Wash Ashores

by Anne Fall

  "So, what do you think of us all?" Questioning Sylvia with some delight at her consternation the world was Catherine's to toy with, and it was clear she believed so.

  "I don't know quite what to make of any of you." The response enchanted Catherine, and she kissed Sylvia tidily on the cheek.

  "And we don't know what to make of you, either."

  On another day, in a fit of responsibility for Sylvia’s entertainment, Adam and Vivian took her to a nearby lighthouse. Vivian chatted away about this and that, her face dewy in the fresh sea air pouring in through the open car windows. Her voice, muffled by the wind, became a blank hum. Sylvia considered the approaching lighthouse from a distance; the sunlight glared too brightly off the surface of the white painted iron exterior, and it became almost invisible to the human eye. It was not colossal, but tall enough to be substantial. The keeper's house stood next to the lighthouse, prettily kept in Cape Cod style. The wind was everywhere; it hit the side of the car with blasts of sand speckled gusts. The boredom that plagued her was overridden by the lighthouse—it was a beacon, a fortress, a tower for a fairytale princess. It represented the puritanical strength of the Cape in a single unyielding structure. At odds with the three of them, it stood like a reprimand. Once out of the car, all conversation came to a halt. Standing next to the lighthouse, the height was magnified and sternly disapproving. The interior was constructed of massive planes of brick. The spiral staircase that led up to the top daunted, but they did conquer it. Their footsteps rang out hollowly on the metal staircase treads. It spiraled up and up in shadow. The darkness was broken by the light pouring through arched windows that cut through the layers of brick and iron. The sound outside could barely reach them through the layers. Vivian almost tripped about halfway up, but Adam was prepared and caught her elbow. Sylvia trailed behind them, holding the railing and continually looking back down the center of the spiral staircase. It made her breath short and her face feel flushed. For a minute, she was sure she would be sick or jump.

  At the top, Sylvia looked out at the view with vertigo pushing her away from the height. The sight was traditional Cape Cod with glimpses of the ocean and a broad panoramic sense of openness. There were no trees tall enough to block their view or even obscure it below. While green was there, it was only to highlight the austerity of the blue, grey, and white. All was visible, immediately accessible, and picturesque. Again, the strange silence that lingered over them remained continuous except for a revelation from Vivian.

  "Oh, it's so beautiful. It makes me lightheaded." Her voice rang out hollowly against the metal surfaces of the equipment inside. They left shortly, but the walk back down the stairs seemed to take longer and was filled with the dazed vertigo of the view. Once in the car, conversation resumed with its usual luster and dimness. Sylvia was not sure what the trip to the lighthouse had brought to her attention, but there was something there. It was stillness, a sense of watchful waiting, and arrival.

  The night of the party, the stars were watching from the sky, unpolluted by clouds. All day there was a rush of food being brought in through the kitchen, and the door boomed over and over, opening and closing. Brown and bloody paper wrapped packages of meat and cheeses came from the butcher, and Sylvia regarded the damply stained bottoms of the bundles with seasickness. Roses were brought through the front entrance and into the dining room. The florist briefly argued with Hanna about returning the vases for a lower price, but Hanna seemed deeply offended by the idea that they could possibly need a discount.

  Vivian and Catherine came to Sylvia’s bedroom and dressed her. She could hear the sound crashing around downstairs, and then there was silence and calm. The guests must have begun arriving, and shortly after a gentle hum of conversation began. Catherine had the cheek to bring a lipstick in with her. Sylvia, who had never worn makeup, closed her eyes and felt the sticky weight of it being smeared onto her lips.

  "Just a little, Vivian, don't you think? I think it's entirely suitable for a coming out party." Vivian leaned against the bedpost, thinking calmly before speaking.

  "I suppose a little won't hurt. Do you think your mother would mind, Sylvia?”

  "My mother? I don't know." Sylvia's hands compressed at the mention of her mother.

  "Of course her mother won't mind. Her mother must know she's a beauty." Catherine leaned close to Sylvia and smiled. The lipstick felt wrong and waxen, and Catherine's face, so near hers, mocked Sylvia in some way.

