by Lori Lansens
As they drove, Mary glanced sideways at her passenger. “You said it’s been years since you saw the ocean. Why?”
“Time. Circumstances. I have other obligations.”
“But you used to take your family to the ocean?”
“I used to take my family to the ocean. We never swam, though. I was fifteen when we moved down from Michigan. A boy drowned that summer. My mother wouldn’t let me go in past my knees. She was afraid I’d be carried out by the riptides.”
“Sounds like my mother. In the winter she was afraid I’d fall through the ice.”
“My mother had a dream. A vision of me drowned in the sea.”
“That’s awful. What an awful thing to be told.”
“I don’t swim. To this day I’ve never been in past my knees.”
“But you’re so strong.”
“I wouldn’t let my boys go in past their knees either.”
“Did your wife think you were crazy?”
“She believed in visions too. Miracles.”
Mary did not have to ask if Jesús believed in those things. “Wishing on shooting stars.”
“Of course.”
“I never swam much,” she said.
“Afraid?”
“Not of the water.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence, soothed by the rising hills.
Once parked at the roadside, they agreed to a short walk in the surf. Night had fallen but Mary felt safe in his company, stealing his strength to make her way through the sand. “It’s so dark,” she said.
“That’s why it’s the best place to see the stars.”
“How do you say stars in Spanish, Hay-su?”
“Estrellas.”
“Es-tray-as,” she repeated. Lifting her eyes, Mary beheld the sky, and was suddenly stricken by sadness for the collective of souls to which she’d once belonged, standing on their cold tile floors with their noses in refrigerators, needles in their arms, cigarettes in their mouths. She inhaled the salty air, fixed on making a memory—the water, the breeze on her shorn silver scalp, the dazzling estrellas before her.
At the water’s edge they took off their shoes and rolled up their pant legs. Mary was glad for the cover of night when she asked, “Who do I remind you of, Hay-Su? That day, you said I reminded you of someone.”
“My fifth-grade teacher. Miss Maynard. Mary Maynard.”
“I remind you of your teacher?”
“I broke my leg that November I turned ten, and for the whole winter I had to stay in with Miss Maynard at recess and lunch. She gave me licorice whips and extra worksheets. Told me how smart I was. Once she kissed my forehead. I never wanted spring to come.”
“She looked like me?”
“She said my name just how you say it Hay-Su.”
“Was she big? Like me?”
“Yes,” he answered plainly. “She smelled like cookies. Pretty green eyes. I had such a crush on her.”
The rolling ocean scored their journey through the sand. “Let’s walk up that way,” Jesús suggested.
“Hay-su?” she called into the night. “I can’t see you.”
He stepped back, finding her at the water’s edge. “Take my hand.”
She reached out, feeling for his fingers, the pleasant shock of joining palms. They walked on, leaving footprints in the sand that were instantly stolen by the pulsing water. She could not remember the last time she had held Gooch’s hand. Had she known what was to come, she would never have let go.
“Can you see that crest there?” Jesús asked, gesturing at a faint shadow in the distance. “That’s the best place to see the whales. They come so close.”
“I’d like to see that.”
“They migrate in the spring.”
Mary stopped, realizing. “I won’t be here in the spring.”
“Your husband will be back before that.”
Mary joined him in gazing at the sky. “My husband isn’t coming back.”
“You’ve heard from him?”
She wagged her head in the blackness. “No. I just wanted to say it out loud. See what it felt like.”
“What did it feel like?”
“Pretty much what I imagined.”
“You’re done waiting?”
She fell silent.
Jesús set his hands on Mary’s shoulders, turning her to look up at the sky. “Fall is a good time of the year to see the Andromeda constellation.” She followed his pointing hand. “Perseus. And there, below, see the V-shape?—Andromeda. And below that the square—Pegasus.” He searched the sky a while longer. “Pisces. The fish. Can you make it out?”
“Pisces. That’s me. I’m supposed to be artistic and sensitive.”
