Watching the nudibranchs had temporarily distracted him from the troubles of the afternoon. But their activities were so closely related to his thoughts that, inevitably, he could not stave off the unpleasant business any longer. Still watching the Spanish shawls, whose coupling would last several hours at least, he faced the unpleasant task of recalling his visit with Hudson.

  He’d had time, since then, to distill what Hudson had told him to its essential meaning, which was that his daughter, apparently, thought that he was in love with Hudson. Extrapolating from this, the larger assumption was that he was homosexual, or, he supposed, bisexual. At the very least, he was allegedly guilty of not knowing his own wants.

  He considered each of these things separately, beginning with the latter. Was he homosexual? It was an odd question to ask of himself, as he’d really never considered it before. Now that he did, he needed to define for himself what being homosexual meant. Clinically, of course, it was sexual attraction to members of his own sex. But people were not simply conglomerations of responses, regardless of how much science attempted to reduce them to such.

  Regardless, he asked himself if he was physically attracted to other males. Not to Hudson—Hudson had not yet entered the equation—but to men in general. He pictured a man, naked, and measured his responses to what he saw. He imagined the muscles, heavier than those of a woman, the broader shoulders and larger extremities. Then, of course, there was the penis, the penultimate object of sexual arousal, celebrated as the wellspring of masculinity. Did he find penises attractive? It was like asking himself if he found beauty in a liver or a spleen; he couldn’t look at the organ without considering its function and being impressed by it. But was it attractive to him?

  He was being far too literal, he knew. He was relying on his training to help him answer a question that was better suited to philosophers and artists, those who were unburdened by the need to understand how things worked on a physical level. He had more in common with a mechanic than he did with a painter or a poet.

  Just answer the question. He heard, unexpectedly, Carol’s voice. Then he saw her, standing with her hands on her hips, waiting impatiently for him to speak. But what had she asked? A multitude of possibilities scrolled through his thoughts. She had often been frustrated by his inability to respond with a simple yes or no. He, in turn, had been stymied by her unwillingness to explore all available possibilities. Communication between them had been nearly impossible because of this; she assumed he was being difficult, while he accused her of forcing him into making hurried decisions.

  Just answer the question, Benjamin, Carol said, employing the name that reduced him to feeling like a child. It was his mother’s name for him, used by no one else, and Carol’s use of it always indicated that she’d reached the length of her patience.

  “I don’t know,” Ben said helplessly. “It’s just a body.”

  Carol shook her head and faded into nothingness. Ben was relieved to see her go. But the question had still not been answered, only put off. He was afraid, though, that he couldn’t answer it with anything resembling truth. For the truth was, he had rarely experienced physical attraction. He lacked what he thought of as the typical male obsession with busts or buttocks, had no preference for blonde or brunette, was not a connoisseur of any particular “type.”

  It was a peculiarity of his personality that had first come to light in adolescence, when other boys his age began to speak of girls in terms of their physical appeal. Nudging one another and laughing nervously, they had pointed out the swelling chests and elongating legs of the girls. They’d boasted of wanting to do “things” with these girls, vague in details but clear in their desires. All the while, Ben had watched and listened, wondering what they were seeing that he wasn’t.

  He’d dated because others were, kissed because it seemed the thing to do, but always he came home unsure of whether he had enjoyed it or not. And, yes, he’d masturbated, but the motions of his hand were unaccompanied by fantasy. He’d done it for release, not indulgence, and any pleasure he’d taken from it had been divorced from imagery and invention. For this reason, perhaps, he had never felt guilt for doing it.

  Even his courtship of and marriage to Carol had had little to do (at least on Ben’s part) with physical attraction, although Ben’s friends had congratulated him heartily on his good fortune to the point that he’d become uncomfortable, reminding him, as it did, of his school days and his bewilderment at the talk of other boys. He was a virgin when he married, and his wedding night had been an exercise in the mechanics of human sex, much of which he found embarrassing in its primitiveness.

