Bunny

A young man's obsession with his sister's girlfriend leads to his demise.

Two weeks after I'd graduated from Northwestern, my sister Irene called me from her summer home on Martha's Vineyard and requested my company for a long weekend on the island.

"Can you make it by Friday?" she asked. "There's somebody I'd like you to meet."

The following morning, I traveled by Uber from my parent's house in Greenwich, Connecticut, to Woods Hole, Massachusetts, where I boarded a ferry. I spent the six-mile passage standing at the ship's rail, enjoying the sea breeze as it brushed away the June swelter.

On our approach into Vineyard Haven harbor, I spotted Irene on the dock waving, and as I came down the gangplank, she greeted me with a clutching hug and a robust air of confidence. We were soon seated across from one another in The Little House Café, her favorite restaurant on the island.

"So, tell me about your friend," I said.

"Bunny and I met during our residency in Chicago. We're opening a practice together."

"Radiology?"

"That is the plan."

"And how goes it with Kyle?"

"Our divorce is complete," she explained. "I got the island house and alimony. Kyle and his millions are tucked away in Nova Scotia--permanently, I'm hoping."

"So, it's over for good?"

"Yes," she said firmly.

The murmur of patron's voices and the clink of toasting wine glasses gave way to the woosh of a flambé. I felt the first sips of Chardonnay going to my head. Waiters lit candles, and the room took on a flickering ambiance as evening approached. Irene was very excited as our food arrived. She'd picked for the two of us, and we dined on pan-seared Ahi tuna with a light lemon caper sauce. Night had fallen by the time we piled into Irene's Audi for a thrilling drive to Edgartown. We pulled into the driveway of her colonial-style home.

Fireflies flashed green-yellow, and constellations glimmered in the crystalline night as I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk and followed her down the flagstones to her front door.

"This is some light show, so many fireflies," I said, reaching out as if I might touch them.

"Aren't they adorable? Bunny and I play night crochet to their little flashes on occasion. We can do it tomorrow evening if it pleases you."

"Can you see well enough in the light of fireflies?"

"Of course not. It's silly good fun, is all."

She pushed the door open.

"Wow," I said, looking around the living room. "You've made changes."

"The walls are pecky cypress. The rug is Persian. It adds weight to the room."

"And the American flag box kite?"

"It belongs to Bunny."

"She's patriotic?"

"After a fashion."

"You mean to say imperfectly patriotic?"

"Precisely, you're in your standard room on the second floor. I've got work to do. Let me know if you need anything."

"Ok," I said.

By work, I assumed she meant teleradiology--reading X-rays from home, a common practice among radiologists attempting to avoid the recent plague. Outbreak monkeys aside, I took my suitcase upstairs and squared away my travel kit before sitting in a wicker lounge chair and falling asleep.***

I awoke to the ticking wall clock and morning's glow saturating the bedroom windows. It was 6:15 a.m. and quiet about the house. I went to my morning routine, then stepped into the hallway, starting down the staircase, stepping over a creaking bottom step, and making my way to the kitchen. I helped myself to orange juice and a slice of bread before stepping outside and heading down a sandy access path to the beach. Waves crashed the shoreline, streaming into the shallows before rushing backward into a relentless undertow. A sparkling glint ran to the horizon under a cloudless sky. A tiny shark, perhaps a foot in length, lay in the shallows, its body rolling in the monotonous surges. I watched the animal trying to right itself, but it was exhausted, so I waded in, grabbing it by the tail and flinging it to deeper water.

A man approached from a slight distance, a captain's hat set atop a scarecrow in need of straw, stumbling forward with decrepit limp and watery eyes. He held a metal detector. I wondered what sand-buried treasures the old codger might seek, coins, perhaps jewelry. I passed him and contemplated my sister's friend. Would Bunny have charm, polite austerity, and a doctor's self-possession? Would she be single? I'd nearly asked Irene if Bunny was attached, but discretion held me back. I didn't know why.

I only knew Bunny from the pictures Irene had shown me, but the images were enough to spark my imagination. She was Irene's age, six years my senior at twenty-seven, a Doctor of Medicine. For my part, I'd finished school near the middle of my class, distracted and rebounding from a three-year relationship gone sour.***

Upon my return, I found Irene up and cooking breakfast.

"What's on the menu?" I asked. "Eggs, Benedict?"

"Ho! You wish," she said with a laugh. "It's a bit simpler, scrambled eggs and hash browns."

"That suits me fine. Which room will Bunny be staying in?"

A moment passed while Irene peeled a potato at the sink.

"Bunny sleeps with me, Alex."

"I knew that," tumbled out of my mouth, and I felt my ears turning red.

"Knew what, that your sister is a lesbian?"

"No... I mean yes... I mean... Ok. I'm surprised, is all. This is new."

"I'm happy, Alex, for the first time." She threw her arms around my neck and rested her head on my shoulder. "Be happy for me," she whispered.

"Why, because you're irresistible?"

"Don't tease." ***

Bunny's Carrera GT pulled into the driveway two hours later. I called Irene, who was in her office, then turned back to the window, my eyes fixed on Bunny as she climbed out of the Porsche wearing a prima cotton skirt that hung loosely above her ankles and a sleeveless blouse. An ocean breeze blew the flap of her sunhat back, and, reaching to catch it, her skirt wrapped around her legs. She was svelte, tall, with aquiline features and a pouting mouth.

Irene exited the office, saying, "Be nice, Alex."

How could I be anything else; I nearly tripped over my feet trying to get Bunny's luggage. She caught my arm and saved me from the Pratt fall.

