A Face to Die For
Brett Riley
Everyone else had fallen asleep except the Dead Man’s Chest’s second mate, a portly, sandpapery old man with a white mustache as thick as a shag carpet. He looked like a walrus and snored like one too, which was how Stan Magnolia knew the old man must be awake up there in the silent wheelhouse. The mate’s name was Ralph McFleigh, but Stan knew nothing else about him; he had kept to himself. And that was just fine with Stan, who had come on this fishing charter mainly to get away from his Manhattan apartment. Ever since Sylvia had left him, the sound of his footsteps echoed off the walls and high ceilings, as if he were locked overnight in a museum, alone with all the dead things. When they had first moved in together, he had found Sylvia charming and sexy, but the minutia of daily life—the unwashed dishes, the fights over money, the disagreements over Chinese or Thai, paper or plastic—had nearly killed his affection. Before she left, he wouldhave called her leaving a good decisionfor their sanity. He had gotten sick of her incessant chatter; half the time he could not even listen because her voice, high-pitched like a train whistle on helium, set his nerves on edge so much that he could barely keep himself from punching her in the face. Since then,he had realized that her nattering on about facials and shoe sales had filled up the emptiness in his life. Now in his early thirties, Stan Magnolia had discovered that he hated loneliness. The solitude—and, of course, his insistent friends—had driven him all the way out into the Atlantic Ocean.
Ashish and Quon had gone below an hour ago. Allegedly, they had come out here to relax. And at first the trip had gone as planned. Each man caught a few good-sized fish and, according to their pre-arranged catch and release methodology, threw them all back after taking a few seconds to snap pictures and admire the creatures’ size and brilliancy of color. But then it had all gone wrong. Quon hooked an Atlantic Bluefin Tuna approximately the size of a Ford Escort, but as he wrestled the fish on board, a swipe of its tail knocked him over the side. The crew rescued him quickly enough, but by the time they got him back on deck, he was chilled to the bone, and the fish lay dead. The captain—one James Kidd of Vero Beach, Florida—seemed on the verge of bursting into tears or perhaps fisticuffs. He said
An Atlantic Bluefin that size? Damn rare these days. Species is this close to extinction
holding his thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. No one in Stan’s party knew much about the population of Atlantic Bluefin, but they felt terrible nonetheless. Quon was soaking wet and nearly beside himself with guilt as he helped Kidd’s mates, McFleigh and Rene Fountainbleu, dump the tuna over the side, where several sharks that had apparently been tailing the ship promptly ate it. This sight terrified Quon so much that he would not come within five feet of the rail for the rest of the day, fearing that he would tumble over and into their waiting jaws. Then, on the day following, Ashish lost eight hooks and God only knew how much line, all before he let an entire rod slip out of his hands. As it disappeared into the blue depths, chasing a prize that would remain forever mysterious, the captain marched up to Ashish and told him that he would no longer be allowed to touch any equipment on the ship. Kidd snarled
And I’m willin to refund the whole goddam deposit if that’s what it takes. You’re a menace to every man on this ocean and an obvious boon to every fish in it.
So on only the third day of a week-long charter, only Stan was still willing and able to fish. And this also annoyed him. He had come out here for the quiet, the deep blue water and the rolling whitecaps, the smell of the ocean. He had planned to fish only when he could not drive Sylvia’s face from his mind with beer and conversation. Now he felt obligated to try, so that everyone could say they got their money’s worth. Tomorrow he would strap on a life jacket and take up a rod, bait his hook, and stand at the rail in the broiling sun, squinting down into the water until he was half-blind and seasick, trying to catch a fish that he did not want and would not eat. His attempt to escape from the hole Sylvia had left in his life had metamorphosed into a bother, a responsibility. So here he stood, awake on deck when everyone else was asleep, trying to enjoy the peace he would undoubtedly lose when he stood at the rail alone for three days, a drunk Ashish and Quon behind him, yelling encouragement and unwanted advice.
And, as he gazed over the side and into the ocean’s black depths, he saw the face in the water.
Its eyes were deep brown, like rich, damp topsoil. The brows seemed bushy and thick, the nose short and perfectly proportioned. Its skin looked deeply tanned, almost black, and flawless. Its cheeks appeared to be freckled. It appeared to be smiling, though Stan could see no teeth. Thick, luxuriant hair cascaded straight back from its brow and disappeared into the depths. The face was not exactly pretty, certainly not beautiful, and yet it somehow epitomized the deepest calm that Stan had ever imagined. And he realized that he had not felt calm at all since Sylvia left, since he could no longer hear all the noises that used to fill his apartment, since the echo of his own footsteps on hardwood floors began to sound like the mocking laughter of passing solitary years.
But then the face disappeared. He scrunched his eyes shut as tightly as possible and then opened them again, willing the face to be there. But the water’s surface was empty.
Dawn rose out of the water, cascading light as far as Stan could see. The mates were raising the Dead Man’s Chest’s anchor. Stan wanted a word with the captain, so he walked past the crew and climbed up to the wheelhouse. He knocked on the door. Kidd shouted
Yeah!
and Stan entered. Kidd did not look at him. The ship was pointed toward the sunrise; Stan felt sure that he had never seen anything more magnificent, the entire ocean lit up like a field of jewels. As the ship gathered speed, Stan steadied himself and tried to enjoy the scene. Soon enough Kidd pointed starboard. Off the bow dolphins raced alongside, leaping gracefully from the water and disappearing again with the regularity and precision of oars wielded by some invisible god. Heartsick and sleepy, Stan still would not have traded the sight for any other experience in his life. Quon was always wishing that he had majored in oceanography; now Stan could see why. He almost forgot why he had come to the wheelhouse in the first place, until Kidd said
Is there somethin I can do for you, Mr. Magnolia?
Embarrassed, Stan shook off his daydreams and turned to the captain, who wore knee-length denim shorts and a Rolling Stones concert shirt, not exactly the attire one would expect from a man named Captain Kidd. Stan said
Uh, yeah. See, last night I couldn’t sleep and I was tottering around the deck. And I looked down, and I saw this face in the water.
Kidd glanced at Stan, eyebrows raised. Stan continued
It was, like, just under the surface. Deep brown eyes, bushy brows, long hair slicked back. Not fanning out, like hair ought to do underwater. Just straight back. Weird, huh?
