Mermaids in Paradise by Lydia Millet

Author:Lydia Millet
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company

WE WENT DOWN to the shore later to forget our troubles, swim and snorkel off some buffet calories; Steve came with us, dressed in a cruel Speedo. We saw it when he shucked his oversize Pink Freud T-shirt. Janeane was recuperating in their cabana: she was much better, he said, he’d dosed her with sedatives the night before and at sunrise they’d done yoga and meditation.

It was while we were stretched out on some cotton-padded lounge chairs between snorkels—Chip scrolling and tapping, Steve touching his toes and grunting, me reading a dog-eared paperback from the resort’s library of exuberantly stupid books—that I noticed the crowds. Down the beach at the marina, out on the docks, there was a flurry of activity. There were more boats than usual; there was more movement.

“Huh,” said Chip, frowning down at his phone. “People are unsubscribing from my list! The fishermen, the guy with the foot fetish, a bunch of them . . . they’re leaving the Listserv, sending me messages saying they want to be taken off. It was down to eleven when we got up. And now it’s down to six!”

I studied Chip’s bemused face; I swiveled and studied the scene at the marina, its far-off hustle and bustle.

“Let’s take a walk,” I said. “I need to stretch my legs. Shut off your phone for fifteen minutes, Chip, won’t you? Try to relax. Think of this as our honeymoon.”

We ambled along the sand toward the marina, me acting casual and leisurely on purpose, Chip trying to pretend he wasn’t hurt by the defection of his Listserv and speculating, to distract himself from those feelings, about Nancy’s family and what they had or had not been told. Steve, a relentless exerciser whose physique completely, utterly failed to reflect this apparent fitness obsession, was executing, as we walked, some arm-and-chest movements that resembled a slow chicken dance.

“We have to keep after the resort management,” said Chip. “At any time there could be brand-new information.”

“Mmm,” said Steve noncommittally.

“Mmm what?” asked Chip.

A pelican flapped slowly along the shore beside us and I felt a stir of fondness for the foolish-looking yet steadily graceful creature. I thought about how it must be inside the pelican’s throat pouch, the stench of bile and rotting fish. Nameless debris.

Steve and the pelican, each with their own flapping, made a nice parallel/contrast.

“I’m just not sure we’ll be told more than we know now,” said Steve. “That’s my feeling.”

“But that’s not right,” said Chip, agitated. “You know it isn’t. This isn’t right, none of it is. It’s like no one else cares. And someone’s dead who shouldn’t be! A good person, a person who has tenure at a major U.S. university!”

“Believe me, I agree,” said Steve.

“Deb,” said Chip, turning to me. “Please, honey. Can’t we call someone and give them a bunch of money to solve this? Aren’t there police you can just hire? Who figure out the crime and catch the bad guys? And make sure justice is done?”

“They call them private detectives,” I said.

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