The Jetty

by Jay Brandon

  THE JETTY

  A novel by

  Jay Brandon and Joe Labatt

  Corona Publishing Company

  P.O. Drawer 12407

  San Antonio, Texas 78212

  Co pyright © 2012 by Jay Brandon and Joe Labatt. All Rights Reserved This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used ficticiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No portion of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, or any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from

  Corona Publishing Company

  P.O. Drawer 12407

  San Antonio, Texas 78212 (210) 828-9532

  Visit our website at www.coronapublishing.com

  Cover and book design by Fishead Design Studio

  www.fisheadproductions.com

  ISBN - 10: 0-9720630-7-2

  ISBN - 13: 978-0-9720630-7-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.

  - T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

  P art One:

  Strange

  Chapter One

  he road to the ferry stretched straight and long through a land of endless flat scrub fields. As Michael Shaw’s ancient mustard-colored Subaru labored, the land fell away on each side of the highway, leaving both the Subaru and its occupants seemingly exposed, even vulnerable. As if in response, Michael turned with a protective eye toward his companion. Kathy Murray was a beauty, all right, with a girlish figure, reddish brown hair, Pre-Raphaelite features. She was twenty–six years old, three years younger than Michael, but somehow she appeared to be even

  younger. Her eyes had a rare, faraway, almost ethereal look.

  Kathy’s eyes met his, and she leaned over quickly and kissed him on the cheek.

  “What was that for?” Michael said, pleased but puzzled.

  “Oh, for being a nice guy, I guess,” she said. “And for bringing me to the island. I know you didn’t want to.”

  “I never said that,” he protested.

  “No,” she said. “Well anyway, I’m glad we’re here.”

  She was happy. He could see that. He could hear it in her voice. That was good. Since Kathy’s sister Gail died, Kathy’s happy moments had been more and more infrequent. That’s why he had agreed to bring her to the Coast. Michael didn’t even like the beach, but it was Kathy’s favorite place, a place she had shared growing up with Gail. Besides, Michael had never been able to refuse Kathy anything. And a simple little trip to Port Aransas? How big a deal could that be? Still, he couldn’t shake an uncomfortable feeling.

  Toward them came a steady stream of cars – station wagons with luggage lashed down with clotheslines, sedans topped with hard molded plastic carriers, pickup trucks trailing boats behind them.

  “You’re going the wrong way!” Kathy cried, leaning out the window and waving at the line of cars going in the opposite direction. She rose so far out of her seat that she was practically halfway out of the car. “We’ll miss you!” she yelled out again. She was now leaning dangerously farther, and when Michael reached to pull her back into the car, he nearly sideswiped an oncoming SUV. The SUV driver leaned on his horn, and Michael pulled away just in time.

  “That was really close!” Michael exclaimed.

  Kathy sank down in her seat like a child after a scolding. “Oopsy,”

  she said.

  “Oopsy?” Michael said, looking over at her. “Oopsy?” He tried to

  look serious, but suddenly they both began laughing.

  The cars ahead of them were slowing, and for the first time Michael could see the ferry up ahead. He brought the car to a complete stop and turned off the engine, but before he could speak, Kathy’s cell phone went off. She studied the caller ID. “It’s Dr. Z,” she said, quickly opening her car door. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  “But Kathy, the ferry . . .”

  “I’ll just be a minute,” she said insistently and jumped out of the car. He watched her as she climbed down the road shoulder and wandered

  into the nearby field, her phone tight to her ear. Michael leaned back in the driver’s seat, suddenly tired from the long drive. ‘Dr. Z,’ he thought. That was Kathy’s new therapist. Michael closed his eyes.

  A banging on the windshield startled him. He opened his eyes to see a weathered, unkempt face peering through the glass. It was a dead-eyed ageless face, sun-burned, with greasy hair and beard. The face’s owner was dressed in a green army jacket. Michael could smell sweat and stench.

  “You going over there, Man?” the face said, looking in the side window, the face seemingly all beard and nostrils. His hand rested on Michael’s door, while the other pointed at the island on the far side of the ferry. “You going there, Man? No, Man. They’re watching you, Man. Turn back, Man.” A cloud covered the sun, leaving the line of cars in shadow. As the shadow grew, Michael felt his breath grow shallow. What if the man opened the car door or reached through the open window? Instinctively, Michael retreated toward the middle of the front seat of the car.

  But the prophet neither reached for Michael nor tried to open the door. Instead, with a helpless look, he backed away from Michael, stumbled, half falling, and repeated the word “watching” over and over. Finally, he turned and jogged down the line of cars in the direction opposite the ferry and disappeared from view.

  “Michael!” Kathy said, returning. She was looking at Michael’s hands which gripped the steering wheel so tightly that the knuckles were white.

  “I wish you wouldn’t worry so,” Kathy said, patting him gently on the shoulder. “I told you we had plenty of time to make the ferry.”

  A sea gull had settled on their car. It stayed there like an ungainly hood ornament as the Subaru trundled its way behind other cars onto the ferry. The ferry was one of the old narrow boats Michael remembered, those antique ferry boats that held only nine cars.