Kidd watched Stan intently; his dark eyes shifted from the ocean to Stan and back again, as if trying to read whether Stan would smile behind his back. After a moment he grunted and gave the sea his full attention. They sailed along for a bit, the view and the motion and exhaustion lulling Stan into a stupor. The wheelhouse was warm, the sun beaming on their faces through the glass, and if Stan had not been struggling to keep his balance, he could have fallen asleep right there. His kingdom for a hammock and some sunblock. Kidd seemed as alert as ever, enjoying whatever charms the scene held in his own way. Soon enough, Stan tired of waiting for a response. He said
Well, I think I’ll go catch a nap
and Kidd merely nodded. Stan closed the wheelhouse door behind him and descended to his bunk. Quon and Ashish were still asleep, Ashish’s snoring like cannon fire in the close quarters. Stan fell into his bunk and slept on top of the covers. He dreamed of brown eyes and green-blue water and hair that cascaded straight down all the way to the ocean floor.
He had slept only an hour when Ashish shook him awake. He had been dreaming of diving into the crystal blue sea and chasing a disembodied face all the way to the bottom, which seemed made of chocolate pudding; as soon as his feet settled on the ocean floor, his toes squished through viscous goo, which seemed to suck at him like quicksand. The face floated in front of him like a hologram. He reached out and touched it. Immediately an entire woman materialized behind it—long legs and heavy breasts, lips like pillows and hips so perfectly round that they defied geometry. And then Ashish woke him up, so the first thing Stan said was
You asshole.
Ashish ignored him and said
You’re missing the fishing, dude. Quon’s been taking another shot at it, but he hasn’t caught a damn thing. Crew’s a bit miffed that three paid to fish and only one’s doing it, and none too successfully
so Stan grumbled
Why don’t you fish?
and Ashish said
I tried, but Kidd threatened to throw me overboard. Come on, man, did you come all this way to fish or not? You could have slept back in Manhattan.
So Stan rolled out of the bunk and stumbled toward the head, twice crashing into the walls as he went. The world seemed hyper-real and over-bright, the noises too loud. He took a long piss and brushed his teeth, trying to erase a taste somewhere between rotting fish and moldy bread. If Sylvia smelled him now, she would never kiss him again. But then, she never would anyway. She was gone. Stan wondered how long he would go on realizing, as if for the first time, that she had not simply left for the weekend, perhaps visiting her parents in Jersey or relaxing in a nice spa somewhere near the coast.
He wanted a shower, but if he were about to go fishing, taking one made no sense, so he dragged himself up the stairs and onto the deck. The sun nearly blinded him; he groaned and went back down for a hat. Ten minutes later he stood near the rail, a rod in his hand, though he could not say for sure who had baited the hook or cast the line. He held the rod loosely; if he had struck a big fish at that moment, he would have lost the whole outfit, just like Ashish. But the captain had done nothing to help him that morning, so Stan simply did not care.
Then, as if thinking about Kidd had somehow summoned him, the captain suddenly appeared at Stan’s elbow and said
Better hold that rod tighter, Mr. Magnolia.
Stan jumped and nearly dropped the rod anyway. But he tightened his grip and shook his head hard, trying to cast off the blanket of exhaustion draped over his brain. He expected Kidd to disappear again, now that his precious rod seemed secure, but the captain stood beside Stan, silent, watching the line. And just when Stan was sure that Kidd planned to ignore the subject forever, Kidd said
What you saw was most likely a seal or a manatee. They don’t hold still that often, at least not that we see on this ship, but it happens. Some say that’s how the legend of mermaids began; a sailor saw a manatee at night and swore it was a brown-eyed, dark-skinned woman watching him from the deep. Best you forget about it and get on with your trip.
Stan considered this for a moment and then said
Why forget about it if it’s such a rare sight? Seems like it would be pretty cool to see something that most people never will.
Kidd turned toward Stan then, looking him full in the face for the first time on the trip. Stan found it unsettling, like a lion was watching him through the bars of a particularly flimsy cage and licking its lips. Kidd’s eyes twinkled; his mouth twitched, as if he were trying not to grin. And so Stan could not be sure how to take it when Kidd said
Because nothin good ever comes of those faces. Them old sailors who tried to follow a so-called mermaid down to a underwater kingdoms, lookin for love and treasure? Deader than shit. There ain’t no love nor treasure down there. Only sharks and eels that’ll burrow up your ass and through your eye sockets. Don’t let no face from the deep charm you. They’re best viewed from up here, on the right end of a hook.
At that moment, Stan thought he felt a tug on his line, so he glanced toward the water. When he looked back, Kidd was disappearing through the door that led below decks. And though Stan could feel his skin sweating and crackling in the sun, he shivered hard and said
Damn. A goose just walked over my grave.
Later in the day, they sailed back toward Prester’s Island for another night’s smooth anchor in its lagoon. Stan was reclining in one of the cheap deck chairs, half asleep, when he sensed that someone was standing over him. He opened his eyes and saw Ralph McFleigh looking at him. The second mate looked like a younger, sterner version of the sea captain on The Simpsons. Stan wondered what he had done wrong, but when McFleigh sat down next to him, the mate grinned. Stan said
Hi
and McFleigh said
Hello yourself. Mr. Magnolia, is it?
and Stan said
Call me Stan. What can I do for you?
McFleigh took off his hat—a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap that might have been purchased in the early 70s and stored in an outhouse every day since—and mopped his brow with his shirt sleeve. He fanned himself with the hat, and as it released a somehow pleasant odor of old sweat and long-forgotten fish, McFleigh said
I heard about what you saw in the water and what the captain told you. I figured I should put in my two cents
and Stan said
You disagree with Kidd?
and McFleigh replied
Well, not entirely. The Captain was right about other people seein faces down there, and he was right about what they usually are. Sometimes seals, sometimes manatees, sometimes tricks of the light or wishful thinkin. Sometimes more than one of em at once. Did you know, Mr. Magnolia, that in the wide world’s long history, some sailors have used manatees for sexual pleasure?
Disturbing images burst into Stan’s mind—a gaggle of sweating, unshaven crewmen dragging a manatee on deck and holding it down while they took turns plunging themselves into it, rhythmic, one after the other, as the creature thrumped and slapped against the deck. A half-naked sailor turning blue in the face as he humped away on a manatee swimming deeper and deeper into the sea. He grimaced and said
No, I didn’t
and McFleigh said
Well it’s true. I’ve never partaken myself, but I’ve talked to men who have, or who claimed they had. They say that a certain species of manatee has a pussy that passes fairly well for human
and Stan said
That’s lovely. What does this have to do with the face in the water?
and McFleigh said
My point is this: you shouldn’t be so quick to believe that the sea won’t give what you ask of it. True, some sailors have jumped overboard, swearin the whole time they spotted a mermaid. And yeah, some of them fellas were never seen again. But Jimmy Kidd can’t say for certain what they found and what they didn’t after they sunk. Could be they’re down there now, livin a better life than those they left behind. I can’t say if you really saw a face in the water, but I do know this much: you believe you did, and the meanin’s what you make of it.
