Hard Exit, page 6
I slid into the water, which had ten degrees or so to go before it reached its late-summer high, but the brisk bite felt good. I reached up and released the dive light from the hook that secured it to the back of the boat. I flipped the light on.
“You want the flashlight?”
He shook his head. “Just dive.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
I held onto the boat with my left hand. The light dangled from its cord on my left wrist, and I held the spear gun in my right hand. I pulled the mask on, took a deep breath, pushed away from the boat, jackknifed, then kicked hard as I descended. The tunnel of light spread out in a cone, diffusing at about fifteen feet. The visibility was fairly good for Victoria Point, and it felt great to be doing something that required specific thoughts. I followed the undulating copper-colored stalks of kelp downward, equalizing the pressure by pinching my nose, and blowing until my ears popped. The cold increased dramatically every few feet. I saw a cloud of tiny baitfish scatter when my light hit it.
I spun gently in a circle, saw a large calico bass about fifteen feet below me at the edge of the cone of light, moving slowly. I aimed the spear tip two inches in front of the fish’s head. I pulled the trigger, and the spear shot through the gills, the line playing off the gun. The calico swam hard to the left, heading for the kelp. I pumped my fins, trying to reach the surface, trailing the gun, the extended line, and the bleeding fish behind me. I hit the surface and gulped air.
“Shit,” Game said. “Made me jump.”
“Sorry. Couldn’t telegraph my arrival. Got one. About a five-pound calico.” I treaded water and pulled the line up from underneath me, panting. When the top end of the spear hit my hand, I grabbed it and hoisted the fish on the other end out of the water. I swam toward the boat, holding the fish high because I had forgotten to bring a net. “We’ll have it for breakfast.”
I reached the boat, handed the light to Game, and asked him to shine it on the back hatch. He carefully twisted around, shined the light, and saw the fish.
“That gun tight. You nail a fish like that through and through in what, thirty seconds?”
I banged the fish’s head hard against the boat, worked the spear tip back through the gills, and slipped my left hand into them so I could stuff the fish into the hold. I secured the hatch and battened down the gear.
“Could I shoot that gun?”
“Think you could say please?” I put my hands on the rail and carefully hoisted myself into the boat.
“Man, we going there? What, I gotta wash your car next?”
I settled into my seat. “Politeness and subservience are the same to you?”
“Just saying fellas don’t say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ when it’s just them.”
“Careful, because certain people might interpret that as a declaration of friendship.”
I stuck the butt of the gun in my gut, pulled back the first band until it popped into the groove, and did the same with the second.
I tapped him on the shoulder with the barrel of the speargun. He grabbed it and maneuvered the gun in front of him slowly.
“Anything I gotta know?” He put his finger on the trigger and raised the butt of the gun to his shoulder.
“It has a big kick, so be—”
A huge splash sounded just off starboard, startling Game. He shouted and jostled the trigger, and the spear shot into the front of the boat, piercing the plastic near the handle with a loud squeak. The rear of the shaft pointed back at us.
“You okay?”
“Shit. I messed up your boat. My bad.”
“It’ll be fine. You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’m good. Just jumped.”
“A sea lion checking us out,” I said, swinging my legs off the side of the boat and slipping into the water. I swam to the front. The point of the spear had pierced the top layer, poked through an inch or so of the front hold, and punched through the upsweep of the hull, the tip of the spear sticking out two inches. It looked like a macabre hood ornament. We wouldn’t have a problem getting to shore because the seal looked to be watertight. And even if it weren’t, we could make it to shore without being swamped. I removed the line that connected the spear to the gun. I unscrewed the spear tip and put it in my pocket, leaving just the shaft sticking through the front of the kayak.
The next morning, I’d visit Big Bill Watson, the inventor of the Wave Skimmer.