  Kathy and Michael got out of the car. The sea gull had allowed itself to be swept away to the boat’s wake, where the motor might churn up food. Kathy went the other way, to the ferry’s front railing. Michael followed. Now

  the breeze was freshening, laden with sea foam, and a new gust blew Kathy’s hair back from her face. Michael wanted to reach out and run his hands lightly down that profile as a blind sculptor would, fingers memorizing the details. With the sea as a backdrop, her eyes looked very green.

  Michael looked across the short span of gulf. The boat trip took only a minute or two. He saw the landing, instantly familiar as if he’d last seen it a week ago. The ferry boat and everything else he could see was as old as his memories: the line of cars waiting on the other side; the little cafe near the ferry landing, with the drawing of a leaping swordfish on its sign; the pleasure boats bobbing in the marina. It was so strangely like coming home to return to Port Aransas. He breathed deeply, and in doing so, he detected a smell so strong and multi-layered he didn’t know which part of it was most prevalent. Fish. Engine oil from the boat’s motor. Salty spray.

  The ferry crossing was familiar too; it awakened memories of Michael’s youth. But the crossing was also a departure, a journey beyond comforting routines and schedules. Suddenly he felt a sense of isolation imposed by the ocean itself. To cross over to the island was to reclaim the past, but at the same time face an uncertain future.

  Michael’s attention returned to Kathy. He was afraid of what he might see on her face. Sadness, longing, or worst of all, nostalgia.

  He drew her up close b
eside him. She pulled his arms closer around her, and covered his hands with her own.

  “We’re on island time now,” she said. “Maybe something unexpected will happen.”

  “We could get married,” Michael suggested. “An informal little ceremony on the beach.”

  “Michael,” she said.

  “You’re right,” he said. “A big formal wedding on the beach.” She

  smiled, more bemused than irritated, and held his hands more tightly.

  The island rose up quickly in front of them and Michael’s gaze wandered to a cliff which overlooked the ferry landing. Two figures stood watching the ferry boat as it approached the island. The figures were indistinct at such a distance, but Michael had a momentary feeling that they were watching not just the ferry boat, but watching him in particular. Watching.

  The thought was dispelled by the ringing of his cell phone. He had some trouble extracting it from his pocket, and as he did he stepped back from Kathy.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “I can’t hear you too well, can you speak up? No? Hold on.” He covered the phone with is hand. “I’ve got to take this, Kathy. I’ll just be a minute.” He moved a few feet away. On the breeze, Kathy could still hear a smattering of Michael’s business-speak. “Well, tell him the actuarial tables suggest otherwise . . . I understand we want the group plan . . . Yes, I understand we need the account to make our numbers

  . . . Well that’s what they sent me . . . Revised numbers? Maybe, but I told them I need something other than that RX modem to crunch those numbers . . . Yeah, a real dinosaur. Well, with an XP dataport, you know, maybe.”

  Kathy sighed, leaning back while holding the ferry rail with both

  hands.

  “You’re breaking up; I’m losing you . . . hello?”

  A man in a tan jacket and a Pittsburg Steeler cap leaned over from a place on the rail nearby.

  “I’m afraid the cell coverage is rather pitiful out here,” he told Michael. “A storm took out the nearest cell tower. We’re pretty well limited to land lines for the time being.”

  “No cell phones?” Michael exclaimed. “I’m afraid not.”

  “That’s like going back in time, huh?” Michael joked.

  “Frightened?” said the man in the Steeler cap, and he looked at

  Kathy and smiled. He had a crooked, scruffy mustache. Was he leering?

  Michael took Kathy’s arm and led her back toward the car. “Well,

  the good news is that it’s not a system problem,” he said, summarizing his phone call. For her part, Kathy said nothing.

  He glanced back up the hillside, but the two figures were gone. Michael and Kathy were back in the Subaru when the ferry docked.

  The Subaru bounced off the ferry boat with the other cars, and set a straight course down a block or two to the traffic light – one of two traffic lights on the island – and right onto Alister, the main street. Michael left the windows down. The breeze lessened and grew warmer as they left the water behind, but remained steady. It carried the smell of salt, of sea life, and the occasional grittiness of sand.

  They drove slowly past T-shirt shops, motel courts – cheap because they were too far from the water – and on the left a baseball field and a church that Michael hadn’t noticed before but that looked old, made of white boards with a modest steeple. Catholic, he imagined. It looked as if it belonged, as if a studious child had laid out the town properly like a miniature train set.

  He turned into the Family Center parking lot and parked near the store entrance. Kathy was out of the car first. She had forgotten her sunglasses and used her hand to shield her eyes. They whooshed through the automatic door into the grocery store. Now Michael could see how Kathy could look old some day: a thin woman, eyes hidden, arms folded to protect herself.

  “They’ve changed the store,” she said, leading Michael through the

  turnstile.

