Down Shift

by K. Bromberg

  The crack of a new beer can opening startles me, but I keep my gaze straight ahead, hope that by focusing there, the sting of tears on the backs of my eyelids will abate.

  “I’ll accept that answer for now, but I’ve gotta tell you something, Getty—I don’t buy it. Sure, all of that might be true in a loose sense, but there’s more there.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “True. I don’t. But I’ve seen a lot of shit in my life . . . more than you could probably imagine. So phrase it any way you want to, deny it every which way from Sunday, but until you face whatever it is, nothing’s going to get fixed.”

  “You’re overstepping boundaries for someone I’ve known only twenty-four hours.” I try to play off the comment like I’m not irritated but can’t quite pull it off.

  “You’re right. I am.” His admission is quiet, contrite, and so very unexpected after his dogged assumptions.

  Silence descends on us as he lets it go, leaving me to dwell on the truth to his words that I’d like to pretend I didn’t hear. Lightning flashes far off the coast, a subtle reminder that I’m actually on an island in the ocean, completely vulnerable.

  Kind of like I was before I came here. No wonder when I first stepped foot on the wharf, I felt like I belonged instantly. And maybe, possibly hoped that the small-town atmosphere would mean that I’d be the outsider whom everyone left alone until I figured out if I wanted to stay or move on.

  Of course, now that I know I want to stay, he’s here. And while it seems he may have his moments of kindness, it doesn’t mean I want a roommate. At all. I just want to be left alone in this place I’ve grown to call home. Where I can paint in private so that no one knows or can scrutinize my art and demean it. Where the last name Caster is like Smith or Jones and doesn’t mean anything to anyone.

  “What about you?” I ask, assuming the question isn’t welcome but indulging my curiosity.

  A heavy sigh in response. The sound of aluminum hitting against the edge of the trash bin near us rings out as he throws his empty can into it. Actions to buy him some time on an imaginary clock no one’s watching.

  “Everybody’s running from something, Getty.” His words startle me, unexpected honesty that hits home. A part of me wonders if he’s telling me this to get me to talk or if he really means it. And as much as I want to ask more, get lost in his troubles instead of my own, I let it go, let us sink into the silence milling around us.

  The cool ocean breeze. The warmth of a body next to me. The notion that someone understands when he really has no clue what I’m going through or have been through, but understands in his own way nonetheless. This is new to me. Welcome and unwelcome at the same time.

  Because I’m supposed to be figuring myself out. Supposed to be dealing with this all on my own. Determined to prove to myself that I don’t need anyone. That I can do this.

  “There’s a storm rolling in.” Zander’s quiet murmur beside me breaks the silence. How long have we been sitting here? I’ve lost track of time, absorbed in my own thoughts.

  “I love sitting on the back patio and watching them move across the sea.” Listening to the roar of thunder and the pelting sound of the rain. Then after the light show is over, I’ll sit in my bedroom with the window cracked so I can smell the distinct scent of the rain.

  “Please tell me you don’t actually sit on that death trap of a deck?”

  My wide eyes meet his raised eyebrows. “Maybe. Is it that bad?”

  “Rickety is a compliment for that hazard.”

  “And so what, you’re a carpenter? You’re trading your skills for room and board?” Time to turn the tables on him. Put him in the hot seat for a bit, since I know he’s still curious about why I’m here.

  The laugh I get in response to my question is cynical at best. “No. Not a carpenter whatsoever. I’m the farthest thing from it.”

  My mind flashes back to earlier today and the constant pounding of the hammer. On how much time it took to replace the broken step.

  “How do you plan on fixing the house up if you don’t know what you’re doing?”

  “The same way you’re being a bartender, I suppose,” he says with a purse of his lips and a resolute nod of his head. “Figure it out as I go.”

  “Does Smitty know you’re not a carpenter?” I wonder if I’m asking for fuel to add to my argument as to why I should stay and he should go, or because I just want him to keep talking. To help not make the silence seem so lonely tonight.

  His laugh in response is genuine and rich and wholehearted and brings a soft smile to my lips at the sound. “Yeah. I’m pretty positive he knows who and what I am.”

  “Then why . . . ?” There are so many ways I can end the sentence and yet I’m not sure which one I want an answer to the most: . . . are you here? . . . are you sitting with me on a bench after apologizing when I never asked you to? . . . are you making me want to tell you things when I don’t like to talk to anyone?

  “Because I owe him big-time. He, uh . . . helped me out with a few things. Kept me from getting in trouble in a sense when I didn’t deserve his help.” He shrugs, eyes trained to the darkness beyond as he absently reaches into the bag and pulls out another can of beer. “I needed a place off the beaten path to go to deal with some shit and he needed someone to repair this place, so we both agreed to help each other.”

  “A few weeks ago Darcy told me they’d finally decided on which carpenter to hire. I was going to help facilitate—”

  “Yeah, they did. Then Smitty found out that he and every other carpenter who works here on the island is booked solid through the end of the year. He wanted to get the repairs going sooner than that so they can flip the house and get it back on the market before next tourist season starts. So . . .” He shrugs with a sheepish smile. “Me.”

