“I didn’t mean to upset you, well, any more than I ever did, by showing up here,” he said. “I wish there’s something I could do to at least calm the waters between us.”
“Maybe there is.” She walked from behind her desk to where he stood.
“Anything,” he said.
Before his mind could register a defensive response, she swung her right arm in a looping roundhouse hook and landed her open palm on the side of his face. A pop like a small caliber gun discharging reverberated through the room. His head snapped sideways from the force of the blow. Red and blue stars flitted across a black tapestry that draped over his field of vision.
“Shit,” he said.
“You bet,” Alex responded. “There’s a phone on my desk if you want to call the cops and charge me with battery. You can probably get me disbarred.”
He massaged his throbbing cheek and stared at Alex through watering eyes. “In the movies, isn’t this the part where’d I grab you and we’d lock lips?”
“Yes, in the movies. In real life, this is where you exit mine forever.” She nodded at the door.
He stood his ground, realizing how badly he wanted to unearth whatever lay buried in her psyche that had produced such enduring pain.
“I don’t want to leave it like this,” he said, his hand still resting on the side of his face. He could feel it beginning to swell.
“How do you want to leave it?” A curt question.
“Dinner. I want us to smoke a peace pipe over dinner.”
“You’re dreaming.”
“Maybe.”
“No.”
“Alex, please.”
“No. If you want to smoke something, walk up the street to the cannabis shop. Recreational pot is legal in Oregon now. We’re done here.”
“I’m begging.”
She didn’t respond.
“The best restaurant in town,” he said.
She glowered at him in silence.
“I need a cold steak to slap on my face,” he added.
“You probably just need another slap, period.”
“I’d rather have dinner.”
“What part of no do you not understand?”
“Come on, Alex—”
“Out. Now. Goodbye. Auf Wiedersehen. Arrivederci. Das vendanya.” She herded him toward the door.
He backed out, still holding a hand to his face. “You’re a hard woman, Ms. Williamson.”
“You ought to see me in court.” She slammed the door, rattling the glass in it.
He stood on the sidewalk staring at the door, staring at nothing. How could I have hurt her that much? His ego throbbed more intensely than his cheek. He pivoted and shuffled up the street toward a Mexican place that advertised pitchers of margaritas, half price before five p.m. As an old fighter pilot, he knew how to attack his problems.
He nursed his way through half a pitcher, having to restrain himself from polishing off the remaining half in a few big gulps. He tossed a ten on the bar and walked back out into the sunshine. Yes, fighter pilots know how to attack their problems. If you don’t get your target the first time, you go after it again.
To kill time before his next strafing run, he wandered in and out of the shops and galleries lining Laneda. At five o’clock, he returned to Alex’s office. She looked up from her desk as he entered. Another Benny Goodman piece, one he recognized but couldn’t name, tumbled softly from hidden speakers.
She glared at Shack and shook her head in apparent disbelief. “Early Alzheimer’s?”
He sat in the leather chair in front of her desk.
“What in the hell do I have to do?” she barked. “Call the cops and tell them I’m being harassed? Stalked?”
“I think we’ve probably got a Mexican standoff there.” He patted his now-swollen and still aching cheek.
“Okay, you called my bluff. Now what?”
“Have dinner with me.”
“Do you recognize the tune that’s playing?”
“I recognize it but can’t name it.”
“It’s the ‘Jersey Bounce.’ Does that give you a hint what I’d like to do to you?”
“You aren’t from Jersey.”
“A girl can change.”
“Good. Have dinner with me.”
“No.”
“We played that scene already. Let’s try something different.”
“How about maybe?”
“How about yes? I’m only in town for a few days. Then I’ll be out of your life.”
“Forever?”
“If that’s how you want it.”
“Gee, what gave you the first clue?”
He waited.
She twirled a strand of her shoulder-length hair around her forefinger and gazed at the ceiling. “Okay,” she said after a minute or so, “small penance if it’ll get you off my case. There’s a new place in town a couple of blocks up Laneda toward 101. It’s called the Jolly Roger. Meet me there tomorrow at eight.”
“Eight?”
“Yeah. Maybe it’ll put you back on the road to keeping commitments.”
He stood and walked to the door. He noticed a fully loaded backpack resting on the floor next to the exit. “Planning a hiking trip?”
“It’s my go-bag,” Alex said, offering no further explanation.
“Your go-bag?”
“A lot of people on the coast have them.”
“Yes?”
“In case there’s a big earthquake, we know we’ll get slammed by a tsunami within a matter of minutes. We grab the bag—it has emergency supplies—and go. Run to safety.”
“Really? That happens a lot around here?”
“Every five hundred years or so.”
“Right.” He stepped into the street and turned his gaze toward the ocean, a few blocks from where he stood. Strange country.