  Carol, as far as he knew, had been satisfied with him as a lover. If their lovemaking had not been remarkable, he assumed that it was also not disappointing. After Caddie’s birth it had tapered off, a natural result, Ben believed, of parenthood. He had not much missed it, meeting his infrequent needs as he had in adolescence, and with the same casual disinterest.

  But was all of this because he was, unknowingly, repressing an attraction to men? He found it difficult to believe. If he were, wouldn’t there be some evidence to support the theory, at least one moment he could pinpoint when sexual longing had manifested itself in that direction? But there were none, no fascinations with other boys or men, no encounters, not even any dreams that he could recall.

  This did not, however, negate the possibility that he could be attracted to another man. In some sense his past was immaterial, as Caddie had been remarking on his current behavior. The question became, then, was it possible that he was attracted to Hudson Jones?

  He looked again at the nudibranchs. Their cerata, the burnt-orange respiratory structures that lined their purple bodies like the fringe of a gaudy shawl and that gave Flabellina iodinea its common name, swayed in the current made by the tank’s pump. Ben envied their passionless exchange of genetic material. There was nothing of love or desire in it, only the meeting of a common need. The nudibranch’s attractions were purely chemical, and although there was no way to know for sure, Ben was certain that rarely did the question of sexual orientation arise in their minds.

  Not that it would matter, he reminded himself. They’re hermaphroditic. This, of course, was their saving grace. Humans, too, would be better off having both sets of reproductive organs. In addition to simplifying procreation, he thought, it would render moot all of the fuss and bother about the nature of desire.

  You’re stalling. Carol had returned, throwing at him another of her frequent complaints. Stop trying to compare yourself to a slug.

  Ben ignored her. He was thinking of other creatures for whom sexuality was meaningless. There was, of course, the infamous sheephead, as well as various snails, shrimps, and seahorses. They were capable of self-fertilization or, in some instances, even changing gender as it became necessary. Perhaps he was like that as well, somehow neither one thing nor another.

  Oh, for Christ’s sake, Carol said. You’re a man, Ben. Either you want to sleep with this guy or you don’t. Which is it?

  “I don’t know!” Ben said angrily. “I don’t know, all right?”

  “Ben?”

  Ben turned to see Angela watching him, a look of concern on her face. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  No, Ben thought. I’m not at all okay. I don’t know what I am.

  “Just trying to work something out,” he told Angela.

  “Well, maybe this will cheer you up,” she said. She held out a magazine. “I found that article I was telling you about, the one about the cytotoxic properties of Adalaria loveni. They’re found in the North Sea, but I bet they’re similar in structure to our Adalaria. It might be something to explore.”

  Ben took the magazine and looked briefly at the article. “They’re calling the triterpenoid ‘lovenone,’ ” he said.

  “Maybe it destroys the capacity for romance,” Angela joked. “We could sell it as the anti-Viagra.”

  Ben set the magazine down. “Thanks for finding this,” he said. “I’ll take a look at it later.”

  “It’s probably nothing,” Angela said.

  “No,” Ben told her. “Your thinking is right on. It’s making those connections that’s hard for most people. With you, it comes naturally.”

  “Nobel Prize, here I come,” said Angela. She stood up. “I’d better get back to Rhodes,” she said. “I promised he could come with me on a dive later. That’s okay, right?”

  Ben nodded. “As long as he’s signed all of the waivers,” he said.

  “Hey, is Caddie coming back?” Angela asked him. “She hasn’t been here for a few days. She’s not sick of us, is she?”

  “She’s been ... busy ...” Ben answered. “But I think she’ll be back.”

  “Good,” said Angela. “I like her. And I see Hudson was here earlier.” She paused, and Ben realized she was waiting for him to say something that might indicate Hudson’s level of interest in her.

  “Yes,” he said. “He was.”

  Angela waited a few more seconds before saying, “Okay. Well, I’ll be going.”

