Page 55 of Cuts like a Knife
Moments later, the driver has returned, handed a takeout container to Drew, and we’re back on the road.
“Where did that come from?” I ask.
The driver doesn’t let Drew answer this time. Guess he’s been listening to our entire conversation.
“My mother’s house. It’s good. You’ll see. Best boiled fish on the island. Maybe you come back tomorrow when we are open properly, eh?”
“Um, thank you.” I say. “I will.”
To Drew I silently mouth “Boiled fish?!184” but he just smiles back at me.
Oh well. I have to eat something.
Just minutes later we’re pulling into the gravel driveway of another tiny house. This one’s not a beach-front place. It’s across the road from the actual ocean-facing homes, and it looks stark and bare and a little cheap after the glamour of the hotel.
“It’s actually a great location,” Drew says, reading my mind. “There’s a pubic access point right across the way. You can’t see it in the dark. But no one knows about it. No tourists. And the beach is sheltered and deserted. Especially at this time of year. No one’s in the big houses on the shore right now.
“Right,” I say. “Because it's hurricane season. I wonder what network genius thought it would be a great time to film down here? Maybe that dick Shane.”
“I’m sure the point was the price. Everything’s cheaper in the off-season.”
“Network execs make a fortune. It's gross,” I say.
He reaches through the gap between the front seats and hands the driver some more bills. “Thanks Damon. I’ll call you again tomorrow, okay? Probably in the morning.”
“Good man, Mr. Drew. Tomorrow then. You have a nice night. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Drew,” he says, his eyes catching mine in the rearview mirror.
“We’re not married,” I say.
Damon waggles his eyebrows suggestively185. “Okay, not married. Have fun! Goodnight!”
We leave the car and I follow Drew across the gravel driveway and up the rickety wooden steps to the door. He unlocks it and steps inside, flicking on a lamp and what is revealed is a very modest, very regular living room. There’s a two-seater couch, a basic particleboard coffee table, chipped at the corners, and a big TV mounted to one wall. Beyond is the kitchen, with a glass-topped table for four in the middle of it. and in between, I see a small hallway leading presumably to the bedroom and bathroom.
“Go on and explore,” says Drew. Though this is pretty much the extent of it. Bathroom’s in the middle, straight through there. Then hurry up and eat this dinner I so kindly procured for you. Before it gets cold.”
“Boiled fish,” I say, sarcastically. “Can’t wait.”
Chapter Fifteen
Okay, so the fish is actually really good.
By the time I get back from washing up in the little bathroom — all midcentury blue tiles, with a funny slanted vanity and a glass jar full of shells on top of the toilet tank — Drew has transferred the food from the takeout container into proper dishes.
I peeked into the bedroom as I went by. It’s got a double bed (or maybe a queen) that dominates the entire space, which like the bathroom, is small. There’s one wide window and a palm-leaf ceiling fan.
Back in the kitchen, I found Drew standing by the table, which he’d set for one.
He’d lit two candles and even poured me a glass of white wine186.
“Fancy,” I say. “But boiled fish is boiled fish.”
“Oh be quiet and try it. It’s a Bahamian speciality and it’s good.”
I sit down which feels immediately awkward with him standing across from me like a waiter.
“Get yourself a drink and sit down with me, weirdo,” I say. He laughs and as he goes about pouring himself a glass, I take a tentative bite of the food. It’s approximately a thousand times better than the supposedly-professionally-prepared food I was served earlier in the evening.
Turns out, Bahamian boiled fish is a sort-of soup. Or stew. I don’t know what to call it, but it’s warm and filling. It’s got potatoes and bacon, and the fish is white, tender, and flaky, covered with an aromatic broth flavored with onion, hot peppers, and lime187.