“Are you?”
In the darkness she turned toward him, taking his face in her hands, pressing her mouth to his, an impulse as shocking to the kisser as it was to the kissed. She stopped, feeling his lips cold and rigid. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t.”
“I don’t know why I did that.”
“It’s forgotten,” he said crisply. “Come on. Let’s walk.”
She was hot with humiliation. “I didn’t imagine … I don’t imagine …”
“Please, Mary.”
“I do know why I did that,” she said. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid I might never be kissed again. My husband is not coming back.” My husband is not coming back. The ocean breeze swept up the words and tossed them to the fates to make destiny.
“Come on, let’s walk,” he said. He was moving swiftly, pulling her by the hand. She stumbled.
“Can we stop? Please?” she asked.
He stopped.
“I’ve been Gooch’s wife for twenty-five years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“If I’m not Gooch’s wife, I don’t know who I am.”
“You have to make it up as you go.”
“What’ll I do, Hay-su?”
“You’ll do what you do.”
“I don’t do anything.”
“Then do something, Mary.”
“I wish it were that easy.”
“Who said it was easy?” he asked. “Keep telling yourself the worst part is over.”
“I didn’t get to say goodbye. I think that’s the worst part,” she said. Then she remembered the cruel denial of farewell this man had suffered. “Oh Hay-su, I’m so sorry.”
He pulled his hand free, his voice tight. “Don’t feel sorry for me. Please. Don’t pity me.”
She was startled by his swift transformation. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t look to me for answers, Mary. I don’t talk about it. I don’t think about it. I have no survival strategies. I rely on clichés just like everybody else—one step at a time, one day at a time. I didn’t mean for you to get the wrong idea.” She opened her mouth. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t apologize. Please. Just don’t say anything.”
The energy between them had shifted. The connection was lost. They said no more as they trudged back through the sand toward the road where they’d parked the truck. They drove back to Hundred Oaks in thick silence, like lovers after a spat, uncertain who’d thrown the first punch, or what exactly hurt, or why.
At the curb in front of Jesús García’s house, Mary waited as he paused with his hand on the door handle. Together they said, “Good night.”
He started for the walkway, then suddenly raced back. She rolled down the window, massaging her breastbone where her heart had cracked in half.
“Christmas,” he said, wincing.
“Yes.”
“It’s in two days.”
“It is? Yes, it is.”
“Will your mother-in-law be back?”
Mary nodded. “Yes.”
“You’re lying.”
“She’s staying in Santa Barbara.”
“You’ll be alone.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You can’t be alone on Christmas.”
“
I don’t mind.”
“You’ll come here.”
“No. I couldn’t, Hay-su. I’d make your family uncomfortable.”
“They won’t notice.” He flashed that brilliant grin. “I’ll pick you up in the truck when they’ve gone to church in the morning. I won’t take no for an answer.”
Mary hesitated before answering. “Thank you.”
The kindness of strangers. She reckoned that someone had been similarly kind to Jesús in the days after his devastating loss, and he was returning the cosmic favour. She cleared her throat. “I know you don’t think … I know you could never think …”
“It’s nice to be with someone who didn’t know you before,” he said.
“Yes. Yes it is.”
“I’ll pick you up at ten.”
She nodded, cringing as the pain travelled from her heart to the spot between her eyes.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” she lied.
“You sure?”
She nodded.
Jesús García glanced back twice as he made his way up the short walk and lifted his arm in a wave before disappearing into the house.
Driving the road to the Willow Lowlands, Mary attempted to draw deep calming breaths, which left her gasping for air. The pain between her eyes was not to be borne.
In the kitchen she reached for the pain pills from her tote bag. Her heart thumped in rhythm with the cricket outside the sliding glass doors.
Hear me roar, she thought.
