Extinct Doesn't Mean Forever (32 page)

~~~

ROBERT J. SULLIVAN worked for an insurance company for 14 years (proving he can tolerate anything) before becoming a computer programmer in a language so obscure system recruiters have never heard of it. He has a list of interests so varied it’s easier to list what he isn’t interested in, and follows the Red Sox at a safe distance. He is an obsessive reader of science fiction, detective stories and thrillers, and is very much taken with Neal Stephenson and John Sandford. He lives in Connecticut with his wife, and has two grown children who show amazing tolerance for his behavior.

George thought Stinson’s window office would surely be his after making a momentous discovery while on holiday. When the distractions get too much, however, his wife cooks up a surprise to remind him love is always worth sacrificing for.

Distractions

by
Peter Dudley

“Remember sunscreen, George.” Not ten minutes in Bora Bora, and she’s already at me about melanoma. “You know you spend far too much time in that dungeon of yours.”

“It’s not a dungeon, Mabel. It’s my office.”

“Well, I still say it’s outrageous that the maths professors have top story windows and the ornithologists get buried in the basement. Stinson stacks his texts right in front of the window, for goodness sake, because the drapes don’t block the light enough.”

She huffs a sigh and pulls a long, taupe cloth from her suitcase, which lies open on the bed. “Oh! These control tops get wrapped around everything.”

As she extracts the threadbare hose from their stranglehold on a rumpled pair of flowered shorts, my eyes wander to the open doorway. It’s a rectangle of beautiful, nut-brown wood framing an intense blue-on-blue horizon. Mabel had insisted on the last bungalow on the pier, so we’d have some privacy. I consider dropping my shorts and enjoying our sundeck
au naturel
.

I imagine Mabel will insist that I lather Mister Floppy up with sunscreen. Or, dear Lord, she might insist on doing it for me. There are only two things in this room that sag more than her
jowls, and oh-my-god
she’s about to expose them as she changes into her swimsuit.

I rush out the door into the blinding afternoon.

“Sunscreen, George!”

The warm Pacific breeze flows over me as I flop into one of the chaise lounges and shove dark glasses over my eyes. From here we can see nothing but ocean and sky. Some
Gygis
alba
and a pair of
Fregata minor
dot the blue. But dammit I’m on holiday. From now on, they’re merely terns and frigates.

The only birds I’ll let distract me this week will be wearing thong bikinis. There are plenty of beautiful specimens in the other bungalows to help me hone my keen powers of scientific observation. Perhaps I can find a mating pair and separate them, handing the male over to Mabel for her amusement while I examine the female with minute precision.

I breathe deeply of the salt-scented air in order to loosen the knots forming in my shoulders. Years ago, before we had kids, Mabel used to make other parts of me stiff. Now, she only stiffens my neck with her constant chirping and innuendo. She bore my children, and now I suppose I’m worried that my inability to perform will bore her.

As if summoned by subconscious devilry, Mabel waddles from the hut. In a one-piece, thank God. I don’t have to scratch my eyes out. The suit’s faux new-age modern-art pattern looks like it was made from drapery stolen from a cheap motel in Leeds. At least it covers the parts that must be covered.

“Now, dear,” Mabel croons, a lime green tube clutched in her talons, “you’ve not put on sunscreen. Here. Let me do you.”

I pop up and away, out of the chair, using it as a barrier between us. “That’s all right, dear.” I must get away. Any excuse.
My mind races.
At home, I’d claim work on a paper, or the need to meet with a student after hours. Just as her hopeful coyness is darkening to a frown, I hit on it.

“Beer.
We have no beer in the bungalow, dear, and a man in this environment can’t be fully relaxed, and … well … properly lubricated, if you know what I mean, if he hasn’t had a decent pint.”

She’s unconvinced, and her expression is growing
more stormy
by the second.

“All that time in airplanes has put me in need of a brisk walk. I promise I won’t be gone long. You saw that store near the check-in. I’m sure they have something.” I slip around the chair and dart past her, back inside. She does not move.

