The Best American Short Stories 2015 (5 page)

Georgie pulled on her mermaid tail and slipped into the tank, letting herself fall through the brackish water, down, down to the performance arena. She smiled through the green salty water and pretended to take a sip of Coca-Cola as customers pressed their noses to the glass walls of the tank. She flipped her rubber fishtail and sucked air from a plastic hose as elegantly as she could, filling her lungs with oxygen until they hurt. A few minnows flitted by, glinting in the hot Florida sun that hung over the water, warming the show tank like a pot of soup.

Letting the hose drift for just a moment, Georgie executed a series of graceful flips, arching her taut swimmer's body until it made a circle. She could see the audience clapping and decided she had enough air to flip again. Breathing through the tricks was hard, but a few months into the season, muscle memory took over.

Next Georgie pretended to brush her long blond hair underwater while one of Sarasota's many church groups looked on, licking cones of vanilla ice cream, pointing at her.

How does she use the bathroom? Can she walk in that thing? Hey, Sunshine, can I get your number?

That afternoon, as the sun crested in the cloudless sky, Marlene, Georgie, and Joe had lunch on Femme Beach. Marlene wore an enormous hat and sunglasses and reclined, topless, in a chair. She pushed aside her plate of blackened fish. Joe, after eating her share and some of Marlene's, kicked off her shoes and joined Georgie in the water, dampening her khaki shorts. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

“Marlene needs a place where she can be herself,” Joe said eventually. “She needs one person she can count on and I'm that person.”

“Oh,” Georgie said, placing a palm on top of the calm water. “Is it hard being a movie star?”

Joe sighed. “She's been out pushing war bonds, and she's exhausted. She's more delicate than she looks. She drinks too much.”

“You're worried?”

“Sometimes she's not allowed to eat. It's hard on her nerves.”

“Is this why the other girls left?” Georgie asked, looking out onto the long stretch of water. “You could have mentioned her, you know. You could have told me.”

“Try to be open-minded, darling.”

“I'll try,” Georgie said, diving into the water, swimming out as far as she ever had, leaving Joe standing knee-deep behind her. Maybe Joe would worry, she thought, but when she looked back, Joe was in a chair, one hand on Marlene's arm, and their heads were tipped toward each other, oblivious to anything else.

What exhausted Georgie about Joe's guests is that they were all important. And important people made you feel not normal, but unimportant.

That night the other guests went on a dinner cruise on the
Mise-en-scène
, while Joe entertained Marlene, Georgie, and Phillip. They were seated at a small table on one of the mansion's many balconies, candles and torches flickering, bugs biting the backs of their necks, wineglasses filled and refilled.

“How do you like Whale Cay?” Phillip asked Marlene.

“I prefer the drag balls in Berlin,” she said, in a voice that belied her boredom. “But you know I've been coming here longer than you've been around?”

Marlene leaned over her bowl of steamed mussels, inspecting the plate. She pushed them around in the broth with her fork. “Tell me how you got to the island?” she asked Phillip, who, to Georgie, always seemed to be sweating and had a knack for showing up when Joe had her best liquor out.

“After Yale Divinity School—”

“He sailed up drunk in a dugout canoe. I threatened to kill him,” Joe interrupted. “Then I built him his own church,” she said proudly, pointing to a small stone temple perched on a cliff, just visible through the brush. It had two rustic windows with pointed arches, almost gothic, as if it belonged to another century.

“He sleeps in there,” Joe said.

“I talk to God,” Phillip said, indignant, spectacles sliding down his nose. He slurped his wine.

“Is that what you call it?” Joe said, rolling her eyes.

“What do you have to say about all this?” Marlene asked Georgie.

“About what?”

“God.”

“Why would you ask me?” Georgie felt her face get hot.

“Why not?”

