A Sea Change

by Annette Reynolds

  Emily had been waiting below and stretched her hands out as Nick hopped off the ladder and onto her balcony. C.B. had sprung into her arms and begun to purr.

  “You should’ve named him after an actor, not a director,” he’d said.

  Emily had smiled sweetly and said, “Be sure and add this to my monthly bill.”

  Nick now stood in front of the open refrigerator, but it didn’t take him long to decide. He opened a Heineken and took a long pull from the bottle. Then he wearily sank into an oversized leather armchair and stretched his legs out onto the ottoman.

  The chair was strategically placed. It afforded a view of the Narrows and most of the lower beach. Nick gazed out the sliding glass door, but this afternoon all he could see were endless shades of gray. He held the bottle up to his eye. The grays turned to a sickly green. He stuck the bottle between his thighs and let his head fall back.

  “The next time that moth-eaten excuse for a feline gets caught up there in the rain he’s seagull food,” he said, and closed his eyes.

  The year-round residents of Salmon Beach were as quirky as the houses they occupied. And in the sixteen months he’d lived there, Nick had come to know and like every one of them. What else could these people be but extraordinary? They lived in a gated community that restricted car access, yet allowed anyone to walk right in. They had to descend nearly two hundred steps that had been constructed down a sheer 500-foot cliff in order to reach their homes. Worse, they had to go back up those steps just to take out their trash. And even worse than that, there was no pizza delivery.

  Moving in meant hiring a barge, which also meant that a lot of big-ticket items stayed with the houses once they were sold, or re-let. The leather armchair Nick sat in had been in the house since 1983.

  The rainy season brought the very real threat of mudslides. The dry summers, fire. Insurance was astronomical, and full-coverage was a pipe dream. When you dialed 911 the E.M.T.’s arrived on a fireboat. Most of the places were on city sewer, but a few – and it wasn’t hard to tell which – weren’t.

  One of the beauties of living on Salmon Beach was you discovered who your real friends were. One trek down, and up, those stairs was the acid test. The isolation of Salmon Beach suited the residents just fine. It was an eclectic community of fishermen, artists, musicians, professors, writers, and retirees with one common desire: to tell as much of their story as they felt you needed to know, and to have it accepted no questions asked. Which was exactly what had brought Nick McKay there.

  Nick struggled to fight off sleep. He had no business napping in the middle of the afternoon. What was the date? He couldn’t remember, but he seemed to recall it was Opening Day. It was too early in the day for the Mariner’s game, but surely there was baseball being played somewhere in the country. His eyes slowly opened and searched for the remote. He didn’t immediately spot it and then remembered it didn’t matter anyway. “Cable’s out again,” he said.

  Just as he nodded off, a thought came to Nick. You’re talking to yourself way too much.

  Nick was having that same nightmare. It always started like a regular dream, but in the end he’d be reaching for something – didn’t matter what: a coffee cup, a book, a pen – and just as it was within his grasp it would disappear. His hand would grab at nothing, and he would fall forward into blackness.

  He jerked awake, disoriented, with his heart pounding. He caught the Heineken before it had a chance to spill and sat up straighter. The wind had picked up and the rain slanted across the Narrows. Truly a crappy day.

  Bored, Nick got out of the chair and went to the window. He rarely had trouble amusing himself but today none of his projects interested him.

  He’d just about talked himself into doing laundry when the boat caught his eye. He had to blink to be sure he wasn’t imagining it.

  No, it was a boat all right. Sort of. Only a couple of running lights were on, and it listed badly.

  “What kind of idiot would be out in this weather?”

  Nick watched as the small vessel slowed alongside his neighbor’s deck, and then drifted in a little further. The boat reached the stairs that, during low tide, led to the small beach that separated the two houses, and then it stopped.

  A figure in a red slicker and rain hat leaned out and, after a couple of attempts, finally got a grip on the railing and pulled the boat next to the steps.

  “Well, that explains it,” he said to himself. “Jaed’s back.” Entertainment was at hand.

