She entered another maze.
She’d fucked up. She was fucked up. In his view, which he didn’t hesitate to elaborate, cutting her off mid-stammer, shouting over the diesel roar. Port side? Try starboard, dear. And try this. She’d trashed the viz when he finally found her in back of the corridor. When he tried to stir her stupefied butt back to life and surprise, surprise all hell broke loose. Imagine his surprise—all that trouble to hustle her down there and keep her from ape-shitting all over the place. Remember the plan? Which she’d fucked with from the start. Did she not remember that as well? Sinking to the bottom off the bow and staring at the mud like a total whack-job. He was not fucking joking.
She was not fucking laughing. She planted her legs widely beneath her, beside her rig lashed to the hull with bungee cords—which she could hardly see in the explosion of sun off the white deck of the ram-jamming boat. Her sinuses streamed. The fuck? He was confused. She knew where she’d been.
The tug trenched and soared and his craggy face swung near then farther from her. Behind him she glimpsed Jane, blond hair like a sparkler in the ravenous light—in high relief to the cabin’s extinguishing shade where the other divers and the crew had slunk the second Marilyn scrabbled aboard.
At this point, I think you don’t know squat, he declared. What are you, a tourist? Where was your safety line? If you can’t do a dive like this, dear, you should hang up your fins. Stay home and bake cookies.
You’d like that?
He mashed his palms together and arrowed his fingertips at her. You, he said. Fucking. Do not. Get it.
She tried to dodge him and her calves smashed against a storage box—hers, she saw when she hazarded a glance. He un-tented his hands and jabbed a finger inches from her nose.
One, he said. You didn’t know where you were.
I did know, but so what? That’s not the point here.
He held up two fingers. You didn’t follow the plan, he said.
Forget the plan, she protested. Unless you planned what really happened. What you did.
His face reddened in patches around his pale scars. I’ll tell you what never really happened, he raged, sticking three fingers at her. You never ran a line. Never used your fucking safety reel.
It seemed as if the tug’s movement suddenly ceased. A white wing hung motionless in mid-flight against the sky. Smell of diesel and creosote. Out on the expanse of water, small islands like wells of rock in a vast liquid field. Silence on board, though she knew the tug’s engine was near-deafening. Jane’s dazzle near the cabin door. Then a cloud sailed in front of the sun and somehow restarted the keel-pounding boat-toss. He waved both arms now as if dismissing her. She stood her ground though his jaw and neck bulged and his lips curled as if he were chomping hot stones. Get your head back on, he shouted. What happened to your training? To all that time I fucking wasted on you.
She felt as if she were shooting through a million-mile tunnel. Stop, she bellowed. Stop threatening me.
He gasped then retreated a few feet. Threaten? he yelled. Are you insane?
You hit me in there, she cried. That’s what happened.
His eyes rolled upward briefly, all whites. Then he handled her aside and staggered to the boat’s railing, wrestled a set of doubles out of the way so he could lean over the water as if he might spew.
Am I right? she called after him.
He turned painstakingly on the railing and over-slung his rear. Don’t get me started on what your fourth screw-up was, he said. What you did. Get it? What you did to yourself. Your little freak-out in there. So this is the last word I’ll say on the subject. Wake. The fuck. Up.
What were you trying to do? she said, horning in. Kill me?
He lifted his huge head. Blank-faced now, he gripped the railing and leaned backward away from her over the water—so far she thought he might let go. But then he pitched forward and opened and closed his mouth a few times. Me? he finally choked out. You almost killed yourself. On this piece-of-shit wreck. Which I’m only diving because of you. Because you needed the practice inside. Remember that? I should never have let you talk me into another trust-me.
The sun flashed from behind the cloud and she shielded her eyes. Good, she said. Because obviously I can’t trust you.
He squinted into the glare and dragged a thumb across his forehead. Don’t blame me for your fucking problems, he told her. And don’t think you’re ever fucking diving with me again. So don’t worry about trust. You’re on your own, dear.
You think I need you? she said.
Gulls mewed behind his back. He scrubbed the top of his head with his hand. Oh, he said after a moment. Glad you got that off your chest. Case fucking closed then.
That’s right, she said.