With his fine linen dress pants rolled to his knees to keep them dry, Jonas joins us.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Crane,” he scours a greasy pan in the waves. “I deeply appreciate your assisting us. I made an announcement earlier; perhaps you did not hear.”
“Announcement?”
“Obviously, I am unable to contact our home office, but when we finally establish contact I will insist that due to the hardships our guests have endured the resort will offer a full refund or a complimentary visit at some future date.”
This is the only good news I have had in days. “Thank you, Jonas. I appreciate that.”
“It is the least I can do given the circumstances,” Jonas sighs. “I am afraid this problem may drag on longer than any of us have anticipated.”
“And in the meantime used dishes and pots pile up and we have people standing around still expecting someone else to cater to them,” Pamela scrubs a plate with such anger I expect the pattern to vanish from the china. “Really! How galling. Bill would be here helping us, but he hasn’t been feeling quite himself lately. He’s back in our room having a lie down.”
I rise with a stack of clean pots. “Sounds like a good idea. I think after lunch I’ll do the same.”
Gwen is not in the restaurant. The breakfast buffet still sits out, covered beneath tin foil to keep the flies away. What looked appetizing at breakfast is far less enticing now. Congealed fat coats the sausages and eggs. The seafood remains untouched. From this faded menu, I gather enough food to hold me for a while and walk back to my bungalow.
I half expect to find Gwen there. She is not. I lay on the bed watching shadows move across the ceiling as day fades to night. If Gwen returns I will look pathetic, sealing myself in the room like a hermit, but wandering alone around the resort is not helping my self-image, either. Worst of all, this ordeal seems likely to stretch for several days, perhaps well into next week. This feels like a prison sentence, but I cannot recall committing any crime.
It is nearly 9 p.m. Gwen has not returned to our bungalow. Perhaps she will spend the night somewhere else. Who is she with right now? What is she doing? The ease with which Gwen moves on with her life is infuriating. While I mope about, avoiding the company of others as though I were a leper, my soon-to-be-ex-wife plays the role of social butterfly. How wonderful it would be not to care, to regard the dissolution of our marriage as nothing more than a minor setback. A day will come when this agony will fade to a dull ache. I wish that day was now.
I sit on our patio. Moonlight shatters into a thousand flecks of silver on the undulating surface of the bay. Palm trees sway in the warm breeze. It is peaceful here, alone with my thoughts, but I cannot remain. Mosquitoes. They whine in my ear. Each second I feel something on my bare arms and legs. It may be bloodthirsty insects; it may be my imagination. Either way, I cannot stay.
I stroll barefoot along the edge of the surf. Sometimes, the waves come farther than I expected and rush against my shins. I do not mind. The resort is unnaturally quiet. Without electric lights, I cannot tell if the other guests are awake in their bungalows. Each bungalow is dark and silent. As I approach the restaurant/bar, I spot a few burning tiki torches. Jonas and Lorenzo clear away the remains of the buffet. Save for the handful of torches near the buffet, the rest of the area is dark and empty.
I ascend the wooden steps from the beach. “Where is everyone?”
Jonas hands Lorenzo a tray of spoiled food and directs him to toss it into the sea. “The other guests are in their bungalows, most likely. They were not feeling particularly festive. Bad news from Rio Galera. No flight came to Isla Fin de la Tierra today. There has been no contact from the outside world. I do not know when help will come.”
“My God,” I sink to a chair. “What will we do?”
“As you said earlier, we must ration our food supplies.”
“I thought you cooked everything this morning.”
Jonas props his hands on his waist, surveying what food can be stored away for another day and which must be disposed. “Not everything—just the food most likely to spoil without a working freezer. Much remains in cans, boxes, and bottles. Certainly enough to last us for some time if we are prudent,” and then, with a rueful chuckle, he adds, “The good news is we have plenty of booze, so you will not lack for libations.”
“Yes, well, that’s a relief,” I respond with grim sarcasm, and then ask, “Jonas, was my wife here for dinner tonight?”
“I believe Mrs. Crane had a light supper with us, yes.”
Curiosity gets the better of me. I should not ask—I should not even care—but I cannot help myself. “Was she alone?”
“She sat with some of the younger guests of the resort.”
“Like Conner Gilroy.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Gilroy—among a few others.”
I stare at a spot on the floor, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. “I must look like an idiot.”
Jonas Dunlap, diplomatic as ever, offers me a tactful way to save face. “The power outage places stress on every relationship, Mr. Crane.”
“Phillip. Please call me Phillip. It’s somewhat absurd to stand on formalities when we’re using buckets for toilets,” I playfully chide. “Do you have family on the island?”
“I have a daughter—about your age, but she is not here. She lives in our native Antigua.”
“She must love to visit you here.”
“She has never been here. Perhaps some day. I am working on it,” Jonas replies, a wistful note in his voice.
I am curious about this man. Normally, I would not ask personal questions, but since it appears we will be together longer than expected it would not hurt to know each other better.
“I notice you are not wearing a wedding ring…”
Jonas does not immediately answer. Have I offended him by prying? Instead of responding, he walks behind the empty bar, sets out two glasses, and pours room temperature rum and cokes. He hands me a glass, takes a seat opposite mine, and calmly says, “A marriage is a difficult thing to maintain even during normal circumstances.”
Here we are—not host and guest, not old and young, but two men, speaking plainly to one another as equals.
“So you were married?” I ask.
“That was some time ago, Phillip. I assume you will be leaving us as soon as normal flights resume,” Jonas does not attempt to hide the fact that we both know my marriage is over.
I take a long sip of my drink. “Either I will or my wife.”
“No children?”
“No.”
“Then that is one good thing; less to fight over,” he nods sagely, with the air of a veteran of some half-forgotten battle. “Ending a marriage is always worse with a child involved.”
It is not necessary for him to elaborate further. I envision a rift dividing Jonas and his daughter. Here we are, years later, and the fault line between them remains.
“It kills me to wander alone around this place,” I confess. “I sit by myself in our bungalow or skulk around at the end of the beach, knowing all the while that my wife is somewhere else in the same resort, enjoying herself with other people—like nothing happened at all.”
Jonas rests his chin on his hand. “I would not say she is enjoying herself. Perhaps she is, but I doubt it. Some people have a way of appearing happy when they are really dying inside. So it was for me, when I was married.”
“Maybe you are right. Maybe she is just as miserable as I am. Either way, it’s over.”
Jonas takes a dip swig of his drink and leans back in his chair. “And that could be just as well. It is not healthy to hold on to something that is not meant to survive.”
“You never re-married?”
With a wry smile, Jonas gestures to the empty restaurant and bar. “I am married to the resort. Believe me, she is a very demanding wife.”