by J T Kalnay
I am alone out here in the fog. I like it. I can hear the waves whispering against the shore, and some gulls making their gull sounds somewhere. I can feel the fog against my cheek, against my skin, against my breasts. It is cool, not cold, not uncomfortable. And different from the nearly constant string of warm and hot days I have spent here on Topsail.
I raise my third mug of coffee to my lips and sip. I will be jittery later from this third mug. I still don’t know why I poured it, but I know why I brought it out to the beach, so that if he saw me he would know where I am staying. And then what? This is a silly plan, and I can’t believe I have done it.
I hear him before I see him. Hear his footsteps in the sand, and his breath. He is breathing hard. I can tell he is down closer to the water on the firm sand. It is easier to run down there. He limps less when he is down there. I noticed that he limped in the deeper, finer sand that has been carried up near the dunes by the wind. What caused that limp? Is it just being older? He must be nearly fifty. Or was he injured somewhere? In a wreck? In the war? I wonder about him. And I wonder why I am wondering. What is this ridiculous curiosity?
His footsteps come closer. His breathing is louder. I take another sip from my coffee, listen more intently, and take a few steps closer to the waves. A few more steps, and I hear his footsteps retreating, heading away from me, up towards the pier.
I missed him, if it was him, but who else could it have been? I do not believe in destiny, but I believe in patterns, and he has been the most regular jogger on this beach, at this place and time on the shore. So it was likely him, and he was heading towards the pier in the heavier, denser sand that is not blown so easily by the wind but is moved back and forth by the long shore current. I will wait here, by the gentle waves whose tiny sounds reach out from under the fog to search for the sun. I will wait for him to come back. Wait by the rill marks that delineate where the freshwater underground meets the saltwater beyond. Yes, I am waiting for a man, in my bathing suit, in the fog, in North Carolina. I have never waited for a man in my entire life. It is absurd.
Joe
We don’t get to choose who we love, but we do get to choose how we love them. We choose, either consciously through activity, or unconsciously through inactivity. But we always choose, whether we know it or not.
Love, it is fragile thing, and we can be thoughtless, reckless caretakers who disrespect this precious thing. No we don’t get to choose who we love. We rarely even get to choose who we meet. But this morning, in the fog, I promise myself that if I see her I will say hello. I have chosen to meet her, and therefore I will meet her. I am not avoiding her. But I am likely invisible to her. Just a local. I have decided to meet her on this, the first foggy morning of the summer.
I must have gone past her house by now. It is hard to tell in the fog. I thought I felt something just a few yards ago, but I did not see her. Is it possible to feel someone like that? To feel someone we’ve never met? Who we want to meet?
What will I say? I have committed to meet her, to say hello. But what will I say? I am ready with the weather. I am always ready with the weather. But something about her tells me that she isn’t interested in the weather. That something so trivial yet so pervasive will be uninteresting to her. Maybe the turtle nest? For example, “did you see the turtle nest?” This can only lead to a yes/no answer. Not a real conversation starter. What will I say? I need a good first line, something that will yield more than a yes/no answer, but not something so obscure or obtuse that it yields no answer at all. What will I say? Something about the dolphins? Or the fog? The fog. The fog has possibilities. It is all around me, maybe all around us, and is the obvious topic.
“Us?” Did I just have a thought that included the word “us?” That can’t be. I have no such thoughts. There is me, and there is everyone else. Once upon a time, way back when, there was “us”, Colleen and I were “us”, but those days are gone. Because, like I said, love is a fragile thing, and our greatest talent is destroying it.
Shannon
These tiny rippling waves in this fog. I am at peace. Even with half of my third mug of coffee coursing through my veins and the random thoughts about that Jogger. In the fog, near the waves, I am completely at peace. The dry white sand from closer to the dunes dusts the top of my tanned feet even while the cool wet sand from closer to the tide line infiltrates between my toes. I am at peace.
Joe
Before I can think, she is there, and I am here, and we are together. I almost run her over. She is shorter this close, and even more beautiful, with a fleck of grey in her long black hair. She has spilled her coffee onto the wet, brown, sand. We both look at it, and then she starts to laugh. I join in. Her laugh is infectious.
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay. You probably saved me from being jittery all day. I really didn’t need that third mug.”
“Third?”
“Third.”
I reach out, take her mug, and pour the remaining coffee onto the beach where one wave that has pushed up farther than the others quickly sips it away.
“There. Now you are completely safe.”
The look on her face is one of absolute incredulity. Like no-one had ever entered her space before. Like she is used to people keeping their distance. Like she is used to being in control, or separate.
“I can’t believe you did that!”
I wait. I realize it was a very brazen act. But I am still flustered from actually meeting her.
“I’m sorry. I can get you another mug if you would like. Come to my coffee shop in forty five minutes and I’ll make you a great cup of coffee. Decaf if you’d like.”
“Your coffee shop?”
“Yep. It’s just over the bridge, beside the day spa. Where it appears you got your toes done by my sister yesterday.”
