Winter Tides

by James P. Blaylock

  At the top of the beach were sections of low barrier walls built of concrete blocks along the edge of the empty parking lots—county park renovations of more recent years. Beach sand had drifted up against the walls in shallow dunes, spilling out from between the sections onto an asphalt access road that ran the length of the beach, from beyond Brookhurst Street all the way to the pier. In the summer the road would be full of tourists crossing the access road from the crowded parking lots, dodging a steady procession of in-line skaters and cyclists. The old wooden concession stands were long gone, along with the ice plant and the rusted chain link and the railroad flotsam, all of it bulldozed years ago, the concession stands replaced with concrete block buildings, with picnic tables and drinking fountains and showers.

  The beach itself hadn’t changed. Ten million waves had broken along it in the past fifteen years, and those waves had shifted millions of tons of sand and seashells and rocks, scouring the ocean bottom, cutting channels and filling them in again, the sandbars drifting with the seasons and the changing swell, all of the movement and change hidden beneath a few feet of enigmatic ocean. By some trick of tide or of dawn light, the ocean seemed to be strangely elevated now, as if Dave were looking up at it from where he sat at the crest of the slope that angled down into the water, as if at any moment a wave might simply surge fonvard and inundate the beach.

  Casey handed him the doughnut bag, and he took out a plain cake doughnut and dipped it into his coffee, watching as a lone surfer jumped to his feet at the top of a wave and dropped across the wave’s face. In his black wetsuit the surfer was nearly invisible against the dark ocean, although the front half of his white board traced a ghostly path along the wave, angling upward until it thrust through the crest of the wave and was silhouetted against the early-morning sky and then slashing downward and driving into the trough, where the surfer disappeared suddenly, hidden by a wave breaking farther inshore, and then reappeared down the beach, flying across a dark, dawn-lit section that seemed to defy gravity in its steep vertical rush.

  “it’s not going to get any better than this,” Casey said, crumpling up the empty paper sack. “I hate to say it, but this spot hasn’t broken this good in I don’t know how long. So if this burning news of yours is too long and weird, how about saving it until we’re out in the water? It’s going to be serious daylight in about ten minutes.”

  Dave looked at him for a long moment and then said, “Your brother’s stealing money from your father, basically. Stealing properties. I don’t know what he’s doing with them. Selling them, I guess.”

  Casey nodded slowly. “Where’d you come up with this information?”

  “From this old homeless guy named Mayhew. You’d recognize him if you saw him. I was working late and he came around looking for your brother who, this guy said, owed him money for some work. What he said was that he had posed as your father.”

  “Posed as him?”

  “At a notary public up Beach Boulevard near Talbert. Apparently Edmund brought this guy in carrying your father’s driver’s license. They look enough alike to fool somebody who’s not paying too much attention. Anyway, this old guy signed a quitclaim deed, then your brother gave him twenty bucks and sent him on his way.”

  “For what? What was the deed?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “And this was when the Earl was out of town?”

  “Might have been. I don’t know how long ago it was. I get the impression it was a couple of weeks ago, maybe less.”

  “Well, probably it was just some routine business, and Edmund didn’t want to wait for the Earl to get home, so he managed it his own way. You’ve got to quit working this thing against my brother, man. Not that he doesn’t deserve it, but it’s not doing you any damned good at all. You’re getting obsessed.”

  Dave stared at him. “Are you kidding, or just self-deluded in some amazing new way?”

  “Why should I be either one?”

  “Because what you just said is completely nuts. Business? Committing fraud just because it’s more convenient than waiting a day or two? Nobody would do that. This doesn’t look like business, Case, it looks like theft.”

  “So this Mayhew character told you this, that he signed a quitclaim deed?”

  “No, all he told me was that he ‘simulated’ your father. That was the way he put it. The quitclaim was my idea, since I couldn’t think of any other reason that Edmund would need a notary and a fake signature.”

  “So this is speculation on your part?”

  “No, I don’t think it is. I think I’m right.”

  “And you think it’s a piece of property?”

