ruin the mood ... ''
``I'll say you're ruining the mood.'' Rachel stood up, and threw her sunglasses down onto her beach chair. ``Why won't you go into the water with me? Why won't you go swimming?''
It should have been easy for Ed to explain to his wife that he was scared to. The problem was, he was from the old school. You did not show any sign of weakness, and especially not to women. On your honeymoon in particular. The man had to be in charge, fearless. He supposed he would have to tell her; when, and if, he found the proper moment.
``Maybe later.'' Ed looked back to his paperback, and braced himself to be scared out of his wits.
Rachel stalked off, her bare heels pounding on the concrete. She paralleled the Olympic-size pool, somehow spotted an entrance among the splashing swimmers, and dove in. She surfaced on the far side, with a disdainful toss of her long brown hair.
Ed shuddered. He could remember the panic, every time ;f6he;f5 went underwater, as the foul wetness filled his eyes, ears, nose and mouth. The fear, the first time he had been in water over his head, flailing his legs, trying to find purchase on a bottom that was no longer there.
Deep in such thoughts, he did not notice the woman standing at the foot of his chair, until she spoke to him.
``Excuse me, is this taken?''
She was on the plump side, and young; around Rachel's age, Ed guessed, but not nearly as attractive. She had light brown hair, and was wearing a maroon, one-piece bathing suit. She held a white bathing cap in her hand. Ed looked at Rachel's sunglasses, book, towel, and flip-flops.
``Yes, my ... '' He looked, but didn't see her.
``Yes.'' The woman looked around as well. It was growing crowded; time for the ritual, late afternoon rush for drinks at the handful of bars that ringed the pool. A pair of young, tanned, North Americans were trying to find a common musical ground with the band. A fiddle player broke a string.
``I suppose you could sit here, until she ... ''
``Oh, thank you,'' the woman said, and sat down. ``We've been at the beach all day,'' she explained, ``but Benny wanted to go off the high dive a few times. Oh, there he is!'' she trilled, looking down to the far end of the pool, where such goings-on were allowed. She waved her arms wildly. ``Benny!''
The man posed on the highest platform went off backwards, spinning like a corkscrew, and knifing into the water with hardly a splash.
``Nice,'' Ed remarked. He pretended to read.
``Oh, he's a great swimmer. And he runs every day, works out. He wants to run a marathon some day.''
``Good for him,'' said Ed.
``Me, I can't stand to swim. I think I'm allergic to water or something.''
Ed's attention drifted back to the high dive, and rested on Rachel, who was standing up there, preparing herself. She went off more or less backwards as well, tucked into somersault position. She cannonballed into the water.
``It's not that I'm scared or anything,'' the young woman was saying. ``I just don't like it.''
Her name was Laura. She did most of the talking. When Rachel returned, dripping water, she had the woman's boyfriend, her Benny, alongside. For some reason, Ed wasn't surprised. They introduced themselves, had a good laugh about coincidences, and talked over drinks for an hour or so. Ed never made it back to his book.
The two couples arranged to meet later that evening for dinner, in the resort's best restaurant. Up in their room, Ed and Rachel each took a shower, then laid down for a nap. Ed couldn't sleep. He was agitated enough to take a second shower. One reason was that the woman from the couple they had just met reminded him of his ex-wife. Another reason was that he and Rachel had been saving their visit to the best restaurant on the Big Island for their last night. The warm wind billowed the drapes drawn across the open door to the balcony. The scarlet sun was sinking into the sea. Ed went back into the bathroom. In the mirror, he watched his reflection grab a fistful of flab that hung over his shorts.
He supposed he was jealous. Rachel had flirted openly with Ben ... or Benny, as he seemed to prefer. It sounded like the name of a small house pet. They had gone on about how much they had in common, not the least of which was their shared love of water. That left Ed to listen to Laura, who talked about everything else. He had tried to keep track of what Rachel was saying. Ben was handsome, he had to admit, though in a run-of-the-mill sort of way. He was young, he had a flat stomach. He had sold more processed meat in Southern Illinois than anyone else. Yes, Ed was jealous, and getting depressed.
By the time they all met that night, he was also starving. He had not eaten since breakfast. He and Rachel had taken to skipping lunch, in part for financial reasons; gorged on the free snacks the bars set out, and ate an early dinner. The food was marvelous in the Italian West Indies, especially here on Santo Prosciutto. Ed had never heard of this tropical hide-away, until he had the good fortune to read about it on the back of a matchbook. He was looking forward to the second week of the honeymoon, when they would visit the Lesser Islands, where (so the guidebooks said) garlic plants covered the hills with a pungent, brilliant green.
The restaurant had a large bar that stood inside a replica of a pirate ship, a homage to the island chain's notorious past. The dining room itself had huge windows, which looked out upon the shimmering sea. A stingy quarter moon drew a taut-wire of bright light along the waves. Mario Lanza was singing a soft ballad from hidden speakers.
``I have a surprise for us,'' announced Benny, as the four of them waited for their table. He was wearing a white suit, and a pink shirt, buttoned to mid-chest. The black curly hair sprouting out color-matched that perfectly-styled on his head. ``I've arranged for the four of us to go wind-surfing tomorrow, bright and early!''
