The screaming had melted into sobbing now.
"I'm sorry," Jeremy said through a ragged breath. "I thought I had it worked out."
We had broken a hole into the sheetrock big enough to get our hands through now. Jeremy dropped his two-by-four and began to tug at the panel, trying to pull it away from the studs. It didn't come away as easily as I would have expected, but gradually it did come away. And there on the other side, pinned between the insulating wall and a window frame, was Melissa Jenkins.
Thirteen-year-old Melissa Jenkins.
She was still alive. Still sobbing, but still alive.
Jeremy helped her out of the tight space. She appeared dazed, and somewhat disoriented. For a moment, all she could do was glance back and forth between us, as if she were trying to put names to our faces but couldn't quite make the right connections. Then she stared down at the front of her dress, where a strap had been badly torn.
"I'm sorry," Jeremy said again, this time to Melissa. He tied the two ends of the strap together, as gentle and as loving as I had ever seen a man. Then he closed his eyes, and in an instant, Melissa Jenkins was gone.
I suppose I already had a fairly decent idea of what had just happened. It had happened to Andy Bale some twenty-odd years ago. And it had happened to a neighbor's cat sometime before that. Still, I asked the question anyway. "What did you do?"
"I sent her back," Jeremy said.
"Four days later?"
He nodded.
I stared, somewhat numbly, at the hole in the sheetrock, wondering what we had just done. "You know she'll never be the same."
"I know." He brushed back his hair, wiped the white dust off the front of his pants, and looked at me with all the darkness gone out of his eyes. "If I could have gone back and fixed things myself, I would have. It just doesn't work that way.”
"You nearly raped her, didn't you? Then you panicked, and that's why she ended up here, back in the attic of the old house, some twenty years later. This was where it happened, isn't it?"
"She was beautiful," he said quietly. "And when it got out of hand, she started screaming, and …”
Jeremy didn't need to finish. We both knew what had happened next. In that way of his, that way of moving someone from here to there, from this time to some other time, he had willed her from that day to this. And today he had returned for the purpose of willing her back.
"That was the last time, though," he added, almost as an appeal. "At least until today."
Maybe the oddest thing of all was that I believed him.
Downstairs, I locked the front door and dropped the key back into my pocket. Jeremy stood at the edge of the porch, looking out across the yard, somewhere faraway in his thoughts.
"You don't have to be scared of me anymore, you know," he said.
I knew that was only partially true. He was trying, that much was obvious. But I didn't think the struggle was ever going to end for Jeremy, and how long it might be before the rage slipped through again was anyone's guess. "I wish I could believe that," I said.
"I came back, didn't I?"
"Yes."
"I didn't have to."
"No, I don't suppose you did."
"I just wanted to make things right," he said, turning to me as if he were hoping I would give him my approval.
I shrugged. "Why? I mean ... why now?"
"I don't know. I guess because I had to."
He gazed off into the distance again, without saying anything for a time, and when he looked back, I could see the toll that time had taken on this man. It was different from the toll that time had taken on me, though it wasn't so different that I didn't recognize it. Something happens as the years begin to slip away. I'm not sure I fully understand it, but I think it's a bit like one of the bad dreams we all have as children. As much as it scares us, we're always a bit saddened when it's over, because part of us wants to go back and see if we can make it turn out differently. I think a part of Jeremy wanted to go back, too. To see if he could make things turn out differently. Only it was too late for that now.
"There was a turning point," he said quietly. "Not long after what had happened with Melissa. I had gotten into an argument with my mother. I don't even remember what it was about now. Probably something stupid. But it was enough to stir things up inside me. I remember looking at her, and thinking how much I wanted to see her dead. I mean, kids think that kind of stuff all the time. You know that. They may not want to admit it, but it's there just the same.
"Anyway, I remember looking at her, wishing this terrible thing, and seeing a godawful look come into her eyes. It was the same thing I had seen in Melissa's eyes just before I had sent her away, and it stopped me right there, cold, realizing how close I was coming to doing it again."