Stan sat quietly for awhile, thinking about what McFleigh had said. Finally he replied
So you’re saying I should jump overboard and try to catch this—whatever it is?
McFleigh laughed out loud, a harsh bark that suggested a life filled with rum and cigars. He slapped Stan on the knee and said
Lord no, son. That’d be a fool’s game. At best, you’d get wet and look foolish. At worst, you’d drown. Even if they exist, I don’t see why a mermaid would hang about the surface, waitin on one of us. I’m talkin about belief. If you need to believe that the face is real, and that it’s a woman, and that she means somethin good, well, you go on and believe it. Might give you somethin you can grab hold of and keep. Even if it’s just a idea.
McFleigh patted him on the leg again and pushed himself up out of the deck chair. He walked away without looking back at Stan, who kept his seat all the way to the lagoon and thought about what McFleigh had told him. It felt better than thinking about Sylvia or the empty apartment in Manhattan or the work that was piling up while he fished the Atlantic. So he sat back and remembered the face in the water and tried to imagine what it might look like up close.
That night Quon and Ashish kept him awake and drinking until he no longer even wanted to sleep. Quon, so drunk he could barely walk, decided to take a rowboat over to the island and do some exploring. With Kidd and McFleigh asleep in their quarters, the crusty, angular first mate Fountainbleu had the watch, and when Quon stumbled over to him and loudly proclaimed his intention to take the dinghy, Fountainbleu said
Yes sir. You go right ahead, sir. And once you get your fool self in the boat, I’ll break upon your skull with the nearest oar I can lay hands on and be done with you.
After that, Quon, seeming sober, no longer wished to go anywhere but the head.
Quon and Ashish staggered in to bed soon enough, leaving Stan on deck with Fountainbleu. Stan leaned on the rail, watching the waves, trying not to throw up. His head felt like it had been stuffed with alcohol-soaked cotton. A thick blanket of clouds covered the stars. The ship seemed like an enormous shadow. Standing within this dark pall of unreality, Stan was hardly surprised when the first mate materialized out of the darkness like a vampire in an old Hammer film. One minute, Stan was alone; the next, Fountainbleu stood at the rail, his hands behind his back, a fat black cigar clamped between his teeth. Its smoke curled up in thin wisps and disappeared, and when he spoke, the lit end bobbed up and down like a firefly. The mate said
The boys tell me you’ve been seein things in the water, son. Been nippin the captain’s rum, have you?
and Stan laughed, saying
Wait. You mean sailors really drink rum? Jesus, maybe you keep a few cutlasses around here too. Perhaps a Jolly Roger?
In the silence that followed, Stan wished that he had kept his mouth shut; all he knew about Fountainbleu was that he was tall and strong and that he had threatened to brain Quon with a wooden paddle. Not the kind of man you could joke with unless you knew how he would react, and so Stan fidgeted, glancing from the water to Fountainbleu and back again, certain that the mate would grab his legs and dump him over the side. But nothing happened. Fountainbleu’s face remained as expressive as the deck. Soon he said
Yes, Mr. Magnolia. We drink rum. We also drink beer, and whiskey, and tequila. I’ve even been known to take a glass of red wine with my supper on occasion. But never mind all that. My question remains—have you seen somethin?
Stan turned and looked at Fountainbleu. The mate could have been as young as forty and as old as sixty-five. His face was deeply tanned and weatherbeaten, yet Stan could not see a single line or wrinkle. He was closely shaven, his hair dark with slivers of gray, like veins of silver embedded in pure coal. His lack of expression told Stan nothing; it might have been contemplation, disinterest, emotional frigidity. Either way, Stan knew he would never see the man again once this trip was over, so he decided to take a chance. He said
Yeah. It looks like a face. Big brown eyes, wavy hair. They keep telling me it’s either a mermaid or a manatee, or that I’m just nuts
and Fountainbleu said
Could be any of those things. Includin your bein batshit crazy. Could be none of em. Of course, I ain’t seen this here face, but if somebody was to ask me, I would give my opinion
so Stan said
All right, I’ll bite. What’s your opinion?
Fountainbleu looked Stan directly in the eyes. In the darkness, Stan could not tell their color; he could not even say for certain that they had pupils. The mate said
If it’s a face you saw at all, it’s a mermaid. I seen one myself once.
Fountainbleu’s face remained inscrutable, a granite crag rising out of murky waters. Stan felt as if he were being set up for a colossal punchline, a joke that would make the rounds of the Dead Man’s Chest for years to come as Fountainbleu told his fellows and his future passengers about the gullible fool from New York who thought, even for a second, that mermaids might be real. And Stan knew that he would ask anyway. He said
A real mermaid?
and Fountainbleu said
I seen one. Maybe she wasn’t real. Could be I had a touch of the sunstroke. Years ago, this was. We had anchored fifteen miles off the Florida coast. Fishin charter, kinda like this one here. Figured we’d never see them fellas again because nothin was bitin. Dead air, calm sea, like the whole world had stopped. I was on deck baitin some hooks, when I looked down in the water and seen her. She was swimmin below the surface, and maybe it was the sun reflectin on the water or all the sleep I didn’t get the night before or the spot of whiskey I’d been takin about every twenty minutes, but to this day I swear it was a woman. Sure as hell didn’t look like no manatee or whatever Ralph McFleigh likes to prattle on about. Bigger than a human woman, sure, and no legs to speak of, but I’d swear I saw two arms, one of em wavin at me. Or beckonin me down.
I damn near went, too. Just to see what it was. But I’m glad I didn’t. If it was a mermaid, she’d have dragged me down to the bottom. So say the legends. And if it was somethin else—well, put it this way. Five minutes after I saw it, one of our clients hooked a fifteen foot tiger shark. Biggest one I’d ever seen with my own eyes. Son of a bitch could have bit me in half. We cut the line and let that sumbitch go his own way.
Point is, whatever you been seein, best leave it alone. If it was somethin you was meant to reach out and touch, it’d walk on dry land.
With that, Fountainbleu turned and walked away without preamble, as if someone had flipped a switch and turned off his voice. He ascended to the wheel and stood there, watching and thinking only he knew what. When Stan finally went below, Fountainbleu was still standing there, a shadow behind the glass.
