Washed Up with a Broken Heart in Rock Hall

by Peter Svenson

  Come wintertime, the northeasterly winds off the bay will blow the tides lower, the shops will close, the boats will be propped on dry land, and the tourists will go home. Rock Hall will contract to its locals-only self, a grid of modest homes behind mailboxes and manicured lawns.

  But winter is a long way off right now. Adjacent to the cottage, the beach is crowded, and Budge can’t help but eavesdrop. A party of municipal boosters—town councilmen?—has gathered at the nearest kiosk, and they’re bragging about how Rock Hall is destined for an infrastructural explosion along the lines of Oxford and St. Michaels, given another ten years or so and a chugging economy. Could this really come to pass? Budge doubts it, recollecting information gleaned from his Internet research. Twelve miles to the north is Chestertown—a niche destination of greater historical appeal, despite the fact that George Washington is said to have been ferried to Rock Hall no fewer than five times (on his way to Chestertown, it must be admitted). Chestertown’s population hasn’t changed significantly in 300 years, but change comes even more slowly to this nether end of Kent County. Proposed developments are battled strenuously and usually defeated. People resist the future here; they like things the way they are. Small town life on the eastern shore is based on the assumption that what’s here today will be here tomorrow.

  But what does he know? He is a stranger to the locale; his perceptions are warped, to say the least. He is floating free of everything that held him down before. He could be sitting at his desk, typing away at the computer, and poof!, cardiac arrest could wipe him out of existence (God’s flyswatter). Who’d miss him then? Not a damn soul. His parents: dead. His closest relatives: five states away. His friends: ha! what friends? His e-mail pals would assume he was out of town. When the rent came due, there might be an investigation into his whereabouts, but until then, nada.

  Do people implode when they have nothing or nobody to live for, he wonders? Do they just shrivel up and grow strange, relying on so-called inner strength to pull them into old age, at which point they disappear from society’s radar? Will he be walking at the edge of the highway while the luckier ones rocket past?

  With loneliness, Budge grows philosophical. He has been here only a few days, yet he is quite at a loss as to how to proceed. For several months now, he has fallen into the habit of talking to himself, or more specifically, talking to his estranged wife. Peering through a window at the throng on the beach, he starts doing it again.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve reduced me to? Do you realize how traumatizing it is to be treated like that? What you did and the way you did it—I just can’t get over it. How could you hold me in such low esteem? I was your husband, for chrissake.”

  Halting in mid-sentence, he excoriates himself loud and clear. “Stop this stupid shit right now, Budge Moss! Stop talking to her!”

  And he’ll stop for a few minutes, maybe even an hour or more, as he turns his mind to other matters. He’ll sit in the yard with Ragu and read last Sunday’s paper. He’ll attempt a crossword puzzle. He’ll whittle down his stack of subscription magazines (more should be forwarded to the new address any day now). He’ll pare his fingernails and toenails if he has nothing better to do. And because he’s a seasoned pro, it’s always fairly effortless for him to return to his métier.

  Rock Hall is the anchor to which the chain of my existence is now attached—a chain of gossamer, it seems, that connects the tatters of my old life to one yet to be lived. Beach Road is the bay floor; I will sink no lower. I’m here for the duration, whatever that entails, so it’s up to me to muster the courage. Being sunk, now I must learn to swim. I know what I’m supposed to do next: meet people. Yes, walk right up to ’em and smile. Interact, socialize, get a life, show what a nice normal friendly guy I am.

  He’s got the right idea, but implementation is no piece of cake. Heartsick thoughts worm their way into his conscious mind. Before he knows it, he has slipped into another imaginary scenario: his estranged wife is e-mailing him. Clearly, she is thawing; she may want him back.

  Thanks for your latest. I’ve been having second thoughts as well. I know you’re lonely (believe me, I’m lonely too), but I felt I had no choice other than to break away when I did. Cheers,

  And another:

  Am mailing a check to cover your expenses for hiring the truck to take the stuff I left behind to the landfill. I trust it’ll cover some of your labor, too, which I greatly appreciate. Wish I could pay more, but funds are tight with me right now, too. Cheers,

  Oh, he could invent them all day long. They pop into his head, one after the other, each an explanation, a query, an apology, a link in the chain between estrangement and reconciliation.