  Jaed August Dawn Cohen would probably tell you she was named after the beach, month, and time of day she was conceived. That, and the fact that her parents had attended Berkeley in the 60’s and were, “you know – hippies to the max.” But if someone asked her where Jaed Beach was, she’d shrug and tell them the attending midwife transposed the last two letters in her name and that bureaucratic shit happens.

  She was truly one of the flakiest human beings Nick had ever met. Kelloggs had nothing on this woman. A few hours with Jaed could make his head hurt, but on days like this she was worth the mental hangover. One night she’d invited him over to read his palm. It had taken her a long, frustrating hour of consulting a book on palmistry every few seconds before she finally said, “I see romance in your future. Wanna fuck?” He’d taken her up on it because it had been about three months, and the words ‘Jaed’ and ‘commitment’ were never used in the same sentence.

  As she tied off the first line her hat suddenly blew off. Unless Jaed had gone brunette and sprouted about a foot and a half of hair, it wasn’t her, and Nick was a little disappointed.

  He tracked the bonnet as it got lift and soared over Jaed’s house. The woman made a fruitless grab for it. Nick couldn’t hear her, but could read lips and he grinned. She turned back, picked up another rope, and tied off the stern. Then she climbed out of the boat. The water nearly reached the top of her boots. She waded up the stairs and disappeared around the corner of the deck.

  Nick sighed. Not as entertaining as he’d hoped. He headed for the bathroom to get rid of the beer and on his way back to the living room reconnected the phone. It immediately rang.

  “Nick, what’s going on at number seventy-six?”

  Carrying the phone with him Nick played dumb. “I don’t know, George. Why don’t you tell me?” He knew damned well that, as they spoke, George Gustafson had his telescope trained on Jaed’s property. Nick peered out the window but didn’t see any sign of the woman.

  “Don’t you think you should investigate?”

  “Investigate what?”

  “A dark-haired woman just entered Jaed’s house. Didn’t you see the boat pull up?”

  Nick was trying not to laugh at Gustafson’s legendary paranoia. “Now that you mention it, I do see a boat. Probably just a friend of Jaed’s checking up on the place while she’s gone.”

  “In a boat? In this weather?”

  “Like I said, she’s probably a friend of Jaed’s.” The small joke drifted past Gustafson. “But if it’ll make you feel better, George, why don’t you keep an eye on the place?” As if he had to ask. “If you see anything suspicious, I know I can count on you to let me know.”

  “Oh, I will,” Gustafson said in a conspiratorial tone.

  Nick rolled his eyes and set the phone down on the arm of the couch. When he turned back, she was walking back across Jaed’s deck and down the stairs. She hopped into the boat and went forward. Nick craned his neck but couldn’t see what she was doing. “Getting as bad as Gustafson,” he said, then realized he’d said it aloud. “You’re gonna have to quit this…or get a dog.”

  And then he began to laugh. Because this woman – and now there was no doubt in his mind she was one of Jaed’s loopy friends – struggled to the side of the boat lugging some kind of plant in a huge plastic pot. This was theatre of the absurd at its best, and Nick leaned against the wall to watch.

  She wasn’t tall enough to lift it high enough to get it up to the first dry step, and he wondered why she didn�
��t just put it down anywhere. “Oh. Right. Salt water.” He answered his own question. And stop talking to yourself.

  Nick could see her frustration mounting. Her body language said it loud and clear. For a fleeting moment he thought about going out to help her, but this morning had left him feeling decidedly unchivalrous. Besides, anyone nutty enough to sail out on a day like this didn’t need his help. They needed a licensed therapist.

  She stepped back onto the staircase and tried to lift the pot over the boat rail but couldn’t get enough leverage. Nick watched in amusement as she stripped off her slicker and threw it on the deck. God, she hadn’t even been wearing a life vest! This could very well be the stupidest woman alive.