Later, Stan dreamed that he stood on deck with Fountainbleu, watching the water as they had done that night. Stan kept asking if Fountainbleu saw anything, but the mate would not answer. Finally Stan took him by the shoulder, meaning to shake him. But Fountainbleu had disappeared; Stan clutched his empty slicker, the boots and pants and hat puddling on deck like the cast-off skin of a great snake. Stan tried to call for help, but his voice failed, as if someone had stuffed a softball-sized sponge down his throat. He dropped the empty jacket and clawed at his neck, panicking, his breath gone, and that was when he heard the singing, a voice like whalesong somewhere deep within his mind. Then Stan realized that he could understand the words, and they called him to jump, to toss himself over the side and join the singer. Feeling panic rise inside him like vomit, Stan looked down into the water and saw Fountainbleu, naked and shining in the arms of a mermaid at least eight feet long and bare from the waist up. The song emanated from her open mouth. Her long hair flowed down her back in perfectly straight lines, and when Stan looked into her eyes, he recognized them, the ones he had seen before, and then he felt himself falling toward the water. Just before he hit, Fountainbleu opened his eyes and said
This is what drownin feels like.
Stan woke up trying to scream, his body covered in sweat. His breath tore out of him in ragged gasps, his temples thundering, his mouth cotton-dry with the hangover. He shook his head hard, ignoring the pain, trying to free himself from the last remnants of the dream, and he said aloud
Jesus Christ. I’m never talking to that guy again.
Hours later he stood by the rail, next to Ashish, while Quon hovered about looking sick. Their hooks drifted in the water, the lines still, the breeze steady but faint. Above and around them, gulls dipped and dived and all but hovered in the air, hoping to scavenge. Once, Stan saw the bullet-gray back of a dolphin surface and barrel-roll forward and disappear, as if the ocean were winking at him. No one talked much. Nobody had shaved; they all stank of stale alcohol and dead fish, their beards rasping whenever they rubbed more sunblock on their faces. Quon had thrown up twice, a foul stew consisting of fried halibut and enough alcohol to have pickled the fish. Ashish looked gray, his eyes almost completely red. Stan knew that he must look even worse himself; he had gotten even less sleep than the others. But they had paid for the trip, and so they fished, standing in line like dead automata. At one point, Stan turned to Ashish and said
I thought Kidd banned you from fishing
and Ashish said
I guess he’s in a better mood.
Stan wondered what that felt like, to get in a better mood. Since Sylvia left, his own mood cycled from bewilderment to anger to a deep self-pity. He had really thought that she was the one. Lying in bed at night, he had often imagined what they would do, what they would look like when they were old, her long dark hair turned steel gray, his own face lined and bewhiskered. He had really been able to see it—the two of them strolling through Central Park, arm in arm, laughing and feeding the pigeons and perhaps stopping long enough to toss a ball back to a man playing with his golden retriever, to fling a Frisbee back to a couple of teenagers with rippling muscles and deep tans. He had seen Sylvia’s face in his dreams. Then he had gotten complacent, impatient, arrogant, and she had gotten shrill and boring. They had let life come between them and living, and then she had left. Or maybe he had driven her away. In any case, she had moved out,taking with her all the possibilities. Now he kept seeing another face, one that connoted nothing but uncertainty. And yet it haunted him too.
He wished that the others would talk. It would take his mind off of Sylvia, off the face in the water. It would help him move through the day like a shark, constantly forward, taking what came on instinct. And yet when Quon finally spoke, he only said
I feel like shit, man. I gotta go lie down.
He disappeared below, staggering past McFleigh, who was sitting in a deckchair, his hat pulled down over his eyes. And as if he had been waiting for this cue, Ashish reeled in his own line and said
Hate to leave you out here alone, but all that damn tequila is hitting me hard. My guts feel like they’re on fire.
Ashish was always like that. He could eat the hottest food on the menu, the kind that would cause a full DEFCON-1 explosion in a normal man’s colon, but give him too much alcohol and his stomach rebelled; he would sit on the toilet for hours, groaning and farting and spewing out a blasphemous substance that seemed almost alien in its viscosity and stink. Stan had no idea why the man even drank. But Ashish left before Stan’s cloudy mind could articulate any kind of good-natured insult or jibe. Even that bit of conversation denied him, Stan pulled his cap low, wondering if anyone would care if he, too, just went back to bed.
And then, just under the surface, a shadow rippling through the water—a long shape gliding gracefully, dolphin-like. Stan’s body tensed, jerking to attention so fast that he nearly let go of the rod. He scanned the water, his heart thumping so hard that he felt sure they could hear it below. And there it was, just for a moment, peeking up at him and diving under again—a face, the same one he had seen in Prester’s lagoon. He reeled in the line as fast as he could and dropped the rod on deck. It clattered under his feet as he leaned forward, gripping the rail, willing whatever-it-was to surface.
Nothing.
So he ran back and forth along the rail, pausing every ten feet or so, leaning over as far as he dared. At some point McFleigh had noticed, and now the mate waddled after him, shouting
Mister Magnolia! Don’t do that! Sir, stand up straight, right now!
like somebody’s mother in church, demanding that her child stop slumping and spit out his gum, except that McFleigh’s voice carried with it a high-pitched note of fear. Stan did not care. The water was calm, the skies cloudless. If he fell overboard, they could spot him easily. All he cared about was that shape. And as he searched, straining his eyeballs and his aching head, he realized that it mattered little whether the face belonged to mermaid or manatee or sea lion or his own addled brain. He just wanted an answer—certainty, closure, the kind that had slipped from him ever since Sylvia walked out. He wanted to know something again, no more guesses or speculation. He wanted to touch whatever this was and look it in the face.
He did not realize that he had stopped, looking at the water without really seeing it, until McFleigh caught up to him and grabbed him by the arms, yanking him from the rail. Stan turned toward McFleigh, surprised, his biceps tingling from the strength of the older man’s grip. He rubbed his left arm with his right hand and said
You don’t understand.
McFleigh tried to reply; Stan saw his jaw muscles working, his lips part, and knew that if McFleigh said anything logical, that would end it. He would let himself be talked into renouncing the face in the water, just as he had listened when Sylvia ticked off the reasons why she was leaving, just as he had listened when Ashish and Quon had talked him into coming out here. The greatest mystery in his life might have been swimming around the boat right then, waiting for him to discover it, while he stood here and listened to reason and bowed to someone else’s plan, floating along like a sailboat without a rudder. But he knew that this time, he could not just float. He would have to swim.