  “And what if you’re in over your head?”

  He shrugs his shoulders at my comment, a forced smile on his face as if I’ve just touched a nerve somehow. “We’re all in over our heads at some point, aren’t we?” he says cryptically before lifting his hat, running his hand through his hair, and putting it back down. And for some reason I don’t think he expects a response to his question, so I just remain quiet and study him out of the corner of my eye. “I’ll figure it out. Can’t be that hard. I promised him I’d get the job done, and I’ll get the job done. Prove to him that my word is good again.”

  “Again? Did something happen that—”

  “Boundaries, Getty.” His voice is an even warning that I’m pushing him too hard when he backed off from asking me questions. And I know there is more hidden in his words, an underlying meaning I don’t understand, and yet, I give him the same respect he did me.

  I shift back to neutral ground: the repair issues. “So you just plan on wielding a hammer and winging it?”

  “It’s better I wield a hammer than a mini-blind wand,” he deadpans, and then snickers.

  “Touché,” I laugh with a roll of my eyes, already knowing it was not one of my prouder moments. “But being a bartender and making a deck so it doesn’t crash to the ground when you walk on it are slightly different skill sets. At least I can’t kill someone if I mix a drink wrong.”

  “Oh, I’ve been killed plenty of times at the hands of a bartender,” he says with a chuckle.

  “I have a feeling that was your own fault.”

  “God yes, it was, but damn, the parts I remember were well worth it.”

  The suggestion in his tone is loud and clear. I hate the creative images that fill my mind of him in a bar: loud music, a slew of women surrounding him hanging on his every word in the hopes that they can get him to buy them a drink. Stake a claim. Even if just for the night.

  Because he’s that type of guy—by no fault of his own other than the good looks he was born with and that subtle charm that wiggles its way into your resol
ve not to like him. The type that a woman would gladly accept a one-night stand with, knowing ahead of time the hurt that would come when he’d walk out in the morning wanting nothing more.

  Without knowing anything else about him, I already know he’d be worth the hurt.

  I shake away the thought instantly, seeing as I’m not looking for that from him or from anyone. I’ve had enough pain to last a lifetime.

  And yet images from earlier tonight in the bar flash back in my mind. How even though he had been here less than a day, he already had townspeople approaching him, talking to him, and not treating him like an outsider like they did me for a good few weeks.

  “Did I lose you?” Zander’s words pull me from my errant train of thought. A train that needs to derail and not fill my head with notions about what exactly he’d be like in any situation.

  “No. Yes. Sorry.” Why do I feel so rattled?

  “Getty?” The way he says my name—part question, part concern—causes that panic to reemerge, because I don’t want to turn this discussion back on me.

  “It’s nothing. What were we talking about?” He narrows his eyes and studies me for a moment. Asking without asking. Can I help? Do you want to talk about it? And I don’t want to do any more talking right now. It’s overrated. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Just don’t, okay? I just want to sit here and drink this beer that tastes like shit and feel the breeze start to pick up as the storm moves in, and enjoy the silence without being alone. Can you understand that?”

  When I finally look over to him, his eyes meet mine with more understanding than I expected. He holds my gaze for a moment before acknowledging my request with a slow and steady nod.

  “I can understand that more than you’ll ever know.”

  Chapter 5

  GETTY

  Thunder rattles the windows in the early morning. The clouds swirling and tumbling across the horizon block any sunlight.

  The weather fits my mood and the mood is reflected on the canvas in front of me. Dark splashes of color rich in hue marble together to reflect a violent sky ready to erupt.

  Music plays in my earbuds—a hard beat, a deep bass—and yet I couldn’t tell you the lyrics if I tried, because I’m so focused on what’s in front of me. I’m so engrossed because with each stroke of my brush, a part of my past leaves me with the movement.

  Criticism. Control. Punishments. Expectations. Requirements. And the list goes on from my old life. My monochromatic one.

  I dip my brush in a deep blue and slide it across the canvas.

  Your art isn’t allowed in this house. It will amount to nothing. Good wives host parties. They have tea and join the Women’s League and their job is to make their husbands look better. Not this ridiculous bullshit.

  My thumb smears the blue with the gray. A wash of two colors together. Blending into the background.

  Ethan doesn’t mean it, Gertrude. He’s a man focused on business and making it a success. He doesn’t have time for your female idiosyncrasies. You can’t blame him that you didn’t do your job properly. God, how I wish your mother was still around so she could show you how to be a proper lady, because regardless of how much schooling I’ve paid for, for you, you seem always to fail at it.

  Dark gray right on the center. Harsh strokes. Pressing the paint into the canvas until it bleeds into its fibers.

  What do you think you were trying to pull tonight, Gertrude? Do you think I don’t know you wanted Fred? I saw you talking to him. I saw you laugh differently. I saw you flirt. Do you really think any man would find you attractive? For Christ’s sake, look at you. You’re ten pounds overweight. Your makeup is smeared like a damn teenager. Do you think anyone else would ever want to fuck you? It’s a chore to make myself hard enough to do it. You should thank your lucky stars you have me, because no one else would take you. Now get on your knees and give me a proper apology.

