by Jay Brandon
The bathroom was small, with old-fashioned white tile on the walls. There were mixed white and black tiles on the floor, and the tiles seemed to form the figures of running men. The shower was an old style bathtub with a curtain. She pulled aside the shower curtain – beige with images of conch shells. There was a small eye-level window in the shower wall. Kathy opened the window enough to let in a warm breeze; the light and air from outside was somehow comforting to her. The house seemed suddenly very quiet and empty. She turned on the water, holding out her hand to test the temperature.
She pulled off her stained swimsuit, dropping it on the floor, and stood naked for several moments, studying herself in the mirror. Was it her imagination, or did she seem older? She shrugged and stepped into the water. The shower was warm and luxurious – a shower head with a narrow but forceful spray. She rinsed the blood from her arms and legs. She closed her eyes. Sadness and dissatisfaction seemed to disappear with the water running down the bath’s drain. And then she heard something.
A noise, in itself, was natural enough. One often heard noises in old houses or cottages. Still, she did seem to hear – steps? She imagined vibrations through the house, just as a small house vibrates when entered.
Was that a door opening? She summoned her courage and pulled back the curtain. The door to the bathroom stood ajar. She could have sworn she had closed it. Her mind must be playing tricks on her. She forced herself to laugh. The noises were of no consequence. She was getting as jumpy as Michael. Maybe it was contagious.
She took the bar of soap and began rubbing it into a lather. Something stirred the shower curtain. The breeze from the window seemed hardly enough to move the curtain. While she considered this she felt something touch her back, something like naked skin but cold. She was frightened but couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. The touch – at first cold – now began to warm, moving up her back between her shoulder blades to the nape of her
neck.
Then the front door bell rang – more of a buzzer than a bell, but it echoed through the entire cottage. The touch disappeared from her shoulders; the curtain stirred again. A floorboard creaked in the house. Kathy turned off the shower, grabbed a towel, and hurried to the bedroom. She instinctively opened the closet. There was a man’s shirt hanging there, an old-fashioned shirt with a winged collar. She put it on. It was long enough to reach her knees. She rolled up the sleeves to free her hands.
C hapter Two
y god, Michael thought: girls! It was like something out of
Las Vegas, transported to the beach. Michael hadn’t come down to stare at girls, but once he found himself alone among them, the display was overwhelming. The fast-moving body parts sometimes didn’t seem humanly connected, but instead conjured up images of alien life forms. Individual parts leapt at him: legs and concave stomachs, barely concealed breasts and in some cases unconcealed rounded buttocks. Some of the girls he saw from behind, and he could have sworn they were naked. It was the oddest thing; how they pranced under the late afternoon sun instead of in a dim smoky room with a band playing raggedly. The display made his own college days seem chaste.
He would have been a little embarrassed if Kathy were with him. But he would have been proud, too, to have her walking beside him. She would have drawn attention from these nubile adolescents even if she were wearing an ankle-length housedress.
A volleyball game was going on. Michael stared at the young girls and the young girls stared at the volleyball playing-boys – boys old men would call “flat bellies.” Michael remembered the boy from the grocery store flirting with Kathy. Michael thought it was flattering at the time, seeing Kathy admired, but remembering the scene made him feel cowardly, unmanly. He should have punched the kid, or at least have given him a “Back off” look.
After a short stroll, he pulled off his flip-flops and broke into a run,
his purple Hawaiian shirt flapping open. He covered a lot of distance. The old jetty was in sight, a concrete finger stretching out into the Gulf. It always seemed to be pointing out to sea, drawing Michael’s attention in that direction. Fishermen stood or squatted at intervals along its length, the slumps of their shoulders and flatness of their gazes making them look as if they were serving a sentence rather than being there by choice.
This was the part of the beach where he’d spent his youth, the most crowded section because it was within walking distance of the main part of the town. People on the beach lay on towels only a few feet from each other, and beach-strollers walked almost on top of them. He was surrounded by the young and the restless, and Michael, feeling suddenly older, resolved again to get himself in better shape. As if to prove his new- found commitment, he dropped to the sand and proceeded awkwardly to do some pushups. He was struggling to accomplish his second set of ten when a shadow fell over him. He looked up to see Jack Leffler peering down at him.
“Hullo,” Jack said. “Keeping fit, eh?”
“Trying,” Michael replied, catching his breath. “Good for you,” Jack said cheerily.
Michael got up and brushed himself off. Jack was wearing dark swim trunks and a white long-sleeved shirt rolled to the elbows. One arm was in bandages.
“Hurt yourself ?” Michael asked, indicating Jack’s bad arm. “It’s nothing,” Jack assured him.
“Walk with me, Michael,” he said. Jack’s voice was calm and matter of fact – but Michael couldn’t help but notice the voice had a compelling element to it: and Michael followed as if he had no choice but to do so.
“I’m signed up to play a game of volleyball,” Jack said. “Why don’t you join me? You know, part of your fitness regimen.”
“I’m not much of a player,” Michael replied, “but maybe I’ll come and watch.”
“Splendid,” Jack replied.
