Half Moon Bay

by Alice LaPlante

  You mean, has someone else ever been allowed in? No. Never, says Edward.

  Allowed in? asks Jane. That’s a strange way of putting it.

  It’s how we think of it.

  You’ve discussed it, repeats Jane. She plays with her baked Alaska. The white meringue has been sullied by the chocolate ice cream. It’s a liquid mess on her plate. She puts down her spoon, nausea rising again.

  No one answers her. Jane looks up to see both Edward and Alma watching her.

  We’ve discussed what’s good for us, as well as taking your well-being into account, says Alma.

  Jane has to laugh. My well-being!

  Yes, Edward says, then adds, in a normal voice, but Jane gets the impression that he’s quoting. Days and hours withered in the scarcity of love.

  You shouldn’t accept the waste of even one moment of your precious life, Jane, he says. Love is scarce. Isn’t it our duty to pursue it when and where we find it? I don’t personally refuse such gifts. You shouldn’t either.

  Jane breaks down. She can’t help it. Alma gets out of her chair and walks around the table. She kneels next to Jane. Jane finds herself crying into the crook of Alma’s neck. Alma’s hand rests on the small of her back. The pressure a surprising balm.

  You’ll see, it’ll all be okay, Alma says.

  * * *

  The fourth girl is, like Heidi, the first one, five years old. Only this time she’s from the town. She’s the second daughter of the Schroeder family, who had bought the frozen yogurt shop last year, right before Jane moved to Half Moon Bay.

  They lived in a small ranch house with six kids, three girls and three boys. The oldest and youngest girl shared a room, but Susan had her own. The windows had been locked, as all windows in all children’s rooms—especially girls’ rooms—are locked these days. But the kidnapper used a diamond-tipped blade to cut a square opening in the glass, reached in and flicked the lock, and came through the now-open window.

  The town has gone mad. One of their own has been taken. No need to put up pictures. Everyone knows what little Susan looked like. She was frequently at her parents’ yogurt shop after school, coloring or drawing in the corner with her two sisters.

  Police and sheriffs from all over San Mateo County amass at one end of Main Street. Roadblocks are set up going in and out of town. Even more press arrive, if that is at all possible. Four girls!

  There’s no way he’s getting away with this one, Jane heard one police officer tell Margaret in Three Sisters.

  The Moon News runs articles telling parents of young girls to not let them out of their sight, even in their own houses. Parents walk or drive their girls to school. Recess is canceled, after-school sports cease, music and ballet lessons are abandoned.

  Where will Susan show up? Everybody knows it will be in eight days. Everyone awaits that day with dread.

  In Three Sisters, Jane is hailed by the same blogger as after Heidi’s funeral.

  One is a story. Two is weird. Three you’d got national attention. Four is an international sensation, says the woman. Congrats, your little town has made the front page of The New York Times, the Guardian, Le Monde.

  Edward had come to Jane the night that Susan was taken. It had been unusually tender. He never said anything as a rule, but that night he had called her precious and dear heart, words she had previously associated with Victorian novels. He brought her a glass of wine. Then he got up and poured her another one. He stroked her hair. He was even more attentive than usual.

  When she wakes in the morning, he is gone. She has overslept and feels oddly tired and thirsty and hungover. Typically she wakes as he dresses, before dawn, but not this time.

  * * *

  Little Susan. Details are pried out of her parents, her teachers, her schoolmates. She was a little shy but excelled in math. She had a crush on a boy, David Dos, and was planning to marry him. She was obsessed with the bridal magazines found at supermarket checkout counters and would beg her mother to buy them, not for the dresses, but for the formal dinners and meals pictured. When she grew up she was going to be a fireman.

  Angela had also gone through the fireman stage, followed by the usual rock star dreams, then doctor, then lawyer. She wore out all the possibilities by the time she was fourteen. After that, she had no idea what her future held. It held nothing.

