They carried the fishing equipment and their lunches from the car to the fence. Fay lifted one wine and slipped easily between it and the one below, but he found it necessary to use the gate; he did not feel as slim as she. Beyond the fence they followed a trail across a pasture and then they began to climb down a sandy slope overgrown with iceplant. Now he heard the ocean breakers. The wind became stronger. Under his feet the sand crumbled and gave; he had to lie down and take hold of the tangles of iceplant. Ahead of him, Fay skipped and tumbled, caught herself and continued on without a pause, telling him constantly how she and Charley and the girls and assorted friends of theirs had come here to this beach; how much trouble they had had getting down, what they had caught, what the dangers were, who had been scared and who not … he groped along after her, thinking that women could be divided into two distinct classes: those who were good climbers and then all the others lumped together. A woman who climbed well was not like the rest of them. Probably the difference pervaded every part of their physical and mental apparatus; at this moment it seemed crucial to him, a genuine revelation.
Now Fay had come to some rocky projections. Past her he saw what appeared to be a sheen drop, and then the tops of rocks far below, and the surf. Crouching down, Fay descended step by step to a ledge, and there, among the piles of sand and rock that had slid down, she took hold of a nope attached to a metal stake driven into the rock.
“From now on,” she called back, “it’s by rope.”
Good Christ, he thought.
“The girls can do it,” she called.
“I’ll tell you honestly,” he said, halting with his feet planted far apart, balancing himself with cane, “I’m not sure I can.”
“I’ll carry everything down,” Fay said. “Throw the packs and the fishing poles down to me.”
With care, he lowered things to her. Strapping the packs to her back, she disappeared, clinging to the rope. After a time she reappeared, this time far below, standing on the beach and gazing nearly straight up at him, a small figure among the rocks. “Okay,” she shouted, cupping her hands to her mouth.
Cursing with fright, he half-slid, half-stepped down the rock projections to the rope. He found the rope badly corroded, and that did not improve his morale. But for the first time he discovered that the cliff was not sheen; it had easy footholds, and the rope was merely for safety. Even without it, in an emergency, a person could get up and down. So taking firm hold of the rope he stepped down, foot by foot, to the beach. Fay, when he got there, had meanwhile gone off and was seeking a deep pooi in which to fish; she did not even bother to watch him descend.
Later, with their poles propped up against rocks, they fished in a pool which the withdrawing tide had left. Several crabs wandered about in the water, and he saw a many-legged starfish, a type he had never be- fore seen. Twelve legs … and bright orange.
“That’s a sea-slug,” Fay said, pointing to a nondescript blob.
They used mussels as bait. According to Fay it was possible to catch ocean trout. But they saw no fish in their pool, and neithen he non she expected much luck. In any case it was exciting, here on this deserted beach at the base of the cliff, accessible only by rope … no beer cans, no orange peels, only cockle shells and abalone shells, and the black, slippery rocks in which both cockles and abalone could be found.
He said, “Let me ask you something.”
“Okay,” she said sleepily. Leaning back against the rock she had gone almost to sleep. She had on a cotton shirt and water-stained canvas trousers and an old, torn pain of tennis shoes.
“Where is this relationship of ours going?” he said.
“Time will tell,” Fay said.
“Where do you want it to go?”
She opened one eye and studied him. “Aren’t you happy? My good god — you get fed glorious meals, you get to use my can, my credit card, I bought you a decent suit that isn’t two years out of style with my money — you get to screw me. Don’t you?”
That word had always bothered him, since he had first heard her use it. Now of course she would never stop; she had noticed his reaction to it.
“What more do you want?” she said.
He said, “But what do you want out of it?”
“I get a nice man,” she said. “A very pretty man. You know that. You’re the prettiest man I ever saw in my entire life; as soon as I saw you that day I wanted to take you to my bed and screw you. Didn’t I tell you that?”
With patience, he said, “Let’s look at the possibilities. First of all, your husband will either recover or he won’t. That means he’ll either be coming back from the hosp’tal or he won’t. Do you realize I don’t know how you feel toward him? Whether you’d prefer him to come back, and if he did come back –”
She interrupted, “You know, we could lie down on the sand and screw.”
“God damn you,” he said.
“Why?” she said. “Because I’m using the same words as you? What do you call it? You do it, whatever you call it. You do screw me; you have screwed me… five times. Listen,” she said, all at once becoming serious. “The last time when I was washing my diaphragm afterward — did I tell you?”
“No,” he said, with apprehension.
“It was eaten away. Corroded. Are you sure your sperm doesn’t have some sort of sulphuric acid in it? My good god, it was totally ruined — I had to drive down to Fairfax and get another, and I had to be measured again — she told me I always should be measured when I get a new diaphragm. I didn’t know that. I’ve replaced my diaphragm six on seven times without being measured. She told me the one I’ve been using is much too small. It’s a good thing it did wear out.”
After a pause he tried to resume his own topic. “I want to know if you’re interested in me on a permanent basis.”
“What if I said no?” she said.
“Well,” he said, “I’m just curious.”
“Does it matter? Why do you have to have these great answers? My good god.”
“Remember, I’ve got a wife,” he said, with growing outrage. “It’s important to me to know where you and I stand.”
“You mean, ‘are my intentions honorable’?”
“Yes,” he said finally.
Fay said, “I’m in love with you. You know how you affect me; nobody ever affected me that way in my entire life. But — you mean, you’re thinking about marriage, aren’t you? Could you support me? I have a house budget of twelve thousand a year… did you know that?”
“Yes,” he said.
“You couldn’t support me and the two girls on your salary.”
He said, “Presumably there’d be some kind of settlement.”
“I own one half the house,” she said. “Community property. My equity is worth about fifteen thousand. And I’ve got property that Charley gave me as a gift… stock in the Fond motor company. I get in about one hundred a month from that. And I’ve got one hundred and fifty more coming in from an apartment building in Tampa, Florida. So I get in two fifty a month, and that’s all I have, except that I’d get the Buick; it’s mine.”
“Would you consider splitting up from Charley?” he said. “If he recovers?”
“Well,” she said, “the girls like you. They’re afraid of Charley because they’ve seen him hit me. You’d never hit me. Would you? I really can’t stand that; I almost left him a couple of times. L god damn near drove over and got Sheriff Chisholm and had a felony wife-beating warrant sworn out… maybe I should have.” She paused, deep in thought. “I really should get the house. It’s actually mine. He should give that to me.”
“It’s a nice house,” he said. He thought to himself what it would be like. They would live partly –perhaps mostly– on Fay’s money, and in Fay’s house. The children would be Fay’s. The car, too. Of course, he would eat well … assuming that the settlement with Charley went in her favor. But suppose Charley hired lawyers and got after her with a change of adultery? Suppose they got after her with an unfit mother charge? Possibly she would wind up with no settlement at all, no alimony, no child-support.
“You wouldn’t have to support the kids,” she said. “I know he’d always see to their welfare.” He nodded.