by K. Dicke
“That’s super. What was Sarah busy doing today?”
“She was going to her car and I was checking out a Mustang for a friend.”
“It’s really nice of you to help Derek with his car. The guys at the repair shop have been robbing him blind and he’s broke as it is.” I pulled a bottle of water out of my backpack and cracked the seal. “But you work on boat engines, right?”
“Boat motors. My dad was a mechanic. I grew up looking at engines.”
“And your mom? Did she design jet skis?”
“No, she was into religion, deeply into religion.”
I lay back on the blanket and gazed at a full moon that was trapped between layers of gray chiffon in a sky of black marble. The waves quietly lapped the shore and the breeze smelled slightly of iodine—briny and wonderful.
“Are you sure you want to leave The Mustang parked at Boy Wonder’s?” I yawned twice.
“Huh?”
“At Nick’s. He’s a pyro, randomly makes bonfires. Last week he chopped up an end table, dumped lighter fluid on it, and almost set the roof on fire.”
“That explains the mammoth clouds of smoke lately.” He got down on his side next to me. “I’ll move it when you’re ready to head home.”
“How was your trip? Where’d you go?”
“J Bay. Epic.” He slurred the last word as only a surfer does.
“Where’s that?”
“South Africa.”
“You went to Africa to surf?”
“Waves are glass there this time of year. Had to go. It’s in my blood.”
Hardcore.
He described the coast of South Africa, the big waves at Dungeons, and his love for Jefferys Bay, where the ocean was alive with dolphins and several species of shark: Great Whites, bulls, tigers, and hammerheads. He told me about a preserve where you could see the Indian Ocean meeting the Atlantic, two vastly different climates of water colliding in a maelstrom. He said he’d always wanted to go the top of Table Mountain by cable car but never had enough time, always having to get in one last session. When I asked where else he’d surfed I was blown away by his answer. He’d been all over the world. Every continent, faraway islands, to places I wouldn’t guess would be surfable or rideable or whatever.
“I thought about you most of the time I was away.” He shifted an inch closer to me. “Did I cross your thoughts?”
“A few times.”
Captured by his eyes, I wanted him to kiss me like he had before. The stare was held for three seconds, probably less, but confirmed my wish and his interest. Soft lips glided across my cheek to my lips and he kissed me slowly and lightly. Over and again, he tilted his head left then right, his nose skimming my nose, his mouth brushing mine. I drifted one hand down his shoulder and arm as his fingers traced my cheekbone and ran through my hair. He kept his body from mine, but the gentleness of his touch had a density that was pulling me under. He was the ocean. I felt waves move over me, drenching my skin, my clothes saturated and heavy. It had to be a creation of my mind, but felt so real. The sensation dragged through me, my eyes heavy, oxygen sealed in my chest. He kissed my face, my lips, and my neck. My breathing and heart rate slowed. I was drowning.
I woke with my head on his chest, huddled close to him with his arm around me. Why am I here? My brain labored to recall the prior night. Stripy snakes, was really tired. But I had no recollection of being so drowsy that I would fall asleep, especially outside on lumpy sand, much less while we’d been making out. He’d kissed me until I’d fallen away, for long enough that I hadn’t flinched from the static when we touched. The last thing I remembered was that he was whispering … something. What did he say?
His eyelashes fluttered. I sat up, pulled my legs to my chest, and set my forehead on my knees to hide the mortification on my face.
“This is nice. I haven’t slept on the beach in a while.” He rubbed my back.
“I can’t believe I fell asleep.”
“I can’t believe I fell asleep.” He sat up and stretched his arms. “I left the Mustang at Boy Wonder’s.”
His fingers combed my hair, dissolving the tangles, and his cheek came across the back of my neck before sitting on my shoulder. The sun was rising, the sand blushed pink. Rays of coral and orange tinted the surface of the water, shadows from the birds overhead falling through the colors. I remembered. He’d whispered that I was so beautiful. No one had ever said that to me. I kept my eyes on the waves and took in the peacefulness of the deserted beach, until a piece of driftwood was deposited at my feet. The ocean’s reach was coming too far.
“It’s high tide? What time is it?” I asked.
“Spring tide.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Eight.”
“Spring tide?”
“When the moon and sun reinforce each other’s gravity it makes the highest high tides and the lowest low tides.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
He rose, offered his hand, and pulled me up. Big spark. Our eyes met and held. My mind went blank and I was overpowered by an unfamiliar feeling. It started slowly, like a jet on a runway, and accelerated ferociously. All my energy was thrust into my stomach as every color of light flashed in front of my eyes. Whatever was happening to me was happening to him, because he was wearing the same bewildered look. His head twisted to the side at the same time mine did and his body remained as motionless as mine. The brightly colored lights dimmed to sparkles and a melody started, a melody so painfully exquisite I was captivated by the notes. Blue eyes stared into green and green into blue, and the music spoke to me. It spoke of his soul, the aspects of him that related to me—his attraction, faith, and devotion, and a persevering hope that was as calm and fluid as the waves. At that moment, I knew him or had an understanding of him or was given a glimpse of who he was. It was impossible, but it was happening. The three simple phrases of song repeated, winding around one another into a braid of perfect consonance. It sounded in my ears over and over, strengthening in my memory. The lapse of time or space that had me standing still tapered away, but we kept staring at each other. He stepped to me and without a thought I put my arms around his waist and my face against his chest. He rested his head on mine, his arms holding me to him.
