Ode to a Fish Sandwich (2 page)

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THE DOCTOR LOOKED out an open window as the bus wound around the island’s southern perimeter, hugging the rocky shoreline. It was his first trip to the Caribbean, and the lush tropical landscape struck him as utterly foreign. It was completely different from that of his high desert home.

During the plane ride south, he’d read an excerpt about the island in a guidebook he’d picked up at the airport. Other than that short paragraph, he knew very little about his destination.

His fiancé had handled all the details for their ill-fated honeymoon. He had been left holding the airline tickets and the room reservations when she abruptly called off the wedding forty-eight hours earlier.

Shifting in his seat, the doctor peered anxiously over the heads of his fellow passengers and through the front windshield at the road ahead.

He wasn’t sure what he would find at the end of the day’s journey.

~

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, the vehicle cut inland through an overgrown sugarcane field, the last curving stretch of road leading to the resort’s front gates.

After the security guards waved them through, the bus drove to the end of a Tiki-torch-lined drive, stopped in front of a pitched-roof lodge, and disgorged its passengers.

Fumbling with his umbrella, the dermatologist was the last guest to disembark. By the time he made it inside the lodge, the reception area was packed to full capacity. He wiped his flushed face with a handkerchief and stared up at the fans mounted onto the elevated ceiling. The slow-turning blades barely made a dent in the stuffy heat.

Waving his hat back and forth, the doctor waited patiently at the end of the check-in line, watching as, two by two, the couples were each greeted and given their room keys.

“I’m booked under Jones,” he said with relief when he at last reached the desk. By now familiar with the check-in process, he pulled out his wallet and removed his ID. “Dr. Walcott Jones.”

The clerk typed the information into her computer. Then she looked up from the screen.

“It says the reservation is for two people,” she said, a question in her voice. “Will your wife be joining you later?”

“No,” he replied, his face blushing with embarrassment. “My fiancé…she, uh, decided not to come.” He gulped and added a painful clarification. “My former fiancé, that is. She also decided not to marry me.”

“Oh,” the clerk said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

She gazed sympathetically at the demure man standing on the opposite side of the counter.

He was of medium build and average stature, pleasant-looking but not overly polished in the showy manner of most of the resort’s guests. His curly brown hair had been clipped short to the scalp in a low maintenance, no-nonsense fashion. His wire-rim glasses had slid comically down his nose, the frames slipping from the sweat coating his face.

He was a nice enough fellow, she concluded, but she could see how the fiancé might have had second thoughts about making a lifetime commitment.

“So you’re here by yourself?” she asked politely.

The doctor gripped the brim of his floppy hat and nodded meekly.

“It’s a
couples
resort,” she said delicately. “Are you sure you want to stay for the whole week?”

His mouth flattened into a determined grimace. He had come this far without his runaway bride; he wasn’t about to turn back now.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she sighed, relenting. “Welcome to our island, Dr. Jones.”

~

THE DOCTOR MADE a brief stop by his room to freshen up and drop off his bags. Then he set out to explore the resort, desperately hoping to find a place to cool off.

He headed first for the swimming pools.

Elaborate concrete structures of varying size and depth were spread across the resort grounds, many featuring waterfalls and fountains. But after a few minutes at each one, he quickly left.

For a man who had devoted his life to the study of melanoma, it was difficult to ignore the resort’s ubiquitous sun worshippers, baring their unprotected skin with reckless abandon. Everywhere he turned, it seemed, he saw instances of potentially precancerous moles and other disconcerting brown splotches, all of them pulsing under the sun.

He approached one woman to point out a dangerous-looking freckle on her left shoulder, but her body-builder-sized boyfriend stepped between them and, with a menacing stare, rebuked his advance.

After several near-altercations and a few threats of bodily harm, Dr. Jones eventually found his way to the resort’s man-made beach.

The shoreline and the surrounding bay had been cleared of the boulders that dotted the island, remnants from the volcano’s last temper tantrum that took place about a century earlier. Additional excavation had deepened a channel next to a short dock to provide access for a small fleet of sailing vessels that the resort used to take guests out on day trips.