  “What else would it be? The Earl’s car’s a bigger joke than Collier’s was. What else has he got that your brother would want to put his hands on?”

  “Nothing,” Casey said after a moment. “If you’re right, then it probably is a piece of property. He could shift a dozen of them into his name, and I’d never know anything about it. I’m easy that way.”

  “You’re too easy that way.” Dave poured the rest of his coffee into the sand. It was gray daylight now, and there were half a dozen surfers in the water. The stars and the moon were gone, and the tip of the sun had risen above the mountains. Casey kneeled next to his surfboard and methodically rubbed wax across the deck. “I drove over to the notary,” Dave said.

  “Why the hell did you do that?” Casey didn’t look up, but worked at the wax, layering it up. His voice was flat, as close as it came to anger.

  “Curiosity.”

  “I wish you would have called me first. You know what they say about the cat, man.”

  “I didn’t tell him who I was or what I knew except for one thing—that there’s a brother in the picture, meaning you. This notary, as far as I can make out, had no idea that Edmund had a brother or that old Mayhew was a fake. Now he knows. The truth never hurt anybody, except maybe Edmund, in this case.”

  “Now that’s a truly naive idea. The truth can do a hell of a lot of damage when it gets loose. I just wish you’d have told me first and let me take care of it.”

  “What would you have done?”

  “Done?” Casey stood up and looked toward the ocean. He turned around and shook his head. “I wouldn’t have done anything. But that’s my call, isn’t it?”

  “You’d have let him go on with it?”

  “That’s right. I just don’t care, bro. It just doesn’t compute.”

  “It’s a lot of money.”

  “I’ve got a lot of money. The Earl put a ton of it in trust years ago. I don’t have to work. I never will. I’m a privately financed derelict. Nancy works because she wants to. We traveled so much last year I got sick of it. We can eat out every night of the week, but we don’t want to. I can smoke Cuban cigars, except I don’t smoke. Now that I don’t drink, my only expensive vice is surfboards, and I don’t break that many. And speaking of surfing, now that you’ve had your say, I’m going to hold you to your part of the deal.” He tossed Dave the bar of wax and picked up his board.

  “Okay, never mind the money,” Dave said. “To hell with the money. Doesn’t it bother you just a little bit that you’re being cheated?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, it bothers me. But to you it’s just like that kite in the wind, or whatever the hell it was; you just let it go.”

  “I just let it go. My brother is who he is, like I said. The clothes, the car, the country club. All of that shit just bores the hell out of me. The last thing I give a damn about is getting my share of it. Let him have the damned properties. I won’t waste ten seconds on him, Dave. And that goes double as long as my father’s alive. You know what the Earl thinks about Edmund. The Earl doesn’t remember anything but what he wants to remember. The past is just dust to him. Edmund’s the success. Edmund’s the shining star. Edmund came into the family business with all his expertise, and the Earl went into semiretirement. He can spend all his time horsing around with Collier.�
�

  “All what expertise?”

  “I don’t know what the hell kind of expertise. Edmund’s family, Dave. He’s my mother’s son. He’s nearly respectable. You know, to tell you the truth, I don’t have any damned idea what my father really thinks about Edmund. All I know is that he won’t listen to you if you say anything against him. He won’t even hear you. He certainly never heard me, so I just shut up finally. I found out I was happier when I shut up.”

  “He’s stealing from your old man like a fox in the god-damn henhouse.”

  “It’s a big henhouse. Plenty of chickens to go around. The only thing the Earl doesn’t have plenty of is time, What the hell good is the truth to a man whose heart’s on the ropes? When you’re that close to the graveyard, you stop giving a damn about the henhouse. Why the hell would you want to tell him that his number-one son is a liar and a thief? You think it would make him happier? That he’d shake your hand? Check it out: I don’t care about properties, and neither does the Earl. All I give a damn for is moving this whole tired charade along from one day to the next without the old man getting hurt. I get a few waves on the side, keep Nancy happy, and I’m a satisfied man.”

  “How about Collier? Do you care about Collier?”

  “How is Collier involved in this?”