So before McFleigh could say anything, before Kidd could climb down from the wheelhouse or Fountainbleu could materialize out of nowhere and grab him, before Quon and Ashish could stagger up from below, Stan tore away from McFleigh and leapt over the rail. He plummeted straight down, eyes shut tight, his body rigid, arms at his sides, legs together, and when he hit feet first, he plunged five or six feet below the surface. The frigid water nearly drove the breath from his lungs; his body curled up instinctively. Above him he could hear the gentle slap of the water against the hull. He felt something swim by him and move on, perhaps near enough to reach out and touch. His heart pounded with excitement and fear. He unfurled his legs and started to kick, and as he began to rise toward the surface, the sounds of raised voices ringing clearer and clearer, he felt something brush past him again, and Stan Magnolia opened his eyes.
Ashish and Quon had gone below an hour ago. Allegedly, they had come out here to relax. And at first the trip had gone as planned. Each man caught a few good-sized fish and, according to their pre-arranged catch and release methodology, threw them all back after taking a few seconds to snap pictures and admire the creatures’ size and brilliancy of color. But then it had all gone wrong. Quon hooked an Atlantic Bluefin Tuna approximately the size of a Ford Escort, but as he wrestled the fish on board, a swipe of its tail knocked him over the side. The crew rescued him quickly enough, but by the time they got him back on deck, he was chilled to the bone, and the fish lay dead. The captain—one James Kidd of Vero Beach, Florida—seemed on the verge of bursting into tears or perhaps fisticuffs. He said
An Atlantic Bluefin that size? Damn rare these days. Species is this close to extinction
holding his thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. No one in Stan’s party knew much about the population of Atlantic Bluefin, but they felt terrible nonetheless. Quon was soaking wet and nearly beside himself with guilt as he helped Kidd’s mates, McFleigh and Rene Fountainbleu, dump the tuna over the side, where several sharks that had apparently been tailing the ship promptly ate it. This sight terrified Quon so much that he would not come within five feet of the rail for the rest of the day, fearing that he would tumble over and into their waiting jaws. Then, on the day following, Ashish lost eight hooks and God only knew how much line, all before he let an entire rod slip out of his hands. As it disappeared into the blue depths, chasing a prize that would remain forever mysterious, the captain marched up to Ashish and told him that he would no longer be allowed to touch any equipment on the ship. Kidd snarled
And I’m willin to refund the whole goddam deposit if that’s what it takes. You’re a menace to every man on this ocean and an obvious boon to every fish in it.
So on only the third day of a week-long charter, only Stan was still willing and able to fish. And this also annoyed him. He had come out here for the quiet, the deep blue water and the rolling whitecaps, the smell of the ocean. He had planned to fish only when he could not drive Sylvia’s face from his mind with beer and conversation. Now he felt obligated to try, so that everyone could say they got their money’s worth. Tomorrow he would strap on a life jacket and take up a rod, bait his hook, and stand at the rail in the broiling sun, squinting down into the water until he was half-blind and seasick, trying to catch a fish that he did not want and would not eat. His attempt to escape from the hole Sylvia had left in his life had metamorphosed into a bother, a responsibility. So here he stood, awake on deck when everyone else was asleep, trying to enjoy the peace he would undoubtedly lose when he stood at the rail alone for three days, a drunk Ashish and Quon behind him, yelling encouragement and unwanted advice.
And, as he gazed over the side and into the ocean’s black depths, he saw the face in the water.
Its eyes were deep brown, like rich, damp topsoil. The brows seemed bushy and thick, the nose short and perfectly proportioned. Its skin looked deeply tanned, almost black, and flawless. Its cheeks appeared to be freckled. It appeared to be smiling, though Stan could see no teeth. Thick, luxuriant hair cascaded straight back from its brow and disappeared into the depths. The face was not exactly pretty, certainly not beautiful, and yet it somehow epitomized the deepest calm that Stan had ever imagined. And he realized that he had not felt calm at all since Sylvia left, since he could no longer hear all the noises that used to fill his apartment, since the echo of his own footsteps on hardwood floors began to sound like the mocking laughter of passing solitary years.
But then the face disappeared. He scrunched his eyes shut as tightly as possible and then opened them again, willing the face to be there. But the water’s surface was empty.
Dawn rose out of the water, cascading light as far as Stan could see. The mates were raising the Dead Man’s Chest’s anchor. Stan wanted a word with the captain, so he walked past the crew and climbed up to the wheelhouse. He knocked on the door. Kidd shouted
Yeah!
and Stan entered. Kidd did not look at him. The ship was pointed toward the sunrise; Stan felt sure that he had never seen anything more magnificent, the entire ocean lit up like a field of jewels. As the ship gathered speed, Stan steadied himself and tried to enjoy the scene. Soon enough Kidd pointed starboard. Off the bow dolphins raced alongside, leaping gracefully from the water and disappearing again with the regularity and precision of oars wielded by some invisible god. Heartsick and sleepy, Stan still would not have traded the sight for any other experience in his life. Quon was always wishing that he had majored in oceanography; now Stan could see why. He almost forgot why he had come to the wheelhouse in the first place, until Kidd said
Is there somethin I can do for you, Mr. Magnolia?
Embarrassed, Stan shook off his daydreams and turned to the captain, who wore knee-length denim shorts and a Rolling Stones concert shirt, not exactly the attire one would expect from a man named Captain Kidd. Stan said
Uh, yeah. See, last night I couldn’t sleep and I was tottering around the deck. And I looked down, and I saw this face in the water.
Kidd glanced at Stan, eyebrows raised. Stan continued
It was, like, just under the surface. Deep brown eyes, bushy brows, long hair slicked back. Not fanning out, like hair ought to do underwater. Just straight back. Weird, huh?
Kidd watched Stan intently; his dark eyes shifted from the ocean to Stan and back again, as if trying to read whether Stan would smile behind his back. After a moment he grunted and gave the sea his full attention. They sailed along for a bit, the view and the motion and exhaustion lulling Stan into a stupor. The wheelhouse was warm, the sun beaming on their faces through the glass, and if Stan had not been struggling to keep his balance, he could have fallen asleep right there. His kingdom for a hammock and some sunblock. Kidd seemed as alert as ever, enjoying whatever charms the scene held in his own way. Soon enough, Stan tired of waiting for a response. He said
Well, I think I’ll go catch a nap
and Kidd merely nodded. Stan closed the wheelhouse door behind him and descended to his bunk. Quon and Ashish were still asleep, Ashish’s snoring like cannon fire in the close quarters. Stan fell into his bunk and slept on top of the covers. He dreamed of brown eyes and green-blue water and hair that cascaded straight down all the way to the ocean floor.
