Rio leaned on the rail beside him.
“A woman’s place is in the home.”
Martin felt himself beset by an out-of-time capriciousness. Yet he knew these words, so like the emptying of a fool’s wounds, were no more idle than the turn of water and wind and all their purposes, though whistled through a child’s melody. He knew also that certain eccentricities of men, of winds, of waters, must be directed and employed; therefore, without looking at his friend, he spoke to him.
“The boundaries of the home have been extended. The boundaries of your mind are arbitrary.”
“That serves me up, I guess.” Rio yawned. “But you ain’t no seaman.”
Martin sighted over the rail.
“Scorpio’s tail light is out.”
Rio, persistent, glanced at him sideways.
“You ain’t happy here, and I am.” He breathed the hot, moist wind and looked at the moon and the quiet length under it. “I’m happy. This is the kind of night I live for. It’s clean and hot. It burns the yellow out of your blood. Some day,” he nodded toward the island fading behind them, “I’m goin’ to get a little shack over there with a shakedown roof, and maybe a small stove.”
“So you’re happy,” answered Martin. “Happy!” he repeated in a louder voice. “That word doesn’t belong on this deck.”