Seeking the Shore

by Donna Gentry Morton

  “Peachy, Mrs. Sheffield. Thanks for asking.”

  “And your friend? What was his name? Admiral Air?”

  “Captain Cloud,” Virginia corrected as she sent her cigarette butt sailing toward a pile of soggy pine needles. “But he’s not my friend anymore. All he cared about was his stupid airplane.”

  “Virginia is seeing a musician now,” Julianna said. “He was a member of the orchestra that played at the wedding reception.”

  Virginia was shaking her head and trying to light another cigarette at the same time. “Uh uh,” was all she could manage due to the cigarette pursed in her lips.

  “No?” Julianna said.

  “Not as of last night.”

  “Oh, Virginia, what happened?”

  “Nothing,” she said flatly. “That was the problem. All he cared about was his stupid trumpet.”

  “He’ll be sorry,” Julianna said as a yawn rose from her. She clasped her hand over her mouth and mumbled from behind it. “Excuse me.”

  “So my love life bores you, too?” Virginia grinned.

  “Of course not,” Julianna said. “I’ve just been tired lately. Depression, probably.”

  “You should see a doctor,” her mother advised. “All the strain you’ve been under could be making your blood sluggish.”

  “My money is on the blues,” Virginia said. “When was the last time you ventured out of this mausoleum?”

  “I should get out, but . . .” Julianna picked up an acorn and rolled it between her thumb and index finger. “I can’t. I can’t even find the will to call anyone. I need to call the sheriff in Ambrose Point, to make sure things are in order, but I can’t face them. Not yet.”

  “You’ve had a big shock, sweets,” Virginia said gently, “but you can’t stay holed up in these gothic chambers forever.”

  “I appreciate what you’re trying to say,” Julianna said as she looked at the treetops. Some leaves were half green and half yellow, their lives in transition from one season to another. “Life goes on.”

  October was a dismal month, with slicing rains falling from swollen gray clouds. The downpours were so heavy at times that they beat the trees bare, ripping their branches of leaves and depositing them as thick, waterlogged piles of colorful mush.

  No matter how many times Julianna stoked the fire, or how much she layered her clothing, she couldn’t get warm. A nagging chill clung to her bones, making her feel stiff and achy. She was more tired than ever and wanted to stay in bed, swaddled in blankets and numbed by the sweet nothingness of sleep.

  She needed to call Sheriff Tucker Moll, though, and be assured that Jace had been properly buried beside his mother and grandfather in the Ambrose Point cemetery that overlooked the shore. She needed to know that the house she and Jace shared was secure. She wanted to hear the the sheriff’s voice, to find comfort from talking to someone who had cared about Jace and was bound to miss him. To make the call, she made herself drive to the phone booth at a nearby gas station. She didn’t dare call from the house, knowing that Leyton would see the charges when the phone bill arrived.

  Fearful that Tucker might blame her for Jace’s death, she was relieved the first time she called and the operator said the line was busy. The next two times she tried, the sheriff was out. A deputy offered to take a message, but Julianna declined, worried the sheriff might call back when Leyton was home. Hearing bits and pieces of a conversation about Jace McAllister and Ambrose Point was certain to raise the roof.

  Leaving the house was good for her spirits, though. As October crept toward Halloween, she was beginning to feel a little better. The idea of getting away from the dark house and seeing new faces suddenly didn’t seem like such a chore, and she was glad when Virginia called to invite her out the following week.

  “We must go to the polls and support FDR,” Virginia insisted. “Show him that we want him to keep going with the New Deal.”

  Embarrassed, Julianna admitted that she hadn’t been keeping up with national events. Everything seemed forgotten as she obsessed in her personal grief.

  “I’ll fill you in on everything,” Virginia promised. “After we vote, we’ll have lunch then see a movie. The Marx Brothers have a new film coming out.”

  Julianna swallowed hard. Jace had loved the Marx Brothers. “I’d like to get out,” she said, hoping Virginia didn’t detect the small shake in her voice.