  * * *

  The pattern breaks. On the seventh, not the eighth night, Susan is found. How the killer did it no one knows. But a group of schoolchildren visiting the Fitzgerald Marine Reserve discover her when they arrive in their boots and their waterproof jackets to seek sea urchins and starfish and snails. Sitting cross-legged against a rock overlooking the mussel beds is Susan, her brown hair carefully braided, dressed warmly against the chill she wouldn’t feel. Someone had taken great care with her, as usual. A pail full of seashells was placed next to her, along with some digging implements. In her open hands, a starfish.

  * * *

  What does Alma say? It is the day after Susan was found. Edward and Jane are sitting in Jane’s cottage, keeping themselves warm against a sudden chill that has enveloped the coast.

  She doesn’t.

  What does that mean?

  It means I am free to do what I want.

  It’s complicated.

  Not really. When you meet one of your persons, you know it.

  What does that mean, one of your persons?

  There are only so many people for your inner circle. When you find one, you must grab her.

  Not him?

  Not for me. Not yet, anyway.

  Must you have sex with your special person?

  Absolutely. That’s part of the beauty of it.

  You are my first special person. The only one I’ve felt this way about.

  You’re lucky. Most people don’t find any. I’m especially fortunate.

  Jane is afraid to ask, but asks anyway. How many do you have?

  A certain number. He smiles and gets up, begins to dress.

  Even when he is gone, there is magic in the room. Dark magic. Jane has no trouble sleeping these days.

  * * *

  A week passes. Then two. Edward comes to Jane every two or three nights. No warning, only a knock on her front window at nine-ish, well after dark given that the clocks turn back the first week in November. Fall behind. Jane likes it. She can leave her house at 6:00 a.m. and the sun is already up and causing the eucalyptus and palm leaves to glow. The autumn light suits her. She used to think it cold, severe. But now she likes how it brings out the cooler colors in the ocean, the darker undertones in the pines. Night bringing dark delights. She purposely welcomes Edward into a house with no lights on. She prefers to make love with the curtains closed, only a faint hint of the streetlights glowing behind the material. Edward always leaves before dawn.

  One day he sends her a text, a first. It says simply Help out at the office tomorrow? She gets permission for a half-day off on a Saturday, arriving at the YourBeaches.org office at half past ten. Alma is there. Even dressed in loose overalls over a man’s flowered Hawaiian shirt, she looks enchanting. Jane feels shy and doesn’t approach, but stays in the background until Edward gathers all the volunteers together to give them their instructions. It is about Dunes Resort, the five-hundred-bed luxury hotel to be built just above Secret Beach, ruining it.

  “The builder at Dunes Resort is giving investors a tour tomorrow at noon. We just found out. We need to be there, in force,” Edward says. He starts assigning roles to people.

  Jane’s job is to take posters and pamphlets and place them about town, in as many storefronts as possible. It won’t be difficult. Everyone is on our side, says Edward. He tells Alma to accompany Jane. No one will be able to refuse the pair of you, he says, giving Alma a quick smile before turning to the other volunteers.

  Jealousy stings Jane. Edward hasn’t been by for five nights—the longest he’s stayed away since their first night together. But Alma immediately approaches Jane, and the warmth of
her greeting disarms her.

  Jane! So glad we’re paired together. We’ll have fun. Alma’s manner is so kind, without a hint of patronizing, that Jane puts aside her misgivings and even manages to relax. Walking beside Alma, Jane finds her head held high and her step light. Is this how men feel when they are accompanied by a beautiful woman? The admiring looks, the smiles, the nods? Jane doesn’t imagine that her own happy expression might be contributing to the goodwill flowing to them from passersby.

  It is a glorious day, the kind rarely seen in summer but common in the Half Moon Bay winter months: clear, sunny, the air blowing fresh and cool from the sea.

  Jane and Alma make their way down one side of Main Street. By now, Jane knows all the storekeepers, by face if not by name, and those she has not formally met cordially shake her hand. They are understandably intrigued by Alma. Edward is a known quantity, but Alma spends most of her time over the hill, on campus. They direct questions toward her. Jane takes a backseat.

  What do you teach at Stanford?

  What does that mean, particle physics?

