She was on the empty porch. She had a bottle in her hand and two glasses, trying to pick up something else. Finally she put the bottle under her arm. Then with the two glasses in one hand and an ice bucket in the other and the bottle under her arm she pushed open the screen door with her fanny and walked across the lawn toward Ryan at the edge of the trees. See, Leon, you don’t just bust the windows. You bust them and then you go in and steal a bottle of whiskey and some ice. And Leon Woody would say, “Uh-huh, sure, man, you got to have the ice.”
“I LIKE CRACKED LIPS.”
“From the sun,” Ryan said. “Out in the sun all day.”
“They’re more fun. I think kissing hard and sliding around is nothing.”
“Yeah, well some people think it gets you up there quicker.”
“Up where?” Close to him in the sand Nancy leaned in, nuzzling in, brushing the side of his face with her mouth and gently biting his lower lip.
“I’ll go your way,” Ryan said.
“All the way?”
He was taking his time; he wasn’t going to rush it and look like some hick, but it wasn’t easy to do. He said, “Do you want another drink?” Nancy shook her head. He pushed up on one elbow and put his hand in the ice bucket. “Water,” he said. “How about bourbon and cold water?”
“I thought I was taking Scotch.”
“You did all right.”
“Thank you.”
“The walking away from the porch was good. I’ve got a friend would have liked that.”
“Someone you worked with?”
“Cleaning carpets.”
“I mean the other thing. B and E. I like B and E, the sound of it. Isn’t that funny? I mean it sounds so simple, two little letters.”
“Why don’t we get some ice at your place?” They were a little way down the beach from the orange post lamp on the bluff. Sitting up, Ryan could see the point of light against the sky.
“I feel like something else,” Nancy said.
“Like what?”
“Cold Ducks. But there aren’t any in the house.” She pushed up next to him then. “I know where there are some though. Come on.”
Like that. Ryan collected the bottle and ice bucket and glasses and followed her down the beach, aware that he was following her, and hurried to catch up. She was looking out at the lake, at the deep dark of the water and the lighter dark of the sky.
“There it is,” Nancy said.
“I don’t see anything.”
“The boat.”
He saw the white shape that must be a cabin cruiser lying about fifty or sixty yards out. At the same time he realized they were opposite Nancy’s house, with the orange glow of the light high on the bluff above them.
“That’s Ray’s, uh?”
“Somebody from the club was supposed to pick it up,” Nancy said, “but they haven’t.” She looked at Ryan. “We won’t need any of that.”
“What do I do with it?”
“How about putting it down?”
“And somebody finds it in front of your house?”
“So?”
“I’ll bury it.”
At the foot of the bluff he dug away enough sand to cover the ice bucket and glasses and the bottle. Coming back across the beach to the water, he saw Nancy was nowhere in sight. Her clothes were in a pile.
He took off his shirt and pants, folded them, and put them on the ground next to Nancy’s sweater-and shorts that were dropped there; he went into the water wearing only his shorts, making himself go right in without fooling around touching the water with his toes. It wasn’t deep; he was halfway to the boat before the water was up to his waist, but God, it was cold without the sun. He had to go in and get wet all the way and dove out, swimming under water to get used to it. Coming up, he swam sidestroke, reaching the stern of the boat on the starboard side, pulling himself up on the side rail and ducking under the canvas top of the afterdeck.
“Where are you?”
“In here.”
He followed the sound of her voice through the open hatch, down three steps into sleeping quarters, through a short passage into the lamplight of the galley. She stood in the narrow aisle opening a bottle that looked like champagne, her wet hair straight and pressed to her face. She was wearing a sweater, a black ribbed V-neck sweater that hung to her thighs.
“I like it,” Ryan said.
“My party dress.” Looking right at him.
“I meant the boat,” Ryan said. Very good. Don’t give her anything. She was waiting for him to move in, leading him along with the sweater and the look. She was playing with him and he was standing there with his cold wet shorts sticking to him.
“There’s a towel in the biffy.”
He came back in drying himself, looking at the polished overhead and the brass lamp. Past the refrigerator and the stainless steel sink there was another sleeping compartment forward. It was good, the brass and the polished wood, the table hinged to the wall. Snug quarters. You didn’t need champagne-or Cold Ducks. He could see the label as Nancy filled two glasses.
He sat down at the table, aware of a creaking sound and the motion of the boat pulling against its anchor. It was good, all right. You could live on a boat like this and go anywhere you wanted.
“How much does a boat like this cost?”
“About twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five what?”
“Thousand.” She was watching him.
“Let’s go for a cruise,” Ryan said. “Down to Nassau.”
“I’ve been there,” Nancy said.
“On a boat like this?”
“No, a ketch, a sailboat. There were nine with the crew. Friends of mother’s.”
“You’d sleep right on it?”
“Most of the time.”
“That’d be something,” Ryan said.
“Uh-huh, sitting around all day while everybody got stoned. By five o’clock they’d be freaked out of their minds.”
“You were with your mother and dad?”
“I was between dads. My mother would say, ‘Darling, why don’t you go below and take a rest?’ Or, ‘Why don’t you go swimming or look for interesting shells.’ Or slash your wrists-that’s what she wanted to say. Everything was interesting at that time. ‘Why don’t you go talk to that interesting-looking boy. He’s about your age, dear.’ “
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Do you get along with her now?”
“I don’t see her now.”
“Does she know what you’re doing-I mean, where you are?”
“Did you tell your mother you stole things?”
“I don’t do that anymore,” Ryan said.
“When you were B and E-ing, or whatever you call it? Did you tell her?”
“No.”
“I told old Mom I was shacked up with Ray Ritchie,” Nancy said. “But she won’t think about it. She likes everything nice.” Nancy stretched the word out sweetly.
“Well, what do you expect?”
“I don’t expect anything. She’s not real. I mean on the surface she’s not.” Nancy felt the cigarette package and squeezed it in her fist. “Damn it, we’re out.”
“What do you mean she’s not real?”
Nancy was thoughtful, curled on the bench across from him in the oversized sweater. “She pretends to be the perfect lady. She is Perfect Lady on the outside, leading a perfectly normal perfect life. But the real person is inside the perfect lady looking out and she’s as screwed up as anybody, with three screwed-up marriages to prove it.”