Manzanita
Thursday, July 2
SHACK ARRIVED fifteen minutes prior to eight p.m. and secured a booth in a back corner of the Jolly Roger, a restaurant that seemed fresh and upscale. The establishment’s decor, not surprisingly, reflected a pirate theme. Lithographs and paintings of pirate vessels—sloops, schooners, brigantines, and square-riggers—adorned the walls. Interspersed among them: swords, sabers, and cutlasses. An obligatory treasure chest, drooling phony pieces of eight, hung suspended from the ceiling, as did a cannon that looked as though it really had been dredged from Davy Jones’s Locker. Additional decorations appeared to be of a more general marine nature: fishing nets, large glass balls—floats for the nets, Shack assumed—and photographs of commercial trawlers and cabin cruisers.
Shack, attempting to respond to the spirit of the restaurant’s motif, sipped a drink called Pure Ol’ Pirate’s Piss. Mostly dark rum, he was told, with a touch of vodka, curaçao, and pineapple juice.
“Kind of a sissy drink, isn’t it?” Alex slid into the booth opposite Shack.
Shack stood. “They didn’t have any Jeremiah Weed.”
“What’s that?”
“A hundred-proof fighter pilots’ drink.”
“Are you still an immature fighter jock or do you just behave like one?”
He ignored the jibe, seated himself, and took stock of the woman he’d dumped a quarter-century ago. He had to admit, she looked stunning. Damn her. A black pant suit accentuated her still-viable physical assets, while a white silk blouse revealed just enough cleavage to trap an unguarded glance.
She caught his unguarded glance. “You haven’t changed, have you?” she said, a hardness in her voice.
“And if I hadn’t noticed,” he responded, “would you have been disappointed?”
“I’m past that.”
“Sure you are. That’s why you
walked in here decked out like you were going to junior officers’ night at the O-club.”
She colored slightly. He’d finally scored a point.
“Okay,” he said. “Forget it.” He leaned toward her and caught a scent of Fendi. He found himself swept back to a seemingly endless summer of so long ago. Naked bodies glistening in perspiration, rumpled bedsheets, soft cries and moans in the night. “I was a prick for what I did to you, I acknowledge that. But I truly, truly apologize. Words are weak, I know, but they’re heartfelt.
“And, if it makes any difference, it wasn’t you. Wasn’t anything you did or didn’t do. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time in my life. My state of mind then—and it was totally screwed up—was that I didn’t need to be tied to any one woman. Again, I didn’t mean to hurt—”
“You don’t know how much you wounded me,” she snapped. Her eyes flashed in hardened resentment.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. Let’s just call a truce and try to enjoy our dinner. Then you can beat feet.”
Shack had no option but to agree. He ordered Chinook salmon stuffed with Dungeness crab. She had a bowl of seafood chowder and a plate piled high with steamers (clams harvested from local beaches and harbors). They shared a bottle of Oregon chardonnay.
“I taste pears,” Shack said.
“I taste victory,” Alex responded and raised her glass.
Shack noted the absence of a wedding band.
“So, you aren’t married?” he asked.
“Not now.”
“In the past?”
“Yes, for about ten years.”
“I assume the young lady I saw in the photograph in your office is your daughter?”
“Yes.” Alex didn’t look up from extracting a razor clam from its shell.
“She lives with you?”
“She’s in her final year of law school at Willamette.”
“Where?”
“Willamette University. It’s in Salem.”
“You’re proud of her?”
“Very.” She changed the subject. “And you? Wife? Kids?”
He shook his head. “A couple of brief marriages. Neither lasted very long. No children.”
“The old commitment bugaboo again, huh?” She smiled, an expression suggesting she’d landed another punch.
They managed to get through the remainder of the dinner in relative peace, mostly by making small talk about Manzanita, the upcoming parade, and rumors of a big earthquake and tsunami supposedly poised to strike on the Fourth.
“Are you worried?” Shack asked.
“No,” she said. “It doesn’t make any difference. You’re either prepared or you’re not.” She looked around the restaurant. “It looks like the doomsday forecast scared off a few people, though. Normally, this place would be packed a couple of days prior to a holiday.”
Shack counted four empty tables and booths.
They finished their meal, Shack covered the tab, and they exited the Jolly Roger together.
“May I walk you home?” Shack asked.
“Not on your life.”
“Oh, come on, Alex. I’m just trying to be a gentleman. I know I’ve come up short in that arena in the past, but I don’t have an ulterior motive. I’m not going to ask to come in, grope you, or steal a kiss. Just walk. Okay?”
She sighed heavily. “Sure. It’s about a four-block stroll.”
They walked side by side, mostly in silence, Shack with his arms wrapped around himself to ward off the surprising chill, an antithesis to summers along the Southeast coasts, and Alex nodding and saying good evening to people she knew, which appeared to be quite a few.
They reached her home in short order. In the late-lingering twilight, it appeared weather-beaten but modern with graying cedar siding and an abundance of glass. The soft thunder of Pacific surf, perhaps a block or two distant, filled the incipient night. A dark blur, a bat perhaps, flashed past their heads.
“Thank you,” Alex said. “Have a good life.” She turned and started toward her front door.
“Alex.”
She stopped.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“Yes. Well . . .”
“It was good seeing you.”
She didn’t respond.
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Skylar. Good night.”
“I’ll be around until Sunday. Maybe we’ll see each other at the parade.”