Jeremy was looking through me now, the toll still showing on his face. "That was the first time, Dave, that I was able to stop it. And I haven't let it overtake me since then."
"I'm sorry," I whispered. The fear that had come with me this afternoon was gone now, replaced by something far more sympathetic. Jeremy Taft, of that long-ago, childhood summer, was a changed man. It had been a struggle for him, as I guess it was a struggle for all of us trying to make our way through adolescence and into adulthood. But his was a struggle that would always be with him. Silently, I wished him luck.
We didn't say much else after that. I stood on the porch and watched him drive away – headed where, I didn't know, because I didn't ask – and I felt a strange heaviness rise off my shoulders. I don't know if it was the fear I had been carrying all those years. Or if maybe it was the guilt about what had happened to Andy Bale that summer. But it lifted and I felt ready to get on with my life.
Much later, I tracked down Melissa in a small town set back in the mountains near the Oregon border. I kept remembering that time I had bumped into her outside the Morgan Five & Dime. She had been afraid of me that day. She had recognized me and she had been afraid. I wish I would have known it at the time.
She was living in a small group home, along with three other adults who were apparently having trouble adapting to the outside world. I gave it a good deal of thought before deciding to leave her to her own life. If she had seen me again, if I had frightened her, I'm not sure I could have lived with myself. So I left her alone, knowing that like Jeremy, she would be struggling with those long-ago demons for the rest of her life.
And maybe the hardest part for me that day was knowing that in her eyes, I would always be one of those demons.
Metanoia
The afternoon waves break cold and powerful against the fine sandy beach. In the distance, sixty-three year old Clayton Saunders can see the curve of Monterey Bay, the long piers of Fisherman's Wharf. The wind is blowing gently, whispering his wife's name in his ear. Ella. And the sun is hovering above the horizon like a giant eye, watching him the way Ella watches him. Don't blink an eye, Ella! Keep a watch on me! I'm depending on you!
Clayton kicks one foot at the sand, feels the wind blow the gritty crystals back at his face, and laughs. He feels alive again, the way it was when he was a child and the ocean sang songs to him, the way it is with Ella at his side—Look at the seagulls, Clayton! White and gray and as free as angels up there in the heavens! Can you imagine such a thing, Clay? Gliding against the breeze, feeling the wind ruffle your feathers? Can you, Clay?
He can.
When Ella's with him.
“You with me, Ella? You watching over me, with eyes that don't miss a trick, not the scurry of a sand crab or the sparkle of sunlight off a chip of abalone shell? You keeping a close eye on me?”
She laughs, and points to a lonely fishing boat on the horizon. “The ocean's calm today,” she says. “Cheryl's Pride is sitting as still as an anchor out there.”
“And what about the sailboats, Ella? Tell me about the sailboats.”
“No sailboats today, Clay. The wind's too soft, the afternoon's too late. The adventurous have already sailed their endless seas
and returned home again. No sailboats today.”
He stops, and leaning forward on the strength of a cane, he fills his lungs with the fresh ocean air. There's something cleansing about the breath of ocean, something that reminds him of those long ago days—before the sardines disappeared—when he worked in the canneries. The sardines have returned now. The ocean has a way of protecting its own, he thinks. The way a husband and wife look out for one another.
He can feel the warmth of the sun against his face, the warmth of the sand beneath his feet. And when he touches his tongue to the afternoon air, he can taste the ocean salt.
Everything's so alive.
They stop suddenly, Ella guiding him to his knees. “It's a sand castle, Clay. A beautiful castle made of seaweed and driftwood, with a moat and a drawbridge and a tower on each corner.”
And he knows she's thinking back to childhood sand castles of her own, castles with imaginary knights, and maidens in distress. He touches the castle, feels the warm sand tickle his palm, the cold sand chill his soul.
“It feels so real,” he says.
“Doesn't it, though.”
