Crosley: A Short Story

  Crosley

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  This is a work of fiction. The characters have been created for the sake of this story and are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Art Copyright © 2011 by Alan M. Clark

  eBook Design, Eric M. Witchey

  Originally published in the collection The Alchemy of Love and in the Thirteenth Annual Year’s Best of Fantasy and Horror, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling.

  This eBook edition, Copyright © 2012 by Elizabeth Engstrom

  Produced by IFD Publishing

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-4524-2188-9

  Originally Printed in the United States of America

  Introduction

  I wrote this short story while on Oahu, teaching an evening class on writing fiction. One morning I woke up to a tremendous tropical downpour, the kind that pounds the roof and the ground so loudly that it’s difficult to hear anything else. The air was hot and humid, the atmosphere sultry, all of which is conducive to a story of bare skin, cold drinks, hot sun, salt-sweaty lovemaking and broken hearts. I wrote this story with pencil on damp paper while watching the earth bathe. It was originally published in the collection The Alchemy of Love (illustrated by Alan M. Clark), and then in the Thirteenth Annual Year’s Best of Fantasy and Horror, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling.

  —Elizabeth Engstrom

  Crosley

  By Elizabeth Engstrom

  Part One: Francine

  I have always been fascinated by evil. I’ve flirted with it, been tempted by it, but only once have I fallen in love with it.

  I live on an island in the South Seas. How I came to be here is a story of young love, foolishness and weakness—both his and mine—and therefore a tale for a different time.

  I pour drinks in a poor man’s bar. In the tropics, no walls are necessary—just a good roof, bar stools, a couple of tables, an old sofa that had seen too many sunrises and a room at the back where Godfrey used to live. The liquor shelves have a lockable grate to keep out the monkeys and the thieves. Daily rain washes the island and the open air dance floor which, at the time of Godfrey’s ownership, hadn’t seen a dancer in years—not since the tour boats stopped docking here.

  Godfrey was a harmless old drunk who began each day with an impressive head of optimism and a mug of thick black coffee, and ended it with a rant of some sort and sometimes a roundhouse punch at a hallucination.

  Many times I hauled Godfrey to bed, locked up the booze and slept on the couch next to his bed, afraid he had finally taxed his liver to the maximum. Surely he couldn’t survive this level of toxicity much longer. But he had done so since long before I met him, and God seems to look after old drunks for some reason.

  I worked for Godfrey. I poured drinks, mopped the floor, received shipments of liquor, collected overdue accounts from the locals, endured their hard luck stories, listened to their weary tales, parried amorous advances, and generally did whatever was called for, including tending Godfrey. I did all this, outwardly patient, while inside I seethed, waiting for the next adventurer to sail into the harbor and bring either news of something familiar, something of my old life perhaps, or an offer of something magnificent, a gateway to a new life.

  They came, the adventurers, not frequently, but steadily. We had a protected anchorage and a stocked bar, the locals were skilled boat repairmen, and UPS knew our address.

  But when they came, they mostly came in couples. They shared what adventure they had in their souls, but it was either not enough or of the wrong kind, or pointed in the wrong direction. And when they hoisted their main and caught a freshening breeze out of the bay, their names and faces faded immediately into obscurity and I would go back to fixing something that the jungle was trying to reclaim.

  The morning that Crosley arrived, Godfrey and I sat at the bar drinking coffee and watching deluge rain soak the already sodden earth. It fell as a solid sheet from the gutterless roof all around, splashing mud from the rain-gouged trenches to mix with the water that splashed up from the dance floor, bits of grout and other evidence of its deterioration floating closer to our bare feet.

  I felt the tropical depression in my soul and sipped coffee silently, feeling desperately claustrophobic, penned in by the humidity and the liquid walls, the vinyl of the stool sticking uncomfortably to the backs of my thighs.

  Godfrey, on his second cup, was full of enthusiastic remodeling talk, but his enthusiasm was not infectious—I’d heard it all too many times before.

  And then, characteristic of many tropical storms, the rain ceased abruptly, and Godfrey was caught mid-sentence. My thighs peeled off the stool without thought as we both stood at the sight of the long, sleek, black yacht at anchor in the center of the bay. It had appeared as if by magic.

  An astonishing array of seaworthy and not-so-seaworthy craft came and went from this bay. Generally they came one at a time, but occasionally cruisers would arrive in tandem, and now and then, enough showed up at once to raft up together. Their drunken parties could even wake Godfrey.

  But never had such a craft arrived with such little fanfare nor during such a storm. The entrance to the bay through the coral reefs was treacherous during the best of times. Who would chance it during such a blinding downpour?

  Someone stupid. Someone stupidly lucky. Someone with supermortal navigating skills. Or perhaps someone who had been here before.

  And the boat itself—sixty feet if it was an inch. Sails were neatly furled under black covers, and what lines we could see from this distance had been coiled at their ends. No gear was visible on deck. The boat looked not as if it had been sailed at all, but as if it had been freshly groomed and polished, ready for a show.