  “Collier’s certain that Edmund’s going to evict him from the bungalow and sell the property to the city for municipal parking.”

  “Edmund wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t do that. He doesn’t have the authority.”

  “He doesn’t have the authority to hire Mayhew to masquerade as your father, either, but he did it.”

  “That’s entirely different. That’s just money. What you’re talking about is more than just money.”

  “To whom? It’s more than just money to you, maybe. Or to the Earl. To Edmund, though, it’s just money. Everything’s just money. Edmund’s always thought Collier was a sponge. You’ve heard him go on about it—wasting thousands of dollars on goofball plays that don’t earn a penny. You ought to see what Collier’s got cooked up this time. Edmund’s going to bleed from the ears when he finds out.”

  Casey shrugged. “Okay, you’re right. Edmund’s got a thing about Collier. That’s fair enough. And now I’m warned. I’m ready for him. If he wants to take me on over Collier and the bungalow, I’ll fight with him. Otherwise he can go to hell rich. Just promise me you won’t go calling the cops or anything like that. I don’t need it, the old man doesn’t need it, nobody needs it. If something comes up, call me. Keep it in the family.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “That’s what I say. And one more thing. I keep telling you to leave Edmund alone. It’s bad for your karma, you know? Your chakras get all messed around, completely out of alignment.”

  “I guess I don’t give nearly as much of a damn for my karma, or whatever the hell it is, as you do, Case. I just can’t play make-believe all the time.”

  “I understand that, although I’m going to keep working on you. My brother’s just smoke, man. Tinted glass. Try looking right through him.”

  “I really wish I could. I keep straining my eyes, you know?”

  “Get a new pair of glasses, then. And one last thing,” Casey said, swinging his board up under his arm. “There’s more to Mr. Edmund than meets the eye. You know what I’m talking about? He’s a jerk, but that doesn’t make him a fool. He can actually be very dangerous. He has a long history. So don’t even think about taking him on. It’s just not worth it. Life’s too short.”

  “You’re right about that,” Dave told him.

  Casey stood looking at him for a moment. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll say something to Edmund, at least about Collier. We’ll leave the money issue alone, though.”

  “Fair enough,” Dave said.

  35

  EDMUND LEFT HIS CAR PARKED ON 8TH STREET AND walked the two blocks to the Earl’s through the early-morning darkness. He wore a sweat suit over his jogging togs, and he had put on his Nike running shoes. From the look of it, he was just another early-morning jogger burning up a couple of miles of pavement before the day started. He felt good—alert and rested. Last night he had taken a couple of pills and made a point of sleeping. It was a matter of control more than anything else. The day before, he had lain in bed all day, hadn’t even shaved. If he let himself degenerate that way …

  A car cruised past, turning at the corner and disappearing, and he saw the roof of the Earl’s over the housetops. There was no way Collier would be awake yet. The morning belonged to Edmund. He felt safe, nearly invisible. The world was waiting for him to make sense out of it. When he reached the west side of the theatre parking lot, he took one last hasty look up and down the street and cut across the lot, back into the shadow of the high theatre wall. Collier’s house was dark.

  Dave’s car was parked in the lot near Collier’s lawn, and Edmund stood watching it for a few moments. It would be fun to torch it, too. The car couldn’t be seen from the street because of the theatre and the warehouse. While the morning darkness lasted, he could do anything to it that he wanted to do. His mind scurried around, thinking of flammable substances. The burned pallets had been cleared away, but there was a satisfying black smudge on the asphalt. A liquid that he could splash over the car would work better than the pallets, if only to burn the paint off before somebody put the fire out. There was thinner and turpentine in the Earl’s, but if anyone—like Dave—was working early, then going into the warehouse would wreck things entirely. And anyway, it was best to stick with whatever he could find lying around, just like a kid would do. Collier probably wouldn’t leave his lighter fluid next to his barbecue any more, not with his pyromaniac granddaughter on a rampage….