  She slipped, caught herself, climbed to the top step, and sat down. She yanked off one boot, tossed it on the deck, and then let the other one fly. Her socks followed. She stood up and looked from side to side. She seemed to stare right at Nick when she looked across the beach, but he knew she couldn’t see him in his dim living room. Nick waited, but in a million years couldn’t have predicted what she did next.

  “Oh, shit, no!” He stood frozen, because he knew that no matter what he did he wouldn’t be quick enough. And he was right.

  Pulling off her jeans, she rolled them into a ball and - with a well-aimed throw - lobbed them into the open French doors of Jaed’s house. She walked down the steps in her sweatshirt and underwear until she was hip-deep in the frigid water, and took the pot in her arms. The kicker was, she looked damned fine doing it.

  “Now, that’s entertainment,” he said.

  The phone rang, breaking the spell. Nick snatched it up and said, “George, get your face away from that telescope right now.”

  “Daddy?”

  “Becky?”

  And his eight-year-old’s reedy voice began singing, “Happy birthday to you…”

  Journal Entry

  April 7

  It’s past midnight and I’m exhausted. My body says ‘sleep,’ but my mind won’t let me. It took me almost an hour to unload the boat. Toward the end my legs were numb and actually turned blue. Quite a lovely sight. I’m in bed wearing a nightgown, robe, and two pairs of socks. Jaed’s got a down comforter but I’m still cold.

  This house was built in the 30’s and I guess the original owners used it as a summer place. Someone put a baseboard heater in the bedroom but it doesn’t work too well. There’s a fireplace in the living room, and a little electric wall heater in the bathroom, but they’re not doing much good right now. I don’t know how Jaed stands it in the winter. Which is probably why she moved to Mykonos. (That, and Alex, who she claims is the reincarnation of Apollo.)

  I completely forgot to buy food. Jaed’s only been gone about a month, but I still had to really scrounge to find something edible. My dinner was two stale packets of shrimp Top Ramen. My choice of beverage turned out to be some kind of disgusting herbal tea, or water. I went with water.

  I tried to watch TV earlier, but the cable is out. I totally missed Opening Day, which has got to be a first. (I guess there are going to be a lot of ‘firsts’ any more.) A baseball game would’ve made me feel a little more at home here, ‘cause right now I’m feeling very lost.

  I’ve been so busy the past few days, I guess I haven’t had time to think about what’s happened. But now I’m sitting here alone in Jaed’s bed, surrounded by everything Jaed, and I feel totally displaced.

  I tried to unpack a box, but the whole process overwhelmed me. I felt completely helpless which isn’t like me at all. I’ve always been the one to do everything. Whenever Ted tried to fix something he’d always screw it up worse than it was to begin with. I guess that’s not my problem anymore, and doesn’t that feel good.

  A lot of people have told me I’m being pretty stupid not taking him to court. That even though we weren’t married, sixteen years is nearly half my life. But what would be the point? The way I figure it, half of nothing is nothing. And it would make me feel even more stupid to go on public record saying I worked at the stadium for two years, lived with him for sixteen, and didn’t have a clue that he was not only fooling around with the accounts there, but with the owner’s wife, too. I’m sorry, but I don’t need to shout that from the rooftops.

  Mom, on the other hand, tried to convince me I needed to get Ted back. Even after I told her the whole humiliating story. “But what about security, Maddy? You’ll be alone. How will you support yourself?” That really shocked me. Hurt me, too.

  When this all began I lied to her. Said I’d give it a try. But after I’d heard the litany three or four times, I finally told Mom why I couldn’t do it. And why, now, I wouldn’t, given the chance. I told her I thought I deserved better. And Mom said, “Of course, Maddy. But you were lucky to find Ted,” meaning who’s going to want me now, at my age.

