Maybe I ought to show her who was boss, he said. "Slap her around?" I said. "HeU, no. I've never laid a hand on her and I never will."
That finished the preparations. Now I was ready to build the wall.
Saturday morning, I let Annalise have the Mini to go shopping. She was back in time for lunch, and she stayed on board Windrunner all afternoon, sunning herself and sipping rum punches on the foredeck, while I made pre-sailing checks and went over the charts. I hadn't told her I was going out, of course, and she didn't know enough about boats to understand what I was doing.
That night she tried to kindle some sexual interest in me. Her hands felt like sea slugs on my bare skin. I said, "Leave me alone, will you? I'm too tired," and rolled away from her.
Sunday, her last day, she slept late and moped around when she finally got up. She suggested we go to Harry's Dockside Cafe for lunch; I said I didn't feel like it, why didn't she just go by herself. I gave her some money—twice as much as she needed to buy a meal. As I expected, she spent the extra on liquor; she was tight when she came back, and she didn't seem to care whether I noticed or not. I didn't say anything to her about it. She stayed in the cabin for a time—more liquor, Valium, or both—and passed the rest of the afternoon sleeping in the shade on the foredeck.
I thought I might be a little apprehensive as construction time grew near, but I wasn't. My resolve was too strong, the hate as cold as the Freon packs in the chest below. That's not to say I was looking forward to finishing the wall. No one in his right mind looks forward to a job like that.
Annalise woke up about five thirty. She said she could use a drink; she was bleary-eyed from a combination of the ones she'd had at lunch and the afternoon heat. I said I was hungry, we'd eat first and then have drinks. Supper was day-old French bread, some ripe Camembert, and papaya. While she was setting the table, I poured two large glasses from a bottle of red wine. With my back to her, I slipped two tablets from the tin of Valium and stirred them into her glass. She emptied half the wine before she even looked at her food. Neither of us ate much.
When her glass was empty, she asked for a rum punch. I built it strong, stirred in two more Valium tablets with the pineapple juice and Grenadine. She said when I handed it to her, "Let's go topside. It's like an oven down here."
"It's not that bad. There's the fan and a breeze through the porthole."
"Why can't we go up on deck?"
"I feel like sitting here tonight."
"Dammit, Richard, sometimes I think you're trying to torture me. Haven't I done enough penance for my sins?"
"I have no intention of torturing you," I said. "On the contrary. I'm making it as easy for you as I can."
"Then why can't we go up on deck? This damn heat is making me woozy."
"Drink your drink. You'll be all right."
She drank it. And the refill I gave her, that one more slowly. I made the third with three full jiggers of rum and three Valium tablets.
"Whoo, that's strong," she said when she tasted it. "Trying to get me drunk, fella? Take advantage of me?"
"Yes," I said.
"Well. Well, well, well. I better slow down, then, don't want to pass out."
"We have plenty of time." I raised my glass. "Cheers."
"Up your poop chute," she said, and giggled.
She was sweating heavily by the time she finished half that drink. Her eyes had an unfocused glaze. She pushed the glass away.
"Had enough," she said. "Too much. Rum and wine . . . shouldn't mix."
I pushed it back. "Go on, drink up."
"Why?"
"Drink it, Annalise. Can't let good liquor go to waste."
She drank it, gagging on the last swallow. "No more, no more." She sat staring blankly at the empty glass. Then, slurring the words, "Jesus, I feel shitty."
I didn't say anything.
"Can't keep my eyes open. So hot in here . . ."
I didn't say anything.
"Think I'm gonna be sick . . ."
She started to get up, lurched a little and would have fallen if I hadn't cought her. I eased her down onto the double berth. She struggled in my grasp, tried to stand up again.
"No, the bathroom . . ."
"Stay right here."
" . . . spinning . . ."
"Close your eyes. Lie still."
I held her down until she stopped struggling, then turned her onto her side and knelt beside the bunk. Her eyes were slits, the lids drooping. Her breathing was already fast and ragged. Sweat plastered strands of her hair against the mottled skin of her forehead. I remember thinking that it was astonishing I could ever have loved this creature. I didn't even hate her very much in that moment. It was like looking into the face of no one I'd ever seen before.
"Annalise, listen to me."
". . .so tired . . ."
"Don't go to sleep yet. Listen. I know about Fred Cotler."
". . . What?"
"I know about Fred Cotler. I know you told him about me; I know you were part of the blackmail."
I had to say it three more times before the meaning penetrated the drug and alcohol haze. Her body twitched; her head came up. She said in a clear, vicious whisper, "You son of a bitch!" and then she sagged back and her eyes closed and she was still.
I poured a triple shot of Arundel and went topside. For a long time I sat on the foredeck and watched the harbor lights and listened to the seabirds and the night music. Two hours, three, four—I had no sense of time. When I went down to the cabin again to check on her, I thought she might have stopped breathing. I couldn't find a pulse, but I still wasn't sure. I took the pillow out from under her head, lowered it over her face. And then I was sure.
The difficult part of the wall was finished.
"Good-bye, Annalise," I said.
You keep asking how I felt. How do you think I felt? Relieved?
Happy? Sick? Sad? Remorseful?
None of the above.
I felt nothing.
I'd done what I had to do, and it had burned me out and left me empty inside.
I sat on deck again until long after midnight. The marina was quiet by then, everybody asleep on the nearby boats, the scattered nightlights the only breaks in the moonless dark. I stirred myself and went down the companionway again.
I'd draped a sheet over the mound on the berth, so I wouldn't have to look at her anymore. I double-checked the curtains over the portholes to make sure they were tight-drawn. Then I packed all of Annalise's belongings into the one suitcase and the cosmetic bag. Every single item, every last trace. When I was done, I added the heavy lead sinkers to both bags, locked them, took them to the forward sail locker, and padlocked them inside.
Before I dragged the mizzen out from under the bunk and spread it open on the deck, I put on a pair of gloves. The dead weight was much easier to handle than Coder's had been; I left the sheet in place as I lifted her down onto the Dacron. I brought the ice chest from the galley, took out half of the Freon packs, laid them down alongside her, and rolled her onto them. The others I arranged on top, then wrapped the sail around her and the refrigerants. Half a roll of duct tape sealed the bundle as airtight as I could make it.
I keyed open the aft sail locker. There was nothing in it now except for the lengths of anchor chain and the extra padlocks. The bundle was heavy, but I hoisted it over my shoulder without too much struggle and carried it to the locker and wedged it inside, in a position that would make getting it out again fairly easy. The entire business took less than five minutes.
I remade the bunk, sprawled out on it, and fell into an exhalisted sleep.