Lights Out by Peter Abrahams Page B

towel.”
    Eddie handed over the five, received lock, key, towel, change.
    “Locker room’s down the hall, second on the left,” the man said. But Eddie knew that.
    In the locker room Eddie stripped, stowed his clothes, his money, Prof’s cardboard tube, and locked up. Hanging the key around his neck he went through the showers toward the steam room at the end. He hadn’t thought about swimming; a steam bath was all he wanted. But the door to the pool was propped open with a bucket, and he couldn’t help seeing the still, blue quadrilateral in the door frame. He went back to his locker, dressed, returned to the counter.
    “Rent swimsuits?”
    “Used to. No demand now, not with this AIDS business. You can try the lost-and-found if you want.” He pointed to a box by the scales.
    Eddie looked through the box, found a faded Speedo that would fit. If AIDS spread through the lost-and-found, no one had a chance anyway.
    A few minutes later he was standing by the pool at the deep end. Same pool. Twenty-five yards, eight lanes, no springboard. Eddie had it all to himself, except for a man sitting in a chair at the other end with a towel around his neck, talking on a portable phone.
    Eddie stepped up to the edge in lane five. Lane five had alwaysbeen his favorite, he couldn’t remember why. Maybe there hadn’t been a reason. Jack in four, Bobby Falardeau in three. Two high-school state championships, athletic scholarships for him and Jack—Bobby hadn’t been quite good enough, hadn’t needed the money anyway—if he had to sum it up, that would be it. But that left out the swimming itself.
    Eddie stood by the pool, motionless, toes curled over the edge. He smelled the chlorine, felt cool air rising from the water. The man at the other end raised his voice, said: “Three is the final offer. They can take it or leave it.”
    Eddie dove in. Almost not registering on his consciousness was the impression that there was something familiar about the man’s voice.
    Eddie glided. The glide went on and on, slowed to the point of swimming speed. But Eddie didn’t want to start swimming. He wanted to keep gliding through that cool blue, to feel it all around him. That was it: not so much the swimming itself as just being in the water. If there was a heaven, it must be a watery place.
    “First time in the islands?” asked Mrs. Packer.
    Eddie turned from the window of the little plane, turned from the sight of that clear blue-green sea with coral growing like forests on the bottom. First time in the islands, first time on a plane, first time he’d met a woman like Mrs. Packer.
    “That’s right, Mrs. Packer.”
    “Evelyn, please.”
    “Okay.” But he didn’t say her name. She was older, for one thing. Then there were her painted nails, her makeup, the smell of her perfume, her long tanned legs, her self-confidence.
    “I could tell by the way you were making big eyes at the scenery,” Mrs. Packer said. “Sometimes I think the planes should just turn back right about here and not bother landing.”
    “Why is that?”
    Mrs. Packer laughed, laid her fingertips on his forearm. “I’m just being cynical.”
    She took her hand away, but he continued to feel the spot she’d touched, hot, like a local infection.
    “Are you talking about the poverty?” Eddie asked, rememberingsomething Bobby Falardeau had said; the Falardeaus went to the Caribbean every Christmas.
    “There’s worse poverty in Miami. I just meant tropic isles.”
    “Tropic isles?”
    “And all that goes with them.”
    The plane rose suddenly, bumped back down like a car running over something in the road. Not a hard jolt, but enough to throw Mrs. Packer, half turning, onto his chest, with her hair, full of smells, all good, in his face.
    “Sorry,” Eddie said, disentangling himself. The infection began to spread all over.
    “For what?” said Mrs. Packer, straightening, patting her hair.
    Eddie could think of no reply, no way to resume the conversation.