CONNIE AND LESTER
Connie and Lester are down by the well. Thick rolls of toadstools spring from its walls like the powdered curls of a colonial wig. Its floor is littered with shards and arrowheads.
I still have the taste of chicken livers in my mouth, Lester says.
Kiss me with your teeth, Lester.
He steps back a few yards so as to get a running start.
Spinning stripes … make a circle, Lester says, waving his towel like a lasso. He leaps at Connie, bowls her over, and bites her calf.
Twice for luck, I say, and he clutches the other one like a drumstick and bites it.
My ass is still stiff from Mass yesterday.
Lester pokes his thumb through the cellophane bag of pistachio nuts, I love you more than anyone, he says.
In the density of limbs and foliage, veils of shadow and oblong panes of sunlight partition the thicket into a thousand pieces.
I think I’m coming down with something, Lester coughs.
He points to a stump of flowering moss. To a dragonfly.
The wind rustles the trees. Catch a falling leaf, Connie says, making herself dizzy.
Lester’s got a first rate brain, Connie says, he can do two-thirds of nine without blinking and he’s a great phone conversationalist, she says, peering into the empty thermos, and stepping on a yellow jacket.
Show them your tin cans and wire, Lester.
Don’t be a stranger, Connie says tearfully, her arm lost to the elbow in a crystal bowl of raisinettes.
Come out and see my car.
She puts her bathrobe on and steps across the yard.
There.
It looks like an egg.
See.
It smells new.
Listen to the engine, I say, turning the key.
It sounds like a poète-maudit destined to die in shame.
Don’t, I say, handing her a tissue.
I think Lester really likes you, she says.
The ground shakes.
Tanks.
I’ll tell him that …
No, look. You can see their turrets through the trees.
It’s getting …
Don’t, I say.
That night, the rebels begin shelling our village. Headlights fill the highway and rain splatters the windshields. Connie watches the windshield wipers and Lester listens to them hum until he slumps against a carton of canned goods and snores. Connie is ludicrously gorgeous in her pale wheat-colored maillot — her hair is chestnut brown, her eyes are fathomless. Lester too is ludicrously gorgeous in his pale wheat-colored maillot — his hair is chestnut brown, his eyes are closed. Connie counts one white line after another after another after another after another after another after another. There’ll be plenty of time for tennis when we reach the island, Roz says, we should sign up for a court on Wednesday for Thursday and on Thursday for Friday and on Friday for Saturday and on Saturday for Sunday and on Sunday for Monday and on Monday for Tuesday.…
And on Tuesday for Wednesday? Lester asks, momentarily awake.
Go to the head of the class, Connie says. She unpeels her third banana, let’s play a game — I’m thinking of a person … someone we all know.
Is it me? Lester asks.
Is it? I turn to Connie and break off a piece of her banana.
The road conditions and traffic have brought us to a virtual standstill.
A man unloading baskets, bags and livestock from the top of a bus gives us directions to a modest hotel.
Next day, at the tourist information kiosk in the bus station, we are told to follow a boy who will take us to the rental agent.
He has a creaky old red schwinn he rides every morning along the man-made inlets where people dock their catamarans and sunfish, where ducks in groups of three and four glide by, and he throws them pieces of Carr’s Table Water Crackers which are the most popular crackers on the island, and these rides every morning before most people have arisen make him tan and less burdened with a feeling of responsibility for the heart attack his father had when he withdrew from law school and moved in with two waiters/actors.