Vacation (12 page)

How it happened was they all walked down to the station and only one of them bought a ticket and boarded a bus. The man leaves town with only a briefcase? Without even a sack of snacks for the ride? Yes, it’s a little weird but who cares, there he went—the skeleton line for Syracuse, the bus backing up, Myers’s wife weeping or being weepyish off to the side. At one point Gray looked out the window. Myers saw it: Gray seeing a woman, her head ducked against the wall, saw him study her momentarily—a woman making a minor spectacle of herself—before the bus dragged Gray away.

She walked away from the bus station, Myers behind. It was drizzly and her hair drew down her back. He couldn’t see her face. She was just the figure in front of him and it fell to him to follow her, fallen woman, wet wife, low wife. And as for himself he had no picture in his mind, no image of himself heading down the street, a seedy undercover man in nightlight, no. He was absent, withdrawn. That was two years three months ago.

They walked back to the apartment and took up their lives. How else could it have wound up other than everyone back in their starting positions? Everyone back behind their pushcarts or rearranging their giftware, one of them keeping an eye out for any more anomalies and almost-affairs.

He kept expecting it to go back to like before, but it was never like before. “Before” wasn’t like before. Even the early days took on a dark cast. She was an alien creature, this petulant, sad-mouthed thing.

After Gray rode away she came to a standstill. It took a near month because she was moving so fast, going around and around like a dropping kite, and what was Myers supposed to do other than worm behind her like the tail? But she slowed and slowed and finally did stop. And in the long pause before the fighting started up again in earnest, the woman seemed capable only of lying in bed and looking at the lighted people on the screen at her feet, and he, exhausted, not knowing what to do, so sick of it all you cannot imagine, unsure if he should leave or scream or what, sat down and watched with her.

They talked about the plots with the solemnity of idiot children trying to fit pieces into a dull brown puzzle. I hope they patch it up for the baby’s sake, they said to each other, although they knew there was no baby, only a piece of wrapped cloth. Would the hero have his say, would the other hero give some mother something or other? Don’t bet your last billion on it. Don’t get short in the pants over it. And when they’d watched all the ones on TV, he went out and got more for them to watch and when he couldn’t find any in the stores, he ordered more through the mail, downloaded them off the Net, and they, together in the bed, stared forward. They talked and talked and talked. Who knew if he still loved her, they said of some man who seemed to love or not love or love. Who knew if he could ever love again after what he’d been through.

I’m leaving, said Myers.

So am I, said another guy.

They were waiting at the hotel desk in Granada.

Yes, all that, walking in the rain, then the TV, then finally a fight, then another fight, then all the ones afterward, two years’ worth, then her wanting to leave and his not letting her, then her wanting to leave again and his not letting her again, then his leaving at last, then the taxi in Syracuse, then all those airplanes and the accumulation of grit in his guts, then the earthquake and being carted around like a corpse, then the hospital bill and being sent back to the hotel, the entire town on emergency hold, a nagging sensation in his soul, his crooked arm bent in and ribs wrapped, and finally Myers himself, skidding, coming to a stop, here at the hotel checkout, a smooth counter in the middle of the Americas, and Myers stood (or leaned, rather), waiting to pay his bill and go back the other way because he didn’t know what he wanted anymore but he knew it could not be here.

I’m going too, said the other guy. It was the guy from the other day, the one who didn’t want to go outdoors, here he was, again at reception, still trying to check in or out, still, it seemed to Myers, Nicaraguan.

All I wanted was a vacation, he said.

Tell me about it, said Myers.

They went on like that for a while. The man who was obviously a Nicaraguan said it was a fine-looking place but there were spots just like it in Florida with better facilities too. Myers said he’d heard that and that he wasn’t surprised, what with all the revolutions they had around here, what could one expect? Then the man who was obviously a Nicaraguan said he was amazed that they didn’t at least
try
to do something about the mosquitoes, which were the size of
medium-sized dinosaurs
, and Myers said, And you can ask about the
live, smoking volcano
too. Had he heard about that volcano billowing smoke, practically exploding all over everybody, and they didn’t even try to put it out? And the man who had to be a Nicaraguan said, The least they could do is clean the place up, clear away some of those wild plants. Put in some parks, lawn, rides.

Like an amusement park?

There you go. Tilt-a-Whirl. Coaster.

I hear you, said Myers. And what good is a place where a man can’t even check his email, with earthquake volunteers hogging the computers?