CHAPTER EIGHT
After stowing the gear and throwing the fish in the sink, I went downstairs, gave Game a towel, brought him sheets, a blanket, and a pillow, and told him where the snacks were. I examined his wounded shoulder, put antibiotic ointment on it, and refreshed the gauze and tape.
“If you want to use the Jacuzzi, pull the cover on when you’re finished. Need anything?”
“I’m cool.”
“Amanda will probably sleep late. Have a good night.”
I turned to leave, but he said, “You doing this for your friend—and that righteous—but something else going on. I think you doing this more for you than me.”
I waited to see if he had anything else to say. He paused for about five seconds, then said, “You got some dark places inside you, bro.”
“Goodnight, Game.” I closed the door and headed upstairs. I went through the great room and into the garage. I opened one of the three garage doors, pulled the BMW in, closed the door, then popped the hoods and pulled the rotors from the distributor caps on the BMW, the Land Rover, and the classic Porsche 911. I stuffed the rotors in the closet with my tools, shut the closet, and locked it. I used Kryptonite locks to secure the front wheels to the frames of Amanda’s and my bikes. If Game could make a grand getaway in a kayak, more power to him.
I went upstairs to our room, walked quietly past the sleeping movie star, showered, dried off, and pulled on a pair of well-worn UCLA basketball shorts and a t-shirt.
I went to the kitchen sink, pulled a filet knife from the rack, and lifted the fish onto the cutting board built into the ecru-colored Italian-marble countertop. I filleted the fish as I had hundreds before, rinsed the fillets, put them in a large Ziploc bag, and set it in the refrigerator. I cleaned up and washed my hands three times with fresh lemon juice to remove the fish smell.
It was a little past 1 a.m., but I knew I shouldn’t bother to try to sleep. I’d already tired myself out physically, with two kayaking sessions that day, as well as the interlude with Amanda. I could read, which usually settled my mind enough to let me feel that life is occasionally worthwhile. But I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. I could stare at the ceiling and wait for the Big One, the earthquake that seismologists had been predicting for as long as I could remember. I’d already alphabetized my regrets, and killing something else seemed desperate. I really wanted a drink, but I’d given up booze when Jami died, and that was one promise to myself I intended to keep.
I went down a flight to the main room and heard Game turn off the TV on the floor below. I grabbed my cell phone, put in my earbuds, scrolled to Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue, then let “So What” fill my ears. I walked onto the balcony.
The clean opening chords of the song give way to the backbone laid down by the double bass, and by the time Miles enters delicately, then unspools his genius, any listeners should know they’re in the presence of greatness. Usually, artistry such as theirs was enough to pull me through tough days. Usually.
I looked down and saw Jennifer waving up at me from the edge of the diaphanous glow of the floodlights, trying to get my attention without waking the neighbors by yelling over the music in my ears. She was wearing dark sweatpants and a man’s gray sweatshirt that hung down nearly to her knees. She wore a ponytail and was barefoot. I pulled the earbuds out and said hello.
“How’d it go?” she stage-whispered.
“Too complicated to go into, but thanks for asking.”
“You look like shit, Jack. Come over.”
Because I couldn’t tell if she wanted to talk for her sake or mine, I told her I’d be right there.
I’ve known Jennifer Pearson, a bi-racial model and businesswoman, for decades. While she was getting her Ph.D. in English at UCLA, I was working on my doctoral dissertation, a nearly incoherent attempt to prove that in America only the winners are remembered.
The good-hearted, kind, or merely great among us fade to obscurity while those who stand atop podiums, hoist trophies, or quaff champagne in locker rooms live on in the collective memories of Americans, despite the moral failings, prison sentences, or prickly natures of many of the celebrated. To bolster my point, I researched, explicated, and distilled the story of Ed Delahanty, one of five Delahanty brothers to play professional baseball. Known as Big Ed, he played for four teams during his sixteen-year career, beginning in 1888 and continuing each season through 1903. He was primarily an outfielder, and the right-hander amassed one of the highest batting averages in Major League history: .346. Three times he batted .400 or better, and he led the league in slugging percentage and doubles five times each.