She looks down at one of my sister’s trademark flaming red toe jobs.
“You are a very cheeky man,” she says.
She said ‘cheeky’. Not ‘impertinent’ or ‘rude’, but ‘cheeky’. And she said it in a very playful way that made her face light up, even here in the fog. Tiny lines near her eyes make the smile change her whole face, making it even more beautiful than can be imagined. I am at great risk here. The shrimp boats just offshore or even the freighters out in the shipping lanes might be lead onto the shoals by that smile, it is luminous.
“Ask for Joe. I’m Joe,” I say.
I extend my hand to shake. She puts the coffee mug in my hand.
“I’m Shannon. I’ll be there at exactly nine for what better be the best cup of coffee ever. Half regular, half decaf, no cream, a quarter teaspoon of sugar. So I’ll ask for Joe, at ‘Cuppa Joe’s’?”
She makes a face at the bad pun that I had chosen for the name of my store. Not everyone likes puns. She turns back up the beach, towards where I know the largest house on the beach sits. So I could ask Bill the cop, or Sally at the rental office, or a half dozen other people who would know who is renting there. But I won’t have to because Shannon, who called me ‘cheeky’, is coming to my coffee shop at nine and I can ask her myself.
I set off at my best pace, no longer jogging, actually running. Maybe I will dress a little better today…
Shannon
He practically ran me over. Joe practically ran me over. He has a name now, isn’t just “that jogger” anymore. I can’t remember if he actually ran into me, or just practically ran into me. Whether he did or didn’t, I spilled my coffee. Which is probably a good thing. I didn’t spill it all, about half of it. And then I told him that that was probably a good thing because I was going to be jittery.
And then he did the craziest thing. He just grabbed my mug and tipped it over and poured out the rest of the coffee. I couldn’t believe it. It took me so much by surprise that I think I channeled one of my favorite British tea movies and called him “cheeky”. Who calls someone cheeky? Nobody calls someone cheeky. That’s who calls someone cheeky. Nobody.
Then we tal
ked a little bit. Not like a real conversation, but about my toenails of all things. He noticed my toenails. Which is kind of odd in a man. But then he told me his sister runs the little day spa where the girls got their nails done. So maybe it’s not so odd after all.
And then he invited me to come to his coffee shop for the best cup of coffee I could ever imagine. I like confidence, but he was bordering on cocky, or arrogant. Maybe he’s just proud of his coffee. I still cannot believe that I agreed to meet a man at his coffee shop, where he is going to make me coffee. No-one makes me coffee. I make the coffee. I always make the coffee. I am the first one up, and everyone knows to not mess with my coffee. But for some reason I agreed to have him make me a cup of coffee. This ought to be an adventure. I wonder if I have anything suitable to wear for a first cup of coffee…
Joe
My sister Karen is hurrying down a wet latte in between early morning toenail appointments. I see that she has noticed something and that soon I will be answering questions. She always has questions. Perhaps she has noticed that I am dressed differently. It’s the type of thing she notices, and asks about.
“Joe?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“How come you’re all spiffed up? Do you have to run down to Wilmington or something?”
“No. And what do you mean spiffed up?”
“Well, for the first time in maybe forty or fifty days, or a few years, on a day that you aren’t being the grand Poobah of one thing or another, you are wearing something other than shorts or blue jeans. And for the first time since I can remember, no wait, I can remember, it was when we went to that wedding, you are wearing something other than a t-shirt.”
“You call khakis and a polo spiffed up?”
“For the overwhelming majority of the population no. But, for you, let’s just say… I don’t know…. YES.”
“Alright, so I’m spiffed up.”
“Which returns us to the original question. Why exactly are you spiffed up?”
“Nothing else is clean.”
“That never stopped you from wearing something dirty and wrinkled before…”
“Okay. There’s someone coming in for a cup of coffee.”
“I should certainly hope so. You do own and run a coffee shop after all.”
I raise my left eyebrow at my sister. It is a look she knows well.
“Ohhhh….. You mean there’s someone someone coming in for a cup of coffee?”
“Yes.
“Anyone I know?”
“Actually yes. You did her toenails yesterday.”
“A renter?”
“Yes.”
“Joe. Come on. A renter?”
“She’s different.”
“Right.”
“No, really, she’s different.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Just different.”
“How did you meet?”
“I was jogging, and I saw her on the beach.”
“You picked up a renter while you were jogging? Yeah she sounds different already.”
“Not really. I sort of ran her over. And I spilled her coffee. So I told her to come by and I would make her a replacement cup of coffee.”
“You ran her over?”
“It was foggy.”
“Riiiiiiiiiiiiight.”
Shannon
My older sister Cara has finally put down her iPhone. I wonder if she is ever away from that thing. But I cannot criticize her because she is, after all, running a cancer research lab and seemingly always has patients desperate for experimental drugs or the latest clinical trial. And the emails and letters are heart-wrenching. So no, I can’t and don’t criticize her. Even though I long to throw the thing in the ocean so that she can be all here with me and not only partly here, I cannot be so selfish. She is giving herself to her work and I cannot interfere even though I want her all to myself.
