Writers Island prompt this week - The Stranger. Again, I was able to rework a story I entered in a contest last year.

Another Day In Paradise
By S.M. Toy

Bert generally had been a lucky guy. He’d had a good life: steady, well-paid, job, beautiful wife, big house. They had no kids by choice – the original DINKS of the eighties. He was even lucky enough to retire early. At his retirement party, co-workers told him, “We could never afford to live in the Caribbean. While you’re lounging on the beach all day, clipping coupons, we’ll still be hard at work in this office. You lucky stiff!”

Starting life over again in a tropical paradise would have been the perfect ending, too – if Sheila had shared his dream. After six months she’d packed up and shipped off, saying, “I can’t live like this any more, with nothing to do. We’re only retired from paid work, not waiting to die. I have to get out of here and start enjoying life again. You’re so pathetic. Do something with your life.”

Things might have been better, if she’d stayed. But then some would say he was lucky to lose her, she’d become such a nag. Now, with his wife gone, Bert does spend most of his days laying around on sandy beaches, but is bored out of his mind for the most part, refusing to admit his luck may have finally run out – too stubborn to admit it, in fact, or even to leave, and return to his old life.

He was anticipating the upcoming tourist season, and all the people who would fill those beaches, the restaurants and bars, old acquaintances to alleviate some of his boredom. But they’d offer the same talk about the same rehashed subjects, just like the previous season. Sheila had been right. Bert needed to do something. He couldn’t go on like this, latching on to anyone who glanced his way, hoping to strike up a conversation.

He’d spent most of that morning prone on a towel at Lower Bay. A book, long before discarded, lay by his side. Sitting up, he dusted some of the sticky sand from his arms and scanned the beach. He was still the only soul there. A boat was tacking into the bay, its mainsail flapping like a woman’s long skirt billowing in the wind. Only two other boats were moored there. Business had been slow since the previous Easter. Too slow. Bert was lucky he didn’t need to make a living from tourism. His retirement package had been more than enough to provide him with a comfortable life without having to supplement it.

He squinted up at the brilliant sky then back down to the horizon, gazing at the endless sea. The sun was above the yardarm – time for a drink. He wasn’t an alcoholic… at least, not yet. He’d been lucky to avoid habitual gatherings with several other retired expats in a local seedy rum shop, knowing if he gave in to their repeated invitations he’d soon be on a slippery downward slope. But he might begin to consider the possibility if no other prospects came along.

It had been impossible, too, to make friends among the local people. They considered him to be just another white foreigner, but the worst kind – one who never left to go elsewhere, lived on a fixed income, and was not on vacation, so didn’t throw his money their way. He’d become a man in-between: never completely accepted on the island, he would forever remain a stranger to the locals and the expats; but he was also now a stranger to his old life, and would likely never be able to fit in there again if he ever thought of going back.

Standing up, Bert stretched his arms over his head and then swung them around like he was a windmill. The wind was beginning to pick up, blowing sand into his face, scattering dry leaves. He turned his back against it and a large leaf from an almond tree hit him, fastening itself to the thin hair on the top of his head. He reached back and peeled it off, releasing it to the wind. Someone laughed.

Bert turned around. A young village girl was striding towards him carrying a towel that partially hid a small baby as though it were a precious gift. “You funny,” she giggled as she passed in front.

“Wait, don’t go,” Bert said, anxious for any company. “May I look at the baby?” She appeared too simple-minded to be capable of caring for such a small infant.

“Yes, please.” She stopped and proudly uncovered a boy’s silent face. He
peered at Bert with large brown eyes.

“Is this your brother? What’s his name?”

“No, he mine. He name Shakil. We goes for a sea bath.”

Bert frowned his surprise at this claim of maternity from someone so young. He said, “Do you think that’s a good idea? Your baby seems too little to go in the sea.”

“We’s alright. I a good swimmer. I takes care of he.”

Bert wasn’t as confident. “Maybe I should swim with you, just to make sure.” He’d never liked children, but that didn’t mean he could allow these two to go in the water unsupervised.

“Okay.” She sat the baby down on the sand, still wrapped in its towel, and began taking off her shirt and shorts, revealing a hand-me-down bathing suit. Kneeling, she opened the towel and plucked out the naked boy, then stood up. “We’s ready.” She ran to the water’s edge before Bert had a chance to think, but, in a few paces, he was next to them.

The young mother squeezed the baby so tight to her chest that his eyes seemed to pop out. Both of them squealed their excitement as they bounced in the surf.

Bert’s concern was now bordering on panic. “I really think you should give him to me.” The waves were increasing in size. Where the girl stood the depth was only a few feet, but, even in that close to shore, the current was strong. The children had been slapped by one wave; some strands of the girl’s long and beaded, black braids were sticking to her face and the baby’s head, making the two look as though they were already surrounded by seaweed. Bert moved closer, the better to grab them, if need be.

“Ula! Ula! What you does!” a woman’s voice shouted from behind.

The girl and Bert both turned and looked toward the beach. A big woman had broken through the bush lining the road. She ran towards them, but stopped short at the water’s edge. “You comes here! You brings dat baby!”

“He mine!” Ula cried, turning to take another step away from the shore, just as a wave smacked her in the face, drenching the baby as well. He began howling. Bert reached out and gripped Ula’s arm before she could walk any further. She panicked and dropped Shakil then started screaming. Ducking down, Bert fished the baby out from under the water’s surface then held him above chest level. He pushed through the water on to the shore, the baby coughing and spluttering in his arms, and handed the shivering child to the woman who held open the towel. She immediately wrapped him back up like a package. Ula slowly walked out of the sea.

“What you thinks, girl! You crazy? Dis baby too small for dat! You no deserves he. I gonna give you licks,” she said, holding up a large, flat hand. Ula grinned, open-mouthed, at her mother.

Bert asked, “The baby is okay, isn’t he?” attempting to defuse the situation. He reached over to pull the towel away from Shakil’s face. The boy had stopped choking and was now settled into a steady cry. The woman’s hand came down to secure the towel and she turned away, not allowing Bert to touch her grandson.

She spat out, “Dis no your business.” She marched back towards the road, shouting over her shoulder, “Come, girl! Dat’s what gets you in trouble already, talking to strange men.”

Ula had dressed in the meantime and was about to follow her mother when she turned back, flashed Bert a big gap-toothed smile, stretched out a small hand and said, “T’anks, Mister.”

They shook. “You’re welcome. Lucky I was here. But what were you…” She turned immediately, running to catch up with her mother, ignoring Bert’s plea of, “Wait!”

He watched as they disappeared, his jaw set in anger. He ruminated for a moment, more furious with himself than the mother or daughter. He turned around and stared at the endless, boring sea. It really was time for that drink – a good strong one. Then he would phone Sheila. He picked up his towel, book and clothes, and walked down the beach to the bar.