“Do you know who Ed Delahanty is?” I had asked the gorgeous woman who sat at the next table in the courtyard in North Campus. She was eating a salad and looked breathtaking while doing so.
“He pours a mean martini at the Tuck Room, right?” she’d responded, looking over at me with eyes as big, brown, and alluring as any I’d seen.
“His Manhattans aren’t bad, either,” I said.
“There’s more than one?” she asked. She smiled, and I almost lost the thread.
“At least two, but the one in Kansas gets all the ink.”
“And that’s what’s worrying you—Ed Delahanty isn’t in Kansas anymore?”
I laughed and said, “Actually, he’s kind of stuck there, in the hinterlands, never getting his due. Not to mention he died under mysterious circumstances at the age of thirty-five by falling into Niagara Falls.”
“Wow. Too many of his famous Manhattans, perhaps?”
“There’s been speculation to that effect.”
“Are you always so passionate?”
“Only about important stuff.”
We introduced ourselves and talked about our doctoral dissertations and our lives. Despite having started modeling at twelve and rising steadily to prominence—eventually doing runway shows, gracing magazine covers, and posing for the annual Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue three years in a row—Jennifer knew she was a lot more than a pretty face, so she set out to prove it. She juggled modeling and the demands of earning her B.A. in English, then turned down a lot of money by deciding not to pursue modeling full-time. She chose Dickens as her doctoral field of study “because I had no interest in law school,” she said, “and because I’ve always had a thing for the Artful Dodger.” She found the Russian Lit professor she was “seeing” to be fascinating, although blocked creatively, and she grew weary of being hit on by students in the freshman English classes she taught.
She asked: “Do you mind if I say something bold for someone who just met you?”
I raised my left hand and said, “As I said, I’m married.”
“Yeah, okay. But you’re sure you won’t get offended?”
“You haven’t said it yet, but I don’t offend easily.”
“Your dissertation doesn’t sound like one to me. It sounds like a book.” She looked at me, and I tried not to detect pity in her eyes.
“Don’t worry. I’m not offended … because you’re right. That’s what I was brooding about when I looked up and saw you. My advisor obviously shares your view but is afraid to point out that I’ve wasted far too much time sniffing around the Baseball Encyclopedia.”
“So, change directions. Only those who lack creativity fear change, and you don’t strike me as that type.”
“The all-but-dissertation type, you mean.”
“Let’s just say, you appear to have plenty of options.”
Those options somehow led me many years later to Jennifer’s deck at 1:40 that moonlit June morning. By the time I walked up the steps from the sand, she’d settled into a teak chaise lounge that was covered by comfortable gray padding, a glass of red wine in her hand.
She stood as I reached the landing, set the glass down behind her, and wrapped her arms around me. She smelled of sea salt and lavender, with a hint of what I took to be Cabernet. Her long, dark hair tickled my left arm when she tilted her head and looked up at me. Her large brown eyes scanned my face, then, before our eyes met, she snuggled back down against my chest. I listened to her breathing between the crashing of the waves. We stood there a while—a minute, two—without words, and I wasn’t sure whether her embrace resulted from sympathy or pity. I gently steered her back to the chaise, sat her down, and settled in sideways by her feet, my back against the teak rail. She knew better than to offer me wine and knew if I’d wanted something else to drink, I’d have gotten it.
She looked me in the eyes before she asked, “How bad was it?”
“Let me put it this way: What would you say would be the worst that could’ve happened?”
“She’s drinking and using again.”
“Yes, I’d have guessed that, too. And as soon as she walked in, I knew she was drunk. Two years thrown away. I know no one’s ever really past it, but I was only expecting strained silences, miscommunication, and undelighted and servile copulations.”
“Part of your problem may be you drop Milton into your speech.”