“Did you hear it?” I whispered.
He didn’t respond.
A seagull squawked. What the hell just happened? Snap out of it! I backed away, picked up the blanket, and shook it out. As the corners came together, I glanced at him. He was still staring at me.
“How?” he said softly.
“What?”
He pressed his palms together and brought his hands to his lips. “Uhhh … coffee?”
“Yeah.” Or brain transplant.
We went up to the house and I began making an omelet using what I could find in the fridge: leeks, mushrooms, and Swiss. The activity was distraction, a means to put my attention elsewhere and set aside the perplexing event that had me seeing lights and hearing things.
After breakfast, I picked up my bag.
“Don’t go.” He went with me to the door.
“I need to shower. You have Derek’s car. I’ll see you at Nick’s later, or you know.” I need a break, time to sort out the intense feelings I’m having for you that I shouldn’t.
I wasn’t infatuated with him. I didn’t love him. What had happened in that ten or twenty or ninety second transmission was something more knowing than love and I had no idea what it was.
I got my car from Nick’s, dismissed Derek’s prying questions about what I’d been doing, and went home. I was coming out of the shower when Deborah called to talk to me about The Bakery. She sounded exhausted, as exhausted as I was. And that’s all that happened this morning. I’m tired and imagined the moment and those feelings. But I knew I hadn’t imagined it. Dripping wet with a towel held to my chest, I wasn’t cold even though the air conditioning blew across my skin. I still felt his warmth as though he were standing behind me, his arm draped across my shoulde
rs. Everything’s okay. I’m just goin’ crazy.
In an effort to keep my sanity, I sat down on the bed with a notebook in my lap and a pencil in my hand. My mind recounted the measures I’d heard earlier in the morning. They were simple but too profound to be lost, and I penned the notes on a blank sheet. It wasn’t enough for a refrain, but I couldn’t let something so perfect slip away. I finished, smiled, and then saw Sarah standing by my dresser.
“I’m off to Pilates. Can you do me a favor?” She pulled at the waist of her yoga pants.
“Sure.”
“Don’t pick up my stuff and don’t wash my towels again. Don’t clean!”
But the lampshades are all dusty.
For the next three weeks, when I wasn’t working and he wasn’t at the marina, Jericho was with me. He had a knack for showing up whenever I was on the beach or at Nick’s, alone or with Sarah. Considering his looks, I should’ve been a stuttering mess but when I was with him I was very relaxed. I became accustomed to the feeling of his hand in my hair and a sense of calm that came with it. He also had me doing push-ups every few days, preparation for being able to pop up on a board. He had the decency to do them with me and didn’t laugh when I maxed out at seventeen the first time. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to learn to surf. It seemed fun enough, but looked super-crazy hard. And surfing wasn’t like hitting a tennis ball. The ocean was dynamic, its waves in a constant state of flux. And water was destructive, arguably the most powerful force on earth. He assured me I’d be comfortable and we’d take it in steps, unlike Boy Wonder’s philosophy of “monkey see, monkey do.”
I didn’t know anything about Jericho’s sport and his taste in tunes was borderline acceptable, but we found middle ground for conversation like childhood phobias, local news, and cars. I was deathly afraid of jellyfish, he had a fear of bees, and we shared a great dislike of coral snakes. He hated Brussels sprouts. He couldn’t believe I didn’t like chips or fries and the idea that he didn’t eat peanut butter was unthinkable. Everyone likes peanut butter.
It really seemed we had nothing in common. Except that from time to time, when I was working on something, a song in my head, I’d see his head swaying a bit. I knew the signs: music fueled his soul just like it did mine.
_______
I’d left my book at his house and stopped by to retrieve it on a Tuesday afternoon. A woman answered the door. I stood there slack-jawed, my brain refusing to put two and two together because she couldn’t have been older than thirty-three and was way too cool.
“Sourdough!” I smiled big. “I’ve missed you.”
“Hi, Kris. I’ve missed you and my morning éclairs. Come in, sweetie, and excuse the mess. This is my husband, Donovan.”
I entered a tidy house and waved to a man who was sitting on the couch, reading a manual of some sort. His feet were flat on the floor, his back straight.
He glanced up at me for a second, an awkward smile within his William Tell beard. “Hello.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Yes.”
She sat at an easel in the center of the room. I peeked over her shoulder at a painting of the ocean threshing a cliff side.
I motioned to the walls. “Omigosh, did you do all of them?”
“Some of them are paintings and some of them give me bad dreams but Donovan hangs them up anyway.”
“Stop it. They’re beautiful.” I put two fingers to my temple. “I’m sorry, but what is your name, McCartney?”
“Julia McCarthy, but I like Sourdough.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I left a book on the deck and was hoping it was still here.”
She stretched left and took my read off the credenza. “Are you here for Jason?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Jason.”
I looked around, unsure.