``Oh, that's fantastic!'' Rachel said.
Laura and Ed exchanged a glance, and fell in behind the other two, as the tuxedoed maitre'd led the way. The mention of wind-surfing had shaken Ed's thoughts away from the more comforting ones of anti-pasto.
``Then I figure we can rent scuba gear,'' Benny went on after they were seated, snapping out his white linen napkin with a flourish. ``Or at least snorkle.''
``Oh definitely,'' Rachel enthused.
``I think I may get my hair done tomorrow,'' said Laura.
``What about you, Edmund?'' Benny asked.
``Ed will do,'' he said, studying the menu, on the lookout for waiters with loaded trays. He flipped out his napkin over his plaid pants.
``You're not scared of trying something new, are you Ed? You only live once you know.''
``The jury's still out on that.'' Ed said. It was bad enough to try to take on a pool-full of water, or a series of waist-high waves. When you went out to sea, you got what you deserved. Still, Ed was willing to commit to it ... let his death be their punishment ... if only they could order.
Once they did, he settled into some serious eating. Anti-pasto, two kinds; a wonderful tomato and basil salad, small meat pies, bowls of minestrone. The pasta course, with fettucine albano, and penne with clam sauce, washed down with a young, but hearty, chianti. Then an order of lasagna, which was the size of a small footstool. Long sticks of marvelous, hot, Italian bread, laced with garlic and butter. The first time Ed slowed up, he realized everyone else had put their forks down.
``Really Ed, don't you think you've had enough?'' Rachel asked.
``Should we get the eggplant stuffed, or roasted?'' he asked, to no one in particular. ``I still want to try the fried calamari. The guidebook said ... ''
``Squid?'' said Laura, making a face.
``You're not afraid of trying something new, are you?'' Ed countered.
``Going to be needing a ;f6strong;f5 breeze tomorrow,'' Benny said, nodding at Ed's plate. ``If you decide to come along, that is.''
``Are you going to finish those meatballs?'' Ed said to his wife, spearing one with his fork before she could answer.
``Ed, what the hell is the matter with you!'' she shouted.
Their corner of the dining room fell silent. The sing-song dialects from the nearby kitchen were audible over the clinking silverware. A couple at the next table, second honeymooners, paused in mid-toast, water glasses raised. The three people Ed was sitting with seemed to him to be total strangers.
``Why are you eating so much?'' Rachel said.
``Because,'' Ed said, ``I'm good at it.'
Rachel took her plate, which was half-full, and slid it angrily over to him, bunching up the white tablecloth. She stood up, and Laura did too. Rachel stalked off, and Laura followed.
Too much oregano,'' Ed said after a moment. ``Always gives her trouble.''
Benny was staring at Ed as if he was some sort of strange sea creature. Tasty perhaps, but ugly.
Ed considered the spread of food still before him. It was all lukewarm by now, but that didn't matter. He signaled to a waiter for more grated Parmesan, and when it arrived, asked for more wine. He dove into the food that Rachel had graciously shoved his way.
``You can really pack it away,'' Benny said with a smirk. ``I really admire ... ''
``Shut up,'' Ed said. He was surprised at the easy combination of calm and anger that flowed through him.
``Really, fella, no need to ... ''
Ed pointed his fork at the younger man, right at his hairy chest. ``I'm going to be very frank with you Benny, because when I get through you're going to get up, and take a walk. Stay away from my wife. That's all. Stay away. The first woman I was married to became infatuated with some guy, some joy boy who thought life was a chance to show off. We're on our honeymoon. And I'm telling you to stay away from my wife.''
Benny snorted.
There was something about his smile. ``I'm scared to swim,'' Ed said.
People around the dining room were talking again. Benny looked at him for what seemed a long time. He shrugged, and took some money out of his wallet, put down the bills beside the centerpiece on the table. Ed didn't look at him, as he got up, and walked away.
For the first time, the fork felt heavy in his hand. He considered the broad shoulders of his white-suited rival, as the other man left the restaurant. Ed had probably just boosted his ego up another notch.
He was sure Rachel would come back. He began to pick at the food she had left, and then, slowly, deliberately, started to eat.
Food and water. Ed was getting tripped up by the basics of Life Itself. If there was any consolation, it was the sudden thought that came to him: You couldn't go swimming until an hour after eating. Yes, everyone knew that.
Rejuvenated, Ed tried to salvage something from the debris of the unfinished meal. He ignored the looks from the tables around him, brought all the plates closer. Like a man in a crowded auction house with his own code, he signaled to a waiter.
Maybe he just wouldn't stop.
Jon Fain graduated from Bard College in 1978. Since then, he's
had fiction published in magazines ranging from sex rags like
CAVALIER, and THE BEST OF GENT, to small publications like OAK
SQUARE, and QUIXOTE (pending). Living in Chicopee, MA, he adds
about his newly acquired hometown ``Chicopee is host to the World
Kielbasa Festival each year, although this is not the
reason we moved here. Each year at the Festival, a `King
Kielbasa' is crowned. Every year, they try to produce a greater
monarch. This year's lord topped the scales at over 400 pounds.''
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