"Easy, Kiddo," she said.

"Oh, that was nothing," I replied, catching a waft of her exotic scent. "A trifle; you should catch me on an awkward day."

"I'm trying to imagine."

"Well, don't imagine too hard, sister; I only do one show daily."

She laughed charitably at my blustering wit.

"Oh, that's a good line," she said, "I'll use it next time I fall on my a*s."

"Did I forget to mention she's savagely attractive?" Irene said.

I'd forgotten my sister was on my heels. Another gust blew in, and my eyes dropped to the outline of Bunny's hips as her skirt rippled. I tried getting my eyes back, but they dragged along her body until I encountered her face and her sultry understanding of my attraction in one sympathetic and encouraging glance. The next moment, her expression was changed, the fire gone from her eyes, but I believed something unmistakable had passed between us.

Irene quickly hugged Bunny, saying, "I can't believe you're here!" I followed them into the house.

Irene said, "Alex, would you be a dear and take Bunny's luggage to my room?"

I smiled and nodded, "Of course," I said. What could be more natural?

I placed the luggage in Irene's room and glanced at the bed. What might occur there in the next twenty-four hours? What would I give to be a fly on the wall? My imagination raced, and the images came faster.

Bunny is hard at the wheel of her Carrara, putting the car through its paces, taking us around hairpin curves, then into a straightaway, shifting gears while I lean against the acceleration force and grip the inside of her thigh. 

I went to my room and started rearranging my closet, trying to sweep Bunny's sensuality from my mind. But it was no good. I sat in the wicker chair, still imagining.

Bunny is fresh out of a shower, wearing a terry cloth robe and a towel turban, her breasts swelling under the material as she tosses the towel aside and stands in a full-length mirror, combing her raven hair. She's purposely left her bedroom door ajar, wanting me to peek in on her while she sets the comb down and lets her robe slip off her shoulders.

I heard footsteps in the hall and glanced past my door to see Bunny disappearing into Irene's room carrying a travel bag. The door clicked shut, and I returned downstairs.

"So, what do you think?" Irene asked.

"What do I think about what?"

She slapped my arm, saying, "What do you think about Bunny?"

"I like her. She seems pleasant."

"That's it? That's the best you can come up with. Pleasant?"

I shrugged. What did Irene want me to say? Could I tell her Bunny made my pulse race, admit I'd fantasized about my sister's lover within ten minutes of meeting her?

I couldn't shake Bunny's smoldering gaze from my mind, the sensuality of her mouth, her hips. Everything in her bearing said yes when she caught my eye; I'd do that with you. Yes, I'll follow your lead. Where should we hole up, Tanzania? Had something passed between us, or was I crazy to think this seductress would find me attractive?

Irene asked me to be happy for her. It seemed simple enough then, but that was before Bunny got in my blood. It was plain jealousy now. Irene had her winning way, and I had my resentment. It wasn't the first time, of course. How often had the scenario played out? How often had my sister brought me into her circle of friends when my social awkwardness prevented me from finding my own groups? She'd always been a step ahead of me, and now this.

"I think she's…."

The bottom step creaked, and I heard her voice from behind.

"Anybody for a stroll on the beach? It's kiting weather."

I turned and smiled. Bunny was wearing clam diggers and a white blouse with horizontal black stripes.

"I'm game," I said, searching Ilene's face for signs of disapproval.

'It's fine by me," Irene said, "so long as we can make Black Dog Wharf by noon. I've chartered a sailing excursion." She shot me a curious look as though she were seeing through me.

I followed Irene and Bunny out the back door, making for the beach path while trying to manage the kite and eat a bear claw simultaneously, but there was too much wind for it, and as we reached the beach, I tossed the pastry aside. No sooner was I wiping the glaze off my hand than a gull swooped down for the treat.

"Oh, look," Irene said, pointing down the beach.

Several paramedics were kneeling near the shoreline. Had somebody been pulled into the undertow? Irene and Bunny rushed forward. I kept my distance, trying to control the kite against the shore breeze, then noting the old man's metal detector lying on the sand. I wondered if this meant an end to our walk, but then Irene and Bunny were helping the old man to his feet and brushing the sand from his clothing.

"I'm eighty-three years old, eighty-three!" said the old man, shaking his fist at the paramedics. "You sons-of-b*****s ought to come on time when a man loses his detector. Where's my metal detector?"

The kite wriggled and spun under a gust of wind. I gave it string, walking backward to the shoreline while letting it sail. She climbed aggressively, pulling left and right, challenging my grip on the string reel. Not since I'd been a schoolboy had I experienced that singular thrill, and now the memories rushed back to me, the many moments I spent with my kites, how distant and alone they'd seemed while aloft. But it wasn't the kite's loneliness; it was my own, and I was overwhelmed with sad remembrances, all the failures and lost opportunities in my life.

Irene and Bunny are chatting with the paramedics. 

They're heading toward me now. I jog down the beach, still pulling the kite, trying to understand myself. I hear them calling after me.

There's a lifeguard station up ahead and a windsock tethered to a stake in a large cement cone. I tie the kite string off on the stake, strip to the waist, and head for the surf. The first salty wave hits me at hip level.

Another wave hits, and I dive into the surf. Swimming past the break, I turn and tread water. I can see Irene and Bunny on the beach, signaling me in.

 I'm too far out.

Something slams into me from below, and my body separates. "Go away," I scream, suddenly floating in warm, bloody brine, reaching down to find my pelvis bitten through, my intestines streaming like tentacles. "Go away!" I thrash the water. But the monster is returning for the rest of me, and her gliding shadow is larger than a station wagon.