They could make a fortune on their beaches, the man said. Ocean front and back and they’ve got nothing like a proper beach—just sand and water and sky.

Want to see a beach? someone said. It was the desk clerk, her face an angry scrawl. She’d had just about enough from these two.

And the man who was a Nicaraguan and not admitting it said, Who wants to know?

You want a beach, go to Corn Island. One hour plane ride, the most beautiful island in the world. Water like glass.

Not likely. I can only i
ma
gine the restaurants.

The best.

Dancing?

Oh, dancing every night.

Tourists?

Everywhere. You can’t get away from them.

What did they care for a charmless beach, a leafless line of sight? He and the guy beside him, each playing out their empty ancient parts. An island, nearly underwater, out on the sea, ready for the next big splash—hurricane, tidal wave, whatever—to come along at any moment, wash away the whole hurrah. Sure, why not be at the very edge when the havoc began? Why not be the first to sink, the first washed away, the first found bloated and floating? Corn Island? No, the only place these guys were headed now was home.

Just then, the wallpaper of Myers’s heart tore off. Corn Island. That was it. He knew what had been shaken from his mind:
Meet me on Corn Island. The most beautiful island in the world.
Jesus, how could he have forgotten? The lobby took on a pearly cast and the people in front of him were shining facelessly, air paying out behind them in ribbons. Ladies and gentlemen, step aside. Myers was going to Corn Island.

I’ll go, said Myers. Where is it?

They turned to him, surprised.

On the Atlantic.

He wasn’t sure exactly which way that was from here. He shrugged one shoulder. Which way is that? May as well go right now, he said.

Oh yeah? said the other guy. With an arm like that? Looks like you got banged up all right.

This is nothing. Myers waved at the bandage. I’ve had worse falls than this.

I’d believe that.

A beach might be just the thing right now, said Myers.

I’ve got nothing special on, said Myers. Nothing I have to file in for. How do I get there?

Hell, the man said. Maybe I’ll go too. He held out his hand. My name’s Spoke.

So what would they do on Corn Island, the most beautiful island in the world? What a question! They’d stay in the most expensive hotel, of course. The tallest, the grandest, the one with the best restaurants.

Where somebody brings drinks out to you on the beach.

And there’s an Internet café.

And a bar in the swimming pool.

Dinner tonight will be my treat.

No, my treat.

No, my treat!

We’ll both treat. We’ll have two dinners.

And two breakfasts in the morning.

Myers gasped and gripped his side, could not expand with joy.

You don’t look so good, Spoke observed.

It was brilliant having this Spoke fellow along. The perfect decoy.
I was nowhere near the guy. My buddy Spoke will tell you. I was here by the pool all day.
It would take nearly nothing to pull it off. The guy naps for a bit or wanders off after some girl. Myers wouldn’t need long once he found Gray.
Hey, Spoke, you woke up. Look, I got you another drink
. He could buy a good knife in any snorkel shop. He could buy a gun.

Gray, it’s time to pay up.

Island vacation associations: beach bag, bathing suit, drink on the beach, bodysurfing, sandcastles, seasick, seashell, beached body, volleyball, pier rot, water swallow, seaweed, rot stench, blood water, drown kit, glacier melt.

The desk clerk had something to say in Spanish. She said it so fast, Myers didn’t catch it.

She needs your card back, Spoke said, because he understood. She needs to run it again.

Myers handed the card back and the desk clerk ran it again.

(Another consideration: any wife in the Americas wouldn’t put her nose up at an island beach. Were there direct flights from JFK? Not likely, but she could fly direct to Managua, then to this Corn Island place.

First the phone call to make the reservation—or she could do it online. First the Internet, then the taxi. Don’t forget your passport! Myers shouted to her across the continent. Don’t forget! First plane, second plane, taxi. She wouldn’t need much luggage. She wouldn’t need more than a change of clothes. They’d buy new things on the island. The luggage could be carry-on, pull-on. He’d take care of Gray once and for all. Next, island vacation with wife. It could happen.)

The card does not work, the desk clerk was saying now in English.

It works, said Myers.

It does not work.

Spoke looked away.

Here, try this one.

The desk clerk took the second credit card.

This card does not work either, she said.

A sunlit beach hung on a poster, the color of a fine layer of sawdust.

The machine doesn’t work, said Myers.

The machine says to hold the card.

I’m going to go ahead and get a cab, said Spoke. He had his suitcase in his hand.

Could you please come this way? said the desk clerk.

The machine is broken.