He had slept only an hour when Ashish shook him awake. He had been dreaming of diving into the crystal blue sea and chasing a disembodied face all the way to the bottom, which seemed made of chocolate pudding; as soon as his feet settled on the ocean floor, his toes squished through viscous goo, which seemed to suck at him like quicksand. The face floated in front of him like a hologram. He reached out and touched it. Immediately an entire woman materialized behind it—long legs and heavy breasts, lips like pillows and hips so perfectly round that they defied geometry. And then Ashish woke him up, so the first thing Stan said was
You asshole.
Ashish ignored him and said
You’re missing the fishing, dude. Quon’s been taking another shot at it, but he hasn’t caught a damn thing. Crew’s a bit miffed that three paid to fish and only one’s doing it, and none too successfully
so Stan grumbled
Why don’t you fish?
and Ashish said
I tried, but Kidd threatened to throw me overboard. Come on, man, did you come all this way to fish or not? You could have slept back in Manhattan.
So Stan rolled out of the bunk and stumbled toward the head, twice crashing into the walls as he went. The world seemed hyper-real and over-bright, the noises too loud. He took a long piss and brushed his teeth, trying to erase a taste somewhere between rotting fish and moldy bread. If Sylvia smelled him now, she would never kiss him again. But then, she never would anyway. She was gone. Stan wondered how long he would go on realizing, as if for the first time, that she had not simply left for the weekend, perhaps visiting her parents in Jersey or relaxing in a nice spa somewhere near the coast.
He wanted a shower, but if he were about to go fishing, taking one made no sense, so he dragged himself up the stairs and onto the deck. The sun nearly blinded him; he groaned and went back down for a hat. Ten minutes later he stood near the rail, a rod in his hand, though he could not say for sure who had baited the hook or cast the line. He held the rod loosely; if he had struck a big fish at that moment, he would have lost the whole outfit, just like Ashish. But the captain had done nothing to help him that morning, so Stan simply did not care.
Then, as if thinking about Kidd had somehow summoned him, the captain suddenly appeared at Stan’s elbow and said
Better hold that rod tighter, Mr. Magnolia.
Stan jumped and nearly dropped the rod anyway. But he tightened his grip and shook his head hard, trying to cast off the blanket of exhaustion draped over his brain. He expected Kidd to disappear again, now that his precious rod seemed secure, but the captain stood beside Stan, silent, watching the line. And just when Stan was sure that Kidd planned to ignore the subject forever, Kidd said
What you saw was most likely a seal or a manatee. They don’t hold still that often, at least not that we see on this ship, but it happens. Some say that’s how the legend of mermaids began; a sailor saw a manatee at night and swore it was a brown-eyed, dark-skinned woman watching him from the deep. Best you forget about it and get on with your trip.
Stan considered this for a moment and then said
Why forget about it if it’s such a rare sight? Seems like it would be pretty cool to see something that most people never will.
Kidd turned toward Stan then, looking him full in the face for the first time on the trip. Stan found it unsettling, like a lion was watching him through the bars of a particularly flimsy cage and licking its lips. Kidd’s eyes twinkled; his mouth twitched, as if he were trying not to grin. And so Stan could not be sure how to take it when Kidd said
Because nothin good ever comes of those faces. Them old sailors who tried to follow a so-called mermaid down to a underwater kingdoms, lookin for love and treasure? Deader than shit. There ain’t no love nor treasure down there. Only sharks and eels that’ll burrow up your ass and through your eye sockets. Don’t let no face from the deep charm you. They’re best viewed from up here, on the right end of a hook.
At that moment, Stan thought he felt a tug on his line, so he glanced toward the water. When he looked back, Kidd was disappearing through the door that led below decks. And though Stan could feel his skin sweating and crackling in the sun, he shivered hard and said
Damn. A goose just walked over my grave.
Later in the day, they sailed back toward Prester’s Island for another night’s smooth anchor in its lagoon. Stan was reclining in one of the cheap deck chairs, half asleep, when he sensed that someone was standing over him. He opened his eyes and saw Ralph McFleigh looking at him. The second mate looked like a younger, sterner version of the sea captain on The Simpsons. Stan wondered what he had done wrong, but when McFleigh sat down next to him, the mate grinned. Stan said
Hi
and McFleigh said
Hello yourself. Mr. Magnolia, is it?
and Stan said
Call me Stan. What can I do for you?
McFleigh took off his hat—a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap that might have been purchased in the early 70s and stored in an outhouse every day since—and mopped his brow with his shirt sleeve. He fanned himself with the hat, and as it released a somehow pleasant odor of old sweat and long-forgotten fish, McFleigh said
I heard about what you saw in the water and what the captain told you. I figured I should put in my two cents
and Stan said
You disagree with Kidd?
and McFleigh replied
Well, not entirely. The Captain was right about other people seein faces down there, and he was right about what they usually are. Sometimes seals, sometimes manatees, sometimes tricks of the light or wishful thinkin. Sometimes more than one of em at once. Did you know, Mr. Magnolia, that in the wide world’s long history, some sailors have used manatees for sexual pleasure?
Disturbing images burst into Stan’s mind—a gaggle of sweating, unshaven crewmen dragging a manatee on deck and holding it down while they took turns plunging themselves into it, rhythmic, one after the other, as the creature thrumped and slapped against the deck. A half-naked sailor turning blue in the face as he humped away on a manatee swimming deeper and deeper into the sea. He grimaced and said
No, I didn’t
and McFleigh said
Well it’s true. I’ve never partaken myself, but I’ve talked to men who have, or who claimed they had. They say that a certain species of manatee has a pussy that passes fairly well for human
and Stan said
That’s lovely. What does this have to do with the face in the water?
and McFleigh said
My point is this: you shouldn’t be so quick to believe that the sea won’t give what you ask of it. True, some sailors have jumped overboard, swearin the whole time they spotted a mermaid. And yeah, some of them fellas were never seen again. But Jimmy Kidd can’t say for certain what they found and what they didn’t after they sunk. Could be they’re down there now, livin a better life than those they left behind. I can’t say if you really saw a face in the water, but I do know this much: you believe you did, and the meanin’s what you make of it.
Stan sat quietly for awhile, thinking about what McFleigh had said. Finally he replied
So you’re saying I should jump overboard and try to catch this—whatever it is?
