Half Moon Bay

by Alice LaPlante

  * * *

  Angela, like Jane, had been a loser. Literally. She lost everything. It had been this way since she was small. She lost her special bear—given to her by Rick’s mother, Angela’s grandmother, when she was born—so many times that Jane wrote to the factory that manufactured it and ordered a dozen identical specimens that she kept hidden in the garage. Each time Barry the Bear disappeared, voilà! another one, decidedly less scruffy, would magically appear. Jane liked doing this. She liked being such a devoted mother. It made her feel good. Later, she felt less good when Angela lost her lunch, her book bag, her school ID, her lunch money, her driver’s license. Jane got in the habit of copying important documents. Of purchasing multiple versions of things if they were cheap enough (earphones, watches) or insurance when they were expensive (cell phone, bike). She tried to teach Angela how to place everything in one purse or backpack, to always check that she had everything before leaving a friend’s house or a restaurant. To no avail. Angela lost her keys so many times that Jane went to the locksmith and had ten keys made of the back door lock to the house, and ten duplicate car keys. She hid five of those key sets in various places around the yard—under this rock, in the roots of this tree—and put five in a drawer. That way Angela was never locked out, and if she lost one set, Jane would simply give her another.

  Because of all this, Jane was organized against losing things. She had her purse. Her wallet fit in one compartment, her keys in another, her cell phone in yet another. She never deviated from her pattern. So one night, when it is her turn to close up the nursery after everyone else has gone home, she is astounded that her keys are not in their proper place. She thinks she must have made a mistake when she can’t put her hands on them immediately. But fishing down again into the special key compartment, her hand still comes up empty. She empties her purse onto the front counter. Wallet—check. Phone—check. Brush, comb, sunscreen, lipstick (rarely used). No keys. She hunts through the greenhouses, everywhere she’d been that day. Nothing. Nada. What is she going to do? She can’t leave the nursery gates and doors unlocked—too much valuable stock. Chances are it would be safe, but she isn’t one to take chances. She calls Helen and sheepishly explains the situation.

  For circumstances like these, Jane keeps an extra key for her motorbike and a spare house key in her saddlebag. After Helen drives up with a spare key to the greenhouse, she locks up and drives home.

  That night, Jane can’t sleep. She double-bolts both the front and the back door to the cottage—although the cottage is so small it is ludicrous that it even has two doors—and closes and bars her windows for the first time since she’s moved into the cottage. At her landlord’s house—next door, but separated by a thick eucalyptus tree grove—the dog is barking at something. Cars drive by, throwing grotesque shadows across her walls and ceilings. The cottage, approximately a hundred years old, creaks and groans in the wind. Jane gets out of bed and places chairs across both inward-opening doors. She balances a glass on each chair to make even more noise if someone attempts to come in.

  The cottage is stifling, airless. Desperate for air, Jane inches open the window next to her bed. Immediately the sound of the ocean comes through. A refreshing breeze blows in. But Jane can feel things. The world is unsafe tonight. The darkness hides many dangers. The pressure in her chest is building up again, a full-scale attack is in store. Jane takes two Xanax and waits for the calm to overtake her. It doesn’t happen. She tries reading. No dice. She finally paces, from the living room through the tiny kitchen, looks out the back door window onto the garbage cans and a small white picket fence that anyone could climb over. Anyone. And with her keys in hand, they could enter while she is asleep . . . and do what? What is Jane afraid of? Rape? Murder? Such things hold no terrors for her. What can they take from her? Nothing that she wants or needs. And yet she is afraid. She is protecting something inside herself, something that still deserves to be protected. What is that? Her soul? She has to laugh. She never thinks of that anymore, although she had been fixated on the cleanliness of her soul as a child. Before she lapsed. Over the years she has forgotten about it. But now, at 3:00 a.m. on a windy moonless night in late September, she is deeply concerned about losing it.

