She shook her head, unable to stop. “Me either.”
But tears did move him. Loren had already sold out weeks ago when he bought the Crusoe Cam domain name, allowing it to be commodified by views, if not dollars. So he told her the history of his coming to the islands — the real, unembellished version, which he had never shared before in its unflattering, unfun entirety.
“… After they took the girls away, I still called and wrote. It wasn’t as easy as today, with email. Did their mother give them the letters? I don’t know. Two years later, I received an official letter that Bette had died. Drowned in a bathtub. There were bruises on her body. My wife didn’t have the decency to inform me. Lilou never forgave me for not rescuing them.”
“How can you ever forgive me?”
He waved her words off, deep in the presenting of his case to an invisible jury. “Why didn’t they understand? I was accused of a perverted lifestyle. Things that would damage a child.”
“Children don’t understand logic. Neither do most adults. We want a magic fix.”
He slumped in his chair.
“Contact her. She has a right to know you’re sick.”
Loren poured another glass. “Did you know that there were a hundred thousand viewers just tonight?”
“Really?”
“And that Windy and Cooked were planning to bomb the main hotel? Titi told me while you were out on your night reconnaissance patrol. The islands are again at war.”
“Why would Wende—?”
“Cooked, that idiot, talked her into it. She wouldn’t arouse suspicion placing it like he would.”
“So that was it.”
“Youth is wasted on the young because they’re crazy.”
“You were young once.”
“And as crazy as they come.”
* * *
Ann woke refreshed the next morning, strangely unaffected by the copious amounts of alcohol she had ingested, the theatrics and meltdowns of the previous day. The damage from the storm had been minimal, anticlimactic compared to the human goings-on. Why did the calamities of others always have the effect of making one’s own problems more tolerable? It wasn’t exactly schadenfreude; it was more the relief of knowing no one’s life was perfect. Everyone struggled. One was not alone. On the island she had found a camaraderie she didn’t want to lose by returning to her old life in LA. When she was a little girl, her favorite game had been playing nurse — she bandaged nonexistent wounds and brought order to chaos. Here on this island, she felt that sense of usefulness returning. Was it pathological, her neediness to be needed?
Richard waved her off, too hungover to get out of bed. His face and arms were scratched from gathering kindling with Dex the previous night. His hair still smelled of woodsmoke when she bent to kiss him.
The public area was deserted, no sign of Loren, not that she had expected one, but no sign of Dex and Wende either. Not even Titi and Cooked were to be seen. The prospect of a solitary breakfast did not appeal to her. In the empty kitchen, she made a quick coffee and grabbed fruit, intending to head to her usual lounging spot behind the camera.
As she approached, puffs of smoke were rising above the tree line. When the camera came into view around the last curve of shoreline, there were Dex and Wende in front of another large bonfire. Both of them had red, watery eyes. Ann couldn’t be sure if it was from woodsmoke or spliff or some diabolical combination of the two. The air was fragrant with the resiny smell of pot.
“Hey, what’s up?” Dex said.
“I need a word with you,” Ann said to Wende. “In private.”
“Don’t worry,” Dex said. “We figured out how to turn the volume off the camera.”
“About the boat,” Ann said. “I thought you jumped to not get married.”
“What?” Dex said.
Wende took her aside. “Can we do this later in private?”
“What are you guys up to?”
“Nothing. A little performance art,” Dex said.
“We’ve been building the fire all morning.”
“Okay, give me some room.” Dex pulled some papers out of a beach bag and faced the camera. Theatrically, he kissed the first sheet and then let the flames devour it. The breeze blew the ashes horizontally, like a sideways snowstorm, out of frame.
“What’s this?” Ann asked.
“That is the latest song I wrote.”
“Why are you burning it?” Wende asked. “You never said anything about burning a new song. Is it that bad?”
“It’s called ‘Beautiful One-Eyed Lady.’ Inspired by Richard’s primo dinner last night. It’s probably the best piece I’ve ever done.”
“You have a copy?” Wende asked.
Dex fed the last page to the flames, then bowed and walked out of camera range. “What would be the point of that?”
“So that was the only one?” Wende said.
“Do you think I’m some narcissist? Faking it? It was a sign when we didn’t leave the island, when you fell overboard. The universe doesn’t want me to go back. This is good-bye to the band, to music. This time I’m doing it right.”
Wende ran to the fire, as if by sheer will she could pull out the pages intact. “You’re making a mistake.”
“I feel wonderful. I’m no longer a puppet to worldly desires.”
“You have no right!” she screamed.
“It’s my destiny.”
“It isn’t. Not anymore. You involve other people. It’s a gift, and you shit on it.”
Dex sighed. “Women.”
“You’re not so pure either. You complain about Robby, but a few years back you dumped him when you thought you could go out on your own.”
“You’re young,” Dex said, and turned his skinny back on her.
“Robby needs to make a living. He doesn’t have a rich dad and a trust fund to fall back on.”
“Stop it,” Dex said.
“I better leave,” Ann said.
“No!” Wende held her arm. “I want a witness. He doesn’t like to talk about all that because it doesn’t go with his image.” She turned to Dex. “I’ve sacrificed two years with you. It hasn’t been all games and fun. The best part of Dex Cooper is when he’s out on the stage playing music. You’re not much good any other time. I’m out.”
With that, Wende took off down the beach.
* * *
Dex couldn’t put out the flicker of doubt that she had ignited. She was screwing with his enlightenment. What do you do after being famous? It wasn’t like being an accountant, where you can retire. The only retirement from fame was obscurity. Nonfame. As in No Longer Famous. Thrown out of the club. Which, back to the Buddhist texts, pretty much came down to nonbeing. How did he like them apples?
Dex gave a fake bark of a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Women.”
Ann felt awkward staying but feared leaving him alone. Undecided, she sat on the sand. There was a bit of Girl Scout and do-gooderism in her that mirrored Richard’s.
After a long period of silence, Dex asked, “What do you think?”
“Wende? Gone.”
“I can’t live without her.”
Ann didn’t know for sure how to take this, but he seemed sincere enough to worry. It was like reasoning with a child’s outsize emotions.
“Go after her then.”
He shook his head.
Pride, she thought. Men. “Start by rewriting the damn song at least. Wende is a muse, and you’ve insulted her.”
She studied Dex. Fame had the effect of making one self-conscious of observing its object, but they had been living in close proximity for more than two weeks. Now it was hard to equate this guy with that fame. One on one, it disappeared. Dex’s face was aged and craggy — he looked like a cowboy in a cigarette ad, except instead of a hat, there was spiky, dyed-black hair and an ear bolt. It was hard to explain, but somehow Dex added up to more than the sum of his parts. He oozed sexuality; he was like a human USB port, appealing to a great variety of women. Ann was disappointed to find herself ever so slightly preening.