  She was remembering how it used to be – the cash registers down at the other end of the store, and the aisles lengthwise instead of crossways. That’s what had always made it seem so – mysterious to her, the way the aisles went on forever. As a child she had wondered if it was ever possible to reach the end.

  A large laughing group was pushing through the turnstile behind

  them, forcing Michael and Kathy forward into the produce section. It was

  the Friday before Labor Day, the store was crowded, mostly with college- age kids. There were clumps of them all over the place, all blonde, all tanned, all with narrow waists and broad shoulders and taut skin, doing normal adult things like pushing grocery carts and checking the prices between two different brands of beer, giving the store the appearance of a science-fiction movie in which no one ages. They made Michael feel old, but then he’d felt old when he was their age, too, and too young at the same time, awkward and unready and letting his prime slip away without using it to advantage. The same way he sometimes felt now.

  Kathy was staring, maybe at the kids, maybe at the changed grocery store she’d foolishly loved years ago; maybe at something Michael couldn’t see. He turned his shopping cart down the next aisle headed for the beer section.

  Kathy tried on a pair of cheap sunglasses from one of the wall

  displays.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” said a voice behind her.

  She turned. A boy was speaking to her – a college boy, tall, muscular, tan – with a sleeveless shirt unbuttoned down the front. “Haven’t I seen you on television?”

  The corniness of the boy’s approach almost made her smile.

  “You should wear those sunglasses,” he said, and then whispered in conspiratorial fashion, “and nothing else.”

  Kathy recoiled from his suggestive words. He laughed.

  A group of other college kids were calling him, and reluctantly he backed away from Kathy as if he wanted to keep her in sight as long as possible. Rather than avoid his gaze, she continued watching him as he went through the electric doors. Through the store windows she saw him climb into the back of a pickup truck.

  Just then Michael came around the corner with a cart full of purchases, things he would never have glanced at in real life, not just nacho chips, but bean dip and wieners impregnated with bits of cheese. He had a

  twelve pack of Shiner Bock, and a bag of Mexican limes. The two of them proceeded to the checkout stands.

  Michael squinted as they emerged from the store into the sunlight. It was dazzling; he felt lightheaded. The asphalt parking lot looked like a lake, the rows of windshields like stadium spotlights. Michael glanced at his watch – 2:00. “We can’t get into the rent house for another hour,” he said. He suggested stopping at a café for something to drink, but Kathy was too distracted to respond.

  They decided to stop at the place with the most cars in front – which in the middle of the afternoon was two. The Lonely Gull was represented by one solitary fiberglass sea gull, perched on a pier beam beside the weathered wooden front door. An inland canal passed behind the parking lot, and Michael saw a dolphin swimming at a lazy pace.

  The Lonely Gull turned out to be more of a bar than a restaurant. The building was windowless. A guitarist was playing in the back, deeper into the cavern-like interior of the club, and an older couple was dancing

  – trying to match a two step with a rendition of Sting’s “Every Breath You Take.” Other than the guitar player and the dancing couple, the place was empty save for a woman behind the bar who took their drink orders. Michael ordered a Heineken, but Kathy stuck with club soda and lime. She seemed to have lost the taste for alcohol, and Michael felt a sense of disappointment. He was hoping the beach might make her feel more festive – like drinking a beer or two.

  Michael drummed his fingers on the scarred wooden tabletop and

  hoped the guitarist would take a break. Instead, the musician stepped forward, clamped his eyes shut, tilted his head back, and started a new song. He sang in a high-pitched voice that was a close enough approximation
of the original not to be jarring. Hearing the familiar chords, Kathy listened with almost frightened eyes.

  “Your love,” he sang, drawing out the word, “has lifted me, higher and higher.”

  Kathy turned away from the singer, but the music hovered over the room like an insistent waiter. She and her sister Gail had sung that particular song on numerous occasions. For some reason the girls loved it, singing along with the radio, parroting the lyrics, laughing, hugging each other – jumping up and down in a pogo-like competition. It had been an oldie even then; now it was a double oldie. The song conjured up not only Kathy’s sister Gail, but the occasions when the sisters had performed their little routine. Memories forced themselves on Kathy. She sat very still, clutching her soda and lime.

  The singer did an entire oldies set, and every one of them seemed aimed at Kathy. Listening to the familiar, forgotten music, she almost started to cry. The odd thing was, they were not sad songs, and when they’d been her favorites, years ago, they had made her happy. ‘Time changes everything,’ she thought. The perspective of years could make happy occasions sad and tragedies not so bad, and for the same reason, she decided: because we are no longer there.

  The singer took a break, and the bartender/waitress punched in a song on the jukebox. It was a song with no lyrics that Michael hadn’t heard before. It definitely sounded sad, though. He waved to her and asked for the check.

  “Ladies’ Room?” Kathy asked.

  “Down the hall, past the jukebox on your right,” was the answer. “I’ll meet you at the car,” Michael said.

  The sad song was still playing as Michael paid up and left the café. Outside, a gray antique Mercedes was parked in the lot near the Subaru. Michael was compelled to take a quick look.