On the Gulf

Go South in the Winter

57 GO SOUTH IN THE WINTER Mrs. Landis came out into the morning sun of the West Indies in bathing suit and robe, seeking her beach chair before the Caribe Hilton in San Juan. She arranged her possessions around her, book and beach bag containing her cap, cosmetics, and wallet, then draped her towel on the back of the chair, and having smeared herself with sunprotective lotion, opened her book and began to read. She soon became sleepy (at the same time as her husband a thousand miles to the north was sleepy also: he suffered from a mild hangover and was disinclined to tackle his income tax). Sun drowsiness was Mrs. Landis’ reason, and she welcomed it; she liked to doze in sunlight. A wrangle of voices stirred her from her mood and she looked up. The young Jewish couple she had conversed with the day before were back, complete with baby in sun bonnet. Each time they turned the baby loose it came to her. Sandy, it clambered over her knees, pushed her book 58 / Go South in the Winter out of her hands, examined her face at close range, and seizing her hair by the fistful, shook her with real force. “Sonia!” Both parents called to her, and the young mother rose to fetch her, detaching her from Mrs. Landis a finger at a time. “She doesn’t hurt, let her play,” Mrs. Landis protested , laughing. “She’s got Mrs. Landis mixed up with her grandmother , I think. Don’t you think so, George?” The young mother swung the baby free. “It’s absolutely clear.” “Must be: they look alike,” her husband agreed. He piled sand for the baby, who wanted strenuously to go back to Mrs. Landis and now began to cry. “Did you see the show last night, Mrs. Landis?” the girl asked. She was dark, interested, relaxed, plump, her hair screwed up behind to keep her neck bare for sunning and swimming, a large floppy native straw hat set forward on her brow. “The dancing? Just the beginning. I went up early.” “They were good, you know.” “Yeah, you shoulda stayed,” the young man said. The baby continued to wail and struggle to return to Mrs. Landis. The father held it, like an animal in harness, by the cross straps of its cotton sun suit. “I’m here alone,” said Mrs. Landis, “so that makes it—” Here the baby’s crying grew strident with demand, and the young couple turned to consult each other. “You’d better take her in,” the wife agreed. The young man got up Go South in the Winter / 59 and carried the child toward the water. Halfway there she noticed the sea and leaned toward it, jumping to get to it faster. What was I going to say? Mrs. Landis wondered. “That makes it . . .” What? She didn’t know. Makes it dif- ficult to be alone at floor shows? In former years she had tried conversations with various strangers—couples, other loners—and sometimes these had worked out pleasantly. Why didn’t she want to do that now? On the other hand, why should she? The reasons for doing anything were lacking for her, she reflected, at this particular period of her life. But after all, she’d come there just to drift, to do nothing she didn’t feel inclined to do. She idly recalled the middle-aged divorcé she had some years back allowed to talk his way into her bed. She watched the gulls drift, turn, flap wings, soar, and drift again. On an arm of the beach, far out, the palms blew. The young father was floating his baby in the sea. It flailed arms and legs, making wild splashes, yelping with glee. What a violent child! Mrs. Landis thought, and at the same instant was startled as it leaped so high that, momentarily free of the water, it seemed magnified by a trick of vision into something larger than life, the painting of a baby, huge on a master canvas which contained, as minor objects, trees, sea, and clouds. Mrs. Landis wondered if she would be feeling less detached if she were at home. She liked to play bridge but if deprived of the pleasure she would not have missed 60 / Go South in the Winter it much. Volunteer duty at the hospital did not utterly absorb her. She...