“There’s nothing to stay for. This marriage is over. You do not love me; I don’t blame you. What we had is dead and I killed it. It will always be the biggest regret of my life. Staying here any longer would just drag it out.”
“But we’ve paid so much to come here.”
“Then at least one of us should enjoy it. The money doesn’t matter to me. You should stay.”
“If you leave I am leaving, too.”
“No. Stay. It was more your idea to come here than mine, anyway. Also, I want to fly back alone.”
So this is how a marriage dissolves. No screaming. No throwing things. Just this quiet discussion involving travel arrangements. I suppose I should feel a deep sadness, but I am numb. In a day or two, I’ll have this island to myself. Maybe I will do a lot of snorkeling. Sleep late in bed. Take meals in my room to avoid the curious glances of the other guests wondering why I am alone.
I wait for Gwen to say something more, but there is nothing more to say. I fall asleep in my chair.
Chapter Six
The air hangs on me like a warm, wet sheet. I open my eyes. A shaft of morning light falls into the room. I check my wristwatch. It is almost 9 a.m. The sheets on the bed are rumpled and it is empty.
“Gwen?”
No answer. I check the bathroom. She is gone. The absence of air conditioning confirms that we are still without power, but I test the lights anyway. The lulling rhythmic sound of the waves and the humid, stillness of the air brings about a strange pensiveness in me. I feel that it would be wrong to make a sound or disturb this quietude in any way. I touch the bed where Gwen slept. Her satin robe lies crumpled in a ball. Pressing it to my lips, I inhale the trace of her perfume that lingers on the fabric.
I use the bucket to relieve myself. If Gwen suddenly returns at that moment and catches me squatting over a bucket, I will likely die of embarrassment. Now what to do with the contents of the bucket? Will someone from the staff collect it? God, no—that would be too humiliating. I cannot—with any dignity—hand someone a bucket of my piss and shit. I have to dispose of it myself. Outside, I scamper to the side of my bungalow, looking around to make sure no one is watching, and I dig a hole in the sand into which I dump my waste and bury it. I tromp down to the sea and wash the bucket out with seawater. On the way back, I spot one of the refined grand dames doing the same thing with obvious revulsion. This is going to make for some crazy stories when I get back home.
Left to my own devices I would stay alone in the bungalow all day, but hunger forces me out. I throw clean clothes on. My face is oily, my hair unkempt. If only I could take a hot shower. Maybe I will go for a swim in the pool later to wash some of the sweat away.
Along the way to the restaurant, I pass other guests all looking ragged at the edges. The elegant ladies have lost their perfect composure. Their hair is frizzy and their faces have a pinched, sour expression. Two elderly white men are heading in my direction. One of them wears a blindingly garish Hawaiian shirt and has a sizable potbelly. His face is ruddy from the heat. He walks with the aid of his companion who wears a straw hat and seems to take the power outage in stride. From the tender way they lean on one another it is obvious they are a couple.
“Isn’t this something?” the thinner and spryer of the pair remarks to me as I pass by. “Our trip to paradise has turned into such an ordeal.”
“This is awful. Simply awful,” his red-faced companion adds. “Hey, we heard you in the restaurant last night. You seem to know what you’re talking about. Better than that manager anyway—”
“Jonas is doing the best he can,” his friend amends.
The plump man is not convinced and gives a dismissive shrug. “You said something last night about an explosion—about the power never coming back on…”
“Yes, an E.M.P. blast. It’s a likely explanation for how we lost power on our watches, cell phones, and flashlights. No other explanation makes sense.”
“I’m Nelson, by the way,” the slender man says. “And this is Curtis.”
I introduce myself.
“So, Phillip, let’s say for the sake of argument that you are correct—that we’ve had this electric, magnetic blast thing,” Curtis ponders. “How long should we expect to endure living like cave men?”
I scratch my chin. “Well, if I am correct then power won’t return until emergency generators are flown in from outside the island.”
“I am so glad we purchased vacation insurance,” Nelson chuckles. “We came here to celebrate our anniversary, you see.”
“Twenty five years,” Curtis says.
“This was a big expense for us. We’re not so well off as a lot of the people who come here,” Nelson whispers.
I laugh, and with the same conspiratorial tone reply, “Don’t worry. I’m in the same boat as you. We maxed out our credit cards to come here.”
“You’re wife is lovely, by the way,” Curtis says.
“Yes, it’s good to see young couples in love,” Nelson agrees.
My only reply is a wan smile.
Curtis sniffs the air. “Mmmm, something smells good.”
It certainly does. We reach the restaurant, filled almost to capacity. Jonas stands before the grill with a few of his chefs preparing a feast of mammoth proportions. I spy Don leaning heavily on his cane but still managing to balance a platter crammed with food.
Don asks, “Hey, kid, how you holding up?”
“The lack of electricity doesn’t seem to have affected your appetite,” I chide.
“Man’s gotta eat.”
Out on the deck the chefs grill food that is wholly inappropriate for breakfast, including lobsters and a whole pig. The guests help themselves to the buffet of food and stack their dirty dishes on several tables at the back of the room buzzing with flies. There are no waiters to serve us or collect the used dishes.
“You gotta help yourself, kid. They’re short staffed,” Don explains. “Most of the staff walked back into town last night; half of them did not come back.”
“Then this is as I suspected. There are no working cars on the island.”
“Seems so. If you’re looking for Gwen she arrived an hour ago,” he nods to a long table where Gwen sits next to Conner and Alexandra.
I pile some French toast and tropical fruit on a plate and find a seat at the end of the table. Gwen does not acknowledge me. She listens with rapt attention to Conner blathering on about the New York City blackout in the 1970’s and all the mayhem that ensued. Alexandra notices me sitting by myself and seems about to call me over, but she glances at Gwen, looks back at me and remains silent. The other people at the table, a mixture of Americans and Brits culled from the younger ranks of the resort guests, wash their food down with beer chilled in a cooler filled with rapidly melting ice. Compared to the other tables filled with dour faced, anxious, elderly guests, my table has the raucous energy of a gang of gamblers and scalawags on a hell bound train. Decorum is cast aside. They laugh louder and drink more than is appropriate.
I have the unenviable seat next to the young Brit who mocked me the night before. His laugh is like a braying mule. His name is Robby and I know this because he constantly refers to himself in the third person, saying such things, as “Robby won’t stand for that” or “They didn’t count on Robby coming to town.” Between Robby and Conner, I cannot tell who is more pleased with himself. Robby’s girlfriend is a pear shaped woman; plain faced with an amiable though vapid expression, like something I have seen on livestock.
Robby hands me a beer. “Drink up, mate. No tee-totaling here.”
“Shouldn’t we be conserving our supplies?” I ask.
Conner slams his bottle onto the table, barks out a laugh and leans forward. “My friend, this liquor is about the only thing making a bad situation bearable. Don’t be such a Nervous Nelly.”