“Misunderstanding,” Ratzi said hopelessly.
“Cheats at everything — everything. Cards, games — Parcheesi. He cheats at Parcheesi. A game like Parcheesi. Can you imagine. The man cheats at Parcheesi. And in an argument — you know what he does in an argument? He makes up statistics. Makes them up. He cheats. There’s no honesty in him at all. And physically he’s at death’s door and where is he?”
“Could he have gone into the city?” Natasha asked her.
“Do you believe in God?”
“Yes — you’ve already asked us that.”
“But what. What do you believe? Do you believe in a God who forgives everything the man does no matter what? No matter who he hurts?”
They were both looking at her.
“Well?” Mrs. Skinner said, turning her gaze from one to the other.
“Yes,” Ratzi said, a little too loudly. “I believe in a merciful God.”
“You?” she demanded of Natasha.
“I believe in God,” Natasha said.
“Well, I believe that if you’re not good — if you cheat—then God will get you. I believe there’s a price to pay. And good people pay it along with the bad people. It’s in the Bible. You can find it in the Bible in plain English straight from God. And look at those people in New York and Washington, and the other place, too. They were all paying the price. And you can bet that a lot of them went straight to hell. You know it’s very probable that most of them were in a state of sin. And where are they now?”
“What are you saying?” Natasha asked her. “Are you—” She couldn’t speak.
“I’m saying I never did a thing in my life that was intentionally a sin. I have practiced my faith to the letter. And I don’t know where my husband went with that woman.”
“They were both in the water,” said Natasha. She came very close to saying she hoped with all her heart that at this very moment on God’s earth they were fucking their eyes out. It occurred to her to say this as she rose, shivering with quiet fury, starting off in the direction of the beach, having to stop to gain her balance. She heard Skinner’s appalling wife say something about talking to drunks.
“I’m very sober,” Ratzi said.
Mrs. Skinner put the handkerchief to her mouth, but got out, “I’ll kill the little son of a—”
He held his hands up, a shrugging motion. “Horrible time,” he said, though he now had a silly smile on his face. And then he was laughing. The woman had not meant to be funny, and she stood to walk away from him but ended up collapsing in Natasha’s vacated chair.
“I’m very frightened,” she said. “Aren’t you very frightened?”
Natasha walked on toward the beach. People were sitting on blankets in the sand, some with coolers and wine, as though nothing at all had happened and this was just the fine weather of cloudy twilight by the sea. One small circle had lit a hibachi. They were speaking Spanish and what sounded like German. It could not matter as much to those for whom America was not home. That was just life on earth. Two girls tossed a beach ball back and forth, and another was trying to make a figure in the sand. Still another walked among the patrons with a little tray of beer. Natasha stood at the water’s edge and looked toward the hills, then toward the open sea. People splashed and moved with the water a few hundred paces up that way. They were all shadows in the failing light.
Someone was playing a guitar back toward the entrance of the resort. Someone else was hitting bongos. She heard the sound of a metal drum, too. It was almost full dark.
She made her way back to the wide veranda, and standing there, staring out, was Constance.
“Where have you been?” Constance wanted to know.
“I was just looking for you.”
“Is this your friend?” Mrs. Skinner asked from her chair. Ratzi was still sitting in his own chair, hands on his knees, his gaze darting from one to the other of them.
Natasha addressed Constance under her breath. “Where’s Skinner?” To her surprise, she had to resist a manic urge to laugh.
“Who?”
“Mr. Skinner. Mr. Skinner — the one you walked down to the beach with.”
“Why, hon-eh love,” Constance said, running the syllables together. “I been down th’ beach with two ’r three types this terrible day. Getting in the water and trying to get sober.”
Mr. Skinner’s wife got out of the chair and moved to face her. “You listen. His name is Skinner. He’s an alcoholic, he cheats, and he can’t have anything to drink.”
“Don’t you know what’s happ’nin’, hon-eh?” Constance said. “Ev’body’s drinkin’ t’day, sweetie. Ev’body. Whole world came down on us like a ton today. We don’ even know how many’s lost their lives today.”
“His name happens to be Walter B. Skinner. He’s in need of help.”
“Walt. Oh, yeah — okay. Him. Skinner. Walt. How could I not remember Walt.” She laughed into her fist. “You know — seriously, if yer innerested I–I ran into him jus’ now. Jus’ left’m in the bar. I swear he’s in there. Good man, ol’ Walt. He got a lil’ sunburned. And, hon-eh, I gotta tell ya, he’s been drinking.”
Mrs. Skinner turned and hurried into the building, through the crowd that was still in the lobby.
“Guy’s three sheets,” Constance said. “Very in-ee-briated man. She’s gonna be mad as hell when she gets to him.”
Natasha said nothing, trying to keep from collapsing with laughter or crying — it felt like a form of psychosis — and she leaned into Constance, bracing herself against the pressure of the whole day.
“Hey,” Constance said. “You look like you’re about to fall down.”
“No,” Natasha told her. “I want another whiskey.”
“I do believe in God,” Ratzi said. “But not like that.”
“I don’ think God cares about us at all,” Constance muttered, mostly to herself. “All we do ev’ry goddamned day is kill ’n’ maim ’n’ starve ’n’ butcher ’n’ fillet ’n’ cook each other.”
“Where were you all day?” Natasha asked.
Constance seemed not to have heard. But then she said, tearfully, “Been tryin’ t’contact my daughter.” She rubbed her eyes vigorously and seemed to let down with a sigh, her hands dropping to her sides. “Well — ev’body’s unhappy. I’m gon’ go t’bed. You go too.”
“Do you need help?” Natasha asked.
But the other didn’t answer, pausing long enough to stare at Ratzi, half wave at him, and then move toward the entrance. Natasha saw sand on her back.
“Nice lady,” Ratzi said. “It’s so sad for everyone today.”
She nodded, then turned and followed her friend into the lobby. Constance had paused. There was commotion in the bar, several people standing around someone on the floor near the waiters’ station. Skinner. A group of men had crouched side by side around him. They lifted him — it took four of them — and moved falteringly to the long couch against the wall. Mrs. Skinner stood by with her hands clasped over her middle, muttering to herself. And here was Ratzi hurrying in, with two members of the waitstaff. Skinner’s head moved, but his eyes were nearly shut, and you could see he was only half conscious. Someone said an ambulance was on the way, and in a little while they all heard the siren. People were coming in from the veranda and the beach, and the paramedics moved through without looking to the left or right. They got to Skinner and started working over him while his wife stood closer, sniffling and saying to anyone who would listen that she had warned him, she had told him what was going to happen if he kept on. Now God had given his sign.