“Only around those who will appreciate it.”
“Or at least acknowledge it,” she said. “So, you feel what—cheated? overwhelmed?—by the prospect of having to lead her back to sobriety again?”
“That’s part of it. The tantrums and the rehab and the day-to-day sneakiness that her drinking and using are accompanied by seem childish. I know that’s not a rational belief because age and maturity do little to quell those kinds of demons. But that’s how I felt when she leaped into my arms—as though I’m her guardian, not her significant other. Or life partner, as she says.”
Jennifer placed her hand on my left knee. “That’s not you, Jack. Empathy may be your longest suit, so I’m not buying your story.”
“You’re good. I wasn’t consciously trying to mislead you, but I could be blurring my emotions. Maybe all I felt initially was disappointment.”
“Then why the muddled emotions?” She smiled, and I felt something break loose inside me, a sliver of the denial that men are supposed to hide behind. I’d never been afraid to display vulnerability in front of her—we’d both been available for solace when times got rough and had cried in each other’s arms a few times. But the day had been trying and emotional and bizarre, and I just wanted it to end without more tumult.
“The drinking wasn’t the worst part, Jen. She broke the agreement.”
She hesitated for a few seconds, then said, “No, she didn’t.” She changed position on the chaise, rose up on her haunches, and wrapped her arms around me. “Shit.”
“She bought me an Ed Delahanty baseball card. As gifts go, it’s a good one, considering I had written about him and was contracted to write more. But I never mentioned Delahanty to her because he’s connected to the day Jami died, and I’d never told Amanda anything other than ‘She died, and if you want to be with me, that’s the last time we mention her.’ So, that means Amanda has been going through my stuff, snooping. My Esquire story, all of my research, and the pen Jami gave me were in the bottom of a locked desk drawer. Obviously, I should’ve hidden the key better.”
“That’s not on you. She’s the one snooping.”
“I stopped writing that day, stopped drinking, and stopped living, according to her. I’m not saying she doesn’t have a point, but I’m saying she has no right to make it.”
“She agreed to the terms. Regardless of whether your definition of living and hers match up—and, let’s be honest, that’s iffy—she’s wrong to breach the agreement. Did she say why she did it? Was she compelled to shoot things all to shit because she was drinking, or was she drinking because she’d shot things all to shit?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think she thinks that way. Cause and effect don’t play out with her the way they do with us.”
“We both know she’s not dumb, and her self-absorption definitely leads to some whacky decisions. But I’m asking, why now, why poke into your past from the far reaches of Milan?”
“I think she considers it a peace offering. She probably banged someone she shouldn’t have, or maybe it’s the drinking. And if she’s drinking, why not use? Let’s say she’s disappointed in herself, guilty about bringing her addiction home again, and she wants to try to show me I’m more than the guy who puts up with her and looks after her. I suppose in the right light, her gesture could be seen as a noble one.”
“That’s the compassionate Jack I know. But you’re an idiot.”
“Thanks for your support.”
“That’s why I’m here.” She pushed away so she could look into my eyes. “When Jami died you made choices. They might have been right, they might have been destructive, they might even have been irrelevant, but they were your choices. You presented them to yourself and to the world directly. That’s better than most people, who make decisions based on gut instinct, tarot cards, or the price of tea in Cambodia. The point is, just as you can’t make her stop drinking and using, because it’s her choice to make, she can’t make you write your book, or honor Jami in a way she feels is appropriate, or become a Red Sox fan.”
“Will never happen.”
“Never say never because life is an endless series of curveballs. You need to stop feeling guilty for feeling angry at her. If you must obsess over something, obsess over why after seven years she felt the need to bring Jami into the picture. Trying to sabotage the relationship? Trying to get back at you for something?”
“Lost her mind?”
“Yeah, that’s it. That’s why I love you—your keen analytical abilities. Speaking of men and their so-called thought processes, I had a weird experience tonight.”
