A band played near where we sat. Billie didn’t seem to notice, or care, but I saw that women with warm brown eyes and sprays of colorful hibiscus in their hair were in plentiful supply throughout the club, including the few who were hovering around our table, serving our men drink after drink. By the end of the meal, I could hear that the words coming out of my husband’s mouth were warped by the liquor. “I’m ready to get back to the boat,” I announced to the table. A server was clearing our plates, and I had to shout to be heard over the din of the music and the dancers.
Ned sat across the table smoking a cigarette, watching the lively dance floor as the beautiful young couples moved in time with the jaunty beat. “Ned, darling, did you hear me?” He turned toward me, his pale eyes unsmiling. “I’d like to get back to the boat,” I repeated.
He shrugged, taking a pull of his cigarette. “Not me. One doesn’t turn in early in Havana.”
“But…”
Before I could finish, my husband leaned to his side and slapped Flo on the back. He whispered something just to Flo and then, to the table, declared, “Come on, let’s get more of the giggle juice, what say-o? Se?orita!” Ned lifted a hand to summon a nearby young lady for a refill of his rum.
“I’m tired, darling,” I said, leaning toward him as I pressed my palm gently to his arm.
He looked me squarely in the eye, his face matter-of-fact as he said, “Then go to bed.”
I sat back, stunned. The drums were vibrating throughout the whole club, and I could feel them rattling my chair. “Aren’t you going to come with me?”
“No,” he said.
I stared at him, noting the slick of perspiration along his blond hairline. For a moment, silence stretched across our table, even as the raucous noise of the instruments and singers, the dancers and diners, roiled all around us. Billie emptied the last of her punch. Flo clapped his hands together, breaking the tense silence. “I’ll keep him company, Marjie.” Flo’s face had a rosy flush, and the top few buttons of his shirt were undone. God, it was humid there.
Then Flo cracked a smile, a slack expression that perfectly demonstrated just how many rums he’d swallowed. “Come on. The man’s not one of your Caribbean lobsters, held by the claw of his lady.”
Ned laughed at this, nudging Flo with an elbow as he said, “Oh, but she’d like it that way.”
“Hardly,” I said, stiffening in my seat.
“I’ll come back to the boat with you, Marjorie,” said Billie, taking my hand.
“There,” Ned said, looking from Billie to me. “It’s settled. Billie can obey…I mean, accompany you.”
I sat across from my husband in fuming silence, staring at him. Willing him to stop this foolish behavior, even if it was the drink talking. When he refused to speak or acknowledge me further, I felt my body go cold in spite of the tropical heat. All around us the crowd was giddy, the music coming like wave after wave of ecstatic noise. After a long pause, my voice low and joyless, I said, “Do see that you make your way back to the boat tonight, Ned, dear. I’d hate to have to leave you in Cuba when we push off tomorrow.”
Ned offered me half of his blue-eyed grin, taking another sip of his rum as he replied, more to Flo than to me: “Is that a threat—or a promise?”
* * *
Back in our stateroom, I didn’t sleep a minute. As the ship bobbed gently in the calm Caribbean current, I watched the hours tick slowly by on my bedroom clock, growing increasingly irritated. Still, Ned did not return. Finally, when the first hint of dawn was slipping its way over the water, I rose from bed, too furious to feel fatigue.
I skipped breakfast, making my way alone up to the quarterdeck, where I sat, looking out at the calm water. Billie might have woken, might have taken her breakfast, but I did not seek her out. I sat on a lounger with a pile of magazines I’d packed, but I did not read them as the morning moved steadily on. It was full daylight when I finally saw two figures approaching, wobbling on the dry land as if they were already on board a roiling ship.
I did not say anything as they stepped onto the deck. Ned saw me seated on the chair and approached. He leaned toward me, arms outstretched, pulling me in for a sloppy kiss. I grimaced, stiffening as I tilted away. He reeked of cigars and liquor. This was Cuba, after all, but I loathed the smell and hated the further evidence of my husband’s debauched night.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” I managed, my voice low. He looked like hell—hair tousled, shirt collar stained some bright rum-punch pink. I did not want to appear the harpy, and I would not make a scene, particularly not in front of Flo, but Ned seemed determined to try my patience. He lifted a hand as if he were swatting a fly, and then, without another word to me, he turned and went unsteadily below deck.