Georgie remembered the way sitting in church made her feel pretty, her mother's hand over hers. She could recall the smell of her mother, the same two dresses she wore to church, her thrifty beauty and dime-store lipstick and rough hands and slow speech and way of life that women like Joe and Marlene didn't know. Despite Phillip, the church still had holiness, she thought. Just last week Hannah had sung “His Eye Is on the Sparrow” after Phillip's sermon, and it had brought tears to her eyes and taken her to a place past where she used to go in her hometown church, something past God as she understood Him, something attainable only when living away from everyone and everything she had ever known. That even if He wasn't a certain thing, He could be a feeling, and maybe she'd felt Him here. That day she'd realized she was happier on Whale Cay than she'd ever been anywhere else. She'd been waiting all her life for something big to happen, and maybe Joe was it.

“I suppose I don't know anything about God,” she said. “Nothing I can put into words.”

“You aren't old enough to know much yet, are you? You haven't been pushed to your limits. And you, Joe?” Marlene asked. “What do you know?”

Joe was quiet. She shook her head, coughed.

“I guess I had what you'd call a crisis of faith,” she said. “When I drove an ambulance during the First War. I saw things there I didn't know were possible. I saw—”

Marlene cupped her hand over Joe's. “Exactly,” she said. “Those of us that have seen the war firsthand—how can you feel another way?”

Firsthand, Georgie thought. What was firsthand about seeing a war with a posh hotel room and security detail, cooing to soldiers from a stage? Firsthand was her brother Hank, sixteen months dead, who'd been found malnourished and shot on the beach in Tarawa.

“That's exactly when you need to let Him in,” Phillip said, glassy-eyed.

“You have a convenient type of righteousness,” Joe said.

“Perhaps.”

“I don't see how a priest can lack commitment in these times,” Marlene said, scratching the back of her neck, eyes flashing.

Phillip rose, flustered. “If you'll excuse me, one of our native women is in labor,” he said, “and I must attend.” He turned to Joe. “Celia's been going for hours now.”

“Her body knows what to do,” Joe said, lighting a cigarette.

Joe and Marlene smoked. Georgie poured herself another glass of wine, finding the silence excruciating. Nearby a pea hen screamed from a roost in one of the small trees that flanked the balcony. The island had been a bird sanctuary before Joe bought it, and exotic birds still fished from the shore.

“Grab a sweater,” Joe instructed, standing up, stamping out her cigarette. “I want to take you girls racing.”

The water was shiny and black as Joe pulled Marlene and Georgie onto a small boat shaped like a torpedo. It sat low on the water and had room for only two, but Georgie and Marlene were thin and the three women pressed together across the leather bench seat.

“Leave your drinks on the dock,” Joe warned. “It's not that kind of joy ride.”

Not five minutes later they were ripping through the water, Georgie's hair blown straight back, spit flying from her mouth, her blue eyes watering. At first she was petrified. She felt as if the wind was exploring her body, inflating the fabric of her dress, tunneling through her nostrils, throat, and chest. A small sound escaped her mouth but was thrown backward, lost, muted. She looked down and saw Marlene's jaw set into a tight line, her knuckles white as her long fingers gripped the edge of the seat. Joe pressed on, speeding through the blackness until it looked like nothingness, and Georgie's fear became a rush.

The bottom of the boat slapped the water, skipped over it, cut through it, and it felt as though it might capsize, flip over, skid across the surface, dumping them, breaking their bodies. Georgie's teeth began to hurt and she bit her tongue by mistake. The taste of blood filled her mouth but she felt nothing but bliss, jarred into another state of being, of forgetting, a kind of high.

“Enough,” Marlene yelled, grabbing Joe's shoulder. “Enough! Stop.”

“Keep going,” Georgie yelled. “Don't stop.”

Joe laughed and slowed the boat, cutting the engine until there was silence, only the liquid sound of the water lapping against the side of the craft.

“Take me back to the island,” Marlene snapped.

Georgie stood up, nearly losing her balance.

“What are you doing?” Joe demanded.

“Going for a swim,” Georgie said.

Georgie kicked off her sandals, unbuttoned her sundress, leaving it in a pool on the deck of the boat. She dove into the black water, felt her body cut through it like a missile.

“We're a mile off shore! Get back in the boat!” Joe shouted.

