Half Moon Bay

by Alice LaPlante

  * * *

  Jane had few photographs of Angela, but what she really wanted to erase were the memories. Memories had the power to hurt.

  Friends and family had to talk her out of it. You’ll feel differently in a few years. You’ll want the photos then. Don’t do anything rash. Put them in a safe deposit box. Give them to Rick for safekeeping.

  But Jane had destroyed almost all of them, burned them in the fireplace. Rick was furious. So be it. Jane had never been one for photographs anyway. She believed that you lost the real memories when you took photos of something. She knew people who came to the arboretum and spent the whole time behind the lenses of their cameras or phones and missed the whole experience. Rick had photographed himself out of Angela’s birth and childhood. He’d stopped taking photos during the bad years because he said he didn’t want to remember them. The joke was on him. He’d have those burned into his memory rather than printed onto photo paper.

  * * *

  The evening after the visit from Amy’s mother, Jane finds herself in church. At Our Lady of the Pillar, in Half Moon Bay. She hasn’t been in a church since Angela’s memorial service, and then she could scarcely have considered herself there. It’s the ugliest church Jane has ever seen, the product of 1970s architectural standards, squat and geometric, with brown and orange colors in the carpets, the patterned chairs, the geometric altar cloth. Nothing inspiring. Nothing grand about it. Jane likes it that way. It reminds her that she hasn’t missed anything in the twenty-odd years since she left the church. She sits down on the hard pew.

  To her astonishment, she finds herself praying. She wonders what that means. She finds herself begging. Please. Please. What is she asking for? She doesn’t want anything from this all-powerful figure who took her daughter away. She doesn’t need anything from this deity. She doesn’t want money, youth, or beauty, and certainly not things. She simply wants the pain to go away.

  * * *

  Jane wakes up the next day feeling unwell. Feverish. The room spins when she gets out of bed. She fixes her hair so that the wound is covered, gets on her motorbike, and heads to work anyway. It is going to be an especially busy day at the nursery. Members of the Peninsula Garden Club, an important group of customers, are visiting. She is supposed to give them a lecture on native California wildflowers.

  The group is due to arrive at 3:00 p.m., but by noon Jane knows she isn’t going to make it. All her limbs ache, and she feels cold and hot at the same time. The flu. She hasn’t been so afflicted in years. Helen sends her home. Adam is asked to take over Jane’s part of the garden club presentation. He was amenable, of course. Always ready to be helpful, Adam.

  Then on the way home, going west on 92, Jane gets in an accident. A small one, but a shock because she’s never been in one before. One moment she is slowing down to a stop behind a sky blue Cadillac, and the next moment she’s hit it with a firm thump! Jane can barely get her leg over her motorbike and, shivering with fever, inspects the Cadillac’s rear fender. There doesn’t seem to be any damage, not even a scratch, but the driver, a woman, rolls down the driver’s-side window and gestures at her to come over. The woman, perhaps in her early sixties, is feeling her neck and upper back tentatively with her right hand.

  There’s no visible damage to the car, Jane says when she gets to the driver’s-side window. Her tongue feels thick in her mouth. But why don’t you get out and check for yourself?

  I’m not sure I should, says the woman. She is wearing bright red lipstick and a string of pearls, a tailored suit, but not one that you would wear to a job. What is she doing here in Half Moon Bay? She does not look familiar. Perhaps a hill person Jane hasn’t personally met.

  Why not? Jane asks. She tries to seem reasonable, but her throat hurts so much it comes out in a loud rasp. She sounds aggressive, ready for a fight. Jane takes a step back from the car in case the woman gets that impression.

  I may have hurt my neck and my back. Isn’t that what happens when you’re rear-ended?

  Not necessarily, Jane manages to say. She desperately needs to sit down somewhere.

  I think I need to see my doctor.

  That is, of course, your prerogative, Jane says. But in the meantime, there’s the matter of the car. If you don’t mind, I’ll take some photos. She walks or, rather, staggers back to her motorbike to get her phone.

