Gwen, in Green

She could feel them. She opened her eyes without moving her head. She couldn’t see them at first. Then she caught a glimpse of a white tee shirt through the green. She questioned. But she understood far more now. Anything, anything to ease the pain, to bring peace, even if for a limited time. She felt it rise in her, that familiar ripe, swollen feeling. She felt herself expanding, her breasts full, the blood flowing into sensitive areas.

“Hello,” she called.

“She’s seen us,” Tommy said. “Let’s move.”

“Naw, she can’t see us,” Don, the oldest, said.

“Don’t be afraid,” she called.

“Who’s afraid?” Tommy whispered, but he didn’t move.

“Please come out,” she said. “Please.”

“I’m getting out of here,” Tommy said.

“I’m sorry I startled you last time,” she called.

Yes, yes, anything. I know. I understand.

“Come over and we’ll talk,” she said.

“Don’t,” Tommy said, trying to hold Don down. But Don stood up, and she smiled and waved at him.

“Would you like to see me without any clothes?” she called.

The boys, Tommy standing now, looked at each other.

“See?” She had dropped the bikini top. “Come closer.”

“What the hell?” Don said, moving to walk around the end of the pond on the high end. Tommy followed, feeling a mixture of emotions, his eyes unable to leave the two mounds. He tumbled down, not watching where he was walking. Don stopped a few feet away.

“Do you like me?” she asked, smiling.

“You putting us on?” Don asked, his voice uncertain. He had his hand in his pocket to hide his excitement.

“No, please. Don’t think that. I like you. Please come here.” She held out her arms. Neither boy moved. She pushed the small bikini bottom down and let it drop. Don heard Tommy gasp behind him. “I’ll do nice things for you,” she said, smiling and putting one hand up to cup one of her breasts.

Don had done it with a summer girl. Tommy had never done it, although he told everyone he had. He couldn’t believe it. He’d never seen a woman naked, except in pictures. The girl was moving toward them. Tommy backed off a few steps. Don stood his ground, and when she kissed him and put her hand down and squeezed his penis, he gave up, stopped thinking that it was a trap or that she was crazy.

Ripe, full, the emotions so powerful that they cut off the sound of the dozer, the pain, everything but the ripeness, the mellowness. She heard all small sounds, felt the grass under her, knew the frantic, youthful strength, urged them on, teased them, took them. “I’ll show you, little darling. Like this. See? Isn’t it sweet?”

And, when, inevitably, there was no more strength left to give, when the two boys were dressing sheepishly, feeling smug and tired, she said, “Please come back to see me?”

“You bet,” Tommy said.

“Do you have friends?” she asked. She understood now. It was all right. Anything, anything to block off the pain, even if for a fleeting moment.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Send them,” she said. “Tell them to come any day but Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Will you?”

“You sure?” Don asked.

She laughed. “Well, not dozens at a time. One or two. Perhaps three.”

“Some kind of nut,” Don said, as they walked back toward the bikes.

“Who cares. Man, that was great.”

“No one will believe us,” Tommy said, after a few moments of silence.

“Who cares?” Don asked. “How many times did you go?”

“Twice,” the younger boy said. “You?”

“Three times,” Don said proudly. “I’ll bet I can do it four next time.”

13

Jack Flores was one pissed-­off man. It was getting to the point where you couldn’t depend on anyone. First Daniels and Peebles and now Cramer, one of his oldest, most trustworthy men. He’d decided to put just one good man on the island. Even that would have done the job in plenty of time, because the fucking environmentalists had raised a lot of new hell and had forced the chickenshit Federal people to hold up the permit on the marsh dredging until the school boys did another so-­called Environmental Study of the fucking thing. That meant a thirty-­day delay in starting the marsh work, and he was about ready to start moving the dredges in.

It was one thing right after the other. A couple of drunk Chicanos over on the reactor had gotten into a fight over some local whore and had gone after each other with pipe wrenches. One of them was in the hospital with a concussion and the other was in the local jail. The bastard’s wife, a cute little number, was on Flores’s neck, begging him to get good old Pancho out of jail. “He’s a good man,” she kept saying. “He’s never done anything like this before. That Nogales, he started it. My Pancho was just defending himself.”

“Sure, sure,” Flores said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“He’s a good man, he has children, he goes to church.”

“Sure, sure,” Flores said. “Tell you what, I’ll send the company lawyer over.”

“Bless you, señor, you are a good man.”