  All hatches were tightly closed.

  “Know that boat, Godfrey?” I asked, entranced.

  “Nope, and not the type of thing I’d be likely to forget,” he said, and he was right, of course, even with his cheesecloth memory.

  It floated, mysterious, anonymous, and somehow untouchable—not even the local islanders roared out to investigate—for two days with no visible signs of life.

  I went about my normal daily duties, but with a difference. There was a spark of excitement in my soul. There would soon come an alteration to my mundane routine, brief though it was sure to be. My eyes drifted out to that floating yacht, dark like a hole in the brilliant blue of the bay, and my imagination, long dormant, came alive.

  On the second night, when the regulars drifted in for their beer or tequila, to retell old jokes, reopen old wounds, and reignite old jealousies, the topic was exclusively The Black Yacht. Godfrey had come to believe it was the Reaper’s yacht come for him, and the idea that the Reaper had a yacht fueled the hilarity for most of the evening.

  But when Godfrey’s head hit the bar and he began to snore, a man stepped out of the dark, thick tropical night and sat on the stool next to him.

  Conversation faded as we all observed the outsider. That he belonged to the black boat was obvious. He looked like the yacht. Tall, swarthy, with black hair just beginning to silver, dressed in black linen shirt and black cotton pants, he smiled a charming, white-toothed smile at me and ordered a grappa.

  As it happened, a bottle of grappa collected cobwebs under the cabinet and I opened it and poured him a shot.

  “Grappa for all,” he said quietly, and he became an instant hero to these drunken fools as I set up a row of shot glasses and began to fill them.

  Mingo was the first to thank him, patting his shoulder and trying to include him in the ring of camaraderie, but the stranger merely flicked his eyes in acknowledgement at the procession of gratitude and kept his attention focused on me.

  I wished I had fixed myself up a little more, but the light was dim and he seemed to like whatever it was he saw in me, so I warmed to his attentions.

  And why not? It had been two years since I had the attentions of a man, and my femininity suffered for it.

  He savored his grappa, though the others drank theirs as fast as he bought and I poured, and soon they all stumbled home. Someone had seen to Godfrey, and we were alone. I could tell it was going to be a long night—I hoped it was—so I ran myself a shot of espresso and slugged it down. “Last call,” I said.

  “A waltz,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  “I call for a waltz,” he said, and held out his hand.

  Damned if I couldn’t hear Stardust coming from somewhere
. I took his hand, came around the bar and he twirled me into his arms.

  “I am Crosley,” he said, and I had no response for him, my senses were completely overwhelmed. He smelled like a spice I couldn’t identify—something exotic. His hands held me firmly, competently, self-assuredly, and he directed our dance in a slow, comfortable rhythm, completely in time with the music in my head.

  His broad chest, the hard muscles of his arms, his breath warm in my hair made me want to lose myself in him. Take me, my mind ordered my mouth to say. Take me away from here. Give me a new life, an easy life, a pampered life, a loved life. But I said nothing. I merely swayed with him.

  When the music ended, Crosley held me steadily, then disengaged himself, his hands on my hips pushing me gently away. He kissed my fingertips with warm lips. “So lovely,” he said, then he turned and disappeared into the night.

  I stood alone in the center of the dance floor and for one awful disorienting moment, wondered if I had imagined it all. Did I just dance by myself to music in my head? Were Godfrey’s drunken hallucinations contagious? Or was my own loneliness and dissatisfaction with life pushing me over the edge?

  Then I heard a small splash in the bay, as if from an oar, and I heard his voice in my heart as clearly as I heard the music, and I didn’t care about the consequences of loving this man, this drifter, this unconventional sailor. I only knew that I must have him, some way, somehow, no matter how briefly.

  ~~~

  Godfrey woke me the next morning, and I was surprised to find myself sleeping on the old sofa next to the bar. He handed me my coffee and he paced back and forth on the dance floor. “Bet that guy’s got money,” he said. “Bet he’d be smart enough to invest in an operation that could give him a good return on his investment.”

  “What guy?” I asked, but I already knew.

  “That black boat guy.”

  “Crosley,” I said, and sipped my coffee.

  “You met him?”

  I ran my fingers through my tangled hair, damp with tropical moisture. “He came in last night and we fed the home team all the grappa.”

  “Money, you think?”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t about to get in the middle of one of Godfrey’s schemes. “Stay awake tonight and you can ask him yourself.”

  “Think he’ll come?”

  I did. I did indeed. “Where else?”

  “Do we have any steaks? Let’s cook him a steak. Think he eats meat? Is there any grappa left?” Godfrey made another pot of coffee and stuck with it all day long. Perhaps Crosley would make a difference in everybody’s life.