  Are you drunk? calls the woman. Jane ignores her. She unsteadily takes a few pictures of the seemingly pristine back fender of the Cadillac. She writes down her name, her phone number, and her insurance company and insurance policy number. Her writing looks like Angela would have printed it in second grade, crazy stick letters that don’t match up. She walks back and gives the paper to the woman. The woman takes the paper and throws it on the seat next to her. Then, as Jane turns to leave, the woman reaches out and grabs Jane’s wrist. It hurts.

  No, the woman says. You’ll wait here until my husband arrives. Forty-five minutes. An hour, maybe. He’s in San Francisco today. He’s coming as fast as he can.

  I can’t, Jane begins, but the woman interrupts her.

  You’ll stay. Otherwise, it’s a hit-and-run. She’s almost gloating. Over what? Her power over her husband? Over Jane?

  I can’t wait here an hour, Jane tries to say, but all that comes out is Can’t. Hour. She’s losing her sense of time. Cars are slowing down and people are staring, trying to see what is going on. A gaper’s block, Jane’s dad used to call them back in Oklahoma. Everyone needing to see. Jane has never been on the receiving end of the gapes before.

  One car swerves suddenly out of traffic and comes to a stop next to Jane’s motorbike.

  What’s the problem? A man’s voice. Familiar. Jane opens her eyes. She hasn’t realized she’d closed them, or that she is now sitting on the pine needle–covered ground by the side of the road.

  It is Edward. His face concerned and frowning. Jane half lifts a hand, then loses her will to do it, or anything else. Her eyes close again. She has the urge to lie down on the pine needles and sleep.

  As if through a fog, she hears voices arguing.

  Don’t be ridiculous. You have her contact information. There have been no injuries. She is free to go.

  I may be hurt.

  You’re not. Edward’s voice, decisive. He is standing over Jane. What’s wrong? Are you injured?

  Sick, Jane manages to say. A hand touches her forehead.

  Good God, you’re burning up. I’m taking you home.

  Bike, Jane says.

  Forget that piece of crap. It’ll be safe enough. You can come back and get it tomorrow. Or the next day. Come on. Get in the car. You’re in no condition to be out of bed.

  Jane obeys. She has been thinking of Edward. Too much. She has been worried how she would act next time she sees him. But it all feels very natural. She is guided into the car, collapses onto soft leather seats.

  You’re safe now, Edward says.

  * * *

  Everything in Jane’s body hurts, even her eyelashes. She is in Edward’s car. She is in her cottage. She is being helped into bed. Her head touches a soft pillow. Ah, relief. A cool blanket is placed over her. She is vaguely aware of some sounds, and then a cold glass is placed against her lips.

  Drink.

  As she drinks, some of the water drips onto her neck. It is so icy that she gasps.

  You’ve got a high fever.

  Some more rustling, then,

  Open up. Take these. It’s aspirin; it’ll get the fever down.

  She takes the tablets, accepts some more water, painfully swallows. Then swoons back onto the pillow.

  She awakens several hours later. The room is dark, but she senses a presence. Next to her is a form. It turns and places a hand on her forehead.

  Better, Edward says, for it is he. She can’t see his features, only hears his voice. But she is being cared for. Someone cares. How long has it been since she’d allowed herself to accept generosity from someone? She always felt too obliged, obligat
ed. Now she is merely grateful.

  Jane dreams. She is desiring sex, she is excited, she is about to demand it from anyone near her. A man presents himself. He is seedy. Disreputable. Greasy hair and a spindly body. He is not anyone Jane has ever seen before. He is not ideal. He is not sexy. No matter. Hurry up. Rick is on the other side of the bedroom door. No, it is Jane’s mother. Quick. Lie down. Penetrate me. Do it. But before things can be consummated, the door opens and in comes Edward. He doesn’t look disappointed or shocked. Is he pleased? To view her in her degradation? Her desire has not abated. Jane wakes unsatisfied.

  The house is dark. She is alone in the bed. Her fever has broken, but she still feels weak. She tries to sit up but falls back on her pillow. Then she senses a presence. A dark form in the armchair near her window.

  Come here, she says.

  Edward gets up, and sits next to her. She takes his hand and puts it on her breast.

