Ships

Ships by P.J. Wright Copyright 1999

Saturday she awakes to morning sunlight filtering through her bedroom window and the chuffing cadence of a sprinkler watering the lawns.

For a moment she tries to summon the will power necessary to throw aside the warm blankets that caress her. Then she remembers where she is and a drowsy smile curls her lips. She snuggles her cheek a little deeper into her pillow and surrenders again to the siren-call of lethargy.

A warm little animal, safe in her burrow of bedcovers.

There are no pressures today. No places she has to be or commitments she has to honor. Today is the first day of her vacation. Today she can come and go as she pleases, rise whenever she wants - or sleep the whole morning away if that's what she wants to do.

Of course now that she doesn't have to get up she finds she wants to. Drawing back the blankets, she treats herself to a luxurious yawn and a thorough scratch of the hair over her right ear.

The simple silk nightdress in which she'd awoken swirls around her ankles as she steps to the window and flings the drapes wide.

A picture-perfect morning awaits her. Puffy white clouds amble to nowhere in particular beneath a high, china-blue sky. The air is as thick and warm as her blankets, hinting at the coming heat of summer. But only hinting because even as she stands, hugged in her own embrace, a cool breeze brings her the scent of wet grass and new leaves.

Come on lazy-bones. You didn't pay so much just to loaf around your room! You could do that at home!

Several minutes and a wonderfully invigorating hot shower later, she steps again out into the bedroom to get dressed, the towel she's used to briskly rub herself dry wrapped around her slender form.

She's almost unwrapped the towel when she remembers the open drapes.

Her lips curl into an impish smile. Whoa, girl! Let's not get too carried away with Nature! She slides the sheer material of the drapes closed before finally shedding the towel.

The closet is so full of possibilities that she finds the choice for today's attire delightfully problematic.

She begins pulling candidate ensembles out and holding them up for consideration.

The terrycloth romper is cute. This tank top would go great with this float-y peasant skirt. 'Boy' top and 'girl' bottom. That's fun.

Then she finds what she considers a perfect match for the day outside - a flirty slip dress, floral print blue with big, old-fashioned buttons that run from collar to hem. She hugs the bodice to her breasts and spreads the skirt with her other hand, admiring the effect in the full-length mirror on the closet door. The blues of the dress will bring out the azure of her eyes. She can leave the top two buttons open in a provocative counter-point to her boyishly short hair. This is what she'll wear today.

But first: underwear.

She steps over to the dresser and begins opening drawers looking for where they've put her 'intimates.' The search ends with she pulls open the second drawer from the top and discovers a beach towel and a pair of swim suits - a skimpy, fluorescent-pink bikini and a high-legged, navy blue maillot.

The suits provide inspiration for how she'll spend the morning - lazing beside the pool.

I'll do a little strip tease. I'll stand right out in front of God and everybody, casually unbutton the dress and then slip it off my shoulders with an ever-so-unconcerned air. The boys will be about to go nuts when, 'oops' - perfectly modest swimsuit underneath. Then I can stretch out on one of the lounge chairs. One arm behind my head. One leg bent at the knee. Lazy/bored. Ho hum. Drop-dead gorgeous girl in a skin-tight bathing suit. Just loafing around reading a paperback. You see it every day, don't you boys?

She steps into the stretchy material of the suit and slides it up her legs. It isn't until she's slipping the straps over her shoulders that she notices it's one of those suits made like a Wonder Bra. The kind with the push-up pads concealed inside the fabric of the suit. She has to scamper back to the closet to admire the effect in the mirror.

Oh, you naughty girl! Look at you! Great legs, hourglass waist and suddenly - all that cleavage!

She slides the dress over her head, smoothes it down then checks the new result.

With a pleased giggle she warns, **Look out world! Here comes . . .

Jenny.**

The pool is on the other side of the resort complex, just beyond the tennis courts. Towel and paperback in hand, she strolls across the lawns savoring the cool damp grass that tickles her ankles and dampens her toes. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back to feel the sun on her face. She's swinging her skirt, swinging her arms - a little girl who's just escaped from school -

• When he grabs her from behind and pulls her to him.

