Last Resort by Alison Lurie Page A

angry apology, he had lain slack in her arms at last, a heavy, sweaty burden of inert bone and muscle and flesh. Wilkie discounted these words. Of course she would say that, out of politeness, out of love. Silently he had turned away from her and pretended to sleep.
    In less than an hour he would forget all this, forever; but Jenny would not forget. That clumsy, humiliating failure would always be her last intimate memory of him.
    He could wait a few days, try to make love again—earlier in the evening, and sober. But suppose there was another failure? Also, today would be his last chance at the ocean for a while. According to the radio a massive cold front was moving in; temperatures would fall into the fifties tonight, and heavy rain was expected. If he went swimming tomorrow under such conditions he would be thought deranged.
    Wilkie glanced again at the house where Jenny sat reading a book, unaware of what was to come. Besides great shock and loss, she would have many duties. For instance, she would have to cancel all the articles, lectures, and conferences that would be the proof of Wilkie’s intention to live on. Fortunately, she had now made a friend in Key West, some woman who had been a therapist in Brooklyn and now ran a guest house here. Neither of these attributes recommended her to Wilkie Walker, but they had advantages. This Lou? Lil?—something like that—presumably knew the local scene, and also had professional training in dealing with crisis and grief.
    “Hi there! Wilkie!”
    Dimly, he became aware that someone was shouting his name. As he turned, the waving figure far down the street was recognizable as Gerry Grass, who was occupying an apartment in their compound and had come to dinner last night. Wilkie’s first thought was that he was being recalled to some emergency. But as Gerry galloped nearer it became clear that he was grinning, wearing Hawaiian-print swim trunks and carrying a towel—in fact, that he intended to accompany Wilkie to the beach.
    Wilkie’s first impulse was to turn and run. He had over two blocks’ lead, and could reach the ocean well before Gerry. But how would such a flight sound when it was reported to Jenny, and to the police? He felt a rush of rage and bitterness. Until now he had had nothing against Gerry, whom he had met before on many public occasions. He had agreed to the inclusion of him and his current bimbo in the dinner party—the more witnesses to his non-suicidal condition, the better, he had thought.
    “Going swimming?” Gerry inquired, panting up to him.
    Wilkie agreed grudgingly that he was; to deny it and turn back would seem deeply peculiar. It occurred to him that in unconventionally seeking freedom from a painful and constraining future, one had to become more conventional than ever. Acts that might pass without comment if you continued to live became weighted with significance when they preceded your death.
    Wearily, he began to stride down Reynolds Street toward the sea. Gerry loped alongside, making noises with his mouth. In the past Wilkie had regarded Gerry as a man of fair intelligence and sound views. Gerry had reviewed two of his books enthusiastically, and Wilkie had more than once quoted from Gerry’s impassioned nature poems in his writing.
    But since he had left his agreeable wife (a long-standing fan of Wilkie’s) and moved to Southern California several years ago, Gerry seemed to have become something of a New Age ninny. Though Wilkie knew for a fact that he was pushing sixty, last night he had spoken of himself as “middle-aged,” so as to seem to belong to the majority, just as some rich people speak of themselves as “middle-class.”
    “You swim every day? That’s great,” Gerry told him. “You know, I met a really interesting guy in L.A. last month who recommends it. He sees swimming as a form of active meditation; says it helps you to clear your mind and tune into natural rhythms.”
    Cretin, Wilkie thought, glancing