And they're walking again, feeling the cold ocean water underfoot, hearing the song of the breaking waves sing to them. These are his favorite times of life, these walks along the beach. And he wonders, only briefly, what he would do without his wife of thirty-six years at his side. Life would be empty, he thinks. And too lonely to imagine.
He tightens his grip on Ella, sending a silent message which he hopes she can read. I love you, woman. You're my breath, my life, my only sense of yesterdays and tomorrows. And you're right here with me, where you belong. How can I ask for anything more?
Children come racing by, laughing at the wind and the sea and the gulls. Their voices are younger than their faces, their faces are younger than their wisdom. They stop for a moment, and stare in silence until one asks, “Where you going, old man?”
“Nowhere,” Clayton answers. “From here to there and back again. Nowhere.”
“That's a long walk.”
“Only if you're alone,” Ella says.
“We're collecting,” Clayton adds.
The boy kneels to closer watch the wet sand squeeze through his curled toes. He giggles at the feel of it. “Collecting what?”
“Memories ... the ones we somehow left behind.”
“Oh,” he says, and it sounds as if he doesn't quite understand. How does one go about collecting memories? Then a new smile comes to him, and he asks, “Did you see our castle?”
“As real as the real thing?” Clayton says. “With walls thick enough to fight back the ocean, and a mote with alligators and crocodiles to snap their jaws at enemy soldiers? Is that one yours?”
“Yes, that's it!” the boy nearly shouts. “That's my memory, the one I'll keep with me until I'm as old as you. You don't have to leave memories behind, do you? Because when I think back to these days on this beach, I don't ever want to forget that sand castle. Not ever!”
Ella smiles. “You won't forget,” she says. “You never forget the things that are most important to you.”
“Not ever,” says Clayton.
And the boy is off again, running stallion-like down the beach with his friends, kicking up sand and splashes of ocean and seagulls.
“Wasn't he cute?” Ella asks.
“So young and so wise, wasn't he?”
The sun is dropping lower on the horizon, just beginning to dip below the line where ocean meets sky. And a breeze has risen from somewhere unseen, whispering louder of its presence.
They stop where the beach turns rocky. There's the sharp smell of kelp in the air, and on a faraway breeze, they can hear the voices of children giggling through a game of blind man's bluff.
“Can you hear them?” Clayton asks.
“I hear.”
“Johnny or Debbie or Billy or Sue!”
“It's just a child's game, Clay.”
“I know.”
They kneel where a small tide pool is nestled in the rocks. The water's cold and clear. And beneath its surface are black mussel shells clinging to rocks, and hermit crabs comically staggering across the sandy bottom. It's another world, there beneath the surface.
Ella grabs up a hermit crab and places it in Clay's palm. It shyly hides for a moment, then legs appear out of nowhere and they tickle when the crab tries to walk.
“He must feel lost,” Clay says. “Suddenly swept out of his world and into ours. Suddenly walking on an earth of aging flesh instead fine, moist sand. Perhaps he's frightened?”
“Perhaps,” says Ella. She takes the crab from his hand and returns it to the tide pool where it clumsily tries to make an escape. “Do you remember this place?” she asks then. “The first time we came here?”
“A memory left behind?”
“Not for me,” she says. “It was 1951, before Hyatt came along and plopped itself down in the middle of the beach, even before the sardines went away and Cannery Row dried up. Monterey was still small town back then. I remember. As if it were yesterday, I remember.”
Clay sits back against a rock, leans his cane against a neighboring rock. “This is it? This very spot? The very first place I brought you when we came to Monterey? The place where I knelt and held your hand and asked for your love? This is it? Where we set out on life together? Right here?”
“You weren't such a shy man then.”
“And you weren't such a shy woman,” he insists with a smile. He takes up his cane again, holds it in his lap where it feels more comfortable. “We'll come here again, won't we? Maybe tomorrow? When the sun is higher and the day is warmer?”