"There you are! I've been looking for you!"

She twists and flails and manages to break free. "LET GO OF ME! What the hell do you think you're doing?!" She staggers back from this stranger, her hands raised in defense.

His smile is playful, curious. "What . . .?" He takes a step forward.

She bounds back, maintaining the distance. "Don't you come near me!"

His smile vanishes, replaced by a puzzled frown. " Carol . . .? What's wrong with you?"

Hands still raised, she continues to back away. "I'm not Carol. I don't know you. You keep away from me!"

His smile returns, tinged with a bit of uncertainty this time. "What are you playing at?" Jenny realizes he must think he's playing some kind of a game because before she can answer, his smile broadens and again he tries to close the gap between them. "Come here, you! You don't get away that easily!"

Again she skitters away. "STOP! Listen to me. I'm not who you seem to think I am. My name is Jenny. Not Carol. And I'm not playing with you. I mean it! Carol must have been the last guest but she's gone now and I'm here. Understand?"

He just stands there, amused, perplexed. "What are you . . . 'Guest'? What's that supposed to mean? And what do you mean 'you've gone'? You're right here."

Suddenly she understands what's happening.

Her jaw drops, her eyes go wide and she whispers, "Oh God. You don't know?" To Jenny's relief, the fellow finally stops trying to close the gap between them. He just stands there, staring at her. Just beginning to realize that suddenly something is going very, very wrong.

She relaxes a bit, lowering her hands in a show of willingness to discuss this calmly. "Look. I thought everybody knew. That all the guests were . . . I mean, I've never met one who wasn't. But you aren't, are you? You don't know about this place, do you?"

He shakes his head, troubled confusion replacing the playful amusement of just a moment before. In a calmer tone she says, "Look . . . umm . . . Here, come over here and let's sit down. Okay?"

She gathers up her dropped paperback and her dropped towel and then sits on one end of a white stone bench beneath a large old oak. He perches on the other end leaving a comfortable distance between them.

They sit there for an awkward moment of silence. Then with a nervous little flick of her hand, she brushes the hair off her forehead and begins. "So, you don't know what an Avatar is?"

He shakes his head.

She sighs and tries not to sound like some kind of lecturer. "They invented it several years ago. Back in '08 or '09. It was a fluke. I guess they were looking for some way to re-grow nerve tissue or something. Give amputees better control over their artificial limbs. It's . . . Look, come here." She nervously pats the bench beside her. He hesitates. Her tone is more brusque then she intends. "It's okay." He tentatively slides across the intervening space between them. She hesitates for a second, then turns her back to him and puts her hand at the base of her neck, between her shoulder blades. "Feel, right here."

His fingertips brush the area she indicates. She swallows and tries to keep her tone neutral at this stranger's touch. "Feel that?"

"No."

"Press a little harder. Right here. Right where the spine curves."

"That little lump? You've got something under your skin?"

She turns back to him and folds her hands in her lap. He takes the hint given by the way she's leaning away from him, precariously balanced on the very end of the bench, because he slides back to his original position.

"What is it?"

She stares down at her folded hands. "I don't know what the technical term is. Everybody just calls it The Transducer. When they talk about it at all, that is. It's kind of against the rules to notice it or talk about it. That's part of the game."

"'Game'?"

She nods. "Yeah. See . . . I'm sorry, what's your name?"

That brings pain to his eyes. "John. My name is John."

"See, John. I . . . This place . . ." She can't quite decide how she wants to say the next part.

He's searching her face. When he speaks, his words are soft, uncertain. "Carol? What . . .?"

A hint of exasperation enters her voice. "I've told you! I'm not Carol. I'm Jenny. Or, at least that's who I am now. See . . . Carol wasn't really real. This isn't her body. She was just . . . 'renting' it."

She can see the doubt beginning to appear in his eyes. With a snort of disbelief he shakes his head. "'Renting it'? That's nuts! You expect me to believe . . ."

