by Landon Beach
“Sounds like a good line to drink to,” Brooke said.
They raised their glasses and then drank. Brooke looked out the window and saw Jane walking toward the house on the back lawn.
“Need any more help in here before we head out to the fire?” Gibson said.
“No, you’ve done enough already,” Brooke said. “Thank you, Tim.”
Jane stopped at the table outside and refilled her glass of wine. Brooke and Gibson stepped onto the deck, and after Jane grabbed a beer for Nate out of the cooler, they headed for the bonfire.
11
They all sat barefoot in beach chairs, circled around the fire. In between the chairs, Nate had anchored four tiki torches into the sand. Mosquitoes could be a problem at night, which the Martins and other beachfront owners dealt with by burning citronella.
Gibson took a drink from his glass of wine and then kicked a log back on the pile that had fallen off. “Nate, what high school teachers do is extremely important, but I was wondering the other day if some of them are as serious as they need to be.”
Nate looked at Gibson. “What made you think of that?”
“I know I said earlier that I had nothing to complain about this year, but there is one thing that sticks in my mind,” said Gibson. “I get students year after year who don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground in terms of writing, research, critical thinking, and, heaven forbid, responsibility. I can’t teach ‘em. Most freshmen failed my class last year. Some from not showing up, some from not completing assignments.” Gibson took a slow, measured sip.
“I thought you were at the business school and didn’t teach freshman,” Nate said.
Gibson hesitated, clearing his throat. “Usually I don’t. I had to fill a freshman intro course vacancy for a grad student who had a baby over last summer and didn’t return to school.”
Brooke entered the conversation. “It’s odd that they didn’t hire someone new. I would have thought U of M had a number of professors waiting in the wings, trying to angle their way into a position.”
“Oh there are!” Gibson laughed. “Not to toot our own horn, but it’s a lengthy screening process, which we take immense pride in.”
“Back to your freshman,” said Nate, “You attribute their failures to high school teachers?”
Gibson spun his wine glass’s stem making the red wine spiral inside. “Yes, I do. I imagine that there are some students who have teachers like you and Brooke,” Gibson pointed at them, “that do care, and I’m sure those are the kids who are passing. But, on average, most kids are failing because their prior schooling prepared them to fail. To be honest, most K through twelve teachers aren’t intellectuals.”
“I can see that on some level,” Nate said. “I also once heard someone say that the definition of an intellectual was someone who didn’t know that he didn’t know anything.” Nate paused; Gibson stared at him. “Let me ask you a question, though. How do you feel when your students fail?”
Gibson smiled, “Feel? That may be one area where we’re different. In college,” he paused, attempting to add weight to the level of school he was instructing at, “I can’t feel for a kid who’s too incompetent to pass my course. It’s still teaching, but it’s also a business. When they show their grades to their parents—” another measured sip, “—that is, if their parents even care, maybe it wakes them up to the fact that they’re not going to be coddled like they were in high school. So, when they pay or their parents pay for them to take my course again, maybe they’ll try harder. Maybe they won’t. That’s where my caring has to stop.”
“Interesting,” said Nate.
“Why interesting?” said Gibson.
“Interesting because this doesn’t sound like the typical liberal view of education that is promoted to the public, but it does sound like the reality of an ivory tower liberal. Ever heard the phrases: Liberal until a leader, or, Liberal as long as I have mine?”
Gibson was silent. He sat forward, “Well, I am in the business school.”
Jane said, “Between research, tenure meetings, departmental bureaucracy, and grading student work, I don’t know how Tim can do it all—and still find time for the kids and me.”
“Our hosts go through the same routine, Jane,” Gibson said.
“Oh, of course,” said Jane.
“Well, didn’t mean to nickel and dime,” Gibson said. “I respect your opinions and after ruminating, I would love to follow up on this conversation sometime. From the university side, I know we don’t always provide the exhilarating experience that is expected of us. I should have started out with that tonight.”
“Food, water, shelter,” Nate said. “After that, human beings made up the rest.”
Brooke raised her hand as if to say ‘no problem, we’re all friends here.’
“At least we’re all still employed,” Gibson said. With his glass of wine, he motioned down the beach. “Jeff Sawyer lost his job a month ago.”
“That’s horrible news,” Brooke said.
Jane spoke up. “Yes, Stacy called me right after it happened. Jeff is devastated; he’d been an architect with the company for over a decade. I guess no one is safe in this lousy economy.”
Nate thought about asking what had happened. Was Sawyer laid off? Or had he been fired? Did it matter? The Sawyers were around the same age as the Gibsons and owned a three-story Nantucket style house sided in cedar-shake. They had all gone on a day cruise last summer in Sawyer’s sailboat.
“No one is building a damn thing around here,” Gibson said. “Jeff has applied to more than a dozen firms and the half that weren’t going under said they had barely enough work to keep the staff they had busy.”
“Stacy told me that they can last until the end of the summer, but that they’re already eating up their savings,” Jane added. “They will have to short sell their house if he can’t get a job.”
“Have they thought about selling their boat?” Nate said.
“Actually, they got rid of it at the end of last summer,” Gibson said. “A couple of weeks after we went on that day sail, if I remember right.”