  Where were you before?

  What does that mean, adjunct?

  They are surprisingly well informed. All willingly put posters in their windows, piles of pamphlets on their counters. They offer Alma and Jane coffee and cookies, show them the latest goods that have come in, introduce them to their employees. When they finish the west side of the street, Alma suggests they take a break. There’s a sort of public plaza where the day laborers wait to be picked up by farmers and builders who need extra hands. On a bright Saturday like this, it’s crowded with tourists. A bluegrass ensemble of guitar, bass, and violin is entertaining the crowd. They switch from a fast song to a slow one. The female violinist puts down her bow and sings mournfully, in contrast with the bright sun and ice cream–eating children.

  Only a dream, only a dream

  Of glory beyond the dark stream

  How peaceful the slumber, how happy the waking

  Where death is only a dream.

  Jane and Alma find seats. Jane finds herself surprisingly hopped up by the morning’s canvassing.

  This sort of thing usually exhausts me. But you make it easy, she tells Alma. She’s still a little shy. A little in awe. A little envious at the abundance of charm. If Alma had been less . . . Alma . . . Jane would be more prone to jealousy. But she can’t compete with her on any level. Whatever Edward sees in Jane, it must be so radically different as to make Jane almost an alien creature. Edward and Alma were right: Jane wasn’t a threat to their relationship. How could she be? Surprisingly, this buoys her up rather than dampens her mood.

  You don’t know your power, Jane, Alma says suddenly, as if reading Jane’s thoughts.

  Me? Power? Jane has to laugh.

  Your intensity. Your quietness. You don’t let your energy dissipate in extraneous chatter. When you do release it, it packs a wallop. Alma pauses. And, of course, you’re so beautiful. That skin! That hair! She pinches a strand of Jane’s hair and holds it in her fingers for a moment before dropping it.

  Jane shakes her head.

  Yes.

  Unspoken: We would not let anyone but the beautiful in. Yet Jane hears it. Still she doesn’t believe. When she looks in the mirror, she sees only the too-pale skin, the eyes a nondescript brown and so large that they overwhelm her face, the unremarkable nose, the too-thick lips. Altogether unexceptional. The Jane Alma has described doesn’t exist.

  Jane had been carefully watching Alma in action as she charmed the storekeepers. Although she had played down her beauty with her clothes, her lack of makeup, her dark hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, she still took people in. A charismatic. Your eyes would rest on her and linger without knowing why.

  In the stores, Alma would enter, and start with a simple Hi. She’d introduce herself. And you probably know Jane. She’d explain the mission, but the words were clearly less important than the smile with which they were delivered. Her complete absorption into the shopkeeper’s expression, her wry look when she made her request. And the Of course, feel free to say no she added at the end of every request. No one says no. It is simply not possible to say no. The exact right amount of positive energy is used, the exact right amount of warmth. Nothing inappropriate. Sometimes Alma will reach out and touch a storeowner on the shoulder, but only when she judges it not intrusive.

  In the middle of the pitch, Alma often breaks off, seemingly spontaneously, to remark on a scarf, or a lamp, or an arrangement of furniture in the shop. It seems utterly sincere, but Jane detects the pattern. Jane is less happy with that. It makes the storekeepers into patsies. Jane wonders if she too is being duped, if Alma is following a script with her too.

  But when they sit down, Alma seems to let down her guard. Her shoulders slump. Glad we’re half done. That takes a lot out of me.

  But you’re used to lecturing in front of a hundred students!

  It’s an act. It’s all an act. I can only be myself when I’m alone. Then, with almost naive earnestness, I’m so glad we found you, Jane! You do our hearts good.

  Jane can’t help but wonder if this is the version of Alma’s pitch tailored for her, Jane. After all, she has no scarves or pine sideboards to admire, only her Jane-ness. This is the praise that would go to her heart, for she has nothing else. She has been shorn of worldly goods and attachments. And she can’t help it: she is undone.