Joe cranked the engine and circled the boat, looking for Georgie, but everything was dark and Georgie stayed still so as not to be found, swimming underwater, splashless, until Joe gave up and headed for shore.

Georgie oriented herself, looking up occasionally at the faint lights on the island, the only thing that kept her from swimming out into the open sea. It felt good to scare Joe. To do what she wanted to do. To scare herself. To risk death. To do the one thing she was good at, to dull all of her thoughts with the mechanics of swimming, the motion of kicking her feet, rotating her arms, cutting through the water, dipping her face into the warm sea and coming up for air, exerting herself, exhausting her body, giving everything over to heart, blood, muscle, bone.

That night, Georgie crept into the bedroom, feeling a little less helpless than she had the night before. The bed was empty, as she expected it might be. Even if Joe was with Marlene, she would still be worried, and Georgie liked the idea of keeping Joe up at night.

She went to the bathroom to comb her hair before bed. She stared at herself in the mirror. The overhead light was too bright. Her eyes looked hollow. She should eat more, drink less, she thought. As she reached for the comb, she heard whimpering in the walk-in closet. Her heart began to beat quickly. She tiptoed to the closet and opened the door to find Joe sitting with her back against the wall, silk blouse soaked in sweat, a cache of guns and knives at her feet. She was breathing quickly, chest heaving. She looked up at Georgie with glistening, scared brown eyes.

“Go away,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Don't look at me like this.”

Georgie stood in the doorway, tan legs peeking out from underneath the white-cotton gauze gown Joe had bought for her, unsure of what to say. “Are you OK?” she asked. “Are you sick?”

“I said go away.”

But Georgie sensed hesitation in Joe's voice and kneeled down beside her, sliding two guns away, bringing Joe to her chest. Joe gave in, sweating and sobbing against Georgie's skin.

“You can't begin to understand what I saw,” Joe whispered. “There were bombs whistling overhead, dropping in front of me as I drove. There were men without heads, arms without bodies, the smell of gangrene we had to wash from the ambulance—every day, that smell. There were the boys who died. I heard them dying. Their faces were burned off. They were not human anymore. I can still see them.”

“Shh,” Georgie said. “That was a long time ago and you're here. You're safe.”

“Why did you leave me like that?”

“I just wanted to swim.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“Where's Marlene?”

“Asleep. In the stone house.”

Georgie kissed Joe tenderly on the forehead, cheeks, and finally her mouth, and eventually they moved to the bed. Georgie had never been the aggressor, but she pushed Joe onto her back and pinned her wrists down, straddling her, biting her neck and shoulders.

That night, as they lay quietly on the bed, they could hear the faint sounds of a woman screaming, not in anger but in pain. Celia, Georgie thought, wincing.

When morning came, Joe acted as if nothing had happened, and Georgie found her standing naked on the patio, newsboy cap over her short hair, her toned and broad body sunned and confident, big white American teeth clenching a cigar from which she never inhaled.

“Shall we have breakfast with Marlene?” she said.

“I just thought—”

“Don't think. Don't ever make the mistake of thinking here.”

Georgie came to the dinner table that night with a renewed sense of entitlement. She belonged there. She sat down, considered her posture, and took a long drink of white wine, peering at the guests over the rim of her glass.

Marlene came into the dining room like a bull. She plowed past the rest of the company, ignored Georgie, and reached for Joe's hand across the table.

Hannah set shrimp cocktails and sliced lemons in front of each guest.

Phillip and Joe were in an argument about using the boat to take Celia to the hospital in Nassau.

“Just put her on the goddamn boat,” Phillip said, ignoring his food. “She's been in labor for two days.”

“What did they do before I was here?” Joe asked, exasperated, letting her fork hit the plate in disgust. “Tell her to just do that.”

“Darling, have another glass of wine,” Marlene said. “Don't get worked up.”

“Have you seen her?” Phillip demanded. “Have you
heard
her? She's suffering. She's dying. What don't you understand?”

“I've seen suffering,” Joe said. “Real suffering.”

“Oh, don't pull out your old war stories now,” Phillip scoffed, tossing his greasy, unwashed hair to the side.

“Joe—” Georgie began.