“How can they be doing that badly?” Brooke said.
“I feel like I’ve said too much,” Jane said.
“You haven’t, darling,” Gibson said. “Jeff and Stacy are a fine couple, but they stretched themselves too thin—leveling their old cottage and building that manor—unfortunately, it’s now coming around to bite them.”
The fire crackled and popped. “I hope they’ll be okay,” Brooke said.
Nate looked over her shoulder. A couple walking hand-in-hand were making their way along the water’s edge. He didn’t recognize them, but waved as they passed by. Tim and Jane sat looking at the fire.
“Switch of subject?” Brooke said.
“Welcomed,” Gibson said with a wink.
“Nate found a coin this morning on our beach,” Brooke said.
“What kind of coin?” Gibson said.
“I visited someone today who believes it’s an authentic gold coin from France,” Nate said.
“Do you have it with you?” Gibson said.
Nate fished around in his pocket and pulled out the coin. He handed it to Gibson.
Gibson wedged his drink in the sand and eyed the coin, bending forward in his chair to use the light from the fire to aid his inspection. He rubbed the coin between his hands, tapped it, held it close to his face, then far away, and finally read the date out loud, “Sixteen Forty-Three.”
“Jesus. Is that when it was made?” Jane asked.
“I’m no gold expert,” said Gibson, “but it looks authentic.” He passed the coin back to Nate and picked up his drink.
“I wonder how much it’s worth,” Brooke added.
“Let’s ask the finance major,” Jane proudly stated looking at Gibson. “How’s gold doing on the market these days?”
Gibson twirled his wine glass. “On the rise. For pure gold value, the coin is probably a couple hundred
bucks. If it’s part of a private collection, a limited piece, or lost by someone and a finder’s fee is out there—a lot more.”
“What if there’s a lost treasure out there?” Jane said pointing at the water. “In the Keys last winter, we were told about all of the shipwrecks off Florida and the treasure that’s on the ocean floor waiting to be found.” She turned to Gibson, “Isn’t that what that guide said on our snorkeling trip?”
Gibson was looking out at the dark water. In the distance, a green light marking Buoy #1 blinked.
Nate answered for him. “What he told you is true, Jane. As for the Great Lakes, any historian will tell you that there’s no gold in them.”
“Do you believe that?” Jane asked.
“Nothing has proven otherwise,” Nate said. “This coin probably fell out of someone’s pocket while they were taking a walk.”
12
It was nearly midnight as Nate pulled off his t-shirt and jeans and threw them into a laundry basket in the corner of the bedroom. The clothes smelled like the bonfire. He moved to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror in his under shorts. Cupping his hands under the faucet, he turned it on and brought the cold water to his face twice then dried off with a towel. He turned off the bathroom light and headed toward the bed, ready to sleep like a log.
Brooke was still awake, reading a magazine by her bedside lamp. The rest of the room was dark and waves could be heard crashing on the beach through the screen. They hadn’t made love yet, but it hadn’t been brought up either. Nate climbed into bed and turned on his side, facing the water. He closed his eyes.
“You okay?” Brooke said.
He opened his eyes. “Yeah, why?”
“Seemed to get a little testy between you and Tim tonight.”
“Oh, he’s harmless,” Nate said. “Take the guilt card off the table and his arguments crumble. He knows it, and I know it.”
“I think he’s charming.”
“Insecure is a better word.”
“Said the high school teacher to the PhD,” Brooke sneered.
Nate laughed. “Oh, Christ. Those three letters breed self-doubt.”
She rolled her eyes. “He seemed interested in the coin.”
“Yep.” He closed his eyes.
Brooke set her magazine down. “So, no early retirement for us, huh?”
“Probably not,” Nate said. Not the question he was expecting. He opened his eyes again. “But—”
“But what?” she said playing along.
He turned toward her. “Can’t rule it entirely out.”
“Why?” she said.
“Too many ‘What Ifs’ in my opinion.”
She turned off her lamp and snuggled up. “Let’s hear them.”
Was this going to be the prelude to their lovemaking? Getting him to talk about something he was interested in, and then jumping his bones. “We haven’t made love yet tonight. Do you want to before I get into this?”
“A woman can think about two things at once,” she said, kissing his arm. “So, let’s have it, Jacques Cousteau.”
He sat up. “Over fifteen thousand ships have traveled on the Great Lakes. Of those, around six thousand never made it to their destination.”
Brooke cut in, “We have six thousand shipwrecks?”
“Approximately, yes. Of those six thousand, less than one-quarter have been found. And those are the shipwrecks that we know of. Who knows how many there really are. Now, let’s say that we have complete faith in the ship registers, which clearly list all cargo carried. The overwhelming trend says lumber, coal, iron ore, grain, and beaver pelts—which were as good as gold in the seventeenth century. Boring, right? Now, let’s say that people over the past three and a half centuries are not always honest. Might there be something in these ships that was not listed?”
“Makes me wonder,” Brooke said.
