Written by Celia Miles – The voice tried to convince him, the voice in his head: Look what I’ve done. I live dangerously. I’m fascinating. I’m brave. Some vacation this was turning into. He’d looked forward to it–lolling in the Caribbean sun, drinking pastel-colored drinks, reading wicked paperbacks with alluring pictures of unbelievably bosomed women and sleek, menacingly dark men on the covers. I could be in this novel.

Mason rechecked the locked door, as he did at least five times as the twilight turned to darkness and he stared until he could make out the design on the drapes.

Each night he locked the door and checked it over and over. What did he expect? Only the cops in Acton knew where he was. Not even his mother knew. She couldn’t understand how he could “just up and go on a vacation.” And she added, “When last month you couldn’t give me the money for utilities.” She was probably wondering right now where he was. He wasn’t a bad son. He was a dependent son. He knew the neighbors wondered when he was going to leave home for good. He wondered, too. Maybe after this vacation. When and if he decided to end it. He intended to find joy in the sun, peace in the tequila and rum. A good son. At a Mid-western airport while waiting for the next plane, Mason had addressed a manila envelope to his mother and tucked two one hundred dollar bills inside. That should take care of the utilities for the next month or so.

Mason eyed the locks. They seemed flimsier and flimsier. Some days he had to force himself to venture out to enjoy the sunshine and the novels. He wanted a tan out of this vacation, at least that. It didn’t look like any girls were going to slither into his arms, much less into his bed. Maybe if he were slimmer, less pale, had big blue eyes or hard dark eyes, maybe if the women who passed him by so carelessly knew he had big bucks to spend, maybe if his old buddy Crayton was basking in the sun beside him.

Crayton–good looking, slim, hard-eyed. Crayton now behind bars in federal prison. Crayton wondering how he’d slipped up. When he’d planned the perfect crime, executed it perfectly, relished its perfectability, gloated when the reward money kept growing. Crayton grinning, relaxing, swimming so confidently in his skills as manager and lover—of commerce and sex. Behind bars. That phrase again. Mason tried to move beyond that…to think creatively: Crayton jerking and moaning in his fitful sleep…behind bars. Crayton eating beans and ground beef patties, throwing up, with his delicate stomach. Crayton being watched in the shower room by devouring eyes. Mason smiled furtively. He was getting better at his imagination. Crayton behind bars.

And Mason lounging poolside and seaside. White warm sands, few tourists so far this season, lots of attention by the staff if not by the women who sauntered by his beach chair. Mason looked around the room. The moonlight cast dark shadows through the window blinds; he didn’t close them or draw the curtains until he turned off the light. The thin slats tantalized him, half open, half closed. He didn’t know if he wanted to be aware of the darkness, even though the moon was bright and the resort was lit by dozens of fluorescent lamps. When Mason could barely keep his eyes open he picked up the remote and muted the TV; he dozed with the screen blazing color and action. He slipped from the bed, shadows stippling its covers, and drew the curtains. He had a soft bed. Crayton had a cot behind bars. He could order breakfast in, as he usually did. He could have eggs, ham, and waffles, a quart of orange juice, a pot of coffee, pineapple muffins laden with currants. Crayton would be lucky to have limp toast and oatmeal.

Mason got up again and checked the door once more, just to be certain. In the darkness he reached under the mattress and stroked the blue bag holding most of the 100,000 dollar reward. He could linger on the beach a long time for that amount, and Crayton would still be behind bars.

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Celia Miles, a retired community college instructor, lives and writes in Asheville, NC. She is author of several regional novels, and with Nancy Dillingham she has co-edited three anthologies of Western NC women writers. Her latest novel is The Body at Wrapp’s Mill: A Grist Mill Mystery.
www.celiamiles.com