The Ocean House

by Mary-Beth Hughes

  When she didn’t answer, Sebastian looked up at the sky and blinked hard.

  Look. That’s why Karl’s so upset, she said. He thinks it’s a real travesty.

  He does?

  Yes. And now Chloe had a sudden cough. Yes, he does, she said and bent down and grasped her thighs. Her shoulders began to shiver under the white fur vest. She stifled a little choking sound, and then she was shaking.

  Clone, come on, hey. Sebastian knocked her shoulder with his elbow. And like an arrow, the shaking started up in him, too. Chloe, he tried to say.

  Finally she straightened up and dabbed her inner wrist across her cheeks, then dabbed at his face, too hard. Hay is for summer blonds, remember?

  Their mother always liked those kinds of jokes. Weak, fashion oriented. He swatted her hand away.

  Chloe took a long slow breath. Anyway.

  Anyway?

  Anyway, Karl’s lawyer is going to comb over the whole situation and figure everything out.

  Karl’s lawyer? That’s ridiculous, Chloe. Karl is a—

  Stop it! I don’t know. Who knows, she said. And there was the choking sound again. Erupting. Sharp and quick as if he’d hurt her just by talking.

  He tried pounding on her back. Wait a second, Chloe. Wait. Hey. What’s that over there? He pointed down to the farthest bend in the creek, to the rocky outcropping where the creek split in half. There. Sebastian was pointing up into the dark-gray sky now. Wow!

  Chloe put her fists to her eyes and kept very still. Then she slowly opened her fingers and palms and covered her face and tried to steady her breath.

  Honestly. I swear.

  She slouched in close to him then, as if just to grab the heat. They listened to the water struggle past the rocks. Years later, when they talked about this night, they’d say Sebastian’s dove shot straight down the creek, right to them. And then, flash, up into the sky. They never mentioned this vision to Karl.

  Back at the house, someone had shut off the circle of exterior lights. Though in the kitchen window, like a big TV screen, they could see Bob fingering the wood paneling. What’s he doing? asked Sebastian.

  Redecorating? Come on. She pushed on the front door. It stuck.

  Move, Chloe. Sebastian threw himself up against the door, but it wouldn’t give. Jesus. It’s locked.

  Bob pressed his face to the window looking out but not seeing them. His eyes were bubbles of sadness, red and swollen.

  He looks pretty bad, said Sebastian.

  Try the bell.

  After a long wait, Karl peered out the sidelight. In slowest motion, he unlocked the chain, then the bolt, then the knob. Chloe took Sebastian’s hand and then dropped it when the door opened a small crack and Karl glared down at them.

  What the— Sebastian said, but Chloe gave him a quick punch in the back.

  Thanks, Karl, she said and squeezed past him into the foyer, yawning and stretching.

  I thought you’d been kidnapped, said Karl, grim faced.

  We’re kind of old for that, said Sebastian, blowing on his hands. His fingers ached as he bent to pry off his boots.

  Tard? Tell Bob we’re back.

  I think he can figure that out, Chloe.

  Now.

  Sebastian slid on his socks into the kitchen, shrugging off his jacket. Bob was staring down at the counter where Jemma, probably, had packed the leftover medicine and the smaller bits of equipment into a Staples box. There was a list there, too, not typed but with handwriting so neat typing was superfluous. Bob’s eyes seemed focused just to the left of the list, as if the information was too much to read straight on.

  Jemma had pushed all the chairs tight to the table and removed the blue glass grapes his mother always kept there, ironically, in a wicker basket. They were stuck on a high shelf in the pantry closet and Sebastian felt it was important to get them down. I’ll get the grapes, he said.

  What’s that? Bob looked out the window again. Jemma’s ride must have gotten lost, he said. It’s funny in the dark. The driveway just disappears.

  Sebastian thought he might keep the grapes.

  Chloe came into the kitchen, still in her vest and boots. She had her enormous handbag tucked up tight under her arm.

  Okay, well, she started.

  Sebastian looked at her, saw the way her irises had expanded like berries in her light-blue eyes. No, he said.

