Jem sat on the edge of the bed. He couldn’t help but notice the indented place where Neil had slept.
“Do I have glasses?” Neil asked.
“You were wearing some this afternoon,” Jem said.
Neil rubbed his eyes and laughed. “My eyeglasses, yes. Thank you for reminding me. I meant do I have drinking glasses? Highballs? Martinis?”
“Glasses are on top of the fridge,” Jem said.
Neil made the drinks. “Shall we go onto the deck?” he asked.
“Sure,” Jem said. He felt awkward, as if this were a first date. Jem accepted one of the vodka cranberries from Neil and walked out onto the deck. Jem sank into one of the deck chairs. It had been a long time since he’d had a mixed drink; at the bars, he could only afford beer. Neil sat in the other deck chair, his eyeglasses in place. It was beautifuclass="underline" the water, the sun, the cold cocktail, the surprisingly comfortable deck chair. A sliver of beautiful life.
“So, Jem, tell me,” Neil said. “How did you find your way to this island?”
“I just picked it off the map,” Jem said. “I knew kids in college whose families had homes here and I thought I could make money.”
“Are you making money?” Neil asked.
“Well, yeah,” Jem said. The hundred-dollar tip rested deep in his pocket. “I guess.”
“And what are your plans after Nantucket?” Neil asked.
“I’m going to L.A.,” Jem said. “I want to be an agent.”
Neil Rosenblum threw his shaggy gray head back and laughed. “Oh, Christ,” he said. “That’s just gorgeous. He wants to be an agent. He’s heading to L.A. You kill me, kid.”
“Why?” Jem said. He didn’t love being laughed at.
“Going to Hollywood to break into the business? I didn’t think people did that anymore. Just like no one goes to Paris to become a writer; it’s been done. Overdone. I can tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going to get to Cali and work at the Bel Air or Spago until you get fed up, and then you know what you’re going to do?”
“What?” Jem asked.
“I don’t know,” Neil said. “I don’t know what you’re going to do. Come back East? Get hooked up with some pretty older lady like Nicole Simpson and have her jealous ex-husband hack you into tiny bits? Join a cult and participate in group suicide? I don’t know.”
Jem finished his drink. Neil said, “Do you want another?”
Jem shrugged. “Are you going to quit making fun of me?”
“Ooooh,” Neil said. “I hurt his feelings. I’m sorry.” He disappeared into the room, leaving Jem to stare at the water. Then he reappeared with fresh drinks. “You know what I was doing when I was your age? I was backpacking through Southeast Asia. Kathmandu, Bangkok, Koh Samui, Singapore, two months on Bali. I spent a penny a night in the teahouses in the Himalayas. Four bucks a night for a room in Thailand plus all the paad thai I could eat. I didn’t shower for a month and when I finally saw a mirror I barely recognized myself. And guess what? I was the happiest I’ve ever been. Now look at me. I assume you know how much I’m paying for this room-more than I spent on my entire trip through Asia! And I’m no fucking happier than I was watching the sun go down on Kuta Beach, drinking Bintang beer. That’s the truth.”
Jem chewed on a piece of ice. “I’ve worked hard for my money this summer,” he said. “I’m not going to waste it traveling.”
“Waste it!” Neil said. “You wouldn’t be wasting it, my friend. You’d be giving yourself something you can take to the grave. And I’m not feeding you a sales pitch. You couldn’t afford my tours and you wouldn’t enjoy them. I’m saying you should go on your own, while you’re young. See the Taj Mahal, the Nile River, the Raffles Hotel.”
“My parents are going to be upset enough about California,” Jem said. “Never mind Timbuktu.”
Neil looked at Jem over his glasses. “Surely you don’t still listen to your parents.”
“I don’t want to piss them off,” Jem said. “Probably sounds childish to you, but that’s how I feel.” Jem watched the sun sink behind a bank of clouds. “I should go,” he said.
“He should go, he says. Yes, by all means, go home. Get away from the old geezer who’s putting ideas in your head.”
The next morning, Jem was standing outside watering the roses when Maribel jogged over, her body glistening with sweat.
“Hit me with the hose,” she said.
Jem sprayed a light mist in her direction.
“I’m hot, Jem,” she said. “I mean it. Get me wet.”
“Okay,” Jem said. He pulled the trigger of the hose and the water hit her chest, her bare stomach, her legs. She turned around and he hosed off her shoulders, her back, her ass, until she was soaked and Jem had an erection.
“What if I wanted to take you on a trip through Southeast Asia?” he said. “Would you go with me? We could stay at the Raffles Hotel.”
Water dripped off the end of Maribel’s ponytail. “You’re sweet,” she said. “Thanks for the shower.” She jogged away. Maribel probably didn’t mean to tease him, but each time he saw her inspired hope, and then the hope was shot down. It was just like his sister, Gwennie. She ate a meal, and helped Jem’s mother with the dishes, drying the plates with a tea towel and nesting them away. But then she retreated to the upstairs bathroom, turning on the noisy exhaust fan. “Putting on my makeup,” she’d say. When she emerged, ten, fifteen minutes later, the bathroom smelled too piney, freshener fresh.
Jem gathered up the hose and went into the lobby. Love said, “You have a message. I can’t believe this. There’s finally a handsome, single man staying in the hotel alone, and he’s after you.” She handed Jem a pink message slip that said:“Happy hour? NR.” “And since you’re going over there, you might as well tell him he has two messages. I put his blinker on a long time ago but he hasn’t responded.”
“He doesn’t want any messages,” Jem said. “But, whatever, I’ll take them.”
Love handed two message slips to Jem, and he shoved them in his pants pocket. Then he popped out the side door and read them. It was like reading someone’s mail, but Jem wanted to know a little more about the guy before he had drinks with him again. The first message said, “Your girlfriend called. 11:05 A.M.” and the box that said “Please call” was checked. The second message was from a Dr. Kenton. Dr. Kenton was probably his psychiatrist. Since coming to Nantucket, Jem learned that everyone in New York saw a psychiatrist. Or Dr. Kenton could be a client who wanted Neil to set up a golf vacation in Tahiti. Jem crumpled both messages and put them back in his pocket.
After work, Jem knocked on the door of room 5. This time Neil was awake, smoking a joint.
“You wanna smoke?” Neil asked.
“Sure,” Jem said. First, though, he sat in the leather chair. He’d stripped this room at least twenty times, and every time he wanted to sink into the chair. It felt like a giant hand. He pinched the joint between his thumb and index finger and inhaled. He held the smoke for as long as he could, and then he passed the joint back.
“Have you given any more thought to traveling?” Neil asked. “Because I was thinking about it after you left yesterday. If you’re set on Cali, that’s fine, but you should travel first.”
“What do you care?” Jem said. “I mean, not to be rude, but what difference does it make to you if I go or not? You said I couldn’t afford your tours and I’m sure you’re right.”
“I care as a fellow human being,” Neil said. “When I look at you I see a young person with his whole life ahead of him, and I say to myself, ‘Man, if I had it to do over, I’d go back. That trip is one thing I don’t regret.’”
“So because you don’t regret it, I have to go?” Jem said.
Neil smoked the joint down. “If you went, I promise you’d thank me. Guaranteed.”