Like the swimming pools, the beach too was crowded with scantily clad sunbathers. Stepping gingerly through the rows of carcinoma-facilitating lounge chairs, the doctor forged a path to the beach and waded into the bay. He edged past a number of anchored rafts and swam toward an open area farther from the shore, blissfully devoid of the resort’s other guests.

Finally
, he thought as he gazed out at the open sea,
a bikini-free vista
.

But even this semi-isolated spot had its drawbacks. The nearby human activity had scared away all the fish—at least as far as he could tell. The resort’s channel dredging efforts had left the water slightly turbid, and the waves pushed a constant influx of carved-out sediment back toward the beach. He could see only two to three feet below the surface. Beyond that, the liquid blue transitioned into a murky gloom.

With a disappointed shrug, the doctor flipped over onto his back. At least the swim would cool him off.

“Ah,” he sighed as the salt water cushioned his body. “Maybe it wasn’t a mistake to come down here on my own after all.”

A relaxed sensation swept over him, and the tension of the last few days began to seep away.

Closing his eyes, he did his best to forget about the missing Mrs. Jones.

~

FORTY FEET AWAY at the edge of the beach, the lifeguard on duty smiled down from his tower at a top-heavy woman in a gravity-defying bikini. Her significant other had gone to one of the resort’s food kiosks to pick up a couple of beers and a plate of nachos, leaving his missus unattended while she frolicked in the water.

Seemingly unconcerned about the woman’s potential skin cancer risks, the lifeguard adjusted the bridge of his sunglasses, trying to optimize his view—until a shout of alarm disrupted his ogling session.

With effort, he shook off the distraction and lifted his gaze.

The lifeguard quickly scanned the designated swimming area, his heart jumping at the sight of an immobile figure floating at the edge of the bay.

The victim wore a long-sleeved shirt and pants. A floppy canvas hat covered the person’s face, making it difficult to ascertain his condition, but there were no obvious signs that he was conscious or breathing.

Panicked, the lifeguard leaped from his stand and dove into the water. With his red rescue buoy slung over his shoulder, he raced into the sea, charging at full speed toward the dermatologist’s position.

His ears partially submerged, Dr. Jones didn’t hear the gasps from the other guests or the lifeguard’s incoming splash. Nor did he see the guard’s approaching figure, as his eyes were still restfully closed beneath the hat, where there was just enough stiffness in the canvas fabric to form a tent over his nose.

The rescue attempt took him completely by surprise.  

Winded from the sprint across the bay, the lifeguard reached for the victim’s closest available appendage. In his fatigue, he missed the doctor’s arm, catching only the wet shirtsleeve.

Awakened from his peaceful repose by the fear of an imminent shark attack, the doctor moved instinctively to defend himself. His arms flew into the air as his legs kicked through the water, trying to ward off the hungry beast. One hand inadvertently hooked the rescue buoy’s rope, jerking it upward, beaning the lifeguard on the chin.

Realizing that the swimmer was both conscious and very much alive, the lifeguard tried to extract himself from the fray, in the process snagging the tail of the doctor’s bobbing shirt.

With a series of snapping
pops
, the buttons ripped from the fabric, exposing the doctor’s blinding white stomach.

Both men nearly drowned before coming face to gasping face in the frothy water, just as reinforcements arrived to pull them apart.

~

THE LIFEGUARD RECOUNTED the story to Winnie at the diner later that night.

“There he was, drifting toward the edge of the bay, completely clothed,” the lifeguard said, ruefully massaging his sore chin. “Floating like a corpse.”

He took a bite of his fish sandwich, chewed it slowly, and then washed it down with a slug of rum punch.

“I’ve never seen skin that pale,” he said with a shudder. “It was zombie flesh.”

He downed the rest of the drink in a single gulp and then grimaced—a reflection on his next comment, not the rum. “He told me he’s a dermatologist and that I should be wearing more sunscreen while on duty.”

“What’s this man’s name again?” Winnie asked, arching a suspicious eyebrow as she refilled the guard’s plastic cup.

