Mermaids in Paradise: A Novel (25 page)

The parents had retired to Florida when the father went emeritus, so it was a short flight and Prof. Simonoff was due in shortly. Chip’s new directive was to keep
him
from falling into the clutches of the parent company. He’d meet him at the ferry, and this time there’d be no interception from the marine police: we were the only ones who knew he was coming. And not only was the Prof. coming, Nancy’s mother had told Chip, but he was bringing some medical expertise with him—a doctor friend from their retirement community. You never knew when that might come in handy.

The problem was, the armada was still out there. As far as we knew, they were moving full steam ahead with their plan to cordon off the mermaids and “bring them in.” The way we saw it, none of our activities, no part of our energetic bustle was going to bear fruit in time to stop it. We needed an injunction, a court order that would make them cease and desist their mermaid-corralling activities. And that was something we didn’t have.

Time flew that day, with many of us doing video interviews as well as phone—
I made sure to shed the muumuu, now that I had access to my own clothes again—and a couple of meltdowns, like when Janeane first saw (against Steve’s explicit wishes) the beach footage, complete with soldiers/guns. She barricaded herself into the bathroom and we had to call in Steve, who was making his rounds in the Hummer, to lure her out again.

There was also an altercation between Thompson and Rick when Thompson referred to him and Ronnie as “the two fairies”; it ended with Rick getting First Aid from Steve for a small cut above his right eye, while Ronnie prepared an ice pack. Thompson refused to say he was sorry, claiming that
fairy
was a purely descriptive term having nothing to do with homophobia/hate crimes/being a giant bigot. Also, Thompson maintained, when he’d inquired whether Ronnie was “the gayer one” he’d just been honestly trying to understand their deal. They didn’t have to be so touchy about it.

Gina attempted to show solidarity with Rick by dumping a whole bottle of cayenne pepper from Janeane’s travel-size spice rack into Thompson’s whiskey flask when Thompson wasn’t looking, then admitting it openly after Thompson spit whiskey all over the motel bedspread and complained the skin was peeling off his gums. Thompson wouldn’t hit a woman, that was as much a part of his code as calling gay men fairies, so Gina was protected from brute-force retaliation. Still, she hid the other spices just to be safe, and watched her own food and drinks like a hawk subsequently. From then on she’d only drink beers she opened herself, and no cocktails at all, she vowed.

For there was some drinking going on, no harm in admitting it; the stress, the pressure was getting to us, plus we were all on vacation. Those of us who normally had five o’clock rules suspended them (save for Janeane, a teetotaler), and those of us with no such rules, such as Thompson, proceeded all the more vigorously.

Chip, in his cups by 2 p.m., needed a designated driver to pick up Prof. Simonoff, so I, who at that time had only had two light beers, volunteered. I didn’t like going out just the two of us, so Thompson got the Hummer back from Steve—who’d met with rudeness and disbelief, for the most part, in his outreach activities and wanted to spend some time with the fraught Janeane—and we set out for the marina as a threesome. Thompson was a sight, by then, wearing some rolls of gauze in his mouth, soaked in hydrogen peroxide, that covered up his teeth. I glanced back at one point from the driver’s seat to see him loading shells into what looked to me like a high-powered rifle.

“Thompson,” I said, “you’re not packing that thing. You’re drunk, for one. Put it away right now. That violates every rule of gun safety.”

“Lock and load in my sleep,” mumbled Thompson through his gauze. A piece of it fell out as he spoke; he fumbled the rifle as he tried to shove it back in.

“No way, man,” said Chip. “You know how much I respect you. But we have to be cool here. You’ll scare Nancy’s father half to death. He’s already gonna have a personal tragedy to deal with. He’ll think we’re a bunch of crackpots.”

Thompson grudgingly put the gun aside, harrumphing through his gauze, and contented himself with donning some kind of camouflage cargo or fishing vest, with multiple bulging pockets in it, that held knives and sundry other objects of utility and aggression. I saw him sneak something that looked like a grenade into one of the compartments, but right then we passed a convoy of jeeps that alarmed me and I forgot about his doings, too busy watching the rearview mirror to see if any of the jeeps turned back around and followed us. (They didn’t.)