A bit more forcefully than she intends, she raises her hand and slaps at the back of her neck. "Don't you get it? The Transducer. It . . . It lets you use somebody else's body. Be inside them. Be them. Or who ever you want to be. That's the fun of this place. Not only is it a vacation, it's a chance to be somebody else for a while. To pretend."

He's shaking his head, his expression darkening with denial. "This is crazy! Do you really expect me to believe . . .? I mean, for the last week, you've been someone who was someone else?" The chuckle is derisive. Dismissive. "Listen to how crazy that sounds."

She tries to remain calm. To sound composed and rational. "I admit, if you don't know about it, it sounds really strange. At first. But I'm telling you; it's the truth. Why would I make something like that up?"

He's frowning now, leaning toward her, no longer concerned about granting her space. "I don't know why you're doing this, but it's not funny anymore. Was it last night? Because I said I loved you? Because we slept together? Is that it? Carol, please. Don't be afraid. I promise . . ."

She bounds to her feet and shrieks the words at him. "I didn't make love to you last night! I'm NOT Carol! Can't you get it through your head? God! I'm not even Jenny!

My name is Jeff!

Understand?!

It's all just make-believe!" *****

She stands on the balcony, staring at the sun setting in fire behind the trees.

A whole day wasted. Hiding in her room.

All because somebody wasn't told about the rules of the game. Somebody wasn't playing. Somebody didn't know that the person he let into his heart was just passing through. Wasn't real. Shouldn't be believed.

John just sat on the bench, staring at her with pleading eyes. Silently begging her to tell him it wasn't true. To smile and say, 'It was all a joke, silly! I'm just teasing. Of course I'm really Carol and of course I really love you.'

She'd turned on her heel and fled to her room, locked the door and then just sat on her bed.

A whole day wasted. Hiding in her room.

It isn't fair! It's not my fault! I'm not the one who didn't bother to find out that the person I was leading on didn't know it was all a game. All make-believe.

Unless Carol had been some kind of sick bastard who'd intentionally set out to hurt John, knowing that he didn't know. Didn't understand.

Why should I have to pay for what she did? I'm not going to ruin this! This is my time! My vacation!

She stands, strips off the print dress then wrestles her way out of the maillot.

I'm going to party tonight. I'm going to dance and laugh and have the fun I deserve! I've paid for this!

The provocative black mini-dress catches her eye. In the dresser she finds a pair of sheer black panty hose. Shiny high heeled pumps from her closet floor slide perfectly onto her dainty feet. She finds a little ankle chain of silver . . . a pair of heavy, silver bracelets for her wrists . . . silver studs for her pierced ears.

In the bathroom she slicks back her short hair into a butch challenge. Lipstick in a shade the tube announces is "Sinamon" adds a pouty fullness to her lips. A spray of perfume whose name she doesn't even notice goes on her wrist and another spray goes down the low-cut bodice of her dress.

She grabs the little clutch bag that's purely for show since she doesn't need I.D. or money and struts off toward the resort's dance club, shoulders erect, hips swinging.

They're all beautiful and handsome. Young. Perfect. When night falls, the dance club is where you bring your body if you've chosen one of the pretty ones. The young ones. The ones that hint at liaisons and trysts. Because if that's the kind of body you've chosen, sexuality is a large part of the game. After you've spent the daylight hours sampling the rational, polite, civilized aspect of your new persona it's time for something else. Night is not for rationality. Night is for passion. Intimacy. The animal side of our angel's nature.

So they come here to hunt. To circle each other in the dance that's far, far older than civilization.

She sits at the bar, her long, sleek legs crossed. Inviting their attention. Their lust. Other women - sensual, hauntingly beautiful - compete with her. But her own brazenly displayed charms are more than sufficient enticement to keep her in the contest. And there are plenty of males to go around. The Management has seen to that.

She's trying to decide which one it might be. Tonight's one-night stand.

When she feels him standing beside her.

"I'm sorry about this morning."

She glares down at the bar. "Leave me alone."

John stands there. His arms at his sides. His dark eyes searching hers. "Please . . . I found out that what you said was true. About . . . what this place is about. I'm sorry if I . . ."