“As long as greed exists, we’d be foolish to look the other way,” Nate said. “It’s presumptuous to say there is sunken treasure in the Great Lakes, but I believe it’s also presumptuous to say there isn’t.” He felt the excitement rise from deep within. He was no longer tired.
“What would it mean for gold to be discovered on the Great Lakes, babe?” Brooke asked.
He got out of bed. “I don’t know. Depends on how much,” Nate said. “If there was a lot, wealth for whoever found it and a place in history.” He started to dress.
“Where are you going?”
“To the garage, I just thought of something I could look at.”
“Have you forgotten about making love?” she said.
“Not at all,” Nate said, “but to your point, I can’t think of two things at once.”
✽✽✽
“What do you think of her?”
“Brooke?” Jane was riffling through the pages of the latest People. She glanced at Tim, back at the page.
“Yeah,” Gibson said.
Jane shrugged. “Ordinary.” She went back to People.
Gibson lifted his glasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on. He reached for their copy of The Hampstead Record. “Just ordinary?”
Jane lowered her magazine until her eyes broke the glossy paper horizon. “Precisely. Ordinary is just ordinary. You notice anything about her that surpasses ordinary?”
Gibson opened the paper but kept it on his lap. His eyes tiptoed across the room. “No. Can’t remember you ever describing another woman as ordinary.”
“I didn’t describe her. I categorized her.” She raised the magazine back up.
“Interesting way to spin it.”
“What’s the interest?” Jane said.
“Collecting data.”
Her eyes on her magazine, she missed his smile, one he meant her to see.
“I don’t see us spending much time with her or her husband,” Jane said. “That Jennifer Lopez still has one prime ass.”
“She’s not the only one.” This time she caught his smile. Inclined her head thanks.
“We’ve only had dinner with them once,” he said.
Not so easily swayed. “Right.”
“What’s the turn off?”
“What’s the turn on?” The only thing she was reading now was his face.
“The old philosophy of being around younger people keeping you younger.”
Jane flipped a page. “Ah. But there may be a hiccup in that theory.”
“Enlighten me,” Gibson said.
“They couldn’t keep up with us.”
“How do you know?”
She flipped a page. “I know.”
Gibson lifted his paper and started reading an article about a Hampstead high school football hero from the 70’s who thought that qualified him to run for County Commissioner. Two paragraphs in, he tossed the paper aside, reached for his wine glass, took a sip, another. He let the second one linger in his mouth. “How about we test your theory?”
Jane put the magazine down. “Tim, tonight was boring. There’s nothing to test. If you want some action, let’s invite Stacy Sawyer back over. She was fun.”
“Having Stacy over again would be like chewing on yesterday’s breakfast,” Gibson said. “C’mon, let’s invite Nate and Brooke over for dinner and drinks and see what happens.” He smiled, one he saved for persuasion.
Jane shook her head. “I can answer that for you right now: nothing—the same thing that happened tonight. You know you get bored even more quickly than I do.” She leaned forward. “And why have Nate over? I could see that he pissed you off tonight with the intellectual swipe.”
“No, he had a point. Most of my colleagues are owned by their ideologies. He just hasn’t figured out the rules of the game we play by.”
“And what are those?” Jane said.
“Activist by day, capitalist by night,” Gibson grinned. “And don’t ever let your students see your five thousand square foot house.”
Jane looked around the room.
“Do you know how many times I’ve heard f
riends tell me how they better be compensated at a competitive salary or else they’ll go to a more prestigious university that wants them and pays more? Or, how about the campaign to become the number one public university in the country? If those two statements don’t reek of competition, then I don’t know what does.”
She smirked.
“All that aside, Brooke’s a Democrat and Nate’s an Independent. I checked.”
Jane laughed at him. “You’re so paranoid.”
“No, just an academic who does his research.”
He stood, came up behind her chair, and stroked her shoulders. “We won’t be bored. You won’t be.”
“You can’t guarantee that,” she said. But she didn’t shake off his hands.
“Remember, the lifestyle requires complete dedication and constant communication. We have options. Soft swap, Full swap, and our favorite: anything goes. The kids are away at camp for another ten days. Until then...be neighborly. Tonight could have been an off night. They could surprise us and up the ante on our play time, you know.”
“Do I have to cook?” Jane said.
“Something–nothing fancy. The piece de resistance will be you, in something new I’m going to buy you to wear that evening.”
“Black?”
“Absolutely.”
She nodded. “Do I get to pick it?”
Slowly, he lowered his hands to her large breasts. “We do that together. The way we do everything that’s fun.” He could feel her nipples hardening. “Tomorrow afternoon?”
She nodded. “Okay, why not? And when,” she asked, her breath quickening, “will we be having the scintillating pair over?”
“The next night. Or maybe Christmas,” he said, laughing as he picked her up and headed upstairs.
13
The sun peeked through the garage window and Nate stirred nearly knocking the bottle of Jack Daniels off his desk. As he rose, his head thanked him that the bottle had only opened once last night. Nate’s weekend voyages with hard liquor were behind him, but there was the occasional cool night in the summer when the bottle beckoned to provide him with a stiff belt while watching the sun set. And then there had been the nights on the back deck with his father sipping on scotch talking about life’s finer points.