  Do you really want this? he asks. Now?

  Jane doesn’t like to be asked. She isn’t into rape fantasies, she believes no means no, but she hates the idea that she has to be explicit about wanting him. She does want him. But she doesn’t like to beg.

  No means no, she says. I have not said no.

  But only yes means yes, he says. You’re not up on the latest thinking. He has not touched her. He has not made a move toward her. There is nothing sensual in his manner. He has taken his hand off her breast and has crossed his arms over his chest. That means something, that body language, but Jane is still too dazed to figure out what it is.

  She is not looking her best. She probably smells bad. This is not an erotic moment.

  Yes, she says.

  Skin. The parts that are soft and those that are not. Applying pressure of the right kind. The shoulders. The thighs. Skin against skin. Fingers that grasp and stroke. Pressing one cheek against his shoulder blades, her hands meeting on either side of his torso. The pride of possession. Jane has fallen, badly.

  PART III

  LOVE

  Then it is as if their brief separation has never been. Edward starts coming to Jane every night. Jane has never experienced anything like this. How physical it all is! She is still carrying her grief; she still has the heaviness and the chest pains, but along with that is a tingling in her limbs and desire in her loins. She has forgotten . . . no, that is not true. She has never felt this way, not for Rick, not for any of her previous romantic attachments. They seemed trivial, inane compared to this.

  Sometimes knowing Edward exists in the world is enough. Then sometimes she has to see him. She walks past his office in the morning, finds excuses to walk down Main Street at lunchtime and after work. She has to see his face, overshadowed by a lock of hair that has fallen in his eyes, his lean body bent over a desk, his fingers touching the keyboard. She has to be sure of the physicality of him.

  She never knows when he will come. Each night an excitement too much to be borne. Will he come? Even when he doesn’t, she isn’t disappointed. He exists. He desires her. He will come again.

  And when he did come! She holds him and strokes him all over—his arms, his legs, his belly—reveling in the wonder that is him. The world recedes. Nothing exists but the two of them in the soft bed. Even the pillows and sheets and blankets are discarded, not necessary. What is necessary? His hands. His mouth. The length of his body, pressed to hers, arm to arm, thigh to thigh, face-to-face. No space separates them.

  What of Alma, then? What role does she play in this? Jane doesn’t care at first. Alma is incidental. Collateral damage. Then she bumps into Alma on the street, right after one of her pilgrimages to Edward’s office. For they were pilgrimages, daily journeys to a sacred object.

  Jane! I haven’t seen much of you lately.

  I’ve been busy. Jane is trying to control her face, trying not to smile so much. She is certain everyone can see into her and see that she has come to life again.

  Oh, it’s my fault as much as yours. It’s midterms, and the students are demanding attention.

  Jane smiles. She can’t think of anything to say.

  Why don’t you come to dinner this weekend? I’m sure Edward would be delighted.

  Even at the sound of his name being spoken aloud, a thrill runs through Jane.

  Yes, of course, she says. Alma is as gracious and charming as ever, but did Jane detect something else? Something more intimate? More knowing? If possible, more affectionate? Jane doesn’t care, not one bit.

  * * *

  Edward doesn’t come to Jane on Thursday. He doesn’t come on Friday. Then, on Saturday, Jane rides over to their house. Deliberately a little late. Trying not to show how desperate she is.

  Edward opens the door. He looks pleasant, although not necessarily pleased to see her. Or not as pleased as she’d expected. As if welcoming any guest. She supposes that is to be expected. But it hurts nonetheless.

  He ushers her in. The table is set as if for a formal dinner party. No, a romantic dinner. For three. The plates are white, there are glasses for wine and glasses for water and multiple forks and knives arranged around the plate in a way that had always bewildered Jane. A tablecloth. Candles. Flowers. Music is playing, piano music, something precise, almost mathematical, the cadences surprising, not soothing. Jane doesn’t recognize it. Not elevator music. Real music.