  The telephone was on a desk in a small alcove off the parlor. Julianna was just hanging up when Leyton came into the parlor and began adjusting the dial on the large radio in the corner. “Who called?”

  “Virginia.”

  He stopped tuning and made the sign of a cross as if to ward off the devil. Julianna stifled a laugh, wondering what Leyton would think if he knew how many times Virginia had made that very sign at the mention of his name.

  “What did she want?”

  “We’re going to vote next week, then out to lu—”

  “Vote?” He snorted.

  “Yes, Leyton,” she said, irritated by the condescension in his snort. “Women have been voting for—what? Almost fifteen years now.”

  He turned from the radio and scowled. “That’s fifteen years too many.”

  “A woman’s opinion should carry as much value as—”

  “Politics is a man’s world,” he cut in. “Believe me, you ladies don’t belong.”

  It was a debate destined to lead nowhere. Leyton would have the last word no matter what, and Julianna simply didn’t want to hear it. “Another time, Leyton,” she said as she moved to leave the parlor. “I’m exhausted and going to bed.”

  But his fuse was lit and he was eager to wage a fight. About anything.

  “I guess you are exhausted,” he said as he watched her cross the room. “Lugging around all that extra weight.”

  She paused in the doorway of the parlor. Her back to him, she said, “That wasn’t necessary, Leyton.”

  “What is your dress size these days?”

  “The same size I’ve always worn,” she answered stiffly, turning slightly toward him.

  His eyes swept her frame. “Not for long. When your waist finally explodes through the seams, don’t ask me to clothe you.” He laughed and sidled up next to her. When he lowered his mouth to her ear, the first offense was his breath: a heavy wave of alcohol. The second were his words. “I would buy you new things, love, but I don’t know what’s fashionable for cows.”

  Her cheeks burned from the insult. “Leyton,” she bristled, “I’m asking you to please not speak to me this way.”

  “Moooooo,” he crooned, then laughed again.

  “You’re insensitive and you’ve been drinking,” she said as she stepped into the foyer and placed one hand on the stair rail. “I won’t talk to you when you’re like this. I’m going to bed.”

  “You’re going upstairs, Bessie?” he taunted as she turned away and started up the steps. “But the barn is outside.”

  She was standing a few steps up from the foyer. “I know I’ve gained weight, and I’m not happy about it.” She turned to meet his eyes, her head high and chin poised with dignity. “But that does not diminish me as a person, and it doesn’t give you any right to humiliate me.”

  “Moo,” he said again, ignoring her words. His hand suddenly locked around her forearm.

  She tried to pull away, but he jerked harder in the opposite direction, bringing her off the stairs and thudding against his chest. He gripped her shoulders and spun her around then shoved her toward the door. “Farm animals sleep outside,” he said cheerfully. “C’mon ole girl.”

  “Stop it!” she yelled, trying to brace her feet against the hardwood floor. She was wearing slippers that glided over the polished floor like skates on ice. “It’s dark and raining!”

  When they reached the door, he pressed one arm achingly across her chest and used his other to undo the lock. She struggled to get loose, back kicking his shins and clawing at his arm. Her fight only fueled his determination, and in
one swift shove, she stumbled onto the porch and down its steps.

  She came to rest on the walkway, its rough cement scraping her skin and picking at the silk robe serving as her only protection against the pelting rain. It was drenched in a second, clinging to her as though it was seeking warmth and protection from her. Her teeth were chattering uncontrollably, she jumped from the ground and charged up the steps, slamming against the door and rattling its knob.

  “This is insane!” she called to Leyton.

  When he didn’t respond, she hurried down the steps and ran haphazardly around the house, her feet slipping in the cold, spongy lawn and mud splattering her ankles and gown.

  When she reached the back porch, Leyton was at the Dutch door, its top portion open, and he greeted her with a triumphant smile. Breath rasping, she started up the steps, glaring at him through the sopping waves of hair plastered about her face.

  “Are you going to let me in?” Steaming on the inside and freezing on the outside, she felt ready to explode.