  The white dress navigated around Sylvia with an empire waist and a sharp cut to the neck. Her breasts threatened the hem, pouting out like a lip. Breathing tightly, she felt outside of herself, looking back at this girl she did not know. Her hair was tied high in a pony tail that descended in whorls. It was a compromise, the hairstyle. Catherine had said she should wear it up, like a woman, and Vivian had said down. The perfume they had put on her wrists smelled like a flower, but she couldn't remember what the name was—gardenia, jasmine?—a bloom that implied white.

  Walking alongside Vivian down the staircase, the two of them were greeted by applause and the smile of the guests standing in the foyer. Sylvia again felt the rush of too many eyes on her, but she realized they were not seeing her as much as Vivian's triumph with her. She searched the crowd for Eric's face, but she could not find him. The eyes she scanned showed such a variety of emotion she could barely find a correct facial expression with which to respond. Some wore expressions of kindness, some amusement, others a vague exasperation and impatience with the proceedings. Although most of them looked to Vivian, some eyed her with something like hunger, and it frightened her, like the seagulls frightened her.

  Vivian introduced her to endless people. More than two hours passed in that manner. Vivian sipped fluted glasses of golden champagne, but no one even offered her a glass of water. She felt dry, too hot, and the dress too tight. Most of the adults addressed her with exceedingly straight spines and aloof smiles. Women clad in sparkling gowns with too many bright jewels cooed and murmured. Men in dark suits averted their eyes or gazed too closely. The humanity of sweat touched her forehead. Dancing in and out of their reach, Sylvia shook gloved hands and brightened her face into a smile like a fool incessantly. Her attention to the conversation around her drifted in and out. A lady smoking a long cigarette nodded to her.

  "Why, Vivian. She's perfect! What a dress." Vivian glowed under the comment, pleased with her latest creation. For the first time, Sylvia realized she was being greeted as a pet would be greeted. Was she the poor relation? The thought alarmed her even more.

  "She is, isn't she? Mrs. Overbrook, I was hoping that Sylvia could spend some time with Ella over the summer, don't you think?" Vivian's eyes lashed out the question carefully, already implying that Mrs. Overbrook had been discourteous not to extend an invitation.

  "Of course, certainly. I couldn't agree more. Where is that girl, now? Where is she? So social, I can barely keep track of her." Sylvia laughed without meaning to. Vivian admonished her with a look, and she immediately straightened her features into practised and neutral interest.

  "Aunt, would it be alright if I went outside for a minute? I feel a little hot." Examining her, Vivian noticed that Sylvia's color was high and there was the glisten of sweat on her forehead.

  "Of course, Sylvia. We will be right here when you return."

  "Thank you. I look forward to meeting your granddaughter, Mrs. Overbrook." Sylvia turned quickly and passed through the suffocation of the crowd toward the front door. It was like walking through a closet of clothes, fabrics brushed against her with so many colors, and she gently pushed and turned her way through, senses exploring texture and form whether she wanted them to or not.

  The porch was as full as the inside of the house, mostly with men smoking. It had been a mistake to come outside. She slipped through them, the thin fabric of her gown again meeting the coarser materials of masculine suits and linen shirts. Attempting the steps, Sylvia mimicked the image of her Aunt Vivian descending and almos
t ran toward the dark shelter of Hanna's side garden.

  Once there, Sylvia breathed calmly. She wandered through, looking for a place to sit, holding the hem of her dress high against the fallen strawberries. Without watching where she was going, she almost collided with a young woman smoking.

  "Oh, excuse me." Sylvia took a step backwards and tread on the hem of her dress.

  "Mmm." The sound that came out of the girl's lips was rich. "You must be Sylvia." Her hair shone a blatant red, impudent and intimidating, and the cigarette glowed orange.

  "Yes, how do you do?" The response felt too formal, and Sylvia flailed underneath it.

  "I'm Ella Overbrook. You may know my grandmother." She took a long lush pull on her cigarette and held it out to Sylvia. "Here, you look like you need it." Sylvia took the cigarette from her hands and noticed the sharp edge of Ella's nails, painted a dark red. Not knowing what to do with it, she simply brought it to her lips and almost kissed the end, damp from the other girl's lipstick and soft mouth.

