An Ordinary Drowning, Book One of The Mermaid's Pendant (12 page)

“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 being 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.

Outside
their cottage, Zoë practiced Tae Kwon Do on a bare patch near the main
building. She’d pulled her hair back with a plain silver clip and wore a tank
top—sans bra—and black Lycra bicycle shorts. Although her face was free of
makeup, her bare feet revealed deep-red polish on the toenails. There was no
mistaking her physical strength. As John leaned against the rough stucco wall
watching, she put her well-trained body through its paces, gracefully and
forcefully lifting her legs in a variety of kicks that he’d seen knock expert
martial artists on their butts. She breathed heavily and her skin glistened.
Several minutes passed before she noticed him. When she did, she bowed toward
him before bending over to grab her sandals off the rocky ground.

John
stayed against the safety of the wall. “Morning.”

“Hey.”
She squinted at him, smiled. “Ready for breakfast?”

“Sure.”

Together,
they walked to the main building’s lobby where a continental breakfast had been
laid out on a long table. They chose several items and sat out on the patio
where they could look out over the canal while they ate.

“It’s
nice to get yogurt and coffee for a change,” John said as he sat down. “I don’t
mind sleeping at the beach, but I’m getting tired of eating peanut butter
sandwiches or dry granola for breakfast.”

“No
wonder you’re looking so skinny.” Zoë put a hand under his t-shirt and rubbed
his chest. “Do we have enough time before we need to be at the dock?” Her voice
sounded husky.

“’Fraid
not. It’s the first time all week that a rooster didn’t wake me and I slept in
a bit. We need to get going, actually.” He hoped that she couldn’t hear the
relief that threaded his voice.

“Too
bad.” She leaned over and nibbled his neck.

“Zoë,
please.” John pulled away from the fiery touch of her mouth, but he regretted
the reflex at once. He put a conciliatory hand on her forearm. “Let’s just eat
and go, okay?”

She sat
back and looked at him, frowning. His cover was blown, no doubt about it. “No
problem, chief. I guess snagging a flailing fish is much more enticing than
boning your girlfriend, who you haven’t seen in two weeks.” John winced at her
crudity.

They ate
in silence and Zoë, who finished first, stood up without waiting for John and
cleared off her dishes. John finished his coffee without hurrying. He found Zoë
a few minutes later waiting in the Samurai, her profile stormy. As if answering
her mood, it rained as they drove into Dewey—enough to wet the pavement on the
highway and lighten the air. During the brief shower, a single cloud paused as
it glided overhead and then the sky was bright, without a trace of cumulous.
Afterwards, there came renewed birdsong along the coast, vigorous and joyful
after the storm’s interruption. What had seemed dry and tired in their
surroundings only moments before was simultaneously sharper and softer, more
vivid.

By the
time they’d reached the dock and boarded their fishing boat, Zoë appeared more
relaxed than she had at the outset of their drive. John hoped that she’d let
his insult go. Several damp strands of hair, not used to being confined for
long, had escaped the silver clip and now softened the angles of her face. She
asked John to rub some sun block on her shoulders and upper back, sitting
patiently and relaxed while his hands worked it into her skin. He was required
to wait upon her to redeem himself. If fortune smiled on him, no more would be
asked of him on this outing.

It
wasn’t likely she’d handle his infidelity with such equanimity, however.

John
watched half a dozen seabirds—dark filaments against a bright sky—fly high
overhead. If he could escape into the heavens with them, would he? No. The
gravity of his conscience anchored him here, with Zoë. Once he’d managed to
tell her about Raimunda, adding the insult of an extended leave from grad
school would probably suit her just fine.

They
were met at the gangway by their captain, Captain Joe, who had the mien of a
New England lobsterman: taciturn, angular, and tanned. He didn’t look as though
he belonged on a Caribbean island skippering a boat for green-gilled
landlubbers out on a sporting cruise. John couldn’t help wondering what had
brought Captain Joe to Culebra—a cheating wife? a drinking habit? a lobster
boat lost in a storm?—but he also didn’t have any doubts that the silent
skipper would take them straightaway to the best fishing available in the
waters off the coast. Captain Joe, true to appearances, said little beyond the
necessary once all the would-be anglers had boarded: life jackets were to be
worn at all times, no one was going to risk his life trying to reel in a big
one, and he, Captain Joe, was the sole arbiter of what was and wasn’t safe on
his vessel.

Two
other couples joined them. After several minutes, it became clear to John and
Zoë that these two couples had planned their vacations together—and that
something was going on between two of them that the other two didn’t know
about. John wasn’t tuned into such things, but shortly after they’d gotten underway
Zoë poked him with her elbow and whispered in his ear to watch the furtive
manner in which the man in the baseball cap touched the dark-haired woman’s
elbow, shoulder or hip. The first time it happened, John wondered why Zoë would
think that such a small, light touch meant anything. Then he realized that the
man wearing the baseball cap seemed to be obsessed: he touched the dark-haired
woman so regularly that his actions resembled a reflex or a tic. Even still,
that wouldn’t have struck him as odd if the man hadn’t been sitting most of the
time with his arm draped around his wife’s shoulders. Watching them, John
wondered if unfaithfulness is always so obvious to outsiders.

To
John’s surprise, Captain Joe headed straight for Amberjack; he hadn’t realized
that amberjacks were a sport fish during his diving session there last week,
and he said as much to Captain Joe.

The
skipper squinted at him, his left eye nearly shut. “They ain’t too flashy, not
like a marlin or a shark, but they ain’t too easy to catch, either. Any number
of hotshot fishermen from the States come here and guffaw over what looks like
an easy catch. But the jacks, they tax your tackle and your stamina like few
other fish do. If you hook one, you’ll have the fight of your life.”

John’s
question had elicited more than Captain Joe’s usual elliptical phrases and
nonverbal grunts. He took this as a sign of the crusty old man’s respect for
the fish and not him, a “hotshot fishermen” by virtue of his origins. He didn’t
have a problem with this until Zoë, not he, won the fight with one of these
pez
fuerte
, earning a high spot in Captain Joe’s hierarchy of regard.

While
they were still underway, but not more than five hundred yards from Amberjack,
the captain baited a forty-pound test line off the stern of the Sakitumi with
some squid. When one of the other passengers asked what he was doing, he said
that the squid was leaving a downside scent, much like an erratic, wounded
baitfish on the retrieve would. With any luck, he’d snag one of the jacks and
then some of its comrades would follow it to the surface where they’d all have
a better chance of catching them with their lighter tackle.