The two men walked near the waterline, where the sand was firm, and the water advanced and retreated with their passing steps. It actually felt good to Michael – talking to someone. The conversation came around to Kathy.
“Your wife. I’ve forgotten her name.” “Kathy, but we’re not married.”
“Oh. I am sorry. Well, your friend then. Kathy’s quite beautiful and
gracious, but she is a little sad, I think.”
Michael responded almost defensively. “She hasn’t always been that way, it’s just . . .” He looked out at the water as if it was difficult to look at anyone directly when he told the story. “Kathy lost her sister Gail. They were the only children, only two years apart, and very close. Anyway a year ago, Gail died.” It was so sudden. An infection they said. Then the hospital and . . . He looked over at Jack who was still listening intently. “Jack, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
Jack patted Michael on the shoulder. “She’ll come out of it.” He said it with such certainty that Michael felt cheered.
“You really think so?” Michael said eagerly.
“I’m sure of it,” Jack said with an air of finality. Then, he started off down the beach again, at such a swift pace Michael had a hard time keeping up.
They were at the volleyball court. A new game with new players was being organized. A crowd was gathering, and a self-appointed bookmaker was taking bets and holding a thick roll of currency. Jack was engaged in negotiations with a bearded giant of a man, and they were arguing, and Jack was laughing, and the giant was growing angry. Finally, the giant turned away from Jack, going to the far side of the net where he was joined by three other men.
“Come on, Michael,” Jack said, “I need a partner.”
Michael looked across the net. What was Jack thinking? The two of them, Jack (with a bandaged arm) and Michael, against four, and one of them pushing six foot eight? Michael tried to make a joke, quoting the old western.
“But Shane, there’s too many, Shane.”
Jack looked puzzled. Michael grimaced. He hated it when he told a joke and the listeners failed to understand. It made him feel foolish.
“It’s a line from a movie,” Mich
ael explained.
“Well this is no movie,” Jack said. “Odds are 10-1.”
Suddenly the ball was in the air. For Michael, the game itself was a blur – a movie-like montage. He felt anchored to a single spot where he managed to get his hand perhaps on a couple of balls, while Jack leapt and glided about him like a sprite. Jack was like a powerful Peter Pan, digging balls miraculously inches from the ground, playing balls one- handed, backward over his head, smashing hard overhead spikes. Jack was, in sports parlance, “everywhere.”
Finally, Jack called out “Match point!” The ball went up, back and forth, a fierce rally, Jack blocking the bearded giant at the net twice to extend the rally. Jack’s leaping ability brought a collective gasp from the crowd, and then with Jack at the net, a ball sailed over his head out of Michael’s reach and landed in Michael’s view squarely on the line. He was about to call the ball good, but instead heard Jack’s booming voice “Out!”
“Out?” the other team cried. They were furious, irate. They appealed
to Michael, to the crowd, anyone who would listen. It so happened that on the controversial play, Michael had blocked the view of the crowd, so the majority of them were neutral in the debate. But there was nothing neutral about the other team. They wanted blood! “You saw the ball land,” they screamed at Michael. “Speak up!” But Michael could not speak. Had he actually seen the ball in? His first impression had been that the ball had landed on the line, but in fact, one could rarely be certain. Perhaps Jack had a better angle.
The other team was directing its attention to the bookmaker, who
was disclaiming responsibility for the decision. “The teams agreed to call their own lines,” he said.
“That doesn’t mean we agreed to be cheated!” bellowed the bearded giant. The bookmaker merely shrugged as he counted out the winnings for Jack. Before Michael could protest, Jack stuffed some bills into the pocket of Michael’s Hawaiian shirt.
“You’re a cheat!” the bearded giant said, pointing at Jack.
Jack barely looked up as he counted his winnings. “It’s frightfully bad form not to lose graciously,” Jack said.
“I’ll show you some frightful bad form,” said the giant, and he dove toward Jack in a football tackle, all 6 foot 8 inch, 260 pounds of him. It seemed impossible that the maneuver would fail to put Jack in the hospital or worse, but somehow he seemed to absorb the blow without effect, instead reaching down and catching the sprawling giant by the arm. Jack’s grip produced a howl the likes of which Michael had never heard, a frightening, terrible animal sound. The giant thrashed on the ground, pulling his legs up under him so that he seemed to be kneeling in front of Jack in supplication. Jack let go of the giant’s arm. The giant’s teammates were like Philistines without Goliath. For a moment the beach was quiet.
The sound of a police car siren broke this silence. The car pulled up near the volleyball court, the siren stopped, and a man in khakis emerged. He was the tall, gun-toting policeman from the traffic stop.
“Someone reported a disturbance,” the policeman said, his eyes scanning the crowd and the players. His fierce eyes fell on Michael’s face. You again! the policeman’s expression seemed to say. Impatiently, he tapped the palm of his hand with a night stick.
“We’ve been cheated!” claimed one of the giant’s teammates wearing a Laker’s jersey, gaining new courage in the presence of the police. The policeman surveyed the crowd.
“You called the police to referee a volleyball game?” the patrolman
said in disbelief.
“They took our money,” moaned the Laker, pointing toward Michael. “Money?” repeated the policeman without taking his eyes off the
Laker. “So you were gambling?”