“I hope not.” She entered her house and shut the door firmly.
LATER, IN HIS RENTAL condo, Shack lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, staring at nothing. Muted rock music filtered through a wall shared with an adjoining unit. He replayed the events of the evening repeatedly in his mind. He knew he’d injured Alex emotionally by jettisoning her from his life without so much as a “thirty-day notice,” but he couldn’t come to grips with the staying power and magnitude of her indignation. Most people, he thought, would just get on with their lives. He could understand if he weren’t warmly welcomed by her, but to be met with open hostility?
By midnight, an idea, a possibility, maybe just a fantasy, had blossomed somewhere deep within his mind. And although the notion probably held no more credence than a fairy tale, it seemed something that demanded he follow up on with Alex. He’d have to contravene his promise not to see her again, however.
He fell asleep with the soft wash of distant breakers the only sound in the room.
Chapter Eleven
Encounter
Manzanita
Friday, July 3
ROB AND LEWIS trudged along a sidewalk adjacent to Laneda Avenue. Rob shifted his gaze skyward. Puffy white clouds, like cotton-ball schooners riding a stiff breeze, sailed over the tiny town on an inverted cobalt sea. “A perfect summer day,” he noted.
Lewis squinted into the morning sun and brushed a shock of hair from his brow. “Is it?”
“Hardly,” Rob mumbled.
Lewis grasped Rob’s upper arm and brought him to a halt. “You did what you thought was right,” he said, his voice firm. “You did what you had to do. You knew the potential cost.”
Rob nodded, but the resolve he’d initially harbored for his decision to “go public” a few days earlier had withered under a relentless barrage of criticism.
They walked in silence until they reached 5th Street. Rob stopped and gestured at the street sign. “If people can get this far from the beach, they should survive.”
Lewis looked back down the avenue, toward the ocean. “We’re lucky here, in Manzanita. It’s only a few blocks to safety.”
Rob followed Lewis’s gaze, then turned to look up Laneda in the direction of Highway 101. “Not like Seaside or Rockaway,” he said, his voice soft.
“I know,” Lewis responded. “What’ve they got in those towns, a half mile, maybe a three-quarter-mile dash to safety?”
“More than that in Seaside. If it’s a big tsunami, probably over a mile. A lot of older and handicapped folks won’t make it. At a good walking speed, a healthy person can cover a mile in twenty minutes or so. They might have a chance. But twenty minutes is probably the most they’ll have.”
Rob brought his gaze back to Lewis. “But what the hell. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe the quake won’t be powerful enough to knock down bridges and buildings and block streets. Maybe the tsunami will be four feet instead of fifty or sixty.”
“Ya think?”
Rob looked away from Lewis and didn’t answer.
The streets had begun to fill with Fourth of July tourists. License plates identified visitors not only from Oregon, but many from Washington, as well. Others told of wayfarers from California, Idaho, and Utah. The overall mood, despite Rob’s public pronouncement, se
emed light-hearted and celebratory with little apprehension over a potential disaster.
Rob, of course, didn’t share in the ebullient atmosphere. On Monday, in the wake of his press conference, it had become clear rather quickly that his reputation and career were already circling the drain.
“Rob’s Revelation,” as it had come to be known, had been met with an immediate salvo of scorn and ridicule from both his peers and the public. Fellow geologists labeled him a charlatan. An editorial in The Oregonian, which apparently had picked up details of the press conference via a stringer, stated that “somewhere in America, a village finds itself short an idiot this morning. But not to fear, we’ve found him in Oregon.”
Even heavier flak had come via social media—Facebook and Twitter. A noted earthquake and tsunami specialist stated, “The Dr. Robert Elwood Traveling Medicine Show has arrived in town selling a brand of snake oil that’s right out of the 19th Century.”
Rob and Lewis continued up Laneda, away from the beach toward 101. Rob halted and looked back down the avenue. Squat, weathered buildings, sharing space with storm-whipped pines and Sitka spruce, lined the street. Free of popular franchises such as Starbucks and McDonald’s, boutiques, art galleries, and mom and pop stores flourished in Manzanita. Flourished, Rob knew, as much as any retail operation could in a town with a full-time population of only six or seven hundred. Tourism drove the economy.
So he understood why so many of the verbal assaults on him, from the very people he’d summered with for over two decades, bore a toxic level of vitriol. “Rob’s Revelation” they said, would drive away a huge chunk of the coast’s typical holiday traffic, their lifeblood.
He stepped into the street so he could get a better sightline back to the beach, perhaps sixty feet lower and a third of a mile distant from where he and Lewis stood. The Pacific surf, flat and gentle, glided up the sand in shallow surges, then slid back toward the breakers leaving skinny trails of sparkling sea foam, like strings of diamonds, in its wake.
Sandpipers darted along the beach while screeching gulls wheeled overhead, riding the wind like tiny paragliders. Beachcombers, many bundled in sweatshirts or light jackets to ward off the morning coolness, strolled along the surf line. One or two carried metal detectors, searching for whatever mundane treasures might be buried in the sand. A few others toted clam shovels, perhaps hoping for targets of opportunity.
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