THE NIGHT CLOCK
The following day Mary couldn’t focus on the morning papers, her thoughts drifting to Jesús García, replaying the scene at the ocean, fretfully anticipating Christmas at his home. She was sure the man regretted making the invitation as much as she did her acceptance. She would ruin Christmas for the family with the shoes at the door, and if he couldn’t take her pity, she didn’t want his either. She considered driving to the Pool’s Gold office to leave him a note but worried that the gesture might be misunderstood by his employer. In the kitchen, feeling lonely for Eden, she boiled water for tea.
Ignoring the call of the fridge and the shouts from the cupboards, she climbed into the big truck and headed for the bank. Emery Carr did not raise a brow when she asked for help in withdrawing three thousand dollars in cash. His expression said, You go, girl. Still, he could not help from worrying. “You shouldn’t be walking around with so much cash, Mary.”
Feeling the load of money in her blue purse, Mary didn’t wonder if the depleted bank account would drive Gooch back to her. And had not factored him into her decision to withdraw it, except to excuse herself from feeling guilty. The lottery money had been both liberation and bondage. Had financed an escape and funded a journey. Its presence felt bound to Gooch, and she had an urge to dispense with it the way she had with the vigil for her wayward husband. Of course, she knew she would need money for the future, but she was tired, too tired, for all but the most immediate of plans.
She considered driving to the mall in Hundred Oaks to shop for gifts for the children at Jesús García’s house but could not begin to guess at the number of children, or their ages. At the drugstore she saw a box of Feliz Navidad cards and decided to stuff them with the hundred-dollar bills Emery Carr had counted out at the bank, for the children and adults alike. She hoped Jesús would not take offence, but decided she didn’t care if he did. Standing at the counter, weak from malnutrition, she took a health bar from the display, replacing it at once when she felt queasy at the thought of the mush in her mouth.
Mid-morning already, and only a few men were left at the corner lot when she swung the big Ram into the dust. She moved toward the men at the utility pole, handing each a hundred-dollar bill from the wad in her purse, saying, Feliz Navidad, as they accepted her largesse. She avoided their eyes. She didn’t want gratitude for relieving herself of her burden.
She didn’t expect to see Jesús García among the men, but was disappointed nonetheless.
An unusually warm day for late December, even in southern California. Mary thought of Leaford. Seasons marking time. The autumn days spent driving to the lake to see the leaves change. Irma bringing the salt shaker to tap over the sour green apples they bought at the roadside stand. Hail. Crunching boots on the iced snow. Thunderstorms. Sullen skies. Merkel’s dogs barking in the distance.
The sun stung Mary as she made her way to the swimming pool. She had much to consider and thought the cold water might help revive her. She swam across the pool and stopped to tread water until her muscles ached. With barely enough strength to climb the ladder, she found a chaise at the pool’s edge where she stretched out on her front to dry her naked body in the sun. The woodpecker hammered at the eucalyptus above her head, ticking like the night clock, reminding her of her old life, but as if it had happened to someone else. She focused on her beating heart.
Mary had, in the days since leaving Leaford, dreamed a number of erotic dreams. Most of the dreams featured Gooch, and some, unsurprisingly, Jesús García. One dream of a sexual encounter with the darkly handsome man was so vivid that she was awakened by her body’s shuddering climax. So when she felt a finger prod her foot and heard a smooth voice whisper, “Mary,” she assumed it was another dream. But she opened her eyes and saw that the sun had shifted in the sky, and that Jesús was standing above her in his blue coveralls holding the pool skimmer, looking at her big white body burned scarlet by the sun.
“Oh my God,” she breathed.
“You’re burned.”
She attempted to rise but was reluctant to further expose herself. “In the house. Through the patio door. There’s a robe.”
Jesús returned after a moment, wincing at the sight of her pink thighs and back. “You’ll have to put something on that.”
“I will. I’m sure Eden’s got something in the house,” she said, slipping into the robe.
“You’re so pale. You think it’s a good idea to be out here sunbathing in the nude?”