  “Our game is fun,” he snickered. “Let’s see who can be the first to make it back to the front door. On your mark, Julianna . . . get set . . . go!” On his final word, he slammed the Dutch door shut and fastened the lock, leaving Julianna trembling in the cold.

  I knew he was going to do that, she scolded herself as she stared at the door. Why did I give him the satisfaction? What to do now? She wasn’t about to spend the night running in-between the front and back doors. She darted back out into the grass and hurried alongside the house, her slippers gone and her feet too numb to feel the pine needles that jabbed them. When she reached the concrete steps that led to the basement, she fled down them and to the door at the bottom. She knew it would be locked, but it had a glass window that she could break, ramming her elbow through it if she had to.

  She wouldn’t be forced to go that far, though. The steps were moss-speckled and ancient, full of spidery cracks and weakened pieces of concrete that could be easily pulled loose. She broke a chunk from the ledge on the bottom step and flung it through the glass, instinctively ducking and shielding her eyes as it shattered. When the glass stopped clattering to the ground, she reached through the jagged hole, unlocked the door and let herself in.

  The door that separated the basement from the main living area of the house would most likely be locked as well. But at least the basement would provide protection from the rain, giving her a dry place to figure out what to do.

  Stepping over the threshold, she gave a small scream as her foot came down into a good two inches of standing water. The basement was flooded and only getting worse as water seeped through hairline cracks in the underground walls. She knew it was only rainwater, but mixed with the dust from the concrete floor, it felt thick and slimy around her ankles. Cringing, she rose on her tiptoes and splashed across the wide space until she reached the steps that led upstairs.

  “Open the door or else!” she yelled as she pounded the door.

  She heard footsteps coming toward the door, moving deliberately slow. When they stopped on the opposite side, Leyton called out, “You get a bonus point, Julianna. I hadn’t thought about the basement.”

  “You heard me!” her voice shook with rage. “Unlock the door!”

  Amused, he asked, “Or else what?”

  “Or else I’m going to a neighbor for help!” she shouted, wishing she had done so in the first place. “There are at least three people on this street who bank with us, the top golfer at your club, and a friend of Father’s. I’ll go to the first one with lights on and tell them exactly why I’m out in the rain!”

  The silence lingered only a few seconds before Leyton unlatched the door and flung it open. “Get up here,” he growled, “but don’t think it’s because you threatened me. I merely don’t want to listen to you wail all night.”

  She gave her head a firm shake, sending pellets of water from her hair straight into Leyton’s face. He jerked his head back as the freezing drops struck him.

  Without a word, Julianna stormed off to bed.

  She could barely breathe the next morning, so congested were her chest and head. As the days wore on, her chest grew tighter, as though her lungs were filling with concrete. Her throat was on fire, every swallow feeling like an assault with sandpaper.

  On the morning of November 6, she fumbled for the phone on her nightstand and called Virginia.

  “Ready to go vote, sweets?” Virginia said. “I’ll pick you up in—”

  “I can’t go,” Julianna wheezed.

  Virginia sounded alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sick and—” Her head slumped forward, the phone receiver nestled between her ear and the bed. “I just feel really awful.”

  And then she began to cry.

  For the next week, Julianna came and went from consciousness. When she was awake, it was only barely so, and her surroundings seemed filmy and vague. She couldn’t pinpoint where she was, nor did she care as long as she could fade back into slumber.

  Finally, her eyes stayed open, showing the confusion she felt as she slowly looked from side to side.

  The nurse glanced up and smiled. “Oh good, you’re awake.” She put down the chart and poured Julianna a glass of water from a pitcher on the nightstand. Helping Julianna raise her head from the pillow, she put the water to her lips. “I’m Nurse Winfield.”

  Julianna took a sip of water then followed with another, much longer, drink. Her throat was so parched, she wondered if she could utter one syllable.

  “You were one sick girl,” Nurse Winfield said kindly. She was middle aged and beanpole skinny with a crop of short brown curls beneath the stiff white cap. “It’s a good thing your friend brought you in when she did. Honey, you were barely breathing.”

