house, a supervisor in the service department told her he could find no malfunctions. The line was operative.
“Maybe for you, but not for me, and you’re not paying the bills.”
She had returned home; the line was still dead. A second, far angrier phone call brought the same response. No malfunctions. Then two hours later the dial tone was inexplicably there, the phone working. She had put the episode down to the rural telephone complex having less than the best equipment. She did not know what explanation there could be for the sloop now eerily bobbing in the water in front of her house.
Suddenly, in the boat’s dim light, she could see a figure crawl out of the cabin. For a moment or two it was hidden in the shadows, then there was a brief flare of intense light. A match. A cigarette. A man was standing motionless on the deck smoking a cigarette. He was facing her house, as if studying it. Waiting.
Val shivered as she dragged a heavy chair in front of the balcony door—but not too close, away from the glass. She pulled the light blanket off the bed and sat down, wrapping it around her, staring out at the water, at the boat, at the man. She knew that if that man or that boat made the slightest move toward shore she would press the buttons she had been instructed to press in the event of an emergency. When activated, the huge circular alarm bells—both inside and outside—would be ear-piercing, erupting in concert, drowningout the sound of the surf and the waves crashing on the jetty. They could be heard thousands of feet away—the only sound on the beach, frightening, overwhelming. She wondered if she would cause them to be heard tonight—this morning.
She would not panic. Joel had taught her not to panic, even when she thought a well-timed scream was called for on the dark streets of Manhattan. Every now and then the inevitable had happened. They had been confronted by drug addicts or punks and Joel would remain calm—icily calm—moving them both back against a wall and offering a cheap, spare wallet he kept in his hip pocket with a few bills in it. God, he was ice! Maybe that was why no one had ever actually assaulted them, not knowing what was behind that cold, brooding look.
“I should have screamed!” she once had cried.
“No,” he had said. “Then you would have frightened him, panicked him. That’s when those bastards can be lethal.”
Was the man on the boat lethal—were the
men
on the boat deadly? Or were they simply novice sailors hugging the coastline, practicing tacks, anchoring near the shore for their own protection—curious, perhaps concerned, that the property owners might object? An Army officer was not likely to be able to afford a captain for his sloop, and there were marinas only miles away north and south—marinas without available berths but with men who could handle repairs.
Was the man out on the boat smoking a cigarette merely a landlocked young officer getting his sailing legs, comfortable with a familiar anchor away from deep water? It was possible, of course—anything was possible—and summer nights held a special kind of loneliness that gave rise to strange imaginings. One walked the beach alone and thought too much.
Joel would laugh at her and say it was all those demons racing around her artist’s head in search of logic. And he would undoubtedly be right. The men out on the boat were probably more up-tight than she was. In a way they were trespassers who had found a haven in sight of hostile natives; one inquiry of the Coast Guard proved it. And that clearance, as it were, was another reason why they had returned to the place where, if not welcome, at least they were not harassed. If Joel were with her, she knew exactly what he would do. He would go down to the beach and shout across the water to their temporary neighbors and ask them to come in for a drink.
Dear Joel, foolish Joel, ice-cold Joel. There were times you were comforting—when you were
“Maybe for you, but not for me, and you’re not paying the bills.”
She had returned home; the line was still dead. A second, far angrier phone call brought the same response. No malfunctions. Then two hours later the dial tone was inexplicably there, the phone working. She had put the episode down to the rural telephone complex having less than the best equipment. She did not know what explanation there could be for the sloop now eerily bobbing in the water in front of her house.
Suddenly, in the boat’s dim light, she could see a figure crawl out of the cabin. For a moment or two it was hidden in the shadows, then there was a brief flare of intense light. A match. A cigarette. A man was standing motionless on the deck smoking a cigarette. He was facing her house, as if studying it. Waiting.
Val shivered as she dragged a heavy chair in front of the balcony door—but not too close, away from the glass. She pulled the light blanket off the bed and sat down, wrapping it around her, staring out at the water, at the boat, at the man. She knew that if that man or that boat made the slightest move toward shore she would press the buttons she had been instructed to press in the event of an emergency. When activated, the huge circular alarm bells—both inside and outside—would be ear-piercing, erupting in concert, drowningout the sound of the surf and the waves crashing on the jetty. They could be heard thousands of feet away—the only sound on the beach, frightening, overwhelming. She wondered if she would cause them to be heard tonight—this morning.
She would not panic. Joel had taught her not to panic, even when she thought a well-timed scream was called for on the dark streets of Manhattan. Every now and then the inevitable had happened. They had been confronted by drug addicts or punks and Joel would remain calm—icily calm—moving them both back against a wall and offering a cheap, spare wallet he kept in his hip pocket with a few bills in it. God, he was ice! Maybe that was why no one had ever actually assaulted them, not knowing what was behind that cold, brooding look.
“I should have screamed!” she once had cried.
“No,” he had said. “Then you would have frightened him, panicked him. That’s when those bastards can be lethal.”
Was the man on the boat lethal—were the
men
on the boat deadly? Or were they simply novice sailors hugging the coastline, practicing tacks, anchoring near the shore for their own protection—curious, perhaps concerned, that the property owners might object? An Army officer was not likely to be able to afford a captain for his sloop, and there were marinas only miles away north and south—marinas without available berths but with men who could handle repairs.
Was the man out on the boat smoking a cigarette merely a landlocked young officer getting his sailing legs, comfortable with a familiar anchor away from deep water? It was possible, of course—anything was possible—and summer nights held a special kind of loneliness that gave rise to strange imaginings. One walked the beach alone and thought too much.
Joel would laugh at her and say it was all those demons racing around her artist’s head in search of logic. And he would undoubtedly be right. The men out on the boat were probably more up-tight than she was. In a way they were trespassers who had found a haven in sight of hostile natives; one inquiry of the Coast Guard proved it. And that clearance, as it were, was another reason why they had returned to the place where, if not welcome, at least they were not harassed. If Joel were with her, she knew exactly what he would do. He would go down to the beach and shout across the water to their temporary neighbors and ask them to come in for a drink.
Dear Joel, foolish Joel, ice-cold Joel. There were times you were comforting—when you were
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