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A sudden knock on the loose-fitting screen door sounded like
a gun shot, loud and jarringly unexpected.

With a faintly British accent, a young man's voice called
out, "There's a phone call for Billy or Jean." And in another
moment, "Anyone there?"

Jean and I looked at each other. I lifted an eyebrow that
asked, 'Do you know?' She shrugged her shoulders as if to say,
'Beat's me.'

A naked Margi had slumped to her knees, one hand thrust
between her thighs and the other unsuccessfully trying to cover
her breasts. We were all uncomfortably aware that whoever it was
had only to step off the walk to look through the unshuttered
screens to see the three of us, mostly naked. We remained
frozen.

"Anyone home?" the disembodied voice asked again, and again
knocked.

Suddenly jarred from my inaction, I called out, "OK. Be
right there." Turning to my sister and our friend, Margi, I held
my hands out, palms up and whispered, "Stay here. I'll be right
back."

Jean placed her hand on my arm and asked in a surprisingly
loud voice, "Where'd you think we were going to go?"

"Shit, I don't know . . . but wait anyway, OK?"

Jean smiled and nodded. "Hurry back."

I slipped into some sailing shorts and a fresh T-shirt. As
I was leaving, I glanced back to see Jean kneeling beside the
cowering Margi. It occurred to me that if Margi wasn't concerned
about her nudity, she might understandably be concerned about her
job at this remote and high-priced dive resort.

Whoever had brought the message was gone when I went
outside. Threading the darkened paths that connected our
octagonal beach house with the larger central building, I
reflected that only our Mom knew where we were. Entering the main
structure, I walked into the bar where our hostess, Gladys,
glanced up and nodded her head toward a phone receiver off the
hook. "Your mom," she offered.

"Hello?"

"Billy? How are you? You and Jean OK?" It was Mom.

Damn, I should have called to let her know. "I'm sorry, Mom
. . ." I began but she cut me off.

"Don't worry about it. That's OK. Gladys already told me
that everything's fine; I just wanted to hear your voice. Or
Jean's."

"We're fine." And then searching for something to say, I
asked, "Remember Margi, the Dive Master from last year?"

"Oh, yes. I remember Margi. I'm sure *you* do!"

It amazed me how my mother could put so much suggestive
meaning into her voice.

Before I could frame an answer, she went on, "Gladys said
that the three of you had gone to listen to CD's after dinner.
Having fun?"

Cripes. Half a world away. Did we have any privacy? I
looked at Gladys and she smiled a conspiratorial, almost wolfish
grin.

"Uh . . . yes. We were . . ." and I didn't know just what
to say. "We were . . . uh, playing a game."

"Truth or Dare?" Mom asked.

What the hell is this, I wondered?

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