  Let me tell you, some days I look back and think that we both went temporarily insane. Just what exactly are you doing with yourself these days? And how do you like Rock Hall? Cheers,

  In his mind, he has proffered an invitation, and her imaginary response thrills him to no end.

  Dinner on Sunday at your place sounds great. Please give directions. How about if I bring one of your favorite desserts (a surprise for now)? Cheers,

  His favorite dessert, he thinks, would be served in bed: the human éclair.

  That was nice of you to invite me for margaritas on the beach. I’d love to come—can I get back to you after I check my calendar? Cheers,

  His problem is that he can’t stop. On and on his fancy flies. She is not exactly begging to take him back, but he knows her well enough to see the possibilities in her nuance. She is being coy; she just needs a little more time alone. Eventually, she’ll come to her senses, and when she does, she’ll adore him more than ever.

  This pleasant reverie continues as he washes the dishes and empties the garbage. It occupies his mind as he e-mails his buddies and checks the latest Ebay offerings. It may even go on while he brushes and flosses. Then, at some point, he figuratively smacks himself across the mouth. Cut this crap out! Quit this asinine pipedream now! She is not coming back. She has given you absolutely no indication that she is. She is gone, man, gone! Do you understand what that means? G-O-N-E, gone, like the wind. She’s made a complete break, she wants nothing to do with you anymore. You had some good years together, but they’re over, and you’ve got to move on. M-O-V-E O-N. Make more of an effort to meet people. Work harder to make new friends. You’re single again, revel in it! Stop thinking of yourself as an old soon-to-be divorced duffer. This celibate life is pointless. You’re too old to be jerking off! Forget the comfy conjugal memories—get out there and prove that you can still cut the mustard!

  Thus Budge takes himself to task. His mandate is simple enough. In two words: get laid. The sheer sexual relief—the real McCoy—would take the edge off his bitterness, dilute the residue of his humiliation. But no, it’s more complicated than that. He needs to restore his old confidence, a phoenix from the ashes. His coordinates can no longer be planted in the past. He must honestly say, “I’ve gotten beyond all that and now I need to reach out.” Only when he does this will his new life proceed where the old one went kaput.

  This is another reason why I chose the cottage by the beach: the opportunity to make new friends. But believe me, it’s taking some effort to crawl out of my shell! My first impulse has been to hold myself aloof from the beachgoers. But a week has gone by; I see the disadvantages to that strategy. Therefore, I resolve to spend more time outdoors.

  One of the beach’s primary functions, Budge learns, is a place to observe sunsets. A group of locals calling themselves the Sunset Club congregates on the boardwalk benches every evening. Mostly retirees, they’re a convivial bunch whose conversation regularly expands upon the whys and wherefors of Rock Hall politics. As a newcomer to the neighborhood, Budge is invited to sit and join in, although his presence tends to skew the topic of conversation. Self identified as a writer and single man, he is a bona fide curiosity—a topic in his own right.

  These folks arrive half an hour before the bright raspberry orb drops behi
nd the western shore, and stay until dusk when no mosquito repellent, brand-name or home-concocted, is strong enough to ward off the bloodsucking buzz bombers. With hurried farewells and slaps to bare skin, the group disperses. Only the people who’ve stayed in their vehicles with motors running and windows rolled up can hang around with impunity.

  Bidding my own adieus and smacking my own welts, I walk the few steps homeward. A drainage ditch (a breeding ground?) separates the beach from my yard, and I choose to jump over it rather than get my feet wet. My little cat is there to greet me; she appears to have no interest in the world beyond the drainage ditch, which will be—it is hoped—a factor in her continued longevity.

  Mornings at the beach offer a very different dynamic. There is usually nobody in sight until ten o’clock, when the weekend and weekly renters wander outdoors with their coffee cups. Two such transients always catch Budge’s eye—a pair of middle-aged women in bikinis. They stand—oiled, deeply tanned, their flesh gone slack though still appealing—on the lawn of the first cottage on the far side of the strand. One is a brunette, the other is a frosted blonde. They just stand there, smoking and drinking—evidently something harder than coffee—all morning, all afternoon. Sometimes there is a man with them.