  Couldn’t you think of something to tell the poor girl? Carol again, as if she’d been watching the whole exchange and scoring his performance. Or maybe you’re jealous of her.

  “I am not,” Ben objected. He smacked his palm on the desk. What was he doing? He was arguing with his ex-wife’s voice. No, he told himself, you’re arguing with yourself; you just gave yourself her voice.

  That was it. He had to get out of there or he was going to go crazy. Quickly, before he could remember how much he still had to do, he got up and headed for the door, leaving behind the magazine and the Spanish shawls, which, oblivious to his torment, continued their silent orgy.

  “Caddie? Are you home?”

  He stood in the living room, awaiting a response. When none came, he went upstairs and called again. Finally, he went to Caddie’s room and peered inside, in case she was asleep. But her bed was empty.

  Having ascertained that he was alone, he retired to his own bedroom, where he shut the door behind him. Sitting on his bed, he removed his shoes, setting them beside the nightstand, then his socks. His pants followed, folded and placed on a nearby chair, where they were joined moments later by his shirt. Only his T-shirt and boxers remained, and he kept them on while he considered what he was about to do.

  Once, in the first session of a class Ben had taken concerning the philosophy of science, the instructor had opened with a statement by the thirteenth-century philosopher–scientist Roger Bacon. “The strongest arguments prove nothing so long as the conclusions are not verified by experience. Experimental science is the queen of sciences and the goal of all speculation.”

  Ben had never forgotten those words, and in fact often shared them with students and interns of his own. It was, as far as he was concerned, the foundation of scientific study: If something could be claimed, then it should be possible to prove it; if not, the claim could be rejected.

  He pulled his T-shirt over his head, then slid his boxers down his legs. Both articles of clothing were added to those already on the chair before Ben; now naked, he lay down on the bed. He was suddenly very uncomfortably aware of the way his bedsprings squeaked beneath his weight, and it felt odd to be in bed in the middle of the afternoon.

  He put his hand on his flaccid penis and moved it up and down, attempting to stir it to life. Uncooperative, it flopped in his hand, as if the heat of the room exhausted it. He let it go, and it slumped across his testicles where they lay bunched between his legs.

  He closed his eyes and tried to picture Hudson naked. Having never actually done so, he found this difficult, until he remembered that he had seen him once, in the shower at the pool. But could he recall anything? He tried, visualizing the shower room. He re-created the white-tiled walls, the showerheads spewing water, the odd onion-shaped dispensers of soap. They were an unnatural pink, he recalled.

  And Hudson, what had he looked like? In his mind, Ben turned to look. And there he was, standing beneath the spray, wearing the funny yellow bathing suit patterned with hula dancers. How did he remember that? he wondered. If someone had asked him what Hudson had been wearing, he wouldn’t have been able to answer. But he saw it as clearly now as if he were there. The hula dancers smiled at him, their slender arms outstretched.

  So he hadn’t seen him naked, at least not entirely. But he had seen something. He pictured Hudson’s body, lean and muscular, the chest hairless. He saw the darker circles of his nipples, the trail of hair that began at the navel and trickled down a flat stomach, growing wider as it descended. The legs, too, were speckled with hair.

  His hand, resting on his belly, was brushed by the head of his penis, which was stiffening and inching its way across his stomach. Ben touched it, surprised, and wrapped his fingers around the shaft as he continued to remember. The water streamed down the planes of Hudson’s body in thick rivulets. His bathing suit clung to him, outlining but obscuring what lay beneath.

  Now what? Ben asked himself as he exhausted his store of memories. There had been nothing else beyond that, only dressing and conversation.

  Ask yourself what if. Again he was back in class, seated in the front row while the instructor, a chemist whose habit of spitting while talking made concentration difficult for those students who had to worry about having their notes smeared with his salivations, exhorted them to push their minds in new directions. Ben had nodded vigorously in agreement, even while spittle rained down on him from above.