  About 3:30 a.m., as Jane paces, slowly and silently, back and forth through the rooms, she notices that one car doesn’t pass the house but is paused, its headlights shining directly into her living room through the curtains. The sound of an engine idling. Then the lights and engine switch off with one motion. Silence and darkness again. A neighbor coming home late from the bars? The crackle of footsteps on the eucalyptus leaves. Slowly. Trying not to make noise. Coming closer. A shadow against the curtains at her front door. Jane can’t help it. She tries to scream, the terror overwhelming her, but all that comes out is a faint croak. She is paralyzed. Then the shadow recedes. She hears the footsteps moving away, not quite so quietly. She tiptoes to the door and pulls aside the curtains. She can only glimpse the person from the rear, but the blond ponytail, the height and slimness, means it can only be one individual. She unlocks and pulls open the door.

  Adam. She speaks quietly. He hears her and turns. Now she can see his face. Definitely Adam, wearing a Santa Cruz sweatshirt and jeans. He turns and comes back. Jane retreats into her doorway.

  What do you want? Her voice comes out louder than she’d intended.

  Your keys.

  What?

  He points. On Jane’s front stoop are her keys.

  I found them in my bag. I don’t know how they got there. Either I picked them up by accident or you dropped them there. I thought you might need them. When I saw your motorbike here, I knew you must have had a spare set.

  Why didn’t you call?

  I was out with some buddies. I didn’t get home until after 2:00 a.m. I didn’t want to wake you up.

  Jane’s broken heart starts beating again. This isn’t like the trowel, is it?

  Even in the moonlight she can see him blush. Of course not.

  Well, come in and have some tea.

  He hesitates. Decaffeinated? he asks.

  Or a glass of water. Noncarbonated. That’s one of his things too, she remembers, says the bubbles are artificially injected in the lower-priced carbonated waters for sale at the Safeway. Whatever. Come on.

  But he hesitates.

  Are you sure? he asks, but there is something in his face and his voice that seems to be saying something else. His eyes seem to be taking in her from her head to her toes. There is something about the way his gaze travels down her body, from her face to her bare feet. Not sexual. Reverent? Jane realizes what a sight she must be, her long red hair loose and disheveled, in her nightshirt, an old football shirt of Rick’s that reaches halfway down her thighs.

  What?

  You look so lovely.

  Jane has to laugh.

  Okay, have it your way. I’m going back to bed. The heaviness in her chest, the anxiety that has fueled her all evening, has vanished. She feels light-headed. With her keys in hand, she is suddenly safer. The chairs can come away from the doors, the glasses back in the cabinet. The windows open, the sea air moving through the cottage as usual.

  The world is safe. Her guardian angel has blessed the house.

  * * *

  The next morning, Jane gets to the nursery early, before seven, but Adam has beaten her. His Volvo is already parked out front, and the doors are unlocked.

  Man, I hope I didn’t startle you last night, he says when she tracks him down, drinking tea in the break room. He looks fully rested—odd, given that he lives in Santa Cruz, a good hour down Route 1 from Jane’s cottage, and it’d been well after three when he’d left.

  No, Jane says. She realizes she has forgiven him for the trowel, and any other transgressions. Who could hold a grudge against that sunny face? Together, they go to their separate corners to work until the official opening at 10:00 a.m.

  But Jane, farther to the front of the nursery, hears a car crunch into the
gravel parking lot well before then, around 8:45. She wipes her hands on her smock and goes to warn whomever it is away. To her astonishment, it’s Alma, whom she hasn’t seen since their ride on the beach cliff. Now under very different circumstances.

  Her prepared speech of I’m sorry, but we’re not open yet . . . dies on her lips.

  Hello? she says. It comes out like a question.

  Jane! Alma reaches her and again kisses her twice, once on each cheek, her usual style. Alma is dressed professionally, in a white blouse and black silk pants. She smells faintly of hydrangeas. One of Jane’s favorite flowers.

  It’s been so long since our . . . adventure! Alma says. She walks farther into the nursery, past Jane, turns right to go into the orchid room. Jane, unsure what to do, mutely follows.

  I was on my way to campus and thought I’d stop. So you take care of all this? she asks with a sweep of her hand.

  Jane finds her voice. Not these. I work in the native plant section. It’s primarily what we’re known for.

  Apt, says Alma.

  Jane is puzzled. In what way apt? Her voice comes out more hostile than she’d intended. But really, how is one supposed to deal with one’s lover’s lover? It was too much for Jane.