McFleigh laughed out loud, a harsh bark that suggested a life filled with rum and cigars. He slapped Stan on the knee and said
Lord no, son. That’d be a fool’s game. At best, you’d get wet and look foolish. At worst, you’d drown. Even if they exist, I don’t see why a mermaid would hang about the surface, waitin on one of us. I’m talkin about belief. If you need to believe that the face is real, and that it’s a woman, and that she means somethin good, well, you go on and believe it. Might give you somethin you can grab hold of and keep. Even if it’s just a idea.
McFleigh patted him on the leg again and pushed himself up out of the deck chair. He walked away without looking back at Stan, who kept his seat all the way to the lagoon and thought about what McFleigh had told him. It felt better than thinking about Sylvia or the empty apartment in Manhattan or the work that was piling up while he fished the Atlantic. So he sat back and remembered the face in the water and tried to imagine what it might look like up close.
That night Quon and Ashish kept him awake and drinking until he no longer even wanted to sleep. Quon, so drunk he could barely walk, decided to take a rowboat over to the island and do some exploring. With Kidd and McFleigh asleep in their quarters, the crusty, angular first mate Fountainbleu had the watch, and when Quon stumbled over to him and loudly proclaimed his intention to take the dinghy, Fountainbleu said
Yes sir. You go right ahead, sir. And once you get your fool self in the boat, I’ll break upon your skull with the nearest oar I can lay hands on and be done with you.
After that, Quon, seeming sober, no longer wished to go anywhere but the head.
Quon and Ashish staggered in to bed soon enough, leaving Stan on deck with Fountainbleu. Stan leaned on the rail, watching the waves, trying not to throw up. His head felt like it had been stuffed with alcohol-soaked cotton. A thick blanket of clouds covered the stars. The ship seemed like an enormous shadow. Standing within this dark pall of unreality, Stan was hardly surprised when the first mate materialized out of the darkness like a vampire in an old Hammer film. One minute, Stan was alone; the next, Fountainbleu stood at the rail, his hands behind his back, a fat black cigar clamped between his teeth. Its smoke curled up in thin wisps and disappeared, and when he spoke, the lit end bobbed up and down like a firefly. The mate said
The boys tell me you’ve been seein things in the water, son. Been nippin the captain’s rum, have you?
and Stan laughed, saying
Wait. You mean sailors really drink rum? Jesus, maybe you keep a few cutlasses around here too. Perhaps a Jolly Roger?
In the silence that followed, Stan wished that he had kept his mouth shut; all he knew about Fountainbleu was that he was tall and strong and that he had threatened to brain Quon with a wooden paddle. Not the kind of man you could joke with unless you knew how he would react, and so Stan fidgeted, glancing from the water to Fountainbleu and back again, certain that the mate would grab his legs and dump him over the side. But nothing happened. Fountainbleu’s face remained as expressive as the deck. Soon he said
Yes, Mr. Magnolia. We drink rum. We also drink beer, and whiskey, and tequila. I’ve even been known to take a glass of red wine with my supper on occasion. But never mind all that. My question remains—have you seen somethin?
Stan turned and looked at Fountainbleu. The mate could have been as young as forty and as old as sixty-five. His face was deeply tanned and weatherbeaten, yet Stan could not see a single line or wrinkle. He was closely shaven, his hair dark with slivers of gray, like veins of silver embedded in pure coal. His lack of expression told Stan nothing; it might have been contemplation, disinterest, emotional frigidity. Either way, Stan knew he would never see the man again once this trip was over, so he decided to take a chance. He said
Yeah. It looks like a face. Big brown eyes, wavy hair. They keep telling me it’s either a mermaid or a manatee, or that I’m just nuts
and Fountainbleu said
Could be any of those things. Includin your bein batshit crazy. Could be none of em. Of course, I ain’t seen this here face, but if somebody was to ask me, I would give my opinion
so Stan said
All right, I’ll bite. What’s your opinion?
Fountainbleu looked Stan directly in the eyes. In the darkness, Stan could not tell their color; he could not even say for certain that they had pupils. The mate said
If it’s a face you saw at all, it’s a mermaid. I seen one myself once.
Fountainbleu’s face remained inscrutable, a granite crag rising out of murky waters. Stan felt as if he were being set up for a colossal punchline, a joke that would make the rounds of the Dead Man’s Chest for years to come as Fountainbleu told his fellows and his future passengers about the gullible fool from New York who thought, even for a second, that mermaids might be real. And Stan knew that he would ask anyway. He said
A real mermaid?
and Fountainbleu said
I seen one. Maybe she wasn’t real. Could be I had a touch of the sunstroke. Years ago, this was. We had anchored fifteen miles off the Florida coast. Fishin charter, kinda like this one here. Figured we’d never see them fellas again because nothin was bitin. Dead air, calm sea, like the whole world had stopped. I was on deck baitin some hooks, when I looked down in the water and seen her. She was swimmin below the surface, and maybe it was the sun reflectin on the water or all the sleep I didn’t get the night before or the spot of whiskey I’d been takin about every twenty minutes, but to this day I swear it was a woman. Sure as hell didn’t look like no manatee or whatever Ralph McFleigh likes to prattle on about. Bigger than a human woman, sure, and no legs to speak of, but I’d swear I saw two arms, one of em wavin at me. Or beckonin me down.
I damn near went, too. Just to see what it was. But I’m glad I didn’t. If it was a mermaid, she’d have dragged me down to the bottom. So say the legends. And if it was somethin else—well, put it this way. Five minutes after I saw it, one of our clients hooked a fifteen foot tiger shark. Biggest one I’d ever seen with my own eyes. Son of a bitch could have bit me in half. We cut the line and let that sumbitch go his own way.
Point is, whatever you been seein, best leave it alone. If it was somethin you was meant to reach out and touch, it’d walk on dry land.
With that, Fountainbleu turned and walked away without preamble, as if someone had flipped a switch and turned off his voice. He ascended to the wheel and stood there, watching and thinking only he knew what. When Stan finally went below, Fountainbleu was still standing there, a shadow behind the glass.
Later, Stan dreamed that he stood on deck with Fountainbleu, watching the water as they had done that night. Stan kept asking if Fountainbleu saw anything, but the mate would not answer. Finally Stan took him by the shoulder, meaning to shake him. But Fountainbleu had disappeared; Stan clutched his empty slicker, the boots and pants and hat puddling on deck like the cast-off skin of a great snake. Stan tried to call for help, but his voice failed, as if someone had stuffed a softball-sized sponge down his throat. He dropped the empty jacket and clawed at his neck, panicking, his breath gone, and that was when he heard the singing, a voice like whalesong somewhere deep within his mind. Then Stan realized that he could understand the words, and they called him to jump, to toss himself over the side and join the singer. Feeling panic rise inside him like vomit, Stan looked down into the water and saw Fountainbleu, naked and shining in the arms of a mermaid at least eight feet long and bare from the waist up. The song emanated from her open mouth. Her long hair flowed down her back in perfectly straight lines, and when Stan looked into her eyes, he recognized them, the ones he had seen before, and then he felt himself falling toward the water. Just before he hit, Fountainbleu opened his eyes and said
This is what drownin feels like.