  Bob? She touched his arm very gently. Bob turned, confused, and then reached to pat her face. His hand looked old all of a sudden, the skin slack, the fingers only half extended.

  Bob. She smiled at him but didn’t look at Sebastian. Bob, Karl has some intakes coming this morning. Some real lulus.

  That’s all right, honey, Bob said in his new old-man voice.

  Chloe, you can’t. And Sebastian heard his own voice go in the opposite direction, like a baby crying for Chloe to stop or he’d tell.

  We can drop Jemma.

  Oh, that’s kind of you, said Bob. I know she’s tired. She’s all set. I gave her a photograph.

  Good, said Chloe. Good. She put her free arm around Bob’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze with lots of air between her body and his.

  I’ll probably be back, you know, by tomorrow, I’m sure. And you have my cell. Karl just needs to get going or all hell will—

  But Bob wasn’t listening anymore. She’s off the clock, he said. But she’s still busy in there.

  He shook his head and wandered out of the kitchen to the space pod to find Jemma.

  The chattering birds started up just as the Mini Cooper, now with Chloe in the driver’s seat, made an awkward K-turn and then crept down the icy slope of the driveway. Chloe was a lousy driver. And no one had ever explained to Sebastian why the birds did this, got so loud all together for a little while, then went back to normal peeps and trills. It was the kind of thing his mother knew and he had never asked her, because he’d thought there would always be a long grassy carpet of time for that. To get that kind of information. Other stuff always mattered more. But what was that stuff?

  Long after the taillights faded, Sebastian pressed his hand up to the glass as Jemma had done in the small back window of the Mini Cooper. And only now, like his mother was still prompting him to courtesy, he raised his hand, too. It left a smudge not far from the paper snowflake, and he could imagine his mother looking at those two things—a greasy print, an old scrap of paper—and thinking about them for a while before Bob came in fussing about the next practical thing and then the next, interrupting her thoughts.

  Sebastian rubbed his face. Bob was awfully quiet. He better go take a look. Down the long gallery, he paused at one especially luminescent painting. The one with all the greens. All the greens that shouldn’t have any business being on the same canvas but there they were, and the feather strokes inside the boxy planes. That’s me, he said out loud, because it was. More portrait than any image Bob had ever cranked out. That’s me. And there was Chloe, scattered blues and grays and pinks. How right his mother got things as long as they were going within a frame. And he shivered to see the disloyal thought shove in. Some part of his brain might revolt soon and be willing to think she got some other things very, very wrong. Where the hell was Bob?

  Sebastian strolled into the bedroom, an exaggerated slump, pre-irritating Bob who liked a straight posture now and then. But the bedroom was empty and tidy beyond recognition. Bed made, floor vacuumed, all the topsy-turvy chaos had disappeared. Even the gardening blue jean shorts on the hook were gone, and that infuriated him. What’s the rush? He headed down the glass walkway to the space pod but slowly now to make the point.

  The sun was on a dull winter rise into the tree trunks just along the creek. As his mother had always known this was the first, best place to see that. She’d been a terrible sleeper and would tiptoe out here and wait until dawn, then crawl back into bed to s
leep the morning away. Letting Bob get the children off to school. Now Bob sat in her wing chair, embroidered with silky flowers and birds, old-fashioned and left over from the city apartment and all wrong with Bob in his red flannel shirt sitting inside. The hospital bed with the collapsible sides had been folded as much as possible. The floor was still damp, mopped with something that Jemma must have brought with her because the whole room smelled of sage and oregano. Bob had the orange brick on his lap. His old-man hands folded over it, as if to protect it.

  Bob’s eyes fluttered open when he heard Sebastian. There you are, he said. Up and at ’em. And he began to lunge out of the chair only to cave back in as if pinned down. Sebastian reached out his hand to grab away the brick that was his mother’s after all, just as he’d grabbed so many thousands of sandwiches out of Bob’s hands feeling every single time that Bob had no right to be offering them.

  Sandwiches? Try everything. He gave you everything, that small dark disloyal part of his brain piped in. And now it was speaking in his mother’s voice, which just made it that much screwier.

