He shrugged. “We get married, of course, if that’s what you want.” That was, Vern thought, the easiest way to divvy up the money.
“Or maybe a different life?” Sandy suggested.
“Sure, maybe a different life. We divide the money, you have a different life if you want.”
“Or if you want,” said Sandy, and they proceeded to quarrel without really saying what they thought — or maybe without really knowing what was in their minds. They were not, after all, the same people anymore.
That night, Sandy sat up on deck in the early dark for a long time. Later, preparing some vegetables in the galley, her knife slipped and she cut her hand. Blood mingled with the cubed carrots and celery, the garlic and tomatoes, and spotted the blond maple counter. Vern grabbed a dish towel. He was wrapping her hand up and putting pressure on the shallow, fast-bleeding wound when he realized that she hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t moved. She was watching the blood with the detached, concentrated expression of a surveillance camera.
“Hey,” said Vern, grabbing her shoulder. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”
Sandy’s eyes came back into focus. “Sight of blood,” she said. “I’ve never done that before. Ouch, what a stupid thing to do.” She gave the old Sandy smile, and Vern got some Band-Aids and relaxed.
The weather held — Vern thought he had never seen such perfect conditions for cruising — and they reached Freeport on schedule. Sandy was sick of fish and wanted to find a butcher shop. Vern had in mind to do some banking; he wanted to transfer some money, to begin pulling down that big new account, but she said, “Let’s wait until we look at some boats, at something big.” There was a nervous, enthusiastic note in her voice. “Just like you wanted.”
And Vern, knowing that was safest, agreed. He worked around the boat, putting everything in order, while Sandy set off to find a steak. She returned two hours later, hot and tired, with a large package.
“You bought the whole cow?” asked Vern.
“A steak and a surprise,” said Sandy, and she packed everything away in the galley refrigerator.
The following day, heading toward Berry Island, they stopped in the channel to swim. They’d gotten fond of isolation, of the vast blue-green open water, of the great depths below. Vern liked to dive straight down as far as breath would take him, then rocket back up on the edge of fear. The water was very clear, and once in a while, they would see the white of a sail or a hull on the edge of the horizon.
Vern shook the brine out of his eyes and looked for Sandy far out from the boat — she was a strong swimmer. He saw only empty water and the gentle roll of the waves. He turned, isolation and a thousand little hints and feelings breeding alarm, to see her starting up the ladder of the boat.
He waved and she called back, “I’ve taken a cramp.”
“Need some help?”
“I’ll be fine as soon as I get out of the water.” She reached the deck and began massaging her left calf.
Vern ducked under the surface, the sudden cold of the lower water washing away his anxiety. There’s nothing wrong with Sandy, he reminded himself before he struck out for the horizon with his flashy crawl. Vern was fast, but not good for any distance. He was ready to turn back when he heard the rumble of the motor, and the pleasant frisson of the deep turned into something else.
He shouted to Sandy, then swam briskly toward the hull. Sandy was standing at the helm in her floppy hat, her eyes hidden by the brim and by her sunglasses. She could be anyone, Vern thought, but he was an optimist, so he called again and waved to the woman who adored him. The boat hung suspended in the emerald water with nothing wrong at all except for the sound of the motor. Vern swam into the shadow of the hull. She had lifted the ladder, but he could perhaps scramble up the side.
“Sandy!”
She looked down at him, her face blank, indifferent, her voice steady and uninflected. “I did for you. And what did it get me?”
Vern was indignant. “It got you well over a million dollars!”
“He was killed,” Sandy cried, her voice turning hoarse and strange, a stranger’s voice, carrying a stranger’s inexplicable passions.
“Who?” demanded Vern. “Who are you talking about?” In his present distress, he had forgotten Sandy’s former lover. Vern’s only thought was that she’d had a breakdown, taken some sort of fit.
“The only man I ever, ever loved.”
“You’re going to marry me. I thought you loved me,” Vern protested, but Sandy ignored him.
“How was I to know he’d be on that cutter?” A wail of grief and desolation. “How was I to know? Of all the boats, out of all the Coast Guard bases! How was I to guess?”
“Christ, Sandy, you couldn’t know,” said Vern, who was wondering how any of this was his fault. If she couldn’t keep track of what’s his name, how was he, Vern, supposed to? The whole situation was bizarre, nonsensical, and he was tired of treading water. But when he tried to reach the stem, Sandy eased the boat away and brought it around again. Sandy could handle the Hatteras very nicely.
“I wouldn’t have done it except for you,” she said. “It was not the sort of thing I’d ever have thought of. The seas were terrible, but I insisted they go, because my fiancé was out. My fiancé,” she added bitterly, “who wants the money and the single life. Don’t deny it!”
In the water and beginning to gasp for breath, Vern thought it best to remain silent, though a preference for the bachelor life is hardly a capital offense.
“They were hit by a huge wave. He was slammed against the rail and hurt and swept overboard.”
“No one’s fault,” Vern gasped. “No one’s fault.” And then he asked her to let him come aboard. She needed help, he said. She’d had a bad shock, how bad he hadn’t realized. He should have realized. She should have told him. But now he knew, and they could work something out.
Sandy shook her head. “I loved him,” she said. “I wanted to get away from him, but I loved him. You didn’t know I was still seeing him, did you? I was, I was. But after a while all I wanted was to start fresh.”
Vern pleaded with her and tried to distract her as he paddled about. The water felt cool, almost cold, in the shadow of the hull. Above him, Sandy didn’t answer; she held her head stiffly, as if she was wearing an old-fashioned, high-collared dress.
At last, Vern risked everything. “Listen,” he said, “there are yachts passing all the time. When I get picked up, Sandy, and I will get picked up, what will you say?”
In response, she lifted a dark red plastic bag like a lumpy balloon. Before he could cry out, Vern saw the flash of the boat knife. Liquid spurted onto the water, making soft, red fans.
“I’ll tell them sharks came while we were swimming,” said Sandy. Her voice had gone dead, dead and uninflected, as if Vern was of no concern to her. “I know how to act. I know what to say. I’ve had practice with a dead fiancé.”
She threw the plastic bag into the water and put the motor into gear. Vern shouted once, twice. Then he began splashing after her, churning through the wake, exerting all his strength, because, though he’d never catch up, he could already see the fins.
Summer Parole
by Katherine H. Brooks