  “Really?” Julianna managed. Her voice was a timid croak.

  “That’s right,” Nurse Winfield said, “but that was last week. You’re in the hospital now with lots of people taking care of you.”

  “Dr. Graham?” Julianna asked, referring to her long-term physician.

  “He’s been here every day,” Nurse Winfield assured her. “As a matter of fact, he’s on the floor right now. I’ll tell him you’re awake.” She plumped Julianna’s pillow.

  She left the room, promising that Dr. Graham would be in shortly. Julianna lay back and tried to piece together the sporadic, misty recollections of the past week. Every memory seemed to reference something that happened a lifetime ago. Worried faces looking down at her. Someone saying “oxygen.” A mask, a shot, and more faces peering at her, urging her to relax. Everything was shrouded in a blurry veil, and she had no idea how many minutes, hours, or days separated the memories.

  She pulled herself back to the present and was looking around the room when Dr. Graham burst in. He was a booming, heavy-stepping man, large set with a beaming face. There was a permanent shine to his skin and rosy cheeks that always looked as though he had just come in from a walk in the cold. As usual, he wore a broad smile.

  “She’s alive and kicking!” He laughed as he pulled a chair next to her bed. Sitting, he took her wrist and listened to her pulse. When he finished, he placed it back by her side and said, “Your ticker works, and I see color in your face.”

  Though tired, Julianna gave him a smile and tried to scoot up in the bed. He stood and helped her get situated against the pillow.

  “I’ll bet you’ve got some questions,” he said. “Wondering why you’re here, having so much fun at the circus?”

  She nodded. “I remember my friend coming to get me and helping me into her car, but after that—why am I . . . what’s wrong with me?”

  “Pneumonia for starters,” he answered. “We gave you so much oxygen, I thought you’d pop. Lots of medicine, too, and it’s kept you knocked out, but that’s good. You needed to rest.”

  “What else is wrong?” she asked.

  “Tonsillitis, an iron deficiency—”

  She laughed nervously. “You sound like you’re go
ing to rattle off a long list of ailments.”

  “No. No long list, just one other condition we need to watch.” He really glowed now, like an oil lamp suddenly lighting up. “You’re pregnant.”

  The words hit her like a distant, wavering echo, as though they had been announced from atop a canyon. Everything took on a surreal quality, and her heart began to thunder so loudly that for a moment it was the only thing she could hear. She opened her mouth to speak, but words could not find their way out. She tried again but only managed an incoherent squeak.

  Dr. Graham laughed. “I’d diagnose that as a classic case of cat’s-got-your-tongue.”

  When Julianna did find her voice, it was shaky and betrayed the doubt she was feeling. “I can’t be pregnant.” She shook her head. “Can I?”

  “I’m still waiting for the blood test to come back,” Dr. Graham said. “But I examined you myself and then consulted with obstetrics. You’re pushing four months.”

  Julianna took a shuddering breath and stared up at ceiling. After years of thinking there would never be a baby, she was finding this unexpected news hard to grasp, much less accept that it was true.

  “But what about my accident?” she asked Dr. Graham, taking her eyes from the ceiling and placing them on him. “All you doctors said there was so much scar tissue that I should never raise my hopes about having children.”

  “You suffered a lot of damage,” he agreed, but then he gave her a reassuring pat on the arm. “Still, we never said impossible—just unlikely.”

  “I’ve been so irregular since the accident,” she mused. “I just assumed . . .”

  “Maybe you beat the odds.” He shrugged. “Or maybe we doctors were plain wrong.”

  Dr. Graham had been a guest at Julianna’s wedding in late July. “You’re expecting a spring baby, sometime in April,” he said. “You know, my and Mrs. Graham’s first child was a honeymoon baby, too.” He laughed, his eyes glinting at the memory. “She was terrified he would come early, that everyone would think . . .”

  That would have been the least of Mrs. Graham’s worries if she’d had two husbands within three weeks, Julianna thought as the doctor reminisced.