A soft, liquid line of light oozed through a part in the curtains like golden paint freshly squeezed.

Playing on Robin's face.

She smiled in her sleep, curls dangling over one eye.

Take her example and adapt.

I relaxed my muscles consciously and deepened my breathing. Soon my chest loosened and I felt better.

Able to smile at the image of Moreland with his chocolate cake and schoolboy guilt.

My body felt heavy. Ready to sleep.

But it took a long time to fall under.

20

The next morning, the clouds were darker and moving closer, but still remote.

We were ready to dive at ten. Spike was acting restless, so we decided to take him along. Needing something to shade him, we went to the kitchen and asked Gladys. She called Carl Sleet in from the rose garden, where he was pruning, and he trotted over carrying his shears. His gray work clothes, hair, and beard were specked with grass clippings, and his nails were filthy. He went to the outbuildings and came back with an old umbrella with a spiked post and a blue-and-white canvas shade that was slightly soiled.

"Want me to load it for you?"

"No, thanks. I can do it."

"Put new locks on the bug house last night. Strong ones. Shouldn't be having any more problems."

"Thanks."

"Welcome. Got any fudge left, Gladys?"

"Here you go." She gave him some and he returned to his work, eating.

Gladys walked us through the kitchen. "Dr. Bill feels awful about last night."

"I'll let him know there are no hard feelings."

"That would be… charitable- now you two have a good time."

I pitched the umbrella on South Beach and realized we'd forgotten to bring drinks. Leaving Robin and Spike on the sand, I drove over to Auntie Mae's Trading Post. The same faded clothes were in the windows, which were fly-specked and cloudy. Inside, the place was barnlike, with wooden stalls lining a sawdust aisle and walls of raw board.

Most of the booths were empty and even those that were stocked weren't staffed. More clothing, cheap, out of date. Beach sandals, suntan lotion, and tourist kitsch- miniature thatched huts of bamboo and AstroTurf, plastic dancing girls, pouting tiki gods, coconuts carved into blowfish. The building smelled of cornmeal and seawater and a bit of backed-up bilge.

The only other human being was a young, plainfaced woman in a red tank top watching TV behind the counter of the third booth to the right. Her cash register was a scarred, black antique. Next to it were canisters of beef jerky and pickled eggs and a half-full bottle of Windex and a rag. The front case was filled with candy bars and chips- potato, corn, taro. On the rear wall were a swinging door and shelves holding sealed boxes of sweets. The television was mounted to the side wall that separated the stall from its neighbor, sharing space with a pay phone.

She noticed me but kept watching the screen. The image was fuzzy, streaked intermittently with bladelike flashes of white. A station from Guam. Long shot of a big room with polished wood walls, corporate logo of a hotel chain over a long banquet table.

Senator Nicholas Hoffman sat in the center behind a glass of water and a microphone. He wore a white-and-brown batik shirt and several brilliantly colored flower necklaces. The two white men flanking him were dressed the same way. One I recognized as a legislator from the Midwest; the other was cut from the same hair-tonicked, hungry-smile mold. Four other men, Asians, sat at the ends of the table.

Hoffman glanced at his notes, then looked up smiling. "And so let me conclude by celebrating the fact that we all share a vision of a more viable and prosperous Micronesia, a multicultural Micronesia that moves swiftly and confidently into the next century."

He smiled again and gave a small bow. Applause. The screen flickered, went gray, shut off. The young woman turned it back on. Commercial for Island Fever Restaurant # 6: slack-key guitar theme song, pupu platters and flaming desserts, "native beauties skilled in ancient dances for your entertainment pleasure." A caricature of a chubby little man in a grass skirt rolling his hips and winking.

"C'mon, brudda!"

The woman flicked the remote control. More black screen, then a ten-year-old sitcom. She watched as the credits rolled, then said, "Can I help you?" Pleasant, almost childish voice. Twenty or so, with acne and short, wavy hair. No bra under the tank top. Not even close to pretty, but her smile was open and lovely.

"Something to drink, if you've got it."

"I've got Coke and Sprite and beer in the back."

"Two Cokes, two Sprites." I noticed a couple of paperback books on the rear counter. "Maybe something to read, too."

She handed me the books. A Stephen King I'd read and a compact world atlas, both with curled covers.

"Any magazines?"

"Um, maybe under here." She bent and stood. "Nope. I'll check in back. You're the doctor staying with Dr. Bill, right?"

"Alex Delaware." I held out my hand and we shook. I noticed a diamond chip ring on the third finger.

"Bettina- Betty Aguilar." She smiled shyly. "Just got married."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks… he's a great man- Dr. Bill. When I was a kid I had a bad whooping cough and he cured me. Hold on, lemme get you your drinks and see about magazines."

She went through the swinging door.

So much for rampant island hostility to Moreland.

She came back with four cans and a stack of periodicals. "This is all we've got. Pretty old. Sorry."

"Is it hard to get current stuff?"

She shrugged. "We get whatever comes over on the supply boats, usually it's a couple of issues late. People and Playboy and stuff like that goes fast- any of this interest you?"

Half-year-old issues of Ladies' Home Journal, Reader's Digest, Time, Newsweek, Fortune, and at the bottom, several copies of a large glossy quarterly entitled Island World. Gorgeous smiling black-haired girls and sun-blushed tropical vistas.

The publications' dates, three to five years old.

"Boy, those really are old," said Betty. "Found 'em under a box. They used to publish it but I don't think anymore."

I flipped through tables of contents. Mostly boosterism. Then a title caught my eye.

"I'll take them," I said.

"Really? Gee, they're so old I wouldn't know what to charge you. Here, take 'em for free."

"I'll be happy to pay."

"It's okay," she insisted. "You're my best customer today and they're just taking up space. Want some munchies to go with your drinks?"

I bought two bags of kettle-boiled Maui potato chips and some jerky. As she took my money, her eyes drifted back to the TV. Another blackout. She switched the set on automatically, as if used to it.

"Bad reception?"

"The satellite keeps going in and out, depending on the weather and stuff." She counted out change. "I'm having a baby. Dr. Bill's gonna deliver it. In seven months."

"Congratulations."

"Yeah… we're excited. My husband and me. Here you go… After the baby's born we'll probably be moving away. My husband works construction and there's no work."

"Nothing at all?"

"Not really. This here is the biggest building in town. A few years back Dr. Bill was thinking of redoing it, but no one else really cared."

"Dr. Bill owns the Trading Post?"

She seemed surprised that I didn't know. "Sure. He's real good about it, doesn't charge rent, just lets people order their own stuff and sell it outta the booths. There used to be more business here, when the Navy guys still came in. Now most of the stallkeepers don't come in unless someone calls to order. It's actually my mom's stall, but she's sick- bad heart. I've got time, waiting for my baby, so I take over for her and my husband delivers- most of our stuff's delivery."