  "I'm just hiding out here, trying to smoke, needed a break from that inside." The dark brown of Ella's eyes rolled in youthful indignation. "But, what are you doing out here? It's your party."

  "I'm just tired of shaking hands." The answer pleased Ella, and she smirked in pleasure.

  "Aren't we all? I have to slip back inside. You keep that."

  Standing alone in the garden, Sylvia watched her walk away and held the burning object in her hand. She did not know how to put it out. Looking at the cigarette like it was a danger, Sylvia dropped it on the ground and stepped on it, smearing it the same way she had the strawberry.

  "Hello, there. Aren't you a wicked girl?" The smoke was still curling around her shoe when the voice appeared behind her. Sylvia whirled around in hasty repentance with a reply on her lips. The man that stood in front of her was middle-aged, still handsome, and looked more dangerous than the cigarette.

  "You're Sylvia, and I'm John. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you were smoking." His eyes shone softly, as if they now shared a secret that bound them.

  "How do you do, John? I was not smoking; I was holding it for a girl…" She turned and pointed into the distance, abstractly.

  "Ah, I see." He moved closer to her. "You're far too pretty to smoke. How old are you? You must be seventeen or so?" As he came nearer, Sylvia smelled the scotch and cigar strongly about him, astringent and sharp as a hospital fire.

  "I am fourteen." She moved back, stepping away, the hem of her dress hopelessly stained in the tilled dirt and bruised strawberries. Run, run, a voice screamed inside of her. They were too far away from the crowd. Run, girl. Run, now. The voice persisted, but she was held back from the instinct by the womanly politeness that had restrained her ever since she was a child.

  "I should go back to the party, now. I have to help my aunt with the guests." She turned to move away, but the heel of her shoe sunk in the earth and her ankle screamed. Already with his hand on her upper arm, John pulled her back toward him.

  "I am a guest. Don't I count?" The overpowering politeness was thrust aside, and she began shaking the arm that did not seem to belong to her anymore.

  "Sylvia. I see you have met John." Her arm was released, and she almost fell, but Eric touched the small of her back, supporting her silently.

  "My ankle. I've hurt my ankle." John stepped back and began to recede, rebuked back into the shadows he came from.

  "I'll go get help. Poor girl tripped." John’s voice seemed to come from far away. It was too much, it was all too much. It was the first time Sylvia had ever been handled roughly, and she did not know how to recover from it quickly or with poise. The stars were too low, pressing in on her, and the sea burdened her senses. Was it ever silent here? No, it never would be silent unless the sea stilled. Her ankle throbbed, and she struggled to maintain her gait.

  "Are you all right?" Eric's voice came out clearly, but it took her a moment to hear.

  "What did you say? Yes, I think so. It was nothing. Don't tell anyone, it's nothing." Sylvia stopped walking and leaned against the fence. They were almost out of the garden. What had she done? What had happened?

  "I won't tell anyone." Why was she always asking them or they telling her that they wouldn't tell? Eric turned his face away from her and gazed up at the night sky, and he was only a silhouette in the dark, no longer even himself. "The stars,” he continued “they called me out here to find you, tonight. I went out to look at them, and I saw you outshining the dark. Maybe a nereid come to save me. Do you know what nereids are? They're mermaids but not like the sirens who lead men to their dooms. They're good and kind, nymphs of the sea." The sea roared louder, and she found that the words he said were distant from her, something she had read long ago or heard recited. Was he quoting someone? "You must be careful with yourself. It's not something they teach girls, how to fend off the vultures." Slowly turning away from the expanse of the sky over the waves, he faced her. "What a dress they put you in."

  "I don't know what you mean." His words meant nothing but soothing, a lullaby.

  "Maybe not, but I think you do. Let's get you inside, to the greenhouse. We'll take a look at your ankle there." Eric almost lifted her, his arm around her waist, and she thought of her father with regrets, so many regrets.