  What keeps me from making their acquaintance? It would be the neighborly thing to do—casually stroll over and introduce myself. One of them is surely single and, by the looks of her, ready for some kind of action. It might be a quick solution to my ridiculous celibacy.

  But I quake at the thought of putting on a macho bonhomie act and running the risk of success. First of all, neither woman has that je-ne-sais-quoi. The vacuity of their never-changing stance is a turn-off. If one of them had a book or a magazine in her hands, I might think otherwise. But all they’re holding, all they ever hold, are cigarettes and (presumably) highballs.

  Second, neither appears as though she could offer sensitivity on the level I seek. I’m extrapolating here (and might be way off base), but there’s something in their sagging copper abdomens and Day-Glo busts, exposed for all the world to ogle, that predicates a hardness of mind. (I can be tough as nails myself, but only in the cause of defensiveness.) These women look like they’re telling the world to fuck off. I’m hesitant to come under their evaluating gaze. Besides, my heart has standards, damn it! I’m still too deep in the sex equals love equation. I guess I’ve done it that way too long.

  Thus he excuses himself from committing to substantive action. If the women are looking across the beach at him, they might be thinking, what a standoffish prick! Every day he’s staring out the window at us. Wonder what his problem is?

  Oh, he’s off to a great start all right—turning down one promising scenario after another. Lots of single women come to the beach—to sunbathe, wade, walk their dogs, hang out with friends. What does he do? He watches them as he formulates intellectual and aesthetic excuses for keeping his distance. If only he could get over what ails him! Lower the bar, drop his reserve, ignore the hurt that keeps waving a red flag in his face.

  He understands his problem and knows the havoc it is causing—this state of mind that constantly references the comforts of the past. It makes the present unappetizing, negates it almost. And yet the loudspeaker of his conscience barks in his ear: will the real Budge Moss please come to the claims counter and reclaim his life? And while he’s at it, will he at least make an attempt to rid himself of unnecessary baggage?

  This is how the first few weeks in the cottage pass—a lonely man mostly keeping his own company, venturing only as far as the boardwalk benches to socialize at sunset. He knows he’s got to make more of an effort—he has promised himself that, and he always keeps his promises to himself—but the details haven’t been worked out yet. Most of the time, he is still conversing with the beloved object who is no longer his own and never will be. Every night he dreams of her. By day, he has perfected the art of chastising her unavailable ears.

  If you’d only listened to me! We didn’t have to end it this way. We didn’t have to end it at all. We could have gotten some counseling and worked out our differences. You could have aired your grievances, instead of clamming up the way you did. Do you realize that I still have no idea why you left?

  And:

  I haven’t asked you this question before, but I’ll ask it now: what did you find so repulsive in me that made you flee my presence? Was it some monstrous flaw in my character? Was it some terrible deed you thought I was about to commit?

  Objectively speaking, what makes a woman like you run away from a man like me? To be frank, I can’t see that much wrong with me. I know I burp and fart and leave the toilet seat up and forget birthdays and anniversaries. I know that when I take off my shoes, they drop to the floor in a way that annoys you. I know I like plenty of sex—too much, as you claim—and am not the greatest human weathervane (or barometer) when you’re not in the mood. But aside from these, where else am I so majorly deficient? Hasn’t the constancy of my love brought you happiness? Hasn’t my appreciation for your beauty and intelligence made you feel secure?

  And the classic:

  At this point, if you want me back, you’re going to have to beg. I mean really beg—get down on your knees and grovel. I’ve suffered miserably because of you. I’ve lost sleep, lost possessions, lost my home, and damn near lost my bearings. True, my love for you goes on and on, but that doesn’t mean I’m “easy.” You’ve done me a great wrong; my faith in you is shattered. But if you take me back right away—like tomorrow, if not tonight—I’m prepared to let bygones be bygones.