  Bob reached and gripped Sebastian’s outstretched hand with both of his. He closed his eyes again and touched his forehead to their clasp. Then after much too long a time, he finally stood up with a groan and made his way out of the space pod, and Sebastian sagged into the chair and put his cheek against the wing and cried and cried until he was hungry.

  The Pitch

  When we heard what happened to you we thought, Wow, that’s it. We’re making a film. Something that we’ll put online that we think could go viral right away because of the topic. You aren’t that well known on campus, because you just got here, basically, but the guys, Reed and Peekskill, are ubiquitous. They’re also a bit retaliatory.

  Not toward you, no, that’s over. You can believe us about that. They are known to be always looking for novelty. So this film is inspired by you but not for you in the sense that you are already out of harm’s way. Except for the memories, which are probably sketchy, because of the cocktail, right? And we already know about the bruising. We’ll be sure to put it in the cartoon.

  You are right that this is hardly a laughing matter, but a graphic representation will have a bigger impact than a bunch of talking heads with white backdrops facing a camera talking about Reed and Peekskill like they’re pervs in trench coats. You may think that’s exactly what they are. But those guys wouldn’t be caught dead in a trench coat. Be serious.

  You say that clothes are beside the point, except you had trouble finding yours. Have we got that right? Reed and Peekskill were gone when you woke up, and the house you were in was in a town you didn’t know. It was dark upstairs. But you followed the noise in just your T-shirt but no bra—that was gone—and a damp towel half-soaked in beer. Downstairs, there were some men speaking a language you didn’t understand, playing cards on a lopsided table, screaming to one another. Until you showed up and they went silent. Then one spit in an empty cup and called you a name and you knew what that meant. Have we got the basic choreography?

  And you had no idea where you were, right? Well, that’s just typical. But the way you got home, if you want to call this crap-hole dorm a home, was pretty ingenious and we’d like to use that in the film.

  No, it won’t be embarrassing because it’s going to be a cartoon. We can even make you a blond. You won’t become an “example.” And fortunately you’re not pregnant. Right? You are? You were? On one try? With Reed? Or Peekskill? You don’t know. Wow. You are like the fourth person that’s happened to. It’s like a brand. Some say it must be a powerful mixed sperm thing, but that’s just disgusting. And besides, no one remembers. You remember a little? What’s that? We can probably use it for the film. Anything helps.

  No, we will not tell your mother. That’s crazy talk. Why would we tell your mother? Your mother spends a lot of time cruising the internet for student films about campus shit? Do you think we’ll email her the link and say, Look, almost a Granny?

  Hey, don’t cry! We don’t mean to be casual or harsh. It’s just not a rational concern in this situation. We can make you look like a Martian and give you a squeaky machine voice. Especially for the scene when you’re stuck inside the store window. That was pretty wild. We can do something with that.

  So, did you know you were in an abandoned store when you first saw those guys playing cards or was it really dark in there? Dark. Okay. We might make it a hardware store, kind of a metaphor. You don’t care? Okay. Well, what exactly was in the window display? Duct tape rolls, a torn sheet, a stiff dry paintbrush, a glue mousetrap. We are writing this down. All right, we’ll make it different. Maybe a pharmacy? Wait. How about a toy store, yes?

  So you get shoved into a defunct storefront window by the guy who spit in the cup and called you a whore in a language you didn’t understand but that’s universal. He shoves you in there, in your T-shirt and the beer-soaked towel. And you’re basically stuck there in the glass rectangle.

  Were you crying? You threw up. That’s right. Everybody does that. It’s a reaction to the chemical in the cocktail. They change it up apparently, but the puking is always there at some point, so we’ll put it in the film. But we’ll make it artful. Maybe the puke will turn to something else, a metamorphosis. So the soulful aspect of the puker is evident in the moment of deepest denigration. What would you like? Could be butterflies? Maybe hummingbirds would be a little more unusual. Or do you prefer plant life?

  Why don’t you care? This is a chance for self-expression, to show yourself as unbeatable in your essence. And that’s an important message to get across to other incoming freshmen, not just the girls either because that would cause a lot of problems politically. You have no idea. So we’re going to pitch this film to all genders.