She giggled. “Jericho. I forget that I’m the only person who calls him by his first name. What’s your bakery name for him?”
“He didn’t have one, but he’d probably be Muffin-Sometimes-Cookies. I haven’t heard from him for a couple of days, so I guess I decided to be nosy and come over under the pretense of getting this book. I’m a little embarrassed to be admitting that.”
“Don’t be. We have a fishing operation in Maine. If there are problems with the boats, Jason often goes to oversee the work. I expect he’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Really? Wow, that’s kinda—” I stopped myself from finishing the sentence because it was absolutely none of my business.
“Like no one in Maine knows how to fix a motor?”
“I was gonna say real expensive.”
“It is. The captains handle most of the work, but the guy we’ve been using for the major repairs retired. Jason’s there to get the new guy up to speed on the armada.”
I eyed Donovan again. I swore I’d seen him before. Or maybe it was that Julia had described him to me, called him stern or authoritative and then laughed like crazy. He did seem pretty stiff. Opposites attract.
When Jericho had told me he lived with friends of his parents, I’d pictured them to be older, like my mom. I wasn’t disappointed; Sourdough was one of my favorite people. The strange thing was that she didn’t seem surprised to see me at her back door.
_______
After work, I waited for Derek’s last table to clear and we went to Nick’s. I made a couple of cheese sandwiches, the fridge and pantry having nothing better to offer, as usual.
He went out to the patio. “Jericho’s an okay guy.”
I put my hand on my chest. “I’m so happy you approve.”
“I didn’t say I approved. Walk?”
“’Kay.”
We ambled down the beach and he told me about his new temp job in Rockport, a stone’s throw from Pam’s place. I couldn’t blame him for giving Crazy Jim’s his notice. He wasn’t making nearly enough to cover his fall tuition. And he always got stuck cleaning the men’s room, which was totally beneath him.
I touched his arm. “I’ve offered before, but seriously, you can have my insurance money from Dad’s death. I want you to have it.”
“Don’t feel right about it. I owe you a couple hundred as it is.”
“But if you use it, something good will come out of it and you don’t owe me anything.”
He shook his head. “Can’t. You might really need it someday.”
I took a few more bites. “Dude, I think I have a brain tumor.”
He laughed, looked at me, and then laughed again. “I’ve thought that for years.”
“I’m serious. I’ve been seeing things, like that fog I told you about, and bright lights like when Nick wiped out, and since the concussion it’s gotten worse. My eyes aren’t working right.”
“Yeah, well, your ears don’t work right either.”
I groaned.
“Edwards, don’t take this the wrong way but whenever you come across something you can’t figure out with scientific reasoning, you get like this. I mean, take the fog. Is it possible that fog just happens sometimes? Was it possible that someone, God help them, dumped something noxious into the water and what you saw was fumes from the chemicals? And when Nick wiped out, it was just the sun.”
I thought about it. When I’d seen the mist at The Bakery it had been dark. Maybe the unit had been overheating. Maybe if the coils hadn’t gotten enough airflow, it had iced up and was defrosting, the condensation seeming sparkly because of the fluorescents. But that didn’t explain the lights I’d seen on the beach that morning with Jericho or the light in his eyes. Yep, brain tumor.
I was off for the weekend and went to Austin. I spent the night with Mom, tickling her pink and silly. She made me play duets with her on the piano and I acted like I didn’t enjoy it, but I did.
At two in the morning, there was a noise outside that I couldn’t place. I’m okay. My ceiling at home looked the same—bumpy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He opened his bedroom door and slowly stepped into the living room,
his hand on the jamb. “I feel like crap.”
“We found you on the driveway. You’ve been down for two days. Donovan said you took a fair amount of dark energy.” She got up, filled a glass one-third full with water, and gave it to him. “Kris stopped by. I told her you were in Maine.”
“Maine?”
“I panicked. What happened?”
“I got signaled, arrived, saw the rats, got ambushed by a dark, and fought like hell. I’m okay now, just dizzy.” He eased himself onto the sofa and barely tipped the glass to his lips. “You understand what this means?”
“They’re using rats as bait to get us … my gods.” She sat on the coffee table. “I hate to ask this now, but was one of the rats a prostitute?”
He held his stomach. “How’d you know?”
“I met with Phoebe the other day, remember her?”
“Yeah, she uh, heads up the women’s shelter or …” He took two long swallows.
“Don’t drink so fast. She told me two working girls have gone missing in the last two months. She thinks it’s a serial killer.”
“The darks are serial killers.”
“When you feel better would you help me out and whisper to a few of them? I know it makes you uncomfortable, that it makes you feel—”
“Like a perv?”
“They’re just such easy pickings. I want to get as many off the street and back on their feet as fast as I can. Are you—” She ran across the room, grabbed a trash can, and put it between his legs just as the water came back up.
_______
It was a pretty morning. Not too hot and the sandpipers were animated, hopping and fluttering across the shore on long, skinny legs. Sylvia was asleep a few chairs away. Her build had been slender to begin with but she had become too thin, her skin ashen from too much nightlife. Before she’d passed out she’d told me that Joel was taking her to paradise, that she needed a tan to be more attractive.