She relents a bit. "It's all right. It's not your fault. You didn't know. No harm done. Okay?" She turns away, trying to convey the fact that this conversation is over. She can sense he's sat down on the stool beside her. After a moment she sighs and turns to him again. "Look. This isn't a good idea. Okay? It's just . . . I mean . . . It's uncomfortable having you here, knowing that I'm . . ."

He waves his hand. "Oh, hey. I don't mind. I mean, it's all right with me if you want to . . ."

She can feel her jaw tighten. "If I want to what?"

The color drains out of his face. "That's . . . that's not what I mean. Carol, please . . ."

"Oh, Christ!" She stands, preparing to flee again. He surprises her by reaching out and grabbing her wrist. "No! Wait! Please!"

The hulking bouncer seems to just materialize out of thin air. How something so large and imposing could move so quietly . . . The rumble of him clearing his throat is startling enough to snap both their heads in his direction. "Is he bothering you, Miss?"

Instantly John releases her wrist. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please . . . I've got to talk to you. Please!"

She looks into John's eyes and the pain and plea there won't let her escape. Over her shoulder, to the bouncer she murmurs, "No. It's all right. He . . . It's all right."

The bouncer's voice is a deep, atavistic growl, a good match for the surroundings "Okay. If you say so." He glares at John. "But there's only one warning and this is yours. Understand?"

John swallows and nods. The bouncer fades back into the swirling press of bodies.

She crosses her legs again . . . tightly . . . defensively . . . and stares down at the dark polished wood of the bar. "Brief. Okay? Then you leave."

His hand flutters in the beginning of another touch, then falls to the bar. "I really don't want to disturb you or hurt you or make you uncomfortable. Really. I know now that you're not Carol. I just . . . it just came out from habit. I'm sorry. I . . . I don't remember your name. What you want to be called."

"'What I want to be called.' I am Jenny. Okay? That's what I'm paying for. If you ask 'Who are you pretending to be?' it ruins it. Then it's just . . . embarrassing. Understand?"

He quickly stammers, "I'm sorry."

"GOD! QUIT SAYING THAT! I don't want your 'sorry'! I don't want you! Say what you have to say and then go!"

Again he waves his hand . . . a penitent praying for absolution. "All right. I . . . Do you know where Carol went? Who she is? Please, I've got to find her and tell her . . ."

It's too much. She jumps off the stool and begins to fight her way through the crowd. She can't be near him anymore. Can't see that pain and hope in his eyes. Hear it in his voice.

Outside, running along the path back to her room she suddenly turns an ankle and sprawls on the rough concrete of the sidewalk, shredding her hose and skinning her knee. She hugs the injured flesh to her chest and is stunned to feel the hot tears burning on her cheeks. But it's no surprise at all to realize that he's standing a few feet away, arms at his sides. Staring at her.

It comes out in a sob. "What do you want from me? I can't help you! I'm not Carol! I don't know who she is. Please . . . Please . . ."

His touch is gentle. His arms wrap around her and pull her to him. "Shh . . . it's okay. I'm sorry. It's okay."

Rocking back and forth. Tight in his arms. Crying out the pain and embarrassment against his chest.

Safe.

Real.

She stands at the window, gazing out at the warm night.

They had come back to her room. She left the door open, got a bathrobe out of the closet and headed for the bathroom. After a moment of standing uncertainly in the doorway he'd followed her inside, closing the door behind him before sitting on the end of her bed. Hands folded in his lap. Staring at the floor.

Inside the bathroom she removed the little black dress then slid out of the ruined pantyhose. She wiped the makeup off her face but could do nothing about the lingering perfume. It annoyed her that she couldn't.

With a damp washcloth she gently dabbed at her scraped knee. Once she'd cleaned off the blood, she saw it was just a few, tiny cuts. They'd hardly be noticeable in the morning. Easily hidden with a pair of stockings or pants. Good. Nobody would mind.

She pulled on the robe and knotted the belt tightly about her waist. Then, drawing a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped back out into her room.