“Shannon? Do you want to go for a walk?” Cara asks.
“After a while. I have to run across the bridge for a minute,” I answer.
“I’ll come. What do you need?”
“Umm. Well. I think I’ll be okay on my own.”
“Shannon?”
“Yes?”
“We’ve been sisters quite a while right?”
“Off and on for at least a couple of weeks.”
“And we’ve been coming to the beach for what? Twenty years?”
“About that.”
“And in those twenty years, not once, well maybe once, but not even once that I can recall have you just ‘run across any bridge’ for a minute by yourself.”
“And?”
“And… what’s across the bridge that makes it a certainty that you will be okay on your own?”
“I’m going to get a coffee.”
“You already had two or three cups, and we have more hot coffee in the machine.”
“I’m going to meet someone for a coffee.”
My sister Cara puts her iPhone into her purse, stands up, and walks over to stand beside me where I am looking in the mirror. I have dabbed on clear lipstick and am applying very light mascara.
“A man?”
“Yes. I met him on the beach.”
“A local?”
“Yes.”
“Oh Shannon. A local? You can’t be serious.”
“It’s just coffee. He spilled my coffee on the beach and he offered to get me a replacement. He actually runs or maybe even owns the coffee shop. The ‘Cuppa Joe?’ His name is Joe.”
“Joe? ‘Cuppa Joe’?”
“Yep.”
“Cute. Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you? I could go for a latte. And protect you from hideous puns.”
“I’ll bring you one.”
“Thanks.”
“Shannon?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
I step back from the mirror, place my hand on my sister’s forearm and brush her very gently.
“Thanks. I will. But it’s just coffee. Really.”
Joe
I pick the sea turtle mug off the shelf for myself. Hers I have washed and have ready for her. While she is loving the perfect cup of coffee, we can talk about the sea turtles. Everyone loves sea turtles. You can’t read a Nicholas Sparks novel or any novel written about the Outer Banks without reading about sea turtles. So I choose the sea turtle mug because there is a nest right near where she is staying. Maybe she’s seen The Last Song and will know something about them. The sea turtles were even interesting to the man from Ohio who stopped in yesterday. He said he was on his way back to Ohio and wanted a coffee for the road. I get a lot of early morning people who want a good cuppa Joe for the road. They try to extend their weekly rental by taking my coffee with them.
Why am I planning what we are going to talk about? Haven’t I learned that there is no such thing as a plan? That no plan survives the first moments of reality? Didn’t I learn that with Colleen? That plans are pipe dreams at best, cruel jokes of fate at worst?
I wipe the sea turtle mug some more. It is spotless, and just warm enough. Hot coffee needs to go into a warm cup. Going into a cold cup or into a hot cup hurts the perfect cup. I know coffee.
Shannon
Snowy egrets wade the canals looking for their breakfast beneath the bridge as I pass from the Topsail barrier island to the mainland. I think about the passage every time I make it. From the beach to the land. From the beach house to places that are not the beach house. Passing over the dark water of the Intracoastal, made dark by the banks of marsh grass and shadows of scrub trees and saw grass.
It’s hard not to realize that you have left the beach because you have to drive over the bridge. It’s not a miles long causeway like it was at Nags Head. But it is a bridge. A tall bridge. A grey concrete bridge. That crosses the Intracoastal waterway and the brackish marshes where the birds I love wade and fish. I visit the egrets and herons and kingfishers that fish and mate and live in the narrow canals
that wind in and out and around down below the bridge. I visit them in my kayak, though they never let me approach too closely.
I think about the causeway at Nags Head. I can remember the first time we drove out to the Outer Banks over the causeway. Mile after mile of river and sound and marsh below with the two lane pavement and waist high concrete guard rails above and excitement and newness waiting ahead. And I remember driving back to the mainland by myself that last time, with the last tears I swore I would not cry still stinging my eyes with disappointment and heartache behind. That causeway crossed the Intracoastal, and the Alligator River, and miles and miles of flats and marshes where I saw countless birds that I craved visiting. But we never did go kayaking back in those little canals like we always said we would.
There were so many things we never did. There was always some reason not to. I always wanted to, but it never happened. What I wanted to do never happened and who I wanted to be never happened. Making things much worse, during all these times when what I wanted to do didn’t happen and what I wanted to be didn’t happen, he didn’t do what he wanted to do and he wasn’t who he wanted to be. Between us we got nowhere and did nothing. And he blamed me, even though I was giving up practically everything so he could do what he wanted. I would have been happy if he had gone and done the things he wanted to do. Because then he would have come home happy, and inspired, and would not have been sitting around blaming me and blaming us that he never got to do what he wanted. That’s another thing he never really got about me. I wanted him to be happy. I wanted him to do the things he wanted to do. But he insisted that there was a way things “should” be done. That we should do things together. I did some things with him. I did that with him. But there is a finite amount I want to do with anyone. I like to be by myself, except when I don’t. He never got that about me.