  Another morning, perhaps. A car fire now would just wreck his plans, since Jenny was in bed and couldn’t be blamed for starting it. He set out up the kitchen side of Collier’s bungalow, walking carefully through the grass, making as little noise as possible and looking around carefully for something he could use. He stopped at Collier’s rusty old Weber barbecue, carefully lifting the lid high enough to see underneath. There was half a bag of charcoal briquettes under there along with a can of lighter fluid. The old man had left it accessible after all! Apparently there was no accounting for idiot faith. He took out the can, then reached in and slid the bag out, too, set the lid down silently, and unrolled the top of the bag. Sure enough, there was a matchbook lying on top of the charcoal. He pulled the matches out, rerolled the bag, and put it back under the lid, then wiped his sooty hands on the grass. He saw a little Matchbox truck in the weeds along the wall then, and he picked it up and put it into the shallow pocket of his sweat-pants along with the matches, nearly laughing at how appropriate it all was.

  And then it struck him that it was more than appropriate. It was synchronicity, purely and simply. Artistic intuition. Things were falling into place because he was allowing them to fall into place by letting go, by trusting to his art, by trusting himself.

  How wonderful that he hadn’t given it a second thought! It had simply happened. Intuition and instinct had opened the doors to perception…. He found a doll in the weeds farther along, back near the vacant lot—a little dime-store doll about six inches high. It must have had clothes at one time, but they’d been removed, which was too bad, because the clothes would have made it that much more flammable. On the other hand, there was a certain purity in the doll’s nakedness. He ran his fingers over her smooth plastic flesh, cleaning off the dirt, sweeping her hair back. Her hair, probably, would go up like a torch. She had moveable joints at the elbows and knees, and he moved her arms up and down, swiveled her legs, understanding the vision that was spinning together in his mind, the picture that was taking shape. This blonde doll with its idealized figure was a counterpoint to the Night Girl’s dolls. It was all surface, the facade that the world was anxious to believe in but knew to be false. The nylon dolls were true on the deepest level. He was full of the fire of ins
piration now, energized by finding the doll.

  Clutching it, he went hurriedly around the back of the bungalow, where for a few seconds he was exposed to the eyes of people in cars on the Highway, but then he was safe again, hidden by the bushes that crowded up against a big eucalyptus tree near the corner of the yard. Around the tree, lying on the lawn, were papery sheets of bark that the tree had sloughed off. On impulse he picked up a half-dozen hand-sized pieces along with a bunch of leaves, and, having no place else to put them, he shoved them up under his sweatshirt and tucked the shirt into his pants. He headed back up the bedroom side of the house now, moving very quietly and carefully, looking into the high grass and wishing he had brought a penlight along with him.

  A decorated lunch sack lay at the back edge of the porch, and he picked it up to have a look at it. It contained what appeared to be baseball cards, although when he picked one out and looked close, it turned out to be some sort of comic trading card—a mutant-looking child holding a bloody ax. The very idea of such a thing disgusted him. It was nothing but pornography for children—the kind of thing that the social worker should get a good look at. He picked out a handful of the cards, enough to share, and dumped the rest into the grass, then put the doll and the toy truck into the sack with the cards. This would be enough, this sack of miscellaneous articles. Art made from found things—the Japanese had a word for it…. He couldn’t remember what it was.

  The bungalow’s front porch was a couple of feet high, the crawl space beneath it sided with lattice. An overgrown night-blooming jasmine hid the back corner of it, where it extended a couple of feet beyond the house itself. Years ago there had been an opening down there, where the lattice had fallen apart, an opening wide enough for a child to crawl through. Edmund crouched beside the jasmine, pushing the spindly limbs aside and peering past it. The hole was still there, virtually unchanged from the days of his childhood. Years ago, he himself had played under that old porch, sitting alone, hidden from the world in his own personal cave. He had buried cats and small animals down there—a gopher, he remembered, that a cat had half killed, and a pigeon that had hit the kitchen window and knocked itself out. He had lured Casey down there when Casey was three, and tied him with cotton rope to an exposed post, and then boarded up the entrance with junk, keeping him down there all day long and into the evening until the Earl had gotten home. He had sat all day on the porch above, knocking like hell on the floorboards with a broom handle every time Casey had started to shout.