Blue Field(15)

He squinted into the glare and dragged a thumb across his forehead. Don’t blame me for your f*cking problems, he told her. And don’t think you’re ever f*cking diving with me again. So don’t worry about trust. You’re on your own, dear.

You think I need you? she said.

Gulls mewed behind his back. He scrubbed the top of his head with his hand. Oh, he said after a moment. Glad you got that off your chest. Case f*cking closed then.

That’s right, she said.

He shifted towards the water again and spat then faced her once more. I thought you were dead, he told her, seeking her gaze. You know? Dead?

She corkscrewed and peeled off her hood, whapped it in the direction of her stuff and stalked into the cabin. Blinding dark after the brightness on deck. Crazy quiet, everyone bummed. Before her eyes could adjust, she banged into a series of knees which swung from her like gates springing open. She located an unclaimed morsel of bench and, still standing, crammed her thighs against it for balance as the tug rocked. She yanked the zipper on her suit and ripped hanks of hair as she worked the neoprene seal over her head. Her bladder was a sack of molten lead. But pissing would mean making her way in front of everyone to the bucket stored beneath the wheelhouse and nobody did that—these mopes just wagged their dicks over the side of the boat. And Iron Jane, in here too somewhere letting her best f*cking friend stew, this unfaithful, ungrateful friend somehow just held it, as Marilyn usually did. Fuck’s sake. Still semi-suited, she lurched again, again knocked knees—Jane’s included probably, Marilyn could only hope as she headed back to the door. Just as she reached it Rand plowed in, nearly knocking her off her feet. Fuck, he shouted, and righted her quickly by grasping her shoulders and firmly settling her in place as if setting a post. Then he vapoured around her and melted into the huddle.

Now the small granite islands in the distance looked like giant doorknobs. If a giant hand turned them they’d open onto what lay below, a place that seemed to suck at her now as she alone kept watch over the diminishing wind and the moiré pattern etched onto the increasing surface calm. Late in the day. An orange glow in the far distance. Soon twilight would grizzle the sky and fall like rain. Darkness would settle before the boat reached the southerly shore of the larger of the islands where the lodge lay. And the room she unfortunately shared with her husband. Right beside it her perfect, perfectly thankless friend’s room—if it hadn’t been for Marilyn, taking up diving, for once leading the way, Jane wouldn’t even be here, she thought now. She fixed her sights on the horizon’s blazing slash, its leaping line of fire.





14


Unreal, unfair.

She arrived late to breakfast the following morning, scavenging the only remaining chair—beside Rand—at the round table in the lodge’s cramped dining room. Forks clanked but otherwise the men quietly fixated on their handsets. The half-eaten toast in front of her must have been Jane’s.

Marilyn imagined her friend now on the docked boat’s deck. Organizing, cleaning, restoring worn-out gear. Reviewing her dive log. Marilyn flinched. Not a word from Jane yesterday as they’d debarked, no quick shoulder pat or sympathetic murmur. Marilyn had marched on her own like a mechanical toy to the cabin where she’d holed up wrapped in a blanket on the couch while the others ate. She snagged her fingers now on her dirty curls. Rand scrupulously ignored her as he dispatched his eggs. She slumped further in her seat, recalling Jane riding shotgun in his truck several days ago on the three-plus-hour drive north from the city—Jane unleashing the seatbelt and leaning forward at one point so Marilyn could rub the tight muscles in her friend’s back. The two of them gorging on walnut crullers at some rinky-dink town’s Dairy Daughter. On the car ferry to the island Jane had looped her pale hair into a topknot and Marilyn pulled her wool beanie on and together they’d braved the ferry’s upper deck for the two windy hours so Marilyn could fight her motion sickness while Rand cozied in the lounge with a coffee and crossword. On the deck Marilyn and Jane talked work—a project launched, a proposed grant. They discussed plans for a little dive time together, the next day on the wreck—a tune-up for Marilyn but a challenge for Jane—but also eventually more ambitious dives too. Maybe next year or the year after when they both, as Marilyn charitably put it, had more downtime under their belts. Just not this trip. Not with the season drawing to a close. Not with her eagerness to notch another big one. Of course, Jane had said. Why sure.

And when they’d arrived at the lodge Marilyn hadn’t felt ill at all. She and Jane had clinked beers over that first night’s bonfire. Her vinegar-honey scent had prickled Marilyn’s nose when they hugged fiercely before bed.

Let’s kill it out there tomorrow, Jane had said, eyes shining with excitement. But Marilyn only gave a wry smile.

Someone passed Marilyn a mug. The thin liquid scorched her mouth. She recoiled, sloshing coffee and soaking the leftover toast. Rand swung his head in her direction and grimaced. Sorry, she hissed, thinking mostly of her friend’s arms around her. She felt weak, robbed. Self-robbed—her ego had prevented her from partnering with Jane the whole trip instead of turning to her husband, who now was setting to work pulverizing a bacon strip.

The great Rand. The sway he held here. Across the table a ruddy-cheeked duo Marilyn sort of knew jointly refused to acknowledge her. Beside the taller of the two, Jason—compact and brown-skinned with close-cropped hair—grinned sheepishly at her before quickly cutting his eyes again at his hand-held. He was a meticulous guy, dedicated to training one small step at a time. Read up on every journal and discussion board. Was his previous regard for her on mute? Next to him was Matt, a shaggy ginger, precise where it counted, which at this moment entailed accurately measuring the waffle-to-egg ratio on his fork. He dependably crewed for Leo, the boat’s skipper, a smooth duck in his late twenties with silky, elegantly tousled fair hair. He was also scrolling through his handset, and only picking at his food.