  Tears on my cheeks. Salt on my lips. The storm on the canvas and on the other side of the window feels nothing like the one I rage against daily inside me. Dabs of white. The froth of an angry ocean. The sign of churning turmoil. Of the ocean fighting against the shore.

  Don’t walk out that door, Gertrude. That is an order. I will cut off your trust. Your credit cards. Everything. This is just a phase. You don’t really want to divorce Ethan. No Caster has EVER been divorced. You just need to be more compliant and do what he says. If he’s happy, then the company will remain in good standing and everything will be better. Gertrude. Get back here. Gertrude!

  I fan black around the edges. Darkness. Sadness. Loss. All mixed together in an endless cycle.

  The dark of night: my car packed with clothes and mementos of the woman I don’t really remember but have the invisible scars to prove I used to be.

  The bank manager: I’m sorry but all withdrawals need to be signed for by both parties on the account. And it seems to me that your debit card has been canceled as well. Hmm. How very odd.

  The pawnshop. My jewelry lining the countertop. Diamonds and emeralds and platinum and rubies. Trinkets of a life I was a part of but really didn’t participate in now turned into a means to help me get something of my own.

  The phone call to Darcy out of the blue. Biting back my pride. Asking for help from my mother’s oldest friend, to whom I hadn’t spoken in forever. Her offer to stay in a house they had just bought to fix up and resell. On an island off Washington. Was that far enough? The bickering over her refusing to take rent. Her promise of secrecy to keep my whereabouts from everyone. Her admission she’d always hated my father.

  Driving off the ferry. Stepping foot onto the island. A breath of fresh air. Feeling hope for the first time in as long as I could remember.

  A deep breath. Yellow on the brush. A splash of color. A ray of light in this bleak storm. The sun trying to break through the darkness.

  I set the brush down, unsure if the picture is done but knowing I am for now, worn out from the gamut of emotions that sitting with Zander on the bench last night unexpectedly stirred up. I’ve been here for months. Yes, I’ve had a few moments of sadness and some nights where the tears didn’t stop, but at the same time I know I’m in a better place now. I can acknowledge that I’m slowly crawling out from under that veil of criticism that weighed so heavily I actually believed it.

  How weak of a person could I have been to put up with it? Year after year. Criticism after criticism. Apology after apology. To not have walked away? To still believe his words hold some merit?

  The tears slide silently down my cheeks. Fat odes to a past I’ll never go back to. To a place I’ll never allow my self-esteem to accept again. To a life of pretenses where people judge a book by its cover and believe a wife’s continued apologies and excuses for things that were never her fault to begin with.

  The music continues in my earbuds, a melancholy song about lost love, and a part of me wishes I could experience that grief. A deep sadness over leaving the person you know is your soul mate, the other half to make you whole. Because I had none of that, felt none of that. I was nothing to Ethan but a voodoo doll to manipulate as he saw fit. I was nothing to my father but a pawn in his business maneuvers—a means to keep his acquisitions in good standing.

  Time has given me that clarity. Distance has allowed me to realize that the only love I lost was for myself.

  And yet it’s still a battle to move forward, to forget, and to find worth in myself.

  A movement out of the corner of my eye scares the shit out of me. When I startle, my knee hits the tray in front of me and causes supplies to fall to the ground with a clatter.

  “Jesus!” I bark out as I rip the earbuds from my ears. My pulse spikes erratically and my heart pounds as if it’s been jump-started in my chest.

  Zander holds his hands up in an I’m sorry motion as he moves into the room. “I knocked,” he s
ays, motioning to my earbuds and then back to the door, “but you didn’t answer.”

  “And you invited yourself in?” I move out of the alcove and into the bedroom. My voice comes out less than friendly, which I won’t apologize for, since he’s the one invading my personal space. My gaze instantly flickers to the myriad of things around the room that are mine and private: the prescription for sleeping pills on the nightstand, my bra hanging haphazardly over the back of the chair, a mess of clothes still inside out near the vicinity of the hamper, the stack of designer clothes the local consignment shop has listed on eBay to sell for me to help make ends meet, the canvases stacked one upon another leaning against the wall.

  Oh God. My paintings.

  Before the thought even really computes, Zander is moving toward them with the strangest look on his face.

  “No,” I gasp. The thought of him seeing my work has paralyzed me. Caused panic to tickle the back of my neck and bring a tsunami of insecurities and fears of criticism.

  Silence settles as he moves from painting to painting. Then the rumble of thunder from outside. My mind wills my feet to move, to protect my most intimate feelings that are splashed across a canvas, but I’m frozen. Ethan and my father may have criticized my scribbles in charcoal, chastised me for an occasional mention of how I’d like to paint too, but no one has ever seen what I’ve started in this new medium.

  “Getty.” His voice is soft, full of something I can’t quite place, and all I know is the lump in my throat feels like it’s the size of a baseball, because I’m having trouble swallowing over it. “These are . . .”

  “No. Please . . . just . . . Zander . . .”

  “Incredible.”

  It’s awe. The sound in his voice is awe.

  I watch him in my disbelief. The chance to sit back and let someone finally see my art proves stronger than my innate need for privacy.