I grab the yellow tee-shirt I’d only just removed, and as I slip it on I call to her, “Can I get you anything, love?”
A nice sedative, perhaps?
A bottle of sleeping pills?

She mumbles something I can’t make out that sounds suspiciously like
muscled young stud
.

“What’s that, love?”

“Oh, nothing.”
She’s facing away, looking out over the water. “Take your time. I’ll occupy myself.”

I try hard not to visualize her self-occupation. When we were packing, she was overly conspicuous in the way she secretly slipped a pocket “vibrating massager” into her bag. I’m glad she brought it. Means I can get my beer, take a walk on the beach, and come back to spend the evening unmolested.

“Oh, dear, before you go?”
Her voice has a bit of urgency to it.

“Um, yes?”

“You should come see this. There’s a bird out here, in the water. It looks hurt.”

“I’m on holiday, Mabel.” Let the damn fishes eat the bugger.

“But it’s looking at me, George. It wants help. Oh, do come help the poor dear.”

I sigh and stomp back out onto the deck to peer over the edge.

“It’s just a ruddy sandpiper, Mabel. They’re
supposed
to be food for something else. Let it serve its purpose in life.” As I turn, though, something stops me. “Hang on.” The words fall from my mouth unbidden as my professional mind jolts from its holiday coma.

I look back at the bird. Remove my sunglasses. Peer down at it and squint against the sun’s dazzling glitter rolling on the water.
“Can’t be.”

“Can’t be what? George? Can’t be what?”

“Help me get it,” I say. “Here, sit on my legs.” I lie on my stomach on the deck and lean out as far over the water as I dare. Mabel’s bulk settles onto my ankles and anchors me like shackles in concrete. I reach down and whisper sweet nothings to the bird, luring it closer.

I grasp it, pull it up.

My heart races.
“It is. Dear God, I think it is.” I’ll have to go look it up, though. I need an Internet connection to be sure.

“Is what? George, what is it?”

I stand up and hold the bird in trembling hands, feel its quivering heartbeat.

“Extinct,” I whisper.

“What? Of course it’s not extinct. You just said it’s a ruddy sandpiper.”

“No, no.
A Tahitian Sandpiper.
Extinct for 200 years.
Or, thought to be so, anyway.” I turn it over in my hands. It’s got an injured wing, but I believe I could mend it. “Mabel, do you know what this means?”

Her glassy stare is all the answer I need, but she says anyway, “Our holiday is ruined? It’s a working affair after all?”

“Oh, Mabel, don’t be so dour.” But she’s right. This is all the excuse I really need to keep her at bay the rest of the week. I almost can’t hide my glee. “It means publication. It means grant money. It means, in short, that this holiday has just paid for itself.”

She seems unimpressed, but I’ve got work to do. I rush the bird inside, grab a hand towel and make it a cozy nest. I set the bird gently on the dressing table, and it seems content.

“It’s hurt. I need to do some research on the Internet at the check-in. Oh! To be credited with finding a specimen like this!” I grab a wide-brimmed hat and shove it down upon my head, slip my feet into flip-flops and exit quickly.

I hurry down the long, wooden pier between the rows of huts, heading for shore. It will be magical, later, to fall asleep to the sound of the waves rolling underneath us. Most of the huts appear empty. Everyone must be at the
beach,
or parasailing or whatever it is young honeymooners do.

Only a few huts from where I am, the door slaps open. A young man, tanned and unshaven, his sunglasses not quite straight and his black hair mussed, staggers from the hut. A black rollaway suitcase clatters after him. A woman appears in the doorway, her finger pointed with malice at his chest. I can’t hear her exact words, but their meaning is not lost on the young man, or on me.

She yanks something from her own hand — ah, a wedding ring — and makes to throw it at him. He cringes — get some backbone, lad, it’s only a ring! —
but
she thinks better of it and clenches it in her hand. Must be worth a fair lot, I suppose.