  What if? He allowed the question to guide him. Nervously, he approached Hudson and placed a hand on his chest. Then he moved down, lower and lower, until he felt Hudson’s hardness. His hands tugged at the yellow bathing trunks, pulling them down, and Hudson’s sex sprung free. He touched it, feeling its thickness, stroking the length of it.

  When Hudson reached out for him, he held his breath, afraid. But when Hudson took him in his hand, he felt nothing but his touch. It radiated through him like an electric current, stimulating his heart so that its beat filled his ears. He felt warm water, and skin, and then a rush of heat.

  He came, crying out softly as the stickiness splashed against his chest. In his hand, his penis throbbed, emptying itself. His body shook, and he threw his head back against the pillows. When it was over, he touched his fingers to the shimmering white drops on his skin and rubbed them together.

  She was right, he thought, and fear descended like night.

  CHAPTER 38

  Caddie shined her flashlight into the crack. Immediately, the long, thin arm retreated into the darkness. She moved closer, trying to see what it belonged to, but there was nothing. A small fish, attracted to the light, darted into the crack, then emerged again and streaked past her.

  The ocean was different at night. They had entered the water as the sun was setting, so that it would become dark gradually. Now the only illumination came from their underwater lights, and they swam in a circle less than a dozen feet in diameter. Beyond it, the ocean waited, black and mysterious, as if they traveled in a golden bubble.

  It occurred to her that she should be frightened. Who knew what swam outside the protective light, waiting for its chance to feed. And yet, she wasn’t afraid. There was a peacefulness to the nighttime world, a quiet that suffused everything. She heard only her breathing, the gentle bubbling of the regulator. It was as if she were swimming through the night.

  Moving away from the rocks and into the sand, she swept the light before her, hoping to catch some nocturnal denizen at its secret business. Brian had told her that she would see different creatures at night, and he had been right. In addition to whatever it was that spread its arms over the rocks, she had seen half a dozen fish she couldn’t identify. The familiar nudibranchs, she discovered, were not to be found. But several new ones had taken their place, as if each species were assigned specific hours of operation and these had drawn the night shift.

  What she really hoped to see was an octopus. Brian had assured her that they were plentiful, but she had yet to spot one. She had scoured the rocks where they were said to make their lairs, searching for the empty shells of their meals that indicated their presence. These she had found in plenty, but apparently the diners had moved on to other feasts.

  Now, in a patch of empty sand, she saw movement away from her light. She followed the fleeing shadow and saw, pinned in her beam, a small octopus. It was red in color, no more than six or seven inches in length, and it rested on the sea floor, its arms writhing around it. She kept her light on it and swam closer.

  The octopus pulled itself in, turning from red to mottled brown so that it looked like a rock. Caddie, enchanted, hovered near it and waited. When it didn’t move, she slowly reached out one gloved hand toward it. The octopus turned an eye toward her, the light reflecting gold and black from it. Caddie sensed in its depths an unexpected intelligence and held her hand still.

  The octopus was breathing. Its body swelled and shrunk as it forced water in and out. Then, slowly and with great deliberation, it uncoiled a single tentacle and extended it toward Caddie’s hand. When the tip touched the material of her glove, the animal paused for a moment. Then the arm seemed to run out like a line from a reel. It moved up her finger, the tiny suction cups on its underside gripping the unfamiliar surface.

  Caddie lifted the finger, watching breathlessly as the octopus’s tentacle wrapped around it. She pulled slightly, feeling resistance, then lay her hand flat once more. After a moment, a second tentacle unspooled from the octopus’s body.

  She thought that it might climb onto her hand, but the addition of the second tentacle was the extent of the animal’s investigation. Perhaps gathering that she was neither a predator nor a likely hiding place, it gathered its legs back to itself and sat, continuing to breathe and watch her with its alien eyes. When she reached out, hoping to initiate further contact, the octopus, in a swirl of legs, swam off into the darkness.