Her Last Flight(36)

Nothing’s missing. My clothes are all there, my underthings, my few vanities. I am not so foolish as to keep anything valuable in this suitcase. I’ve been to war, I’ve lived in various godforsaken corners of the world, some lawful and some not, and the first thing I do when I come to rest in a new lodging, I find a hiding place for what’s important. And you see? Wasn’t I right?

I close the suitcase and go to this hiding place of mine—I’m not telling you where it is—and reach inside. To my relief, all is where I left it. The leather diary, thank God, and underneath it, the smooth, cool handle of my pistol.



Lindquist’s children barrel across the lawn an hour later, making straight for the kitchen door and the cookies on the other side of it. Lindquist calls on them to stop and say hello to Miss Everett, our guest.

At the word guest, they pull up like a pair of ponies and turn to me with amazed expressions. “We’ve never had a guest before,” says the girl, who’s an inch taller than her brother and presumably the elder.

“No doubt.” I stick out my hand. “Janey Everett. I’m a photojournalist.”

“Is that a journalist who takes pictures?” the girl says.

“Exactly right. I’ve always said the kids are quicker than the grown-ups.”

“I’m Doris.” She shakes my hand. “And this is Wesley. He’s only seven.”

“Oh, he’ll grow out of that soon enough. Hello, Wesley. Come along, my hand’s not going to shake itself.”

Wesley giggles and shakes my hand.

“They are handsome specimens,” I say to Lindquist. “You must be awfully proud. Do they do anything interesting?”

Doris says, “I play the piano and jump my pony. Wesley’s pretty dull, though.”

“I ride horses too!”

“Not very well, and you can’t jump yet.”

“Chip off the old block, isn’t she?” I observe to Lindquist.

Lindquist shoos them toward the kitchen door. “All right, all right. Go get your cookies and change into your swimsuits. We’re going to take Miss Everett down to the beach and teach her to surf.”

“Don’t worry!” I call after them. “She’s only kidding around!”



A half hour later, I’m standing in the sand with a surfboard while Doris and Wesley demonstrate the essentials of surfing to my thick understanding.

“You see? It’s easy!” Doris calls from the top of a wave.

“Come on out! The surf’s low today!” adds Wesley, just as he spills gracefully from his board into the water.

“Aren’t you worried about sharks?” I ask Lindquist.

“Oh, the sharks always gather where the fish are, near the upswells. We don’t see any around here.” She lifts her surfboard under her arm. “Not often, anyway.”

The water, I’ll admit, is delicious. Most of my experience with oceans has been of the frigid kind, and it’s a nice surprise to stick your toe into a tropical bath instead. I don’t know much about the mechanics of waves, how they form, what physical features of headland and reef and island shelf, what fickle variations of wind and tide and current turn some ordinary ripple into a behemoth worthy of riding into eternity. I do understand that each beach has its own particular wave, like a voice or a signature that might vary in each iteration but still presents a form anybody can recognize. The waves rolling on this beach are happy, gentle waves. Not the kind to set your pulse racing, unless you’re a beginner like me.

“All right,” says Irene. “The first thing is to swim out just past the breakers, where the waves form.”

It occurs to me, as I choke and stroke my way through the surf—yes, actually through those giant breaking waves to get to the relative peace on the other side—that Lindquist might actually be trying to kill me. If some landlubbing photographer dies while attempting to surf, the local authorities will deem this incident a foolish, unfortunate accident, won’t they? There will be some inquest, some noises of regret and humility in the face of nature’s might, and everyone will go on with her life. Except the dead photographer in question, of course.

The board is heavier than I expected, an awkward thing to drag along as you paddle and gasp and paddle some more, as you eventually start paying attention to the rhythm of the waves, so you can make your progress in the gaps between them, and then gather your fortitude and dive straight through the arc of water as it breaks over you. I hear the children laughing somewhere, Lindquist calling out some motherly instruction. My head reeks of brine. Then I emerge from the other side of an especially big nalu—that’s the Hawaiian word, the children have informed me, smug little bastards—and the world is blue and calm, the waves mere swells, the sun hot and white above us.

“Now get on your board,” Lindquist says. “Just straddle it, that’s right, like a horse. Paddle a bit, so the current doesn’t carry you out too far. There’s not much rip on this beach, so it’s good for beginners.”

I don’t quite understand the meaning of this word rip, but it does sound menacing and best avoided. The paddling I could grow to like, however. The ocean rustles like a living creature underneath me—and here I look downward, to make sure there’s not actually a living creature underneath me—and carries me on its back. Ahead lies the white beach, the jungle, the pale buildings on the ridge. Above it all, the sky without a cloud.