Blue Field(32)
She felt great. Never f*cking better. Then less so when, far back in low-flow Milford, rafts of dwarf-sized arches seemed to infinitely recede beyond their lights. This was her fourth day diving the caves. There was the fatigue factor, factor of residual nitrogen. Of cloaked shapes crowding her peripheral vision among the arches, her reg-whine seeming like cave-chant. Mind-f*ck was right. She reached her turn-pressure then humped grim and grimmer toward the exit, Rand following behind. Hosts of shadows skittered from her beam. The elation of the last few days dispersed like dingy gas.
But the way in was also the way out. Her slow hour entering meant its torturous opposite. At the thousand-foot-long breakdown field that presaged the end of the dive—a messed-up bedding plane on average three feet, ceiling to floor—she wedged herself stuck repeatedly, raising her head and banging the roof, tanks jammed into nooks and crannies from which she scraped free. She caught her hoses on stubby outcroppings and detached herself by feel. Begging for each dear inch. Begging no rips. No massive air loss. No clawing her fingernails loose. Once or twice Rand’s light spasmed from behind. He was near. But in this narrowing, not much help if she needed it. She stopped to lay her head in her forearms. She breathed. That as far as you can go? The question cackled at her. Suddenly the bottom shifted slightly. She put her hand to it—it was warm, pliant as flesh. She felt she could sink through rock, elbow to armpit to chin. As far as she could go. For this.
He was waiting on the leaf-littered ground—he must have passed her during the exit and decommed farther along in the spring basin. She chugged on the surface toward him. Where the water shallowed, she again lost sight of him as she scavenged for solid footing in the muck. She kept her reg clenched in her mouth and her mask on—mostly out of the water, in air now, but not trusting the fact of it. She could easily drown in half a foot of water if she turtled onto her tanks and couldn’t flip back. Drown or earn Rand’s scorn as he rode to her rescue. Wouldn’t he? Scorn her. Rescue her. Finally with a great mud-unsucking she stumbled onto land. A few unsteady steps beneath her hundred-pounds-plus gear and she latched her arms around a tree trunk and twisted her mask from her face. A smoky rosemary scent. Random birds. Smudge of grey sky. He was partway up the incline now. She zagged for the next nearest trunk. Then on to the next. Like shadows in reverse, various golds glinted off bark and dripping moss. She followed them as far as she could go. Jane, Marilyn kept thinking. Raise you. You crazy bitch.
When she arrived at the truck, he was in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead through the windshield. She waddled to the rear and banged down the door. She wrestled out of her harness and carelessly dropped her tanks and, without breaking down her regs, shoved her rig onto the flatbed then stripped off her suit and suit underwear. She stabbed her legs into jeans and feet into flip-flops. Everything still worked. She yanked a tee on. Made it. Good to go. In the woods a rustling she took for mysterious. She got in the truck beside him. Ready, he asked, voice flat. What do you think, she snarled.
Sorry, nope. She would not be taking up knitting. Across the chow mein, his expression queered. His scalp gleamed yellow beneath his thinning crew cut more grey than brown now. His knees snicked hers under the table. Wait, he told her. He was only trying to tell her something. He was tired. She was tired. Milford, he argued, wasn’t actually complex like Cleargate. If she had trouble with Milford, forget the harder stuff. So there she had it. He’d had it. Sorry, nope.
But come on, she argued, getting her swagger back. Milford was a one-off. Was bullshit. Sor-ry! She flagged the waiter and pointed to her stained beer glass. Sorry, but she had a lot to make up. Ten months’ worth of interring herself in her townhouse office while certain others disported themselves in caves and wrecks. She’d give him sorry. But the waiter fast-fetched her beer and she calmed enough to grandly clink Rand’s untouched water glass. After dinner—sort-of dinner, as neither of them ate much beyond a bite or two—they rode back to Bowman’s in the truck. The tires shirred on the black-silk pavement. There was a crescent-moon pin on the velvet sky. She hoped Bowman would be off shooting cats somewhere, whatever! Who knew how her evening might end?
32
Two non-diving recovery days later she woke shivering and alone in the spare bedroom in Bowman’s trailer. She made it to the bathroom for a painful episode then shuffled to the kitchenette and opened the screen door to a humid overcast. Rand in rumpled boxers was brewing her gas mix. Not good. Good was brewing her own. Proving her responsible worth. She scratched her fingers on the screen to catch his attention and mouth an apology, but if he heard he ignored her. At least Bowman’s truck was gone. She scratched her calf. She examined the welts in some nudge of memory which misted until her gut clutched again, which drove her again to the toilet where she listened to a vehicle rustle along the gravel drive and park. She heard voices too low to follow. The kitchen door banged open.
Princess. You, now. Or forever hold your peace.
She bumped along in Rand’s truck, mashed between the two men. Bowman chewed gum with gusto and the fruity scent invaded the cab. Outside the truck, moss-draped cypress and pine. A dead armadillo, two. The sun had punched through the overcast and the AC roared. She drew her jacket hood over her head. An hour into the drive, Bowman sharp-elbowed her hip. Still okay, princess? he asked, smacking his gum.
No problems here, boss. That okay with you?
Wise guy. At least you’re speaking. Thought you’d gone comatose on us. Thought Petrie here was going to have to pull off the road and I’d be spending my morning CPRing his better half. And that, my friend, would be a piss-off.