They were alone.

She went to the window, hoping for more of the cool breeze that had touched her cheek during the beautiful, promising morning that now seemed so long ago. In the distance she could hear the chuffing of that same sprinkler. She found herself worrying that somebody had forgotten about it - that it had been in the same place all day, soaking the same patch of grass. Wasting water.

At a time like this, she was worrying about something like that.

Hugging herself in a tight embrace, she spoke to the darkness outside. "I can't help you. I don't know who she is. Your Carol. You don't bring anything with you when you . . . It's all here waiting for you. The clothes. The personal items. Everything. There aren't any clues here. Nothing she might have left behind."

He seems to accept this because he just sits, staring at the floor. After a while he murmurs, "Why? That's what I don't understand. Why would she . . .?"

She clenches her fists against the anger. "The rich ones. The ones who can afford to come here often. After a while the novelty wears off and they have to find something else to make it interesting. So they make up little stories. Little adventures."

There's a note of fire in his voice though his words are delivered to the floor at his feet. "No! You're wrong. It was real. She and I . . . That was real!"

She whirls on him. "Then where is she? This woman who loved you so? She's gone! Poof! Just like that. Her time in here was up and she just went back home. Or maybe he went back home. Did you think of that?"

John's shoulders are up around his ears now and he's twisting his fingers so hard she's afraid he might break one of them. Her anger evaporates. Now she's just tired. "Go home. Forget about it. It wasn't real."

"No. Not till I know. I'm going to find out. Who she is. Where she is. I'll find her and then . . ."

Her laughter is bitter. "You won't find out. They won't tell you. They're very, very careful about how they run this place. About keeping secrets."

He finally looks up at her, his gaze piercing. "How do you know so much about what 'They' do? How 'They' work?"

She can't meet that stare, those eyes . . . that accusation. She turns back to the window and speaks again to the night. "You don't know how it works. It doesn't matter anymore. It's not like they'll fire me." Again she hugs her arms to her self. "I lied to you. I'm not Carol . . . or Jenny . . ."

". . . or Jeff. I just said that to make you . . ." She presses her eyes closed so tightly she sees little sparkles in the darkness. "My name is Megan. That's my real name. This is my real body. I work for them."

"So it's all been a lie?"

She shakes her head. "No. Everything else is just like I've said. Most of the time, I'm . . ." She reaches behind herself and lays her hand against the cancerous little lump beneath the skin of her neck. " . . . asleep, I guess. I don't know what it is really. No memories, anyway. But one weekend a month and three months a year, I get to . . . That's how they pay me. Anything I want here. Meals. Clothes. Anything. 'My Vacations.' It's a good deal, really."

There's a long, long pause. His tone is more wonder than condemnation. "How can you say that? What kind of a life is that?"

It comes out as a sad little chuckle. "Oh . . . not so bad. Not nearly as bad as being cold and hungry all the time. Living in doorways. Giving myself to anybody who might get me my next fix. I was to the point where it was all just one long nightmare. So why not trade the nightmare for a dream?"

She finally finds the nerve to turn and look at him again.

He's just sitting there now. Defeated. So hurt and lost.

Her hand reaches out to his cheek. Tentative. Trembling. "They say that everybody dreams every night. People who say they don't are wrong. It's just that we don't remember most of our dreams when we wake up. I wonder sometimes. When I'm 'asleep' . . . do I dream? Do I . . . Are my dreams colored by what my guest is doing?" He raises the dark depth of his eyes to hers. His pain. His need. "Maybe, when she was holding you . . . loving you . . . maybe I . . ."

His sobs are buried in the material of her robe. Her hands are on the back of his head, pressing him to her as her tears fall, hot and slow.

Deep in the night . . . in the darkness, the absolute stillness . . . she reaches out to him, lying asleep beside her.

Gently her fingers touch his neck.

There, beneath his skin, where the spine begins to curve . . .

Monday she awakes to morning sunlight filtering through her bedroom window and the chuffing cadence of a sprinkler watering the lawns.

Today is the first day of her vacation . . .