  * * *

  Jane gets into the habit of stopping in at YourBeaches.org every day. She is drawn there; she can’t help herself. She finds herself getting agitated as she approaches the door, but the desire to enter, to see Edward—and Alma, if she is there—is stronger than her desire to run away. Both emotions being equally strong. She is rarely herself by the time she actually enters. Edward is usually at his desk, writing or on the phone, but no matter what he is doing, he gives her a smile that assures her she is welcome. No, that she is special, that she has been awaited. Alma is often there too, sitting at a desk grading homework or tests or preparing lessons. She also seems delighted to see Jane.

  An increasing number of others are also in the large space, creating posters, working on computers, talking on the phone. Volunteers, Jane knows, as Edward doesn’t have the funds to pay salaries. But the prospect of Dunes Resort at Secret Beach has fueled a lot of local outrage and interest. Already, ground has been broken, and steel beams are being embedded deep in the earth to create the foundation. Cement is being poured. The land has already been despoiled. There is little hope, but the group is determined.

  How are you holding up? This is Alma, who has closed her laptop and has come over to hug Jane and kiss her on both cheeks. Jane has become accustomed to this and no longer flinches.

  I’m all right, Jane says, and, surprisingly, feels that she is. She gathers strength from Alma’s presence. More than that, she craves it. It is a little like being in love. When she is with both of them, Edward and Alma, she feels whole again. When without, she is nothing. With them she is known, and accepted. This is reassuring. She considers Adam and Helen, and thinks, But they don’t really know. They don’t really understand what’s inside me. She is accepted, but who have they welcomed in? It is not the real Jane, not the Jane Edward and Alma know.

  Let’s go get a cup of coffee, Alma urges. She beckons to Edward, and he nods and pushes his chair back. But at the Three Sisters he orders three glasses of chardonnay, even though it is barely 11:30 a.m. Jane is surprised at how pleased she is to get the cold glass with the pale yellow liquid in it. Magic elixir. She is drinking too much, she knows, a problem given her family history, but she doesn’t care.

  Edward leans forward and speaks softly so no one can hear.

  You up for a little civil disobedience?

  What does that mean?

  It means we’re going to get in the way of them getting supplies into the building site at Secret Beach.

  How?

  We’re going to block the road. One of our volunteers has a set of
keys to a bulldozer being used at the construction site. We’re going to push debris onto the road. You with us?

  Jane says, What happens if you get caught?

  No big deal. Fines. It would be a misdemeanor. Maybe some community service.

  But on your record.

  Yes, that’s the risk. Again he asks, You up for it?

  Yes, Jane says. She is.

  * * *

  No moon. On top of that, fog. Cooler, now that it’s well into November. Jane dresses in black, as instructed, with a hat and a scarf around her face and gloves on her hands. It’s 2:30 a.m. She rides her motorbike to Edward and Alma’s house. They get in the small, beige Toyota, the car Alma drives to campus—less noticeable, says Edward—and drive to the construction site.

  The bulldozer is parked at the edge of the building site. Beyond that, the sea. Jane is feeling that familiar twinge of doing something wrong—half excitement, half terror. It’s almost a sexual feeling, the excitement. It almost equals, balances out, the inevitable pressure in her chest. She and Alma direct Edward as he climbs into the bulldozer, inserts the key, and revs up the motor. He is surprisingly competent with the machine, putting it in gear, backing it up, and going past them down the lane. It makes a terrible row. Jane is certain they’ll be caught. But at 3:00 a.m., no one else is around.

  He drives the bulldozer to a pile of construction materials and pushes it into the side road off Route 1 that leads to the site. He does this until the road is completely blocked. Then he parks the bulldozer next to a large stack of two-by-fours.

  He takes something heavy out of his backpack. Jane sees that it is a can. He pours something on the pile of wood that is stacked neatly next to the bulldozer. He seems to be distributing it evenly over the wood and then over the bulldozer itself. Alma hurries up. A sharp smell.

  Come on, she says. We have to get back to the car.

  She grabs Jane’s hand and pulls her back up the road.

  Run! she says. Jane obeys. Something is happening that she doesn’t understand.