“The pool guys usually come tomorrow,” she said. “I fell asleep.”
“Lucky for you I came today.”
“I’m so embarrassed.”
He shrugged. “Seen one pink Canadian, seen ’em all.”
“Why did you come today?”
“I switched the schedule. The other night you seemed …” He helped her into the house when it was clear she could not walk on her own.
“I’ll just find some lotion.” Mary started down the hall, groaning softly from the pain.
He stopped her. “Go lie down. I’ll look in the bathroom.”
She found Jack’s bed and stretched out prostrate, arms at her sides, stung from her neck to her ankles, the flesh of her red buttocks tortured by the weight of the thin robe.
After a moment, Jesús appeared carrying a large potted plant he’d found in the living room. “Aloe vera,” he said, breaking open one of the thick, spiky leaves, spilling cool, clear gel onto her burnt calves. “This’ll help. It will take the heat out.”
“Thank you,” she managed to say. “It’s so awful. I’m so sorry. You really don’t have to.”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind.”
“Really, Hay-su.”
“You can’t just leave it.”
His fingers pushed the gel up the backs of her thighs, stopping at the ridge of the bathrobe. “You’re … can you reach back here?”
Mary shrugged off the bathrobe, forgetting her nudity, desiring only the salvation of the cool gel on her flaming skin. “Please,” she whispered. With her eyes closed, she could not see him break another leaf from the plant, and could not imagine the expression on his face as he squeezed the gel onto her shoulders and dribbled it onto her lower back, and the mounds of her dimpled scarlet buttocks. He stroked the gel over her hills, his touch professional, like that of a doctor or a parent.
She tried not to moan. “Thank you.”
“You’re lucky it’s December and not July. It probably looks worse than it is.”
> “I wish that were true about everything. It looks worse than it is.”
He broke another leaf and another, her skin drinking in the healing fluid. She imagined that his hand was lingering on her thigh. She imagined that she felt a shift in his intentions. The telephone rang, startling them both. Mary reached for the receiver beside the bed.
“Hello?” She expected to hear Eden’s voice. Or Ronni’s. The calls had dwindled in the days after Jack’s death. It was an automated sales call, which she cut off abruptly.
Jesús stood. “I should go.”
“Wait. Are you hungry?” she asked, sitting up.
He ate the bread she cut, and helped himself to the vegetable lasagna she’d warmed in the microwave. Their comfort felt oddly post-coital, Mary naked under Jack’s old robe, Jesús wearing the blue coveralls stripped to his waist, white undershirt straining against his pectorals, biceps like hills with trails of blue veins. She could smell him, damp earth, chlorine.
“You’re not eating,” he said.
She shrugged.
“For a long time I couldn’t eat,” he said.
“I don’t want to make you talk about it.”
“I couldn’t swallow. I had this big lump in my throat.”
“My whole life I’ve tried to stop myself from eating too much. Now I can’t eat at all.”
“You can,” he urged, pressing the fork into her hand.
“I can’t.” A fait accompli. “I can’t.”
“You can’t live without food, Mary.”
“I’ll have to hope for a miracle.”
“You eat because you have to. You taste because you can. Sometimes you enjoy, because you’re alive.”
“Did you read that somewhere?”
“I live it.” He took her fork, scooped some of the food from her plate and lifted it toward her mouth. She shook her head slowly. “Open,” he whispered.
She put her hand over his. “What if I can’t stop? Once I start eating again. What if I can’t stop?”
“You can do anything,” he said. “There’s your miracle.”
She allowed her lips to part, overcome by the scent of tomato, red pepper, zucchini. She pulled the food into her mouth.
“Chew.”
She did, recognizing the sweetness of the creamy cheese, the bitter tinge of oregano and the bite of basil. Taste. Scent. He lifted another bite of food to her lips as she savoured his expression, like a small boy who’d just lured a feral cat. She wanted him to go on feeding her, but he handed her the fork and instructed, “A few more bites.”