Then we were at the parking lot near the marina, where we waited until the ferry was pulling up to the dock, Thompson scouting all around, first with the naked eye, next with binoculars, for other gun-wielders. Finally they jumped out and walked, as calmly as they could, I guess, toward the disembarking passengers. I waited in the car, doors stoutly locked, gas-guzzling engine running noisily and doing its part for runaway climate change, for the two of them to come back with our distinguished visitors.

PROF. SIMONOFF WAS
an elfin man, smaller than Nancy had been; his wife must be a giant, I thought, for Nancy to have come from the two of them. He looked the part of the emeritus he was, balding on the top of his head with a monklike fringe of white hair, and wore glasses. His doctor friend was on the portly side, black, and might have had a jovial way about him, I sensed, in happier times. They both wore suits and ties, and carried briefcases and laptops. No roller bags at all. I was glad of that.
It lent them a certain gravitas none of us had in our tourist playgear.

The Prof. had talked to his wife when he got off the plane, and she’d delivered the bad news. But that emeritus seemed to be in denial—he was pale, he was wan, but he wasn’t weeping. He wasn’t conceding anything.

Chip gave them the rundown as we drove, Prof. Simonoff up front with me. He left out certain parts, including the minor bombing and the gay-bashing scuffle that had led to Thompson wearing gauze rolls in his mouth—“His gums are bothering him,” was all he said on that.

Thompson seemed to be on good behavior now; he’d even kicked the rifle beneath the backseats. It was as though, faced with two educated men of his own vintage, he finally had peers and wished to impress them. He even took the gauze rolls out, after a few minutes, and stashed the bloody pieces in one of his many pockets. I winced when I saw that. He hadn’t been exaggerating, I guess, when he said his gum-skin had been peeling off in strips. Also he took a call from someone who purported to be military, and while he talked gave a quite passable impression of not being drunk at all.

But things weren’t rosy back at the motel.

“What the hell,” said Chip, as we drew near. “Deb, don’t turn in, just keep driving! Don’t stop!”

For it seemed the parent company hadn’t given up on us. The motel parking lot was full of jeeps—the same ones, I warranted, that had passed us on our trip out; the same ones from the beach.

“Shit,” said Chip. “Damn. How’d they find us?”

He lost no time in putting in a call to Rick, hitting his speakerphone button so we could all hear it.

“They just got here,” said Rick. “We wouldn’t let them in. It’s been quiet for a minute, after we refused to unlock the doors, but it won’t be for long. We think they’re going to get the clerk or something. We’ve got the chains on the doors.”

“That won’t stop them for a second,” said Thompson. “They’re just maybe warning the clerk they’re busting in.”

“Unacceptable,” said Simonoff calmly.

We’d passed the motel by then; with no destination anymore I drove aimlessly down the coast road.

“We can’t abandon them,” said Chip. “We have to go back, Deb.”

“I’ll talk to them,” said Simonoff.

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” said Thompson, shaking his head. “They won’t listen to reason.”

“It’s not reason,” said Simonoff. “I’m going to threaten them.”

He was such a tiny emeritus, sitting there next to me in his glasses, light glinting off his pate. I felt like patting him.

“We already mentioned litigation,” said Chip.

“You better find a place to turn the car around,” said Simonoff to me.

“But we were trying to
save
you from them,” said Chip, a little plaintively. “They have guns, sir. They have soldiers.”

“And I’m an old man with no daughter anymore,” said Simonoff. “I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

“Except your freedom,” said Chip, worried.

“I do have
weapons
,” offered Thompson modestly.

“Are private citizens allowed to keep guns here?” asked Simonoff, surprised, I guess, into a general knowledge question.

“Not to carry,” conceded Thompson. “For display only. I have special permits. It’s a historical collection. But all in excellent working order. They happen to be in the vehicle here, currently.”