  I think of you as a native plant, says Alma.

  You couldn’t be further from the mark, Jane says.

  Your Oklahoma roots? says Alma, startling Jane. Very few people know about those. Most think she originated from Berkeley. Edward. Edward knows. They’d discussed her, then.

  Incidental, Alma says. Totally incidental. We choose our places, or rather, our places choose us. You were born for Half Moon Bay. Admit it. She fingers a warty hammer orchid (Drakaea livida). How ugly these things are. Show me your plants. They must be more attractive than these.

  Jane leads the way to her room, where she’s been planting Fremontodendron californicum (California flannelbush). These will grow to about five feet tall, and are covered with gorgeous yellow flowers, like soft gold trumpets, she says. Then, warming to her subject. They’re very popular down in Monterey and Carmel. Go down there around Easter, and you’ll see these bursting out everywhere.

  And what are these? Alma points to some seedlings on the back table. Jane smiles. These are her favorites. These will actually grow into vines, she says. They flaunt the strangest flowers in the fall. Aristolochia californica (Dutchman’s pipe). Here, I’ll show you. Jane heaves open a large dog-eared book and points to a delicate purple-and-white-striped flower that could be construed as a high-heeled boot or a pipe. We almost lost these, says Jane. They were being crowded out by invasive species.

  Yes, says Alma, and she seems to be choosing her words carefully. To be supplanted is not a particularly fun position to be in.

  Is this for me? Jane thinks. Her whole body heats up, she can feel the creeping warmth from her torso to her neck, up to her face. The greenhouse is hot and moist. Jane is used to it. She should be used to it.

  Of course, Alma continues, there is such a thing as coexistence. She fingers the tiny green shoots. She isn’t looking at anything in particular.

  Yes, says Jane, after a pause. She doesn’t know what else to say or do.

  An agreement of sorts, says Alma.

  A truce, says Jane, but here Alma shakes her head.

  No, too adversarial. It doesn’t have to be like that. The resources—Alma points down at the dirt in the pot, then the sun through the window—should be sufficient for all.

  * * *

  That night, after dinner, and then after three hours in which Edward didn’t come, Jane decides she needs to get out of Half Moon Bay, even if only briefly. She realizes with a shock that she has not left the coast in more than four months. Her last trip was down to the Bonny Doon Nursery to pick up some seeds for Helen. But even that didn’t count, Bonny Doon being high in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Jane hasn’t been anywhere near what might be called civilization in months and months. No movie theaters or cinema multiplexes. No shopping malls. No Macy’s, Kmart, Toys R Us. The San Mateo coast has escaped all that.

  She stops by the Shell on Ocean Drive to gas up, then hits the road. She’s put on extra layers, knowing that although the weather is mild down here, it could be frigid in San Francisco. Despite being bundled up, she’s still chilled as she rides up Route 1 past Montara, El Grenada, Princeton-by-the-Sea, Pacifica, and Daly City.

  She’s not taken Route 1 between Half Moon Bay and San Francisco in years—since before they closed Devil’s Slide and drilled the tunnel. So she no longer has to circumvent the dizzying cliff that was constantly eroding, causing frequent road closures. It was said that drivers used to unwisely close their eyes as they drove around the hairpin curves of Devil’s Slide. Now people on foot and on bicycles enjoy the new park that was built on the remains of Route 1 that hugs the cliff. She’d driven Angela across Devil’s Slide once when she was six, and to Angela, the trip had taken on mythic proportions. Remember when we went across Devil’s Slide? Angela would ask, as if they’d crossed the Arctic tundra to reach the North Pole.

  The tunnel turns a former journey of excited dread into a humdrum affair. You turned inland well before reaching the cliffs, past the parking lot for the park, and into the tunnel. And that is that. Jane finds that she is both relieved and disappointed.

  Jane follows Route 1 until it reaches the 280 highway, and takes it north to 101, after some thought getting off at Cesar Chavez Street. She chooses her neighborhood deliberately. She doesn’t want Pacific Heights or North Beach or Noe Valley. She wants something different tonight, something she can’t get in Half Moon Bay.