Stan woke up trying to scream, his body covered in sweat. His breath tore out of him in ragged gasps, his temples thundering, his mouth cotton-dry with the hangover. He shook his head hard, ignoring the pain, trying to free himself from the last remnants of the dream, and he said aloud
Jesus Christ. I’m never talking to that guy again.
Hours later he stood by the rail, next to Ashish, while Quon hovered about looking sick. Their hooks drifted in the water, the lines still, the breeze steady but faint. Above and around them, gulls dipped and dived and all but hovered in the air, hoping to scavenge. Once, Stan saw the bullet-gray back of a dolphin surface and barrel-roll forward and disappear, as if the ocean were winking at him. No one talked much. Nobody had shaved; they all stank of stale alcohol and dead fish, their beards rasping whenever they rubbed more sunblock on their faces. Quon had thrown up twice, a foul stew consisting of fried halibut and enough alcohol to have pickled the fish. Ashish looked gray, his eyes almost completely red. Stan knew that he must look even worse himself; he had gotten even less sleep than the others. But they had paid for the trip, and so they fished, standing in line like dead automata. At one point, Stan turned to Ashish and said
I thought Kidd banned you from fishing
and Ashish said
I guess he’s in a better mood.
Stan wondered what that felt like, to get in a better mood. Since Sylvia left, his own mood cycled from bewilderment to anger to a deep self-pity. He had really thought that she was the one. Lying in bed at night, he had often imagined what they would do, what they would look like when they were old, her long dark hair turned steel gray, his own face lined and bewhiskered. He had really been able to see it—the two of them strolling through Central Park, arm in arm, laughing and feeding the pigeons and perhaps stopping long enough to toss a ball back to a man playing with his golden retriever, to fling a Frisbee back to a couple of teenagers with rippling muscles and deep tans. He had seen Sylvia’s face in his dreams. Then he had gotten complacent, impatient, arrogant, and she had gotten shrill and boring. They had let life come between them and living, and then she had left. Or maybe he had driven her away. In any case, she had moved out,taking with her all the possibilities. Now he kept seeing another face, one that connoted nothing but uncertainty. And yet it haunted him too.
He wished that the others would talk. It would take his mind off of Sylvia, off the face in the water. It would help him move through the day like a shark, constantly forward, taking what came on instinct. And yet when Quon finally spoke, he only said
I feel like shit, man. I gotta go lie down.
He disappeared below, staggering past McFleigh, who was sitting in a deckchair, his hat pulled down over his eyes. And as if he had been waiting for this cue, Ashish reeled in his own line and said
Hate to leave you out here alone, but all that damn tequila is hitting me hard. My guts feel like they’re on fire.
Ashish was always like that. He could eat the hottest food on the menu, the kind that would cause a full DEFCON-1 explosion in a normal man’s colon, but give him too much alcohol and his stomach rebelled; he would sit on the toilet for hours, groaning and farting and spewing out a blasphemous substance that seemed almost alien in its viscosity and stink. Stan had no idea why the man even drank. But Ashish left before Stan’s cloudy mind could articulate any kind of good-natured insult or jibe. Even that bit of conversation denied him, Stan pulled his cap low, wondering if anyone would care if he, too, just went back to bed.
And then, just under the surface, a shadow rippling through the water—a long shape gliding gracefully, dolphin-like. Stan’s body tensed, jerking to attention so fast that he nearly let go of the rod. He scanned the water, his heart thumping so hard that he felt sure they could hear it below. And there it was, just for a moment, peeking up at him and diving under again—a face, the same one he had seen in Prester’s lagoon. He reeled in the line as fast as he could and dropped the rod on deck. It clattered under his feet as he leaned forward, gripping the rail, willing whatever-it-was to surface.
Nothing.
So he ran back and forth along the rail, pausing every ten feet or so, leaning over as far as he dared. At some point McFleigh had noticed, and now the mate waddled after him, shouting
Mister Magnolia! Don’t do that! Sir, stand up straight, right now!
like somebody’s mother in church, demanding that her child stop slumping and spit out his gum, except that McFleigh’s voice carried with it a high-pitched note of fear. Stan did not care. The water was calm, the skies cloudless. If he fell overboard, they could spot him easily. All he cared about was that shape. And as he searched, straining his eyeballs and his aching head, he realized that it mattered little whether the face belonged to mermaid or manatee or sea lion or his own addled brain. He just wanted an answer—certainty, closure, the kind that had slipped from him ever since Sylvia walked out. He wanted to know something again, no more guesses or speculation. He wanted to touch whatever this was and look it in the face.
He did not realize that he had stopped, looking at the water without really seeing it, until McFleigh caught up to him and grabbed him by the arms, yanking him from the rail. Stan turned toward McFleigh, surprised, his biceps tingling from the strength of the older man’s grip. He rubbed his left arm with his right hand and said
You don’t understand.
McFleigh tried to reply; Stan saw his jaw muscles working, his lips part, and knew that if McFleigh said anything logical, that would end it. He would let himself be talked into renouncing the face in the water, just as he had listened when Sylvia ticked off the reasons why she was leaving, just as he had listened when Ashish and Quon had talked him into coming out here. The greatest mystery in his life might have been swimming around the boat right then, waiting for him to discover it, while he stood here and listened to reason and bowed to someone else’s plan, floating along like a sailboat without a rudder. But he knew that this time, he could not just float. He would have to swim.
So before McFleigh could say anything, before Kidd could climb down from the wheelhouse or Fountainbleu could materialize out of nowhere and grab him, before Quon and Ashish could stagger up from below, Stan tore away from McFleigh and leapt over the rail. He plummeted straight down, eyes shut tight, his body rigid, arms at his sides, legs together, and when he hit feet first, he plunged five or six feet below the surface. The frigid water nearly drove the breath from his lungs; his body curled up instinctively. Above him he could hear the gentle slap of the water against the hull. He felt something swim by him and move on, perhaps near enough to reach out and touch. His heart pounded with excitement and fear. He unfurled his legs and started to kick, and as he began to rise toward the surface, the sounds of raised voices ringing clearer and clearer, he felt something brush past him again, and Stan Magnolia opened his eyes.