  I’m the person who always tries to do everything right. In school I never cheated on a test, or talked in class. I was the good student all the other kids made fun of. I’ve never smoked dope or consciously broken a law. When I got that speeding ticket I honestly thought the limit was 35 and not 25. I never rock the boat. I try to please everyone, which is tricky. That was specially hard when I met Ted. He was the one who didn’t want to get married, and Mom and Dad were pretty unhappy about that at first. But I went with Ted because I’d never been alone, and I was so sure that if I let Ted go I’d never find anyone else who wanted me. I guess I still feel that way. Let’s face it: in the end he didn’t want me either.

  People think I’m really tough. They actually say that to me. “Maddy, you’re so amazing. If it’d been me, I’d be a quivering mass of useless flesh. But you’re so tough…”

  I supposed it’s because of this ‘have to be the best, don’t want to look foolish’ mentality I have. The last time I cried in public I was in the 7th grade. Tommy Parnell – the love of my young life – had just told me he hated my ugly face and thrown the Saint Christopher’s medal I’d given him at me. He’d done this on the playground in front of about 40 other kids the day before Christmas vacation. I remember the tears really came fast, and they surprised me. I ran to the bathroom, pursued by a bunch of girls who said they wanted to make sure I was okay. What they really wanted was more grist for the gossip mill. And I know they were thinking, ‘Boy am I glad that wasn’t me.’ I locked myself in a stall and stayed in that bathroom all through lunch, and part of English class, until Mrs. Shelly hunted me down. I lied to her. Told her I was really sick, and even stuck my finger down my throat and made some pretty convincing gagging noises.

  Mom picked me up, put me to bed, and brought me chamomile tea until I thought I really would throw up. I didn’t tell her the truth, either. But then Danny came home from school, and at the dinner table that night spilled the beans. I know he didn’t mean to. He was just being a dopey eight-year-old. But Dad gave him the tattle-tale lecture and sent him to his room, while Mom brought me a brownie and some milk and told me how silly boys were. God, did I feel guilty about that.

  Anyway, I never cried in front of anyone ever again. But I cried myself to sleep that night. And here I am, at 39, about to do it again.

  Chapter Three

  The rain had stopped for the moment. The only sound in Nick’s bedroom was the water lapping at the pilings under the house. That nap he’d taken had been a bad idea. Now he couldn’t sleep. Too much stuff going on in his head.

  He’d turned thirty-seven and missed it. How do you forget your own birthday? But when one day blends into the next to make a week, and then a month, what’s a year?

  Nick rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes. An inky darkness peculiar to Salmon Beach greeted him. With no street lights (well, let’s face it, there weren’t any streets) and no visible moon tonight, it was what he imagined deep space must be like. The days here were peaceful, but the nights were graveyard-quiet. He’d been down on the beach for nearly a year and a half, but after thirteen years spent in hotels, motels, and cities, Nick still had a hard time with
the soundless nights.

  He missed his daughter. She was only an hour and a half away, but Bellevue might as well have been a foreign country. Different area code, different county, different attitude. The judge had declared her his only four days out of a month, so he called her often, but those conversations were usually preceded by the sound of his ex-wife. Janet’s voice could chill him even on the hottest days.

  Becky’s call that afternoon had pushed away the lousy day. Her words brought with them a warmth Nick could actually feel enter his body. He sat on the floor and listened to everything she had to report. There was school and her friends. Piano (“too hard”) and ballet (“too weird). And there was Little League just starting up. Her excitement jumped across the phone wires. “And guess what, Daddy? I get to be a catcher!” Then he’d grinned as she’d said, “And you know that’s the most important position.” He’d taught her well.

  For the sake of harmony he always made sure she was minding, helping out, not talking back to her mother. But Nick could never bring himself to come right out and ask about Janet’s new husband. It wasn’t awkward for Nick. That word didn’t exist in his vocabulary. The situation went way beyond awkward and landed somewhere in the neighborhood of humiliating.

  There had been a time, during the separation and just after the divorce, when Becky would make attempts to reconcile them. But in the year or so since, she seemed to come to an understanding. As if wisdom had replaced hope. He remembered being astonished when she’d said, “Daddy, you have your regular voice back. You know. The one with the smile in it.” And it had been true.