  Chapter 4

  By the middle of August, after Budge has been in Rock Hall for just over a month, he is finally making some headway. He has sold a feature article to The Washington Post (“Living the Laid-back Life on Maryland’s Eastern Shore”). He has gotten another credit card—he can walk down the aisles of Bayside Foods without hanging his head and fearing a relapse of post-traumatic stress disorder. He has struck up conversation with habitués at the post office and the pharmacy. He has attended a parade, a boat exhibition, a public hearing, and a fishing contest. In addition, he has met many of the neighbors along Beach Road.

  Also, he has started going to Friday potluck suppers at the Mainstay, a nonprofit storefront on Main Street that doubles as an art gallery and concert venue. Budge discovers the suppers quite by accident. Late one Friday afternoon when he’s driving past the Mainstay, he notices its signboard advertising a local jazz trio. On a whim, he decides to attend, so he heads home and undertakes no small effort to make himself presentable. He trims his beard, dons a clean shirt and slacks, puts ticket money in his pocket, and times his arrival just right, only to discover that he has come on the wrong night.

  He walks in just as the potluck is winding down. Twenty people seemingly greet him all at once; he is vociferously encouraged to grab a Styrofoam plate and take whatever food is left—a chicken drumstick, a cold pizza slice, a helping of tuna casserole (plenty of that), a caved-in wedge of white potato pie. Hungrily, Budge devours the plateful. Unfortunately, the wine is all gone.

  Somebody asks where he lives. Between chewed mouthfuls, he mentions the cottage on Beach Road and that he has only recently moved to town. Revealing these facts results in a deluge of polite inquisitiveness. His listeners appear to hang on his every word.

  Are they smitten by my engaging personality, my charming smile, my svelte physique, or just the novelty of my presence? When I tell them I’m an author, they ask the obvious follow-ups, but it turns out that not a single one of them has ever heard of me, much less read my books. Perhaps I should introduce myself as James A. Michener.

  Amid the sociable clusters of coupledom are two or three single women who Budge zeroes in on. One is a math teacher from Philadelphia, a skinny woman in a sun dress, with a face like an English walnut and blue veins running every which way on her chest. She’s younger than he is, perhaps in her late forties, yet her eyes evaluate him with a candor that can only have
come from much practice. She proceeds to tell him about the benefits of her singles tennis club—strongly hinting that he should join—but he can’t get a word in edgewise, so he listens to her for fifteen minutes before excusing himself to get another helping of casserole. He turns to another woman, this one in jeans and a designer sweatshirt, somewhat older and fairly good-looking, but her voice and attention keep trailing off as she glances anxiously around the room. Mumbling some excuse, she slips away during one such hiatus.

  A third woman—of indeterminate age—in a garish dashiki shows a more balanced conviviality. Her name is Teresa Potter; she is a weaver who has recently moved to Rock Hall (it turns out she lives just down the road from him). She is not physically appealing—pear-shaped, plum-faced, peach-topped—but she has a nice personality. Her previous address was Santa Fe, New Mexico.

  “I don’t care what anybody tells you about the health benefits of dwelling in the southwest,” she tells him. “The air’s so dry that after a while, you can hardly breathe anymore.”

  Teresa is in the process of unpacking and setting up her loom. As she describes the procedure, he studies her in detail. Her hair—more the color of pink champagne, he concludes—seems grossly affected by static electricity. Her complexion is egregiously freckled. Her earlobes sag with complex earrings. Around her neck hangs a silver pendant that is larger than a medallion but smaller than a bicycle sprocket. She is shod in cordovan mules that make her feet resemble hooves.

  While avoiding a direct look into her eyes, he notes that her bifocal frames are the most curvaceous thing about her. He also notices her mannish wristwatch and the lumpy backs of her stubby hands. Artsy rings encircle at least five of her fingers. But all in all, she is a calm, unpretentious person. He begins to see the possibilities in her.

  So this is what single folks do, I’m thinking to myself Check ’em over visually as you pretend to be listening. Tot up the positives and negatives, and if something overwhelms you either way, make a point to study it at leisure. Teresa’s flaws aren’t anything that time run backward couldn’t erase. What I mean to say is there are no outward deficiencies in her personality. Nor is she that hard to look at, I conclude—it’s all a matter of adjustment. So I decide to pursue her for a while just to see what she’s like.