Killers of a Certain Age(8)

Mary Alice furrowed her brow. “Flashlight?”

“To find the stick up your ass. Let me know if you need a hand getting it out,” Natalie said sweetly.

I grabbed another two glasses and thrust one at Helen, raising mine quickly. “A toast,” I said, narrowing my eyes at Mary Alice and Natalie. “To us. Forty years on, and still kicking.”

They joined in, even Helen, although she hardly seemed to have enough energy to clink glasses. By the time we watched the sun sink over the horizon as we put to sea and moved into the dining room for grilled swordfish, we’d had two more rounds. We polished off an obscene amount of coconut tiramisu and were ready to stagger off to bed when Heather Fanning, as toothy and perky as I’d feared, accosted us with a wide smile.

“I hope you had a wonderful arrival dinner!” she enthused. “I have a special treat for you!”

She beckoned us to follow her, and Mary Alice fell into step next to me. “Ten bucks says that child used to twirl a baton.”

“Flaming,” I agreed.

Heather took us up to the bridge, where she introduced us to the captain, a man who looked enough like Idris Elba that Natalie made a beeline for him as he gave us a tour of the ship. He took us up stairs and down ladders and around decks, pointing out all the luxurious features and safety measures. He was proudest of his engine room, keeping us standing for half an hour while he explained the intricacies of the NGL tanks—natural gas liquids, in case anyone ever asks you. He talked until my calves were cramping and all I wanted to do was curl up behind the nearest engine and take a nap. But we all smiled and thanked him, and when we returned to the lounge area on our deck a bottle of champagne was waiting with his compliments. It had a tag on it—happy retirement!—and four flutes. We toasted and immediately the mood turned nostalgic.

“I don’t even think I’m ready to retire,” Nat said mournfully. “I love my job.”

“Me too,” I said.

“I’m relieved,” Mary Alice commented. “It’s time to start a new chapter.”

“I would have liked to finish the old one,” Helen said, knotting her fingers around her flute. “Properly, I mean. If I’d known the job in Qatar was my last, I would have paid more attention.”

“I would have paid more attention to all of them,” I said. “It’s gone so fast.”

“I’m going to miss the adrenaline,” Nat told us, her expression wistful. “I mean, how else am I going to find anything that makes me feel that alive?”

“You could take up recreational drugs,” Mary Alice suggested.

Natalie stuck her tongue out, then turned to me. “I know you get it, Billie,” she said.

“I do. It’s like going from playing high-stakes poker to nickel slots for the rest of your life.”

Natalie threw out her hands in a dramatic gesture. “Thank you. It’s the kick, the constantly measuring yourself against the odds and figuring out how to zig when you expected to zag, balancing on that knife’s edge.”

I knew exactly what she meant. No matter how well you planned, no matter how extensively you prepared, something always went differently than expected. And every job was a chance to prove Darwin’s simple maxim: adapt or die. We adapted; they died.

I turned to Mary Alice. “Are you going to miss it?”

She thought it over for a minute. “Probably not. Akiko and I have a good life, you know? We have our softball league and Akiko will be starting pitcher next year. I’ll be able to join an amateur orchestra finally and dust off my viola. We can travel without always wondering if a job is going to come up and derail everything. I’m down to my last few excuses. I think Akiko is afraid I’m having an affair.”

Her voice was light, but I realized how hard it must be to keep that kind of secret from your partner. The job could make demands of you when you least expected it, assignments cropping up without warning. When the notice came, you grabbed your go bag and left. Sometimes for a few days; sometimes for months. There was no way to know.

Mary Alice went on. “Either I’m having an affair or I’m a spy, I’m pretty sure that’s what she thinks.”

Natalie snorted. “Why would she think you’re a spy?”

“Because I am shit at thinking up excuses as to where I’m going when I suddenly have to disappear. The last time I told her I had an accounting emergency.”

The Museum paid us annually, a retainer so we’d always be available when they needed us. Bonuses came with each job, which meant we weren’t hurting for cash, and being gone for a few months at a time made it hard to hold down regular jobs. But it was easy to get bored and we needed cover stories, so most of us freelanced. Mary Alice had a few accounting clients, Natalie made art that occasionally got shown although she was careful to keep a low profile. Helen was happy playing housewife to Kenneth, while I took translation jobs, usually academic books. If you’re imagining it’s dull work, you’re not wrong. But it kept my languages sharp and gave me something to do with my time.

I turned to Mary Alice. “What the hell is an accounting emergency?”

“Believe me, if I could think of a good one, I’d use it. I usually make up some bullshit about client confidentiality and duck out the door. Or I just say that my mother is poorly.”