  So here’s a question. So what’s the residual pain like? Any aches and pains left over? We mean besides the termination of course. You feel it mostly in your legs? That’s interesting. Because you fought a lot with your legs? Really? I’m not sure that makes sense. That’s the point of the cocktail. No fighting. Girls are usually pretty compliant we hear, and then no memory. Oh, inside the window. Got it. That’s when you were fighting. Well, that’s really interesting. The cardplayers tried to come at you inside the store window. Like they were pretending they were in Amsterdam or something. That’s pretty crazy. Where were these guys from? You don’t know. We should just make them some kind of animal but surprising ones, not weasels or rats, like dolphins might be really ironic. What do you think?

  Not much. Okay. You know, we just have to ask: Have you ever considered, hey, this window may all be your imagination? Some kind of hallucination? Or even, it happens, a kinky kind of fantasy? Okay. Okay. No, of course we believe you. That’s why we’re here. Okay. So you were kicking away the big gang in the store window.

  But wait, why didn’t you just fight them with your arms? That would be more typical. Your arms were still weak? The muscles wouldn’t fire fast enough? Well, that must have been strange. So you kicked them? You were a champion swimmer in high school? Cool. That was lucky. Very lucky. So you kicked and then what? One guy goes right out through the glass window, boom, shattered. That must have been some cheap-ass old glass. It was already cracked? Makes sense. And you noticed that? It was like your brain was working and your eyes and your legs, but not your arms. That must have been weird.

  How did you hold up your towel? You lost the towel, but eventually you took the sheet, okay. And the guys vanished when the window shattered, because an alarm went off inside the store. You got down on the floor and tried to wrap the sheet around you using your good feet because your hands kept losing the grip. By the time the police came you were like a bloody mummy, because the glass had cut you up. The mousetrap was stuck in your hair? We have to use that. And the police just drove you here? No questions asked? Wrapped in a sheet, covered in blood, with a mousetrap in your hair? Un-fucking-believable.

  Right. R
ight. Right. The shooting. They needed to get over there fast. Honestly? We don’t think that’s an excuse. Which is why we’re making this film. Did you know that this campus is in the top ten percentile of sexual assault in the whole country? Surprising, right? But it’s in the bottom percentile of cases reported by the police. Well, that’s our hook. That’s why it’s going to be big. That discrepancy.

  So how long before you knew you were pregnant? Not that long. Okay. And did you need anything else, stitches, any emergency care? You decided against it. And how long until the feeling in your arms came back? Wow. That’s a long time. Those cocktails are deadly. Truly. And what about now, any residual aches? Even just mentally?

  Huh. Well, you look okay to us. I mean if we were going to do this live, and if it wasn’t for the retaliatory nature of Reed and Peekskill, we would definitely use you because you have a lost look around your eyes that is kind of, no offense, awkward in person, big gaps in the flow of conversation. But on film it would be haunting and we could edit out the pauses, make a kind of staccato rhythm, as if you were edgy and fast thinking and on your feet, instead of staring and mystified. Definitely the message we want to send is one of empowerment. How to make good decisions in your life. How to be your own best advocate. How to look feminine, sure, but strong. Not someone who’s going to put up with a lot of male intimidation and who can basically hold her liquor, even when drugged. Right? So a cartoon will definitely deliver that about you. We think we’d like to make you a starfish, but a pretty one.

  Why? Because they can lose an essential part of themselves and then grow it right back. That’s not true? Well, in cartoons it happens all the time. You’ve just got to believe us on that one.

  All right. So. It’s been like great talking to you. Thanks so much.

  Looks like we’ve got everything we need.

  No, more than enough.

  No, plenty.

  So, now the hard work begins. We’ve got to transpose all this to some sane and usable format. Figure and ground. Always the same question. Crazy, right? Technology thinks it’s soaring beyond what’s ever been known before to mankind while art stays perennial. Or something like that. What? Of course we’ll stay in touch! Absolutely. We already feel like your best friends. This has been really great! Okay now. We’re going. Aloha.