  Delicious smells. Edward disappears into the kitchen and brings back a glass of champagne for Jane. She is terribly self-conscious of the way she is dressed. She changed from her work clothes, so she is clean, but only just. She hasn’t showered since that morning. She wears no makeup, only jeans and a T-shirt. She expected something informal like their previous lunches. But clearly they have something quite different in mind this time.

  She sips her champagne too fast, and her glass is empty. Edward comes in with the bottle and fills it up. He’s got a glass of his own in his other hand.

  Alma will be with us in a minute, he says. Jane expects him to exhibit some sign of their intimacy, but there is none. She is melting. She is nearly in tears of joy at seeing him again, at being in the same room as him, and despair, that he is not acknowledging her. It takes all her willpower not to reach out and stroke his arm. He is wearing pressed trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt.

  Alma, when she comes out of the kitchen, is wearing the proverbial little black dress. She puts a plate of paté and bread on the table. As she turns around, Jane can see that her dress is backless, showing her straight spine, her slender shoulder blades. Her dangling earrings sparkle.

  Unlike Edward, Alma is effusive.

  Jane! How lovely! She kisses Jane on either cheek. Jane still isn’t used to that, and wiggles awkwardly when she should submit. Alma’s perfume is faint but lovely. Rosewater, Jane guesses.

  Jane is on her third glass of champagne by the time they sit down.

  No, you here, says Alma, guiding Jane to the chair at the head of the table. Edward and Alma are sitting on either side of her, Edward to the left, Alma to the right. Alma hands the salad around the table.

  Jane by now is quite tipsy. She spears a piece of lettuce but is not hungry. She is confused. She is bursting with her, their, secret.

  Alma clears the salad dishes away and brings in a roast chicken with potatoes arranged around it. Jane realizes there is no way she can eat it. She looks with dismay as Edward carves thick slices of breast meat and puts two on her plate, along with some potatoes.

  Jane, you seem a little anxious. This from Alma, who has sat down again. What’s the matter?

  I’m sleeping with your lover, that’s the matter, thinks Jane. She cuts off a tiny piece of chicken, puts it in her mouth, and chews.

  If you’re worried about your relationship with Edward and about how it affects me, please don’t, says Alma. She is calmly eating her chicken.

  Jane stops chewing. She stops breathing. She stops everything. She suddenly feels nauseous. She pushes back her chair.

  What do you mean? she asks.

  She me
ans that whatever happens between us doesn’t affect her, says Edward. He and Alma are holding hands under the table, Jane can see from her vantage point. She feels even more ill.

  That’s right. What’s between you and Edward stays between you and Edward, Alma says. What Edward and I have is what we have. Nothing can affect that. We thought perhaps we needed to be clearer about that.

  Jane doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She does a little of both, and to her shame, it comes out as a rough snort. She wipes her eyes. As Edward had suggested, she’d wondered how much of the excitement of her relationship with Edward had to do with the illicit aspect of it. That it was a secret. Her and Edward’s secret. Now she’ll find out.

  As if reading her mind, Alma reaches out and takes Jane’s hand with her free hand, the one that isn’t being held by Edward.

  It will still be a secret, she says. I don’t think the good people of Half Moon Bay need to know anything about this. I don’t think they would understand.

  Edward leans forward and blows out the candles. It gets suddenly dimmer in the room.

  I’m not sure I do, Jane says.

  A ping sounds from the kitchen, and Alma leaves the table. Then Edward, who has been quiet until now, says, We don’t have anything to lose from Alma knowing, and we have everything to gain.

  But Jane doesn’t agree. She is familiar with loss. She knows there is always something to lose.

  Alma comes back from the kitchen holding a frothy concoction. Baked Alaska, she says. Always a complicated endeavor. She removes the main plates from the table, Jane’s still full, and spoons out the dessert.

  I know you’re worried, says Alma. But I assure you everything will be all right.

  Has this happened before? Jane asks. Whether she leaves or stays depends on the answer. Actually, she thinks she might leave either way. This is too much, too weird. In Berkeley, you heard about these arrangements. But they usually involved a marriage that was dead or sexless yet keeping the existing ménage intact made sense, because of kids, because of property. That was clearly not the case with Alma and Edward.