  ~~~

  I found it difficult to concentrate, and ended up wasting most of the day on daydreams of dark hair, dark eyes and an exciting life of sailing the seas with Crosley. When the sun went down, I walked the quarter mile to my home, showered, shaved, powdered, perfumed, and made up my face. There were a few whistles and knowing elbow jabs among the regulars when I got back. They knew who had captured my eye and my imagination and they couldn’t help but approve. After all, he had bought drinks for the house.

  They all teased Godfrey about going on the wagon, too, and he took their ribbing good naturedly. They’d seen Godfrey sober before, always when he rode high on a fantasy. His sobriety ended when his dream—which was never based on reality—ended. This one was no exception, and we all knew it. I suspected Godfrey knew it as well.

  Talk was of the usual nonsense, the locals sensing both Godfrey and me pegging a dream on Crosley and not wishing to interfere. But it was clear that a sense of excitement ran through their conversation. Many brought their spouses, hoping the free booze would run again.

  The party was wild and rambunctious when he stepped out of the night and into the circle of warmth.

  An involuntary cheer went out, and people moved aside so he could take his former barstool—an honor among this group of barflies.

  Godfrey slid right over and placed a napkin on the bar. I urged everyone to quit gawking and get back to drinking. I poured a few more, opened a couple of sweaty beers, my heart pounding and my breath coming hard at the sight of him. And when I glanced at him, he was looking at me.

  I had to hold on to the bar to keep myself from floating right over to him. I smiled, a smile I hope looked full of promise, then busied myself with Godfrey’s business while Godfrey talked with Crosley. He talked earnestly and passionately, with many gestures, and I tried not to look, although I stole a glance now and then. Crosley’s drink sat before him, untouched.

  After a while, Godfrey came over to me, poured himself a double shot of whiskey and slugged it down. “Fully invested,” he muttered, and took over my end of the bar.

  I was glad. I’d never throw my lot in with Godfrey on purpose, but the bar paid me enough to live simply in this simple place.

  I wandered toward Crosley, although I’m sure it was more like a making a beeline to him.

  He picked up his drink, held it up to me in a toast, then drank it.

  A moment later, he was gone.

  I was disappointed beyond reason, and blamed Godfrey. I was tempted to walk down to the water and borrow one of the islanders’ boats to go to him to explain—explain what? Godfrey?

  I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t be chasing after a man like Crosley.

  Instead, I went home.

  Disappointed and distressed with my choices in life, I crawled into my lonely bed and cried.

  In the night, when the banana moon turned the jungle black and silver and the nightlife was at its noisiest, I heard a step on my porch. A human step.

  I kept a small bat by my bed and a machete between mattresses for self defense. Although it had never happened, one of those drunken locals could get an idea—and then there were always the transients, the cruising sailors with no resume, no history, no real accountability.

  I grabbed the bat, and the book of matches. In my heart-pounding haste to light a bedside candle—my little shack had no electricity—I kept crumbling the humidity-damp matches.

  Then a lighter flicked open and a flame illuminated my bedside table. Crosley lit the candle and sat down next to me.

  My hair was a mess, my eyes were swollen, I had a terrible taste in my mouth.

  “I must leave in five days,” he said, and I moved over and held open the covers for him.

  His skin was cool and smooth and felt good next to my sleep-warmed body.

  His hand moved slowly from my knee, across my hip, waist, around my breast to my neck and lay quietly on my cheek, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. With studied slow, self-assured movements, he manipulated my passions and drove me to a frenzied wildness like I’d never known before. By the time our bodies merged, our mouths locked together as if transferring our souls, the orgasm that had threatened to overwhelm me burst forth in all its Technicolor glory.

  We continued the dance as if we’d done it a thousand times before, until he slid from me with a sweat-slick sigh and entwined my fingers in his.

  “From the first moment I saw you...” he whispered, then his breathing slowed and a soft snore took its place.

  Likely a line used a thousand times on a thousand women, I thought, but that did not diminish its effectiveness.

  For five days, I never set foot inside Godfrey’s bar, as Crosley and I lived, loved and spoiled each other. We explored my island, swam naked, gorged on native fruits and licked the juices from one another’s bodies. His boat was as dark, mysterious and as free of affectations on the inside as it was on the outside, and though I longed to learn more of Crosley—his history, his family, his aspirations—there was nothing to be gleaned from his possessions. Nor from him. He remained an enigma, revealing everything of his exterior, revealing little of his substance.

  We slept together in my bed, on the beach, in his stateroom, in the jungle, on the hills under the stars. We made love and laughed, swam in the lagoon with the dolphins and whiled away rainy afternoons, making up silly poems. We wove garlands of flowers for our hair, and buried ourselves in the warm sand. We showered together and made soapy love in the flimsy, tin shower stall. We melded.

  And every morning, when I watched the sky grow light with the fire of dawn, the fire of panic grew within my gut as it was another day closer to his departure. Desperate to not cling to him, I clung to his words, his gestures, his amusements, his kisses. I let his actions speak, and they eloquently spoke of love and desire and delight.