  Passing through the glass door of the greenhouse, the heat of the room immediately hit her. It clung like a damp glove on a hot summer day. Plants sprawled out everywhere, some neatly, some hungrily climbing up, looking for a getaway. Blossoms hung down heavily as pendulous breasts and perspired with drops of moisture. Eric helped her to a stone bench. A grey fountain, almost hissing and crowned by an angel with upturned eyes, searched the ceiling above them.

  "You'll have to take off your shoe. I should get Vivian for you." He stood to walk away, but she called out to him, suddenly frightened of being alone.

  "Please, not yet. I don't know if I could face her. I need a few minutes to think." Sylvia’s hands pulled up the hem of her dress to look at her ankle. It was enlarged, but not as badly as she had suspected. It was the dirt that surprised her, how very dirty she'd gotten.

  "It's not as bad as I thought." Sylvia removed the ridiculously heeled shoe that had almost destroyed her chance of escape. Silently, she vowed she would never wear shoes she could not run in again.

  "It's swollen a good deal. Here, let me look." The delicacy of Eric’s fingers cupped her heel and examined the ankle. The slight pressure of his fingertips against the swelling caused her pain. Without warning, he brought his index finger to his lips and licked it. The wet fingertip began to wipe away the dirt, and she jerked away.

  "Did I hurt you?" He eased the foot down gently, like it was a baby.

  "No, a little." Little flecks of light speckled her vision.

  "Let me get you a glass of water, at least. Wait here. I'll be right back." Eric strode out of the greenhouse in a rush, a man given a way to help.

  Sylvia sat alone, watching the blackened window panes and her reflection in them. It alarmed her, that she could not see outside but anyone could see her inside under the too bright and naked lights. It was silent except for the fountain, and she could also hear the plants breathing and sighing like sleeping children. Her ankle throbbed with her heartbeat.

  In the silence, she heard the interior door swinging open and tried to stand in relief. Abruptly, into her vision came two people wrapped around each other like they were struggling. Her first impression was a tangle of legs and arms. The man had his arms around the woman's waist, and she was leaning back so he could reach her neck, her fine collarbone, the whiteness of her chest. He pulled her head toward him, her hair in his fist.

  "Mine. You are always mine. Only mine." His voice sounded punishing. He pushed her against a glass wall, and Sylvia feared the panes of glass would break, but they held. He lifted her legs up almost to his waist and held her with his elbows out, making two sharp triangles. One of the woman's shoes fell, a clattering sound on the stone floor. The
strength of his legs was incredible. Her hands appeared over his shoulders, sliding down his back like disembodied faces.

  "Yes, yours. Please." Sylvia realized he was not at all dressed for the formality of the party. Who was he? He was tall, slender, and dark haired with thin hips. The woman hooked her chin over his shoulder, breathing like she was running. Then she opened her eyes. It took her a moment, but she saw Sylvia, her mouth widening into a shocked unspoken vowel. It was only then that Sylvia recognized her. It was Vivian—her careful demeanour had broken and left someone Sylvia did not know. Someone alive but desperate and careless. Someone in an agreed-upon fight to the ruinous end who did not sit calmly at dining room tables and pick out wines.

  "Sylvia." The name was pushed out of her in the gust of breath that follows not breathing. Sylvia tried to stand, but her ankle gave way. The man's back stiffened, and he let Vivian slip down the length of him until she stood, and he moved his body in front of her as if to shield her from sight. His turned profile was regal, a Roman. Trying to speak, Sylvia began to cry. One whimper followed another, and she could not articulate a word. Vivian came to her, pulling down her dress, and brushing past the great heavy green leaves in her way.

  "Are you hurt, what happened? Sylvia?" Vivian seemed to have forgotten or separated herself from who she had been just a moment ago.

  "My ankle. It's only my ankle." Sylvia managed to exhale the words out, chasing away the remnants of who they had all been a moment ago—the voyeur and the viewed. Her words were a promise. I will not tell.

  "Oh, it's swollen. What happened?" Vivian kneeled down and examined the ankle with a far-fetched focus. It was all they could look at, certainly not at each other.