The man grabs his bag in anger and stomps off toward the check-out. I continue to stroll along, hoping to get a sustained look at the beauty that just threw him to the watery curb. For a moment I consider catching up to the lad and convincing him to go let Mabel slather him with sunscreen, but he’s already had a bad enough day as it is.

The girl leans on the doorframe, turning the ring over and over in her hand.
My God
.
Her golden hair glints with heaven in the sunlight, framing her perfectly smooth, tanned skin. She wears a red bikini which uses only enough cloth to cover exactly those things that the law wants covered, exposing all the curves that want to be revealed.

My eyes soak her up. In years gone by, I’d have had to go into deep breathing to get Mister Floppy to stand down. She sniffs and wipes at her eye, then gasps a little when she notices my approach.

“Is everything all right, Miss?” I know it’s the stupidest of questions, but if I don’t talk to her she’ll scuttle back inside and shut her door. I wouldn’t mind watching her walk away, but I’m not ready for that just yet.

She sniffs again, and it’s plain to see she’s been crying. I’ve seen Mabel blubbering at her soaps, and it’s not a pretty sight. This girl weeps so delicately, with such tragic beauty, that I want only to comfort her.

Almost without realizing I’m doing it, I reach out and take her hands in mine. “There, there, love. I’m sure you’re better off without him.” Her slender fingers are velvet on my rough skin. She smells of coconut and vanilla.

She looks down at our hands and nods, a teardrop gathering on the tip of her nose, letting go and splashing to the hot wood between our feet. She turns her gaze up to mine and shows me a sad smile.

“Actually, I’ve known for quite a while.”
American.
California.
The southern part.
“We came here on our honeymoon three years ago. I thought if we came back, maybe he’d remember how in love we were, and he’d end it.” She looks down at the ring rolling slowly in her fingers. “His affair, I mean.”

I nod a sage, fatherly nod. There’s no way this bird would ever invite me into her nest, but at least I can stay close a few more minutes if I act fatherly.

She laughs a breathy giggle, tears slipping down her cheeks. She looks up at the sky. “I even bought this bathing suit hoping it would make him notice me. And make him forget all about
her
.”

My mouth has gone dry, and I keep it shut so I don’t cough out words to get me in trouble.

“But who did I see checking into her own little bungalow down the beach this morning?” Her chagrin shows in her sad smile. “You guessed it.”

“Ah, no.
He didn’t.”

She nods in reply as more tears splash to the deck.

An idea pops into my head. “Listen, love, you shouldn’t be alone right now. I know you must want to just go inside and cry for a while, but what you really need is someone to talk to.”

“Oh, you’re very kind. But really, I’m all right. I’ve known for a long time. I mean, I didn’t have much hope if I was desperate enough — foolish enough — to try to win him back with a stupid bikini, did I?” She’s about to lose it all over again.

“Oh, no, sweetheart.
You mustn’t think that way. Besides,” I say, ignoring the warning bells going off in my head, “any man who doesn’t choose this doesn’t deserve it.” I allow myself the luxury of a visual examination,
cap a pie
with a return, taking the curves slow and pausing at all the junctions.

When I meet her eyes again, they hold a hint of mischievousness and her smile has lost its sadness. My heart races as I watch her deciding how to react to this dirty old, lecherous father figure holding her hands. Oh, how much I want her to invite me inside, to take off what little she has on … but how could I? It would be the ruin of my marriage.
And for what?
We have nothing in common. She could never be with me for longer than a half hour, an hour tops. Then she’d see her error. And I can’t face someone feeling the same disgust for me that I pretend to feel for Mabel.

Mabel, for all her baggy skin and thinning hair, has aged better than a man has any right to expect. She has always loved me more than I deserved. And the way my anatomy is failing to respond to this young beauty’s touch, I realize I can no longer blame Mabel for my failures.