  Even in the year and a half since she’d been down Mission Street, to her and Rick’s favorite Mexican taqueria on Fifteenth Street, there have been massive changes. The Mexican restaurant is gone, replaced by a futuristic tapas bar, all steel and glass. Formerly graying decrepit Victorians have been refurbished and painted splendidly with all colors of the rainbow. Fewer people are begging outside the Walgreens on Twentieth. It is all very pretty. As she idles at a light on the corner of Eighteenth and Valencia, a massive bus with shaded windows pulls up next to her and disgorges an army of young—very young—men with a few women, all wearing jeans and T-shirts, carrying laptop cases and wearing backpacks. The McDonald’s on Nineteenth Street, previously notorious for the used needles in the restrooms, now sports a big banner advertising free Wi-Fi, and serious-looking men—again, young, young, young—are tapping away at laptops. The Good Vibrations sex toy shop is still there, she is glad to see, where she and her Berkeley friends spent many a bachelorette party evening.

  She parks the motorbike on Guerrero and, on impulse, buys a bottle of tequila in a small liquor shop—that too has been sanitized with less beer and more exotic wines and liquors on the shelves. Jane asks for a bag to put the bottle in. She loosens the top and walks down the Mission occasionally taking a gulp. Before too long, she is feeling the effect. It has been too long since she cut loose.

  She finds a movie house that is playing an old John Waters film starring Divine. Instead of regular movie seats, people are sitting on mismatched couches with broken springs. If she had been sober, she would have worried about what exactly she was sitting on. Instead she settles herself next to a woman with a red wig on that is almost the same color of her own hair, only made up in a fifties flip hairdo. It is stiff, like cardboard. The woman is slurping thirstily from a large sweating plastic cup and eating Doritos from a bag at her feet, despite a large sign on the wall behind her that reads NO OUTSIDE FOOD OR DRINK.

  Hey, honey, if you don’t tell on me, I won’t tell on you.

  The voice is deep and the Adam’s apple a dead giveaway. The southern accent a hammy fake. Jane instantly feels safer. Another imposter. A sister in implausibility.

  No problem, Jane says, and offers her the bag with the tequila bottle in it.

  Don’t mind if I do. The woman pours a liberal portion into her cup. Jane takes a few Doritos. They munch in companionable s
ilence as Divine belts out a song, something about cowboys longing for home.

  Jane is only half watching the movie. She’s drunk too much, and the room is starting to spin. Suddenly the urge to sleep is too much. She closes her eyes.

  Hey. HEY!

  Someone is shaking Jane awake. It is her neighbor with the red hair. The lights are on, so bright they hurt Jane’s eyes.

  Closing time, darling.

  Jane stumbles to her feet. She notices that the bottle of tequila is about three-quarters gone. She is wondering if she drank it all herself when she sees her companion is also stumbling. The red-haired woman sways before falling back on the sofa. A rubber breast, complete with realistic-looking nipple, falls out of her shirt.

  I hate it when that happens.

  Come on, missy—you and your friend have to find another place to hang. This from a man who is obviously in charge. He is pushing a broom between the couches.

  I know a place. The woman puts a finger to her lips, sticks the breast back into place, and heaves herself to her feet. She is large—well over six feet tall, Jane estimates, and probably a good 250 pounds. Her fashion sense is impressive considering her size. She manages to look elegant in a black dress that fits her shape admirably. When her eyes are open, her lashes nearly touch her eyebrows. Jane marvels that she can close her eyes or blink with such things glued on.

  What’s your name, honey?

  Jane.

  Janey, I’m Sheree. I have just the spot for us to continue this little party.

  Before Jane understands what’s happening, they are in the street, Jane’s arm held tightly by Sheree. Both are having trouble walking.

  Don’t worry, it’s not far.

  They stumble maybe two blocks until they get to a small park with swings and slides and a spiderweb-like climbing tower. Jane notices that the black surface under her feet is soft, spongy. If you fell in her playground as a child in Big Cabin, Oklahoma, you fell on hard dirt. Here, even in what used to be the dubious part of town, they don’t let their children scrape their knees.