“I see,” said Simonoff, almost gently. “Still, guns or no guns, they have an advantage, when it comes to brute force, I’m sure. Unwise to sink to their level. No, I’m a grieving father; I have the moral high ground, and I’m prepared to use it.”

I noticed, in my rearview mirror, Thompson fingering his grenade wistfully. The doctor, seated on Chip’s other side, was not in a position to glimpse it, but I could.

“You heard the man, Thompson,” I said sharply.

He tucked it away, a bit downcast.

“OK,” I said, once I’d pulled off onto the dirt. “Back to the motel, then?”

“We need a plan,” said Chip.

“What plan?” I said. “It’s an army. And there’s no back door.”

“Leave it to me,” said Simonoff. “Just let me do the talking.”

As I drove us back, I thought of being in jail. I didn’t want to. I thought of those long guns pointed at me. I parked with fear in my heart. I wanted to stay in the Hummer; I wished to exhibit cowardice.

The first thing I noticed, dismounting reluctantly from that large, possibly armored vehicle—because Thompson’s wasn’t some glossy poseur H2 or H3; it was a battered, old-school original—was that a couple of soldiers were leaning against their
jeeps relaxedly. One smoked a cigarette while another nodded to me, then smiled almost flirtatiously. Flirtatious smiles were what I could look forward to, when I was thrown in jail, I guessed. And worse.

But as we made our way along the catwalk to our rooms, more soldiers seemed to be loitering. Instead of pointing any guns at us, they stepped aside to let us through. We reached the door to our room: it stood open, but wasn’t bashed in. And from inside the room, I heard laughter issue.

Miyoko was sitting on one of the beds, an open laptop on her lap, showing two soldiers the footage from the beach. One of the soldiers held a beer; the other pointed delightedly at the screen.

“That’s me!” he said.

“Oh man,” said the beer soldier. “You looking
fierce
, Jerry. I hope Annette saw that, she won’t be holding out on you now. No way.”

More laughter.

A couple of soldiers were talking earnestly to Rick and Ronnie; another stood in the kitchenette with Steve and Janeane, munching on one of her soy-chicken taquitos. “Not bad at all,” I heard him say, and Janeane offered him another. In a corner, Gina appeared to be showing a handsome soldier her lower-back tattoo, pulling up her shirt while Ellis eyed her uncertainly/jealously.

Was it some kind of trick? I looked at Chip; his mouth was hanging open just a little.

The ones talking to Rick and Ronnie seemed to be the most serious, from which I deduced they might also be the ones in charge. So I took a deep breath and stepped near.

“. . . end of the day, we don’t take orders from them. Not if we don’t have to. And what I thought was, hell. We
don’t
have to. As long as we don’t hear to the contrary from the higher-ups, that is. And so far I haven’t heard squat from them,” said one of the soldiers.

He had some flair above his pocket, a couple of badges or something.

“It’s a goddamn relief,” said Rick. “I’m not going to lie to you.”

“Thanks, man,” said Ronnie. “Yeah.
Big
relief.”

“Hey,” said the CO, noticing me. “What’s
your
name, honey?”

“This is my wife, Deb,” said Chip.

“Gotcha,” said the CO, and winked.

“No harm done,” said I.

“Whatever she says,” said Chip, and put out his hand to shake. “I’m Chip.”

“Chip’s the one who found the mermaids,” said Rick. “With Nancy.”

“So anyway,” said the CO’s wingman, “until the order comes down—
if
it does—we thought we’d swing by, see if there’s anything we can do. To help out. We don’t want to see this place turned into Disneyland either.”

“We already got a Disneyland,” said the CO.

“And Disney World,” said his second.

“Lots o’ Disney,” agreed the CO.

“You sound American,” I said to him.

“Grew up on St. John. Sam here did too. I’m Raleigh. Virgin
Islands National Guards. The Brits have bupkes here, armed forces-wise. We lend a hand. But hey. Tell you my life story over a beer?”

“He doesn’t give up easy, does he,” said Chip, and put an arm around me. “But seriously, this is awesome, guys. Having you on board. It really is. Kicks ass.”