The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing - Melissa Bank [14]
Yves fixes us drinks, rum and whatever we want, and carries the tray out to the veranda. Below, the yard is long and steep, bordered by flowering trees down to the dock.
Bella says to Jamie, "Alessandra sends you all her love."
While Yves asks me about the flight, the snow, the bracelet I am wearing, I overhear Belly telling Gems about close friends he's never mentioned who live all over the world. It occurs to me that all my close friends live in the tristate area.
"Can we swim down there?" Jamie asks her.
"Of course," she says.
Jamie turns to me and says, "Let's go swimming," like he's eleven, which I love.
We change into our bathing suits, both of us pale as larvae, and then we walk down to the water. As soon as I go under, I begin to feel like it's all going to be fine, wonderful, perfect. The water is turquoise and soft, and Jamie and I are somehow Jamie and me again. Then I look up and see Yves and Bella at the railing of the veranda, holding hands. When they wave to us it is like seeing a photograph move. I say this to Jamie and he tells me I've been reading too many South American novels, too much magical realism.
"That's not what I mean," I say.
"What then?"
"It has something to do with photorealism," I say.
"Painting," he says.
I realize that all I mean is that they seem posed, but I continue, bringing in the colors of the lawn leading up to the veranda, the brushstroke-like swirls on the pillars, anything to keep from sounding as though I'm criticizing his friends.
—•—
For dinner we have local lobster and eat on the veranda. Bella and Yves speak to each other almost entirely in French. At first, Jamie interjects stray French phrases, as though joking, but Yves says, "You speak very well," and soon Jamie does, with an ease that surprises me.
I have not spoken French since eighth grade, when I learned about a wholesome French family living on the third floor of an apartment building near the railroad station. I remember that sometimes they took the elevator, sometimes the stairs.
"We visited Yves's parents at Christmas," Bella says, in English, touching Yves's cheek with the back of her hand. "They are so nice."
To me, she says, "How is your lobsters?"
"Nice," I say, realizing only afterward that I've mimicked her, a bad habit of mine; I'm like one of those animals that imitates its predators to survive.
—•—
In bed, Jamie says, "How do you like Bella?" A voice tells me to say, Great, and I obey. He smiles. "I thought you'd like her." I say, "I myself have dated several mannequins." "Honey," he says, and reminds me that Bella is a good friend of his. I should give her a chance.
Here in the dark, I mouth, You're right, I'm sorry. By the time I get the sound to come out, he's asleep.
—•—
We drive through the hills on the ocean side. I sit up front with Yves. I keep seeing animals that look like bushy-tailed rats scurrying across the road. He tells me they're mongeese. "They were imported at the turn of the century from India," he says, "to kill the snakes. And they did. They killed the snakes, and today . . ." He takes his hands off the wheel and motions for me to finish the story.
"And today," I say, "the island is overrun with mongeese."
He smiles at me and tells me that boys trap them for fifty cents a tail.
We park when the road ends. Now I see how dry it is, the bald spots; what I thought were trees are cacti. Yves has prepared a picnic lunch. The beer and sun make me sleep, and I wake up to Yves rubbing lotion on my back.
"You are burning," he says.
Jamie is in the water. I stand up to join him, but then Bella surfaces. They're laughing. Ha, ha, ha, ho, ho, ho.
—•—
After showers, we're changing for dinner.
"You know," I say, "I think it would