“Gambling? No,” said the Laker reconsidering. “No I guess not.” “Good,” said the patrolman, “because gambling is illegal.” He
suddenly turned his cold stare on Michael.
Michael avoided the policeman’s fierce gaze, looking to Jack for support, looking to the place where Jack had bested the giant only a moment before. But Jack had vanished.
That was the word for it, vanished. Michael hurried through the crowd, bumping people, even grabbing a couple of arms so that men turned to scowl at him. Not one of them was Jack. There wasn’t a trace of him anywhere.
When Michael got back to the cottage, he entered the house through the kitchen and saw the blood on the floor. This was just what he had been afraid of. He should never have left Kathy alone. What had he been thinking? Now, he’d never forgive himself. He followed the trail to the bathroom. More blood. “Kathy!” he called out frantically.
“We’re on the porch,” Kathy called out. Her voice sounded calm, fine. Outside the living room, he saw Kathy sitting on the front porch, and he was surprised to see that she wasn’t alone.
“You’re all right?” he said, looking at her bandaged hand. “Oh, this? I’m fine. I cut myself accidentally.”
Michael looked at her closely, only tentatively relieved.
Kathy’s companion was a woman in her late sixties or early seventies, so thin as to be almost emaciated. She wore a dark silk shirt with a frilling bow at the neck, and a tailored skirt, quite out of place at Port Aransas. Kathy wore a white shirt. She leaned back in an old plastic lawn chair, her legs crossed as daintily as possible given that her legs were bare. Was she only wearing a shirt? And what shirt was that? Michael had never seen
it before. Was it a man’s shirt? Michael leaned against the porch railing,
feeling rather winded.
“Michael, this is Mrs. Gaford, our neighbor.”
Michael shook the old lady’s thin hand – careful not to break it. “Mrs. Gaford has been telling me about our rental cottage.”
“Your cottage is haunted,” Mrs. Gaford said, accentuating each consonant.
“Really?” Michael said, at a loss for how to respond.
Kathy chimed in. “Mrs. Gaford says a man died on the beach almost a hundred years ago, and his spirit never left.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Gaford said excitedly. “I’ve seen him. And his dog, too! Yes, wandering the dunes, staring at this cottage.”
“Michael, get Mrs. Gaford some more tea,” Kathy insisted, noticing the old woman’s cup was empty.
“Oh, dear, no thank you,” Mrs. Gaford said. “No, I won’t interrupt your honeymoon any longer.” ‘Honeymoon?’ thought Michael.
“At least let Michael drive you?” Kathy insisted. Kathy was holding a
mug, holding it as if to warm her hands.
“No, no, no,” protested Mrs. Gaford. “You two enjoy each other. And congratulations!”
Michael watched their neighbor negotiate the wooden boardwalk and enter the sand of the path to her house that was perhaps a hundred yards away. He gazed at Kathy with a hopeful, expectant look. “Honeymoon?”
“She’s an old lady, Michael,” Kathy said. “She just assumed we’re married.” Michael was smiling, realizing that Kathy had not corrected the old woman’s mistake. Kathy leaned back in the lawn chair, ankles now lifted to the porch rail, which made her legs look imposingly long and displayed her calf muscles to advantage. He leaned over and kissed her knee. She set her tea-filled mug on the deck, and reached up and playfully mussed Michael’s hair. “You are hopeless,” she said, “you know that?”
“Yes, hopeless,” he said, but refrained from saying what he was really
thinking, that he was hopelessly in love with her.
“I made a pot of tea,” she said. “The house is freezing.”
Michael passed quietly back into the cottage that seemed darkened after the brightness of outside, his head turning slowly to take in everything. He checked the thermostat. It was cold. He must have unintentionally set it too low.
He opened the refrigerator and found a bowl full of freshly cut lime pieces, enough to supply a bar for a week. He wiped the blood from the counter and the kitchen floor. Strange, he thought, and grabbed a beer. He need
ed one.
When Michael returned to the porch, Kathy was standing, leaning on the porch railing with her good hand, her bandaged hand held awkwardly aloft as if she were waving goodbye. She was looking out to sea. Michael noticed again that she was wearing a man’s white shirt, an old-fashioned one with a winged collar. Michael didn’t remember owning any shirts with a winged collar, much less bringing them on vacation. He didn’t say anything about the man’s shirt, nor did he mention the volleyball game, the policeman, or Jack’s sudden disappearance.
They had dinner that night at the Seafood and Spaghetti Works, the geodesic dome that was the island’s original restaurant as far as Michael and Kathy were concerned. He had made reservations, but they still had to wait in the bar for almost half an hour. It was the last weekend of summer; the island was jammed with people. Living in Houston, Kathy and Michael were used to finding themselves in a crush of strangers, but Port Aransas was such a small town that it seemed surprising not to see anyone they knew. Michael kept looking through the crowd. Kathy did too, pleased to see that everyone wasn’t young. There were old fishermen, families with children, retired couples.
After they were seated upstairs and had already been through the line
at what Michael had once thought was the world’s most complete salad bar
