Mermaids in Paradise, Lydia Millet [ebook reader 8 inch txt] 📗

myself in his shoes. For a second I was Chip, I was Chip, and I couldn’t help believing.

As Chip, I had no choice.

But as myself . . .

I made a snap decision. Much as a candidate might flip-flop on abortion when the demographics called for it, I was changing my position. Because the problem, at first, had seemed to be with Chip; but I saw now the problem could equally be seen as mine. And unlike the problem of Chip, that other problem—the problem of me—was one I could solve easily. The plainest solution was the best. Why put up resistance? No need. I bought in. I turned on a dime.

After all, I reasoned, if there were mermaids drifting under the glittering waves, mermaids who rose from the sparkling ceiling of their undersea world from time to time, their father someone like Neptune, bearded, big-chested, trident-holding; if there were mermaids who perched on rocks, sunning, who brushed their golden locks and gazed at their reflections in delicately fashioned mother-of-pearl-framed mirrors; if there were mermaids who rode, when the occasion warranted, in giant clamshells pulled by a team of giant seahorses—so much the better for us all.

And if said mermaids did turn out to be a figment, there too I sensed no threat to me personally.

“Chip, I’m sorry,” I said tenderly, going over to him at our room’s long counter, where he was perched on a barstool scrolling. I put my arms around him and rested my chin on his shoulder. “Because if you saw mermaids, you know what? You saw mermaids. I didn’t mean to be a buzzkill, Chip. I believe you, honey.”

Chip smiled at me, and balance was restored.

That’s another saving grace of Chip: he doesn’t ask why the politician flip-flopped. He doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

ON THE DOMESTIC front, at that point, all was well, but on a practical level there was still the presence of Nancy to contend with—that parrotfish expert had vim and vigor. As far as she was concerned, as far as Chip was concerned, and therefore as far as I had to be concerned, too, her vacation/our honeymoon had turned from a pleasure trip into a cryptozoological mission.

First off, she planned a dive session. She made calls, she sent emails, she hit the streets. She visited every dive shop on the island seeking out scuba adepts, fishing enthusiasts, anyone with even the flimsiest of biology credentials who could go underwater as a part of her expeditionary force.

Unlike Chip I hadn’t gone diving before; you had to be certified to rent gear from any of the shops in town. Yet again, I suspected, I was going to be left out if I didn’t act fast. So while Chip was helping Nancy prepare for the next day’s excursion—she would wait for one day maximum, because she feared losing the mermaids if they proved migratory—I went to the dive shop and hired a pro named Jamie. If I took a beginners’ class, he’d come with me on the expedition, for a fee.

So I practiced with a rental tank in the hotel swimming pool—it was me and some friendly elderlies—and then I met Chip on the sandy drive that led from the resort’s main building to the shop, where he sat waiting in one of the resort golf carts. He drove us back to the cabana while I jiggled inertly.

“We signed on two science teachers,” he reported. “That’s all there are on the whole island. Plus one of them’s just a substitute. But he knows some biology.”

“What did she tell them we’d be looking for?”

“Rare fish. Some kind of huge fish no one has seen for ages. A grouper, I think she said. They weigh four hundred pounds. That’s what she’s telling everyone. She doesn’t want to influence the people who haven’t seen anything yet. Observer bias, or something.”

“That’s smart,” I conceded. “Plus there’s the fact that, if she said you were looking for mermaids, no one would come but lunatics.”

“We signed on one diver who used to be a U.S. Navy SEAL. He bought a house and retired here. We have a bunch of spearfishing dudes—a tourist and a couple of locals. It’s looking pretty good; it’s coming together. There’s a videographer dude, a guy with underwater video equipment, who’s staying at another resort, the other end of the island. He’s coming too. She had to offer to pay him.”

“It’ll be worth it,” I said supportively. “Although—is there a finder’s fee, for something like mermaids?”

Chip had no patience for levity.

The rest of the day rushed past, with Chip functioning as Nancy’s assistant and me functioning as Chip’s. I called dive shops with equipment orders, dive boats for scheduling; I set up an onboard lunch for twenty (on mine and Chip’s credit card, though Nancy claimed she’d cover our expenses. I felt myself doubting that outcome, but hell, it was our honeymoon, we’d said we’d spare no expense). By the time evening was coming on and sun-reddened families were trailing into the resort’s restaurants, Chip was pumped for the next day’s trip and wanted to throw back a beer. Nancy talked on her cell phone nonstop to what were, according to Chip, some of her colleagues. From what I could discern on our end, they were arguing with her but not dismissing her out of hand, as you might assume they would.

She must have credibility capital to spend, I guessed. A less bold woman would have waited till the sighting was confirmed. That parrotfish expert had some cojones on her.

Chip and I let her conduct her business in peace, for the most part, though she didn’t leave our side; it was like a romantic dinner for two where one of the two has a monkey attached to his head. If Chip and I had been a couple of coral outcroppings she would have been the parrotfish, nibbling at our edges and busily expelling grains of sand. She didn’t order food herself but perched on