“If you'd like.”
“Yes,” he says. He stands and stretches and looks out to where the sun is half-buried by the horizon. “It helps when we visit old places.”
“I know.”
A wave breaks, and the ocean slides and weaves between rock walls until the tide pool next to where they're sitting is all foamy and white and twice as deep. A splash of seawater splatters their clothing.
Clay laughs, because it makes him feel younger than his years. “You think it's a hint?” he asks.
“Nothing so subtle as a hint,” Ella answers. “It's getting dark. The sun's setting, the Monterey lights are beginning to reflect off the ocean, the seagulls are folding up their wings for the night. Perhaps we should do the same?”
“It seems so soon that a good day ends
“I know.”
In the dark-orange evening, the beach reflects back the sinking sunlight and brightens their journey home. There is no finer time of day, thinks Clayton. These few fleeting moments—just an eye wink between evening and dark—are the times I love the most.
“A time for putting the day all in order,” says Ella. “Isn't it?”
“Just my thought.”
He takes up her hand and they walk quietly along the beach, well above the tide line. There are voices and laughter coming from inside the Hyatt as they pass by unnoticed. And across the bay, they can see the outline of the wharf lights against the darkness. It seems later than it is.
Home is a salt-eaten one bedroom house, painted white where the wood doesn't show through. Once, long ago, it was well protected from the ocean by an acre of sand and ice plant. Now, the ocean waits at its back gate, sometimes only a high tide away.
There is a long series of steps leading up from the beach to the back door of the house. An overhead light shines a white circlet over the area where the back porch is waiting. Clayton carefully works his way up the stairway, one step at a time, stopping to catch a breath every so often. Ella is as patient as ever with his snail's pace.
At the top of the landing, he stops and turns back to the ocean. In the distance, where the city lights can't reach, he remembers again of that time in their youth when he had proposed. It seems so long ago, yet almost yesterday. And he wonders how that can be. “Again tomorrow?”
“Would you like that?”
�
��Yes,” he says. “Very much.”
“Then of course!”
He fumbles in his pocket until he finds the key to the door, and with a jingle-jangle of key and lock, the door swings open to home. “Hurry on,” he says, as if it has been Ella lagging behind, and he closes the door behind her. “Home again, home again.”
Every square inch of this house he knows by heart. Every warped board and curled rug corner, every scar in the plaster, every chip in the paint. Thirty-four years of knowing, it's been.
He stops at the chair sitting next to the door and hooks his white cane over the headrest. “A game of blind man's bluff, Ella?”
“Like the children on the beach tonight?”
“Makes me wonder why not,” he says. “If them, why not us?”
“Perhaps another night,” she says, and she sounds tired.
“I understand. A long walk wakens the mind, and puts the body to sleep. I'm a bit tired myself. Blind man's bluff can wait another day.” He yawns, and shuffles across the living room floor to stand next to the fireplace mantle. There is a line of seashells displayed there—conch and cowries and cockleshell—and behind them a mirror that reflects his smile back at him. “Why didn't you tell me I looked so tired?” he asks.
“Because you look fine,” Ella answers.
“If old and tired is fine, I look fine,” he grumbles. In his hand, he holds the glass vial he's been carrying since morning. In the clear liquid alcohol of the vial, two bright blue eyes—one atop the other—float like bobbers. He uncaps the vial, dips a finger into the liquid, pulls out the top orb and gently places it into an eyecup at the corner of the mantle.
“I see you,” Ella teases.
Then Clayton fingers out the remaining eye and places it alongside the first. He adds a few drops of alcohol to the cups, and smiles. “Better?”
“Thank you,” Ella says
“My pleasure.” He slips off his jacket and blindly hangs it on the corner of the mantle where he knows it will be waiting for him the next morning. “It was a lovely day, Ella.”
“Sand castles and children, hermit crabs and memories. Why, it was a lovely day, wasn't it?”
Through Shattered Glass Page 8
