She took it as gently as if it were a baby bird. She looked at me questioningly.
"I went down to the Hibiscus," I explained. "Spoke to the owner. Went through Kenny's things."
"Ah," she said. "Find anything that—?"
"I wish I knew what the hell to look for. I wish I was better at this. I found a matchbook."
I passed it over and something awful happened. For just a fraction of an instant, I thought that maybe I saw something less than altogether candid in Maggie's pretty face. If the guardedness was there at all, it was a tiny thing, a flicker at the corner of the eye, a twitch of some nameless discomfort, and it vanished as fast as it had come. Maybe she had a tickle in her throat, a burp in her gullet, a bug in her ear. I hoped it was something like that, because the possibility, however faint, that my one ally, this woman who had hugged me, was not being perfectly straight gave me a feeling I really couldn't stand.
"Freddy's Beachside," Maggie read. "That's one of the places he worked."
Was it just the pool pump, or did her voice suddenly sound the slightest bit tinny? "Tell me about it," I said.
"He tended bar there. I'm not sure how long. Every time he wrote to me it seemed he had a different job."
"How often did he write?"
"It varied. Two months. Five months. When he got around to it. Every once in a great while he called. Just to chat. No big deal."
I hadn't suggested it was a big deal. Maggie was still holding the matchbook. I asked her to open it. "A Key West number;" I said. "Mean anything to you?"
She pursed her lips, a little theatrically, I thought, then shook her head; my suspicion that she was fibbing only deepened. This depressed me. I went into a sulk. I wish I could say it was a fine detective-like sulk on the details of the case, but it wasn't that at all. I was sulking about the fragility of infatuation, mourning the loss of the first and simplest phase of my happily untested lusting after Maggie. The merest whiff of ambiguity had dulled my fantasy like hot breath dulls a mirror.
The silence dragged on and went sour. Maggie said at last, "You mad at me or something? You seem unfriendly all of a sudden."
Jesus, these yoga teachers see right through you. Was it some catch in my breathing, some slight lifting of my shoulders? Trying to feel friendly again, I sought to recall more aspects of the hug. I couldn't remember a single goddamn piece of it now. But nor did I exactly trust my own mistrust. What started it? A twitch? What if I was wrong? I didn't want to be a moody jerk, and how could I dare accuse this woman of anything? I was flummoxed. Desire mixed in with suspicion might just be the bitterest cocktail you can have.
"Well, I should go," said Maggie, after another pause that I guess was longer than I realized.
She stood up smoothly. I stood up too and walked her through the house and out again onto the porch. Standing there, concern and even affection welled up again, pressed against my faint distrust like a bone chip on a nerve, and I said, "The boatyard—you'll be okay down there?"
She nodded that she would and started down the stairs. Her shoulders stayed level and her neck stayed straight the whole time she was descending, and even as she climbed onto her brightly painted bike.
Back inside, I paced and fretted my way into the music room. I did my riffling-and-deciding thing, then surprised myself by putting on some Monk. Ordinarily, Monk is not someone I would listen to while the sun was in the sky, but this whole day had gotten twisted upside down, and in some cockeyed way I thought that maybe his extraordinary bitterness would cheer me up. I mean, how did you make a melody sarcastic?
———
Some time later, I remembered the matchbook that was still perched on the arm of what had been Maggie's chair by the pool.
I went out and retrieved it. I carried it around awhile, stalling. I knew I had to call the number scrawled inside, and I knew that calling it would be one more sucker on the octopus, one more tentacle to wrap itself around my life.
I sat down in the living room. Picked up the phone, put it down again, got a drink of water. Finally dialed.
The line was picked up, and before I heard a voice I heard what sounded like an amusement park. Laughing, splashing, brainless little squeals and screams. Finally a rushed but cheery voice said, "Paradise Watersports."
I said, "Um, do you rent Jet Skis?"
"Forty bucks an hour. Hundred, half a day."
I had an inspiration. "Snorkels too?"
"Twenty dollars. Whole outfit, all day long."
"Where you located?"
"Next dock over from the Hyatt. Here till eight. Check out the sunset special. Sixty bucks, two hours."