There was a smudge on her left cheek. It twitched as she lifted that side of her face in a small grin. “You don’t like him, do you? Your wife does. I bet—” She broke off. A piece of broken glass was at her feet. She picked it up, dropped it in a paper sack that she hauled from under her baggy swimming suit, and stowed the sack back in its hiding place,
“What do you bet?”
Again she didn’t answer, but her grin persisted. It infuriated him. “Answer me, Luella! What were you going to say?”
She turned and strolled off down the beach.
Marla whipped into the shell road at the usual time. She helped him stand up, folded the deck chair, then took it to the car. They were both silent driving home and all through lunch. After lunch he rolled the wheelbarrow to the carport. Straining, he lifted the outboard motor. When he had it securely in the wheelbarrow, he had to stop and rest.
Marla came out while he was leaning against the red and white convertible. “What are you trying to do?”
“I’m not trying to do anything.”
“Okay, sorry I used a dirty word. But if you want that motor in the boat, why don’t you tell me? I’m always glad to give you a hand.”
“I have the normal allotment of hands. Three would only complicate the job. And if it comes to that,” he added sarcastically, “how much do you tell me?”
“About what?”
“Never mind.” He lifted the handles of the wheelbarrow. By a series of lunges — push a step, set the barrow down, then push again — he got it to the dock. Marla watched from a distance but when he stopped beside the boat she went inside the house.
The boat lay upside down on top of the dock. He didn’t have much trouble righting it and letting it down into the water. Getting the motor into place was harder. He could hardly lift it and when he did have it cradled against his chest, his hip gave way. He fell back against the guardrail. Wood cracked sharply as the flimsy rail gave way. He teetered for an instant on the dock’s edge, then dropped the motor and sprawled out on the planks. Water splashed him as the motor struck it and sank from sight.
John sat on a makeshift bollard, shivering. He probably would not have drowned if he had fallen in. Somehow, for a time, he could have managed to keep afloat. But mangroves grew impenetrably on the banks of the canal and without help he would never have been able to climb back on the dock. If he had shouted, and if his shouts had gone unheeded or unheard...
He studied the guard-rail. At the point where it had broken, the wood showed fresh. The break, except for an eighth of an inch or less, was clean. But there was a scattering of sawdust underneath it. He pushed himself upright, got his cane, and went unsteadily to the house.
Marla was in the living room. She had been watering some potted plants and had a pitcher in her hand. She dropped the pitcher when she saw his face. The pitcher broke, spilling water on the terrazzo floor.
“What happened, John?”
He closed the door and leaned against it. “Don’t you know?”
“Would I ask you if I did?”
“Somebody,” he said deliberately, “somebody sawed the dock’s railing almost through. Somebody came damn close to killing me.”
Marla’s hand went swiftly to her throat. “Oh, my God!” she said. “I forgot to tell you!”
“Somebody neglected to tell me something. That’s obvious.”
She stepped gingerly over the spilled water. “I did it this morning. I’ve been intending to fix that rail for weeks — to saw it off and put a new one in. But I got started late. Before I could finish it was time to pick you up.” She tried to kiss him. “I’m terribly sorry!”
He twisted his head away. “Sorry I didn’t drown?”
She flushed. “You shouldn’t say such things.”
“You’d say such things and worse if you were in my place.”
“Now that is something in which I’m interested.” Her voice had suddenly become as cutting as his own. “What is your place exactly?”
“I’m not sure. Suppose you tell me.”
“As far as I can see,” she said, “your place is on the beach. Sitting. Or on the boat dock. Sitting. Or sitting beside me in the car. Not trying to help in any way. Just sitting and feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve been absolutely useless ever since that so-called injury to your hip!”
“So-called?”
“You know what the doctor told me? That hip is three-tenths bruise and seven-tenths psychosomatic condition. But you leave everything — for me to do!”
“Including sawing off the dock rail? Including planting an orange crate where I’d be sure to fall over it in the dark? Deliberately?”
She couldn’t have been more shocked if he had slapped her. “You think I left that orange crate in the drive — deliberately?”
“I said so, didn’t I?”
She squared her shoulders, standing very straight. “And if I did — just suppose what you suspect is true — what do you propose to do about it?”
“Protect myself, of course.”
“I know this scene. It’s the one where the wronged husband packs his bags and moves to his club. Unfortunately the Golf Club isn’t equipped for permanent guests.”
“I can go to a hotel.”
“How will you get to town? You don’t expect me to drive you, do you?”
“I wouldn’t trust you to drive me. I’ll call a cab.”
She stepped aside. “There’s the telephone.”
He walked toward it, furious. His foot came down in the spilled water and he slipped. Sick pain flooded him as he landed on his bad hip on the slick terrazzo floor.
Marla got him into bed. He lay there for three days while his right leg performed odd little jerking movements with no direction from himself. He could tell when a spasm was coming. For a while, by grasping both sides of the mattress and exerting all the pressure he was capable of, he could stall it off. But eventually it came back anyway. His foot would kick straight up and try as he might, he could not restrain the accompanying groan of agony.
The doctor came the first day. “Frankly, I’m puzzled by that hip of yours,” he said. “The x-rays show nothing seriously wrong with it. Why don’t you forget your cane and try to walk?”
“Because I don’t enjoy falling on my face.”
On the second day Marla brought him a cup of chicken broth. It tasted bitter, unlike any broth he had ever known. He refused to drink it. Indeed, he refused all further food.
“But you must eat! If you’re just trying to punish me—”
“I’m not punishing anyone. I’ll be up tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’m not hungry.”
But the following morning he was still unable to get out of bed. And Shelby Granville came calling in the afternoon.
“Let’s have the truth, old boy. You nursing a hangover or just taking a little rest?” He had the spuriously boisterous manner which some people assume when they enter a sick-room. “You look all right to me.”
“I am all right,” John said. “And I don’t have a hangover. Now it’s your turn to tell the truth. Who told you I was laid up?”
Marla had followed Granville into the room. She stood on his left and John saw what he took to be an unspoken warning flash from her to their guest.
“Well—” Granville said, and hesitated. He seemed confused.
“Don’t bother telling me. I think I know.” John got that far before he stopped. He stopped because, in the circumstances, he was unable to put his suspicions into words. Not before a man who, whatever he meant to Marla, was to him an enemy.
“Time for John’s nap, Shelby.” Marla’s tone was conciliatory. “Let’s go into the living room. I’ll give you a drink.”
“I could use one.” Granville backed to and through the door. “Carter, I want to see you hale and hearty next time I come around.”