“Dr. Walcott Emerson Jones,” the guard replied sourly. Then he added a clarification.

“But we all call him White Wally.”

LYING IN BED the next morning, Dr. Jones stared up at the ceiling of his honeymoon suite, trying to clear his sinuses. He was still waterlogged from the unfortunate incident at the resort’s beach the afternoon before.

His damp clothes were draped across the room’s bamboo furniture. His floppy canvas hat—salvaged from the bottom of the bay by a helpful snorkeler—hung from one of the tall posts built into the bedframe.

“What am I doing here?” he moaned wearily.

It had been an impulsive decision to come to the Caribbean by himself, most unlike his reserved persona. And yet, here he was on the vacation planned by his fickle fiancé, in the premium honeymoon suite she’d selected.

With a sad sigh, he lifted himself into a sitting position and swung his legs to the floor.

His bare feet landed on a layer of rose petals.

The ruby red decoration had been scattered across every horizontal surface, including the bed, the floor, and the dresser countertops. A petal trail led through the door into the expansive marble bathroom, right up to a jetted Jacuzzi tub ringed with scented candles.

The romantic layout explained why, despite the suite’s air-conditioned comfort, he had left the room as soon as he dropped off his bags the previous day. After the long plane ride belted in next to his fiancé’s empty first class seat, the rose petals had been simply too much to face.

Still perched on the edge of the bed, Dr. Jones looked out at the sea view balcony and the small table and chairs positioned just inside the sliding glass doors.

An ice bucket of champagne and a bowl filled with strawberries had been waiting on the center of the table when he arrived. The bucket’s ice was now melted. The bottle remained unopened, the berries untouched.

The check-in clerk had been right, he thought as he lumbered from the bed and began rummaging through his luggage for a set of dry clothes.

This place was depressing.

~

TEN MINUTES LATER, Dr. Jones strapped on his soggy hat, grabbed his umbrella, and hurried out the honeymoon suite, leaving behind the rose petals, the champagne, and the strawberries—if not the memory of his former fiancé.

As he waited in line at the front desk to request a smaller, less extravagant room, his thoughts remained hopelessly snared on the woman who had spurned him at the altar.

An impulsive sun-loving spirit with vibrant red hair and a flair for the dramatic, Brenda was the most flirtatious patient he’d ever encountered. He’d never been able to figure out what the woman saw in him. They were polar opposites: she, a freckled dreamer with a careless disregard for UV rays, and he a dogged realist with his feet planted firmly on the ground, a tube of sunscreen always at the ready.

He had been a fool to think their courtship might last. In truth, he wasn’t altogether surprised when she bailed the morning of the wedding.

A part of him had always known that she wouldn’t go through with the nuptials, even on the blissful night six months earlier when she’d accepted his proposal.

He’d set his sights far beyond his reach and been burned in the process.

Next time, if indeed, there ever was a next time, he vowed to set far more realistic goals.

~

WITH THIS PRAGMATIC mindset firmly in place and having secured a promise from the desk clerk to move his belongings to another room, Dr. Jones set off on a new exploration of the resort grounds—carefully avoiding both the beach and the swimming pool areas.

It didn’t take him long to cover the remaining acreage.

He quickly circled the trails behind the resort’s spa buildings; then he stopped to peer curiously through the chain-link fence surrounding the tennis courts.

The courts were well maintained, with seams of caulk patching the inevitable cracks that had formed in the concrete, but he had no interest in the game. And besides, he reasoned, the odds of finding a partner were slim.

He took a seat at a shaded wooden bench and frowned. It was only mid-morning on his first full day at the resort, and he had already exhausted all potential forms of entertainment.

He couldn’t help thinking that he wouldn’t have enjoyed his stay on the property, even if he had been accompanied by his flame-headed fiancé.

Pondering his dilemma, he gazed at the greenery flanking his seat.

A fleet of gardeners kept the place nicely groomed. Any straying fronds were neatly pushed back from the asphalt-covered walkway. Every flower and fern was kept trimmed to perfect presentation.