“Is she still here?”
“Nope, she left. Showered up and left.”
“Was she singing?”
“Yep.”
Cara stood on the end of the jetty next to her father, her back to the inlet. Her father remained in the pose that she had observed from the house, pulling on a big Cohiba, relishing the smoke in his mouth before blowing it out. There are plenty more where that one came from. Just ninety miles south, the coast of Cuba is dotted with wooden shacks filled with fat women who roll five hundred a day on their ample sweaty thighs. Their shacks burn down occasionally and have to be rebuilt, but nobody cares, it’s just part of life. Beside him sat a glass of Zacapa - straight up. Playfully she backed up to the edge of the jetty until only the parts of her feet from her arch to her toes remained on the wooden planks; her heels out over the water. She rose and fell as she straightened and bent her ankles, using up energy in meaningless ways as young people often do. Her father sipped his rum.
“What would you do if I knocked you off into the water?” he said.
“I’d fall in, but… I’d make you pay. If not now then later.”
“But the point is… I could do it. You’re powerless to stop me.”
She rolled her eyes. They were silent for a moment. Then he broke the silence. “Because she’s not complicated and I like to listen to her chatter. And besides when she stays over she leaves such a nice scent on the pillow. ”
“What??”
“You were going to ask me why I like to spend time with Monica.”
“No I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were.”
She turned around and the hot, salty breeze, tinged with the scent of dead fish and fermenting mud, hit her as it blew in off the water. Looking south she could see down to the mouth of the inlet and out into the ocean flecked with early afternoon whitecaps. A shrimp boat bobbed up and down as it churned its way west to east, from the Caribbean to the Atlantic and on into oblivion, as porpoises, like wraiths, rollicked in its wake.
“Uncomplicated is a kind way of putting it. Shallow and childish is more accurate.”
“Maybe… though nobody’s ever accused me of being kind…” He paused. “So if she were deep and mature… that would make you happy? Or do you think it would it make me happy?”
“Well, wouldn’t it?”
“Are you sure that 'deep and mature' is a good thing? I dunno. It’s probably not a good idea to put too much thought into things. Life‘ll punish you for looking too closely at it.”
“Huh?”
“Listen, I appreciate your concern, but really I’m okay… Shallow people are a hobby of mine. They flock to me. Some people collect fine cigars, scotches, bourbons, rums, wine, cars… you know... She’s really quite exceptional. Have you ever heard her talk? She can talk about whatever… forever... I really don’t know where she gets all the material.”
“She knows you’re not listening to her.”
“That’s fine. As long as she doesn’t get in my face about it I can pretend like I don’t know she knows.”
Another pause. He took a sip of the rum, pulled slowly on his cigar, then turned and looked directly into her eyes and asked,
“So how’s Miles?”
“Are you comparing Miles to Monica?”
“Yes… yes I am.”
“God, you’re exhausting. “
She stared into the reeds on the other side of the inlet for a minute, then said, “Miles says his father knows you.”
“Mike Mariposa. Yeah…”
“Jake says he’s connected… Is he?”
She felt embarrassed. Connected?! What a cliché. A friend of ours? A member of the outfit? She searched for a more sophisticated-sounding term but nothing came.
“Connected?” He laughed. “I guess most people assume that because he‘s Colombian… you know, Pablo Escobar, the cartels and all that… But… being Columbian doesn‘t necessarily make you a criminal any more than being Polish makes you stupid.”
She left it at that.
“Listen Dad, when do you think we’ll get out sailing again?”
“We just had the boat out last week.”
“I don’t mean that. I’m talking about a long trip. Like the time we did the Leewards when I was a kid.”
“You’re still a kid.”
“Maybe across the Gulf to Mobile like we did all those times before I moved to New York. Or over to Nassau or down to the Virgins.”
“The boat needs some work before it’d be ready for that. That canvas has been reefed one too many times.”
“So let’s get it done. Nothing’s going on around here. Let’s go.”
He smiled. “You’ve been here, what? Five, six months and you still you haven’t given in to the inertia. I got too much writing to do. Barry's expecting another few chapters this month. It’s been a while since I’ve sent him anything and… I’ll tell you the truth, I’ve been tired lately, I’m not sure I’m up to a trip like that.”
“You?? A few years ago you couldn’t go a few months without getting Caribbean fever, now you’re not ready for it? What the hell? What happened to the guy who was always talking about doing an ocean passage?”
His eyes focused for a second, then, fending her off, he said, “Let’s go out and get something to eat. Maybe head up to Layton and go to Breton’s?”
“Okay Daddy. I’m going to head over to the beach for a while. We’ll go when I get back. But Breton’s sucks, let’s go to the John Steven‘s.”
“Whatever you want.”
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