Sea Glass (5 page)

“Years ago. French nuns from Quebec.”

Beyond the wild growth of beach roses, the ocean spreads to the horizon. A deep twitchy blue with whitecaps. Sexton reaches for a new pack of Luckies from his pocket and expertly tears it open even as he drives. “You want one?” he asks Jack Hess.

The old man sighs and shakes his head. “Under doctor’s orders now. Had to give it all up — this, that, and the other thing.”

Sexton puts the cigarettes back in his pocket.

“My wife died in twenty-four,” Hess says. “Haven’t been the same since. I don’t eat right, and I don’t sleep right. A good marriage, Mr. Beecher, that’s all you need in life. I envy you just startin’ out. I do. Some fun to be had you keep your head on straight. And times is good now, aren’t they? Boom times, so they say.”

“We’re trying to save up for a place of our own,” Sexton says.

“What do you get for them typewriting machines of yours?”

“Depends. Sixty-five dollars for the Number Seven.”

“And how much of that do you get to keep?”

“Eight percent, five dollars and twenty cents for the Seven.”

“Gonna take you a while, Mr. Beecher.”

Sexton smiles. “Of course we’ll get a mortgage.”

“Them banks,” Hess says. “They whistle a good tune, but they’re out to make money, pure and simple. It’s no service they’re offering. They’re selling a product just like you are with them typewriters. Best not to forget that.”

Sexton nods politely.

“Tell you something else,” Hess says. “Don’t take your boots off in a house you owe money on. Renting or caretaking, whatever you’re doing now, that’s different. You’re saving up, and that’s respectable.”

Sexton nods again. These old duffers, he thinks. They can’t catch up. Full of advice from another era.

“So that’s my speech for today,” Hess says. “Sometimes an old man, he just don’t know when to shut up. You come back to the store now. We’ll get you and that bride of yours all fixed up. She a good cook?”

Sexton shrugs. “I have no idea,” he says.

  Vivian

Vivian draws her baku as close to her head as it will go. The straw hat has a wide brim, but she wears her colored glasses anyway. She has managed two aspirin, which haven’t so far made a dent in her headache. Lying on her bed earlier, she thought that what she really needed was fresh air. Bravely, she decided to make peace with the smug sunshine on the beach.

A waiter brings her a canvas chair and a striped umbrella, and she sits gingerly, each movement a painful jar. She should have eaten, she thinks. If the man comes back, she will order something sugary. Tea with sugar. Yes, that might be just the thing.

The tide is out, the beach flat for a good distance. The air is cool and moist, and if she shuts her eyes and sits perfectly still, the pain is almost bearable. What she should do, she knows, is dive into the ocean. It’s the best cure for a hangover she’s ever known. But to do that, she’d have to go back into the hotel and change into her bathing suit, and she doesn’t have the necessary stamina. She can smell coconut oil, and around her there are voices, punctuated by children’s squeals. On the porch, the pre-lunch crowd sips martinis behind the railing. Just the thought of a martini makes her put a hand to her stomach.

She opens her eyes a fraction and squints, and, oh God, there’s Dickie Peets walking a dog at the shoreline, holding his shoes, getting his feet wet, his white flannels rolled. She bends as if to search for something she’s dropped in the sand, hoping that he won’t glance up and recognize her. She stays in that position until she thinks it is safe, even though it makes her head hurt.

“Viv?”

She sits up and shades her eyes with her hand. “Dickie,” she says, pretending to be surprised.

“Didn’t expect to see you up so early,” he says. A small dog the color of the sand puts its paws on Vivian’s skirt. Dickie lifts the dog away from her.

“Lovely morning,” she says, ignoring Dickie’s comment. “What kind of a dog is that?”

“A mutt, I think.”

“It looks like a sheep. What’s its name?”

“Don’t know. Think I’ll call him Sandy.”

“How original,” she says.

“It’s not mine,” he says.

“I didn’t think so.”

“Found it whimpering in the stairwell this morning.”

Dickie looks remarkably fit, Vivian thinks, considering he kept pace with her, maybe even outdid her, last night. She remembers him lying naked, in a fetal position, on his bathroom floor. “I’m not terribly good company at the moment,” she says.

“Nor am I, so I think we’ll suit each other just fine.”

Dickie sits on the sand, favoring the injured knee. He has on dark glasses too, and she can’t see his eyes.

“I’m not sure I can carry on a conversation,” Vivian says.

“Won’t say a word,” he says. Beside him, the dog is panting.

“I think he might need some water,” Vivian says.

“He’s fine,” Dickie says. “I’ll take him inside in a moment. You all right?”

“As well as can be expected,” she says. She pauses and then she sighs. “God-awful, if you want to know the truth.”

“Me too, if that’s any consolation.”

“Not much, but thank you.” Vivian rubs a small circle in her forehead. The surf looks even more inviting now. Perhaps she should excuse herself and get her suit.

“We did tie one on,” Dickie says.

“So we did,” she says. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“Found your shoe,” he says. “In the corridor outside my room.”

She puts a hand to her temple. “Mail it to me,” she says.

“I gather they had to carry Sylvia to her room.”

“Really? What was all that crying about at dinner, anyway?” The ocean smells like “beach” today, she reflects. It’s a certain smell of sea and sand and suntan oil.

“John’s got a girlfriend,” Dickie says. “He’s deliberately ignoring Sylvia. Finally had to tell him to cut it out. Man’s sadistic, if you want my opinion.”

“Funny, I don’t remember that part,” Vivian says. The surf, though it pounds, provides a comforting sound. Gulls, encouraged by a hapless child who is feeding them, swoop low over the sand.

“Daresay there are whole conversations you don’t remember,” Dickie says.

“You insolent shit,” Vivian says lightly.

“I am rather.”

Vivian smooths the skirt of her white linen dress. She puts her hands to her eyes. “What are we doing, Dickie?”

“Don’t know, Viv. What are we doing?”

“We’re behaving terribly. And we’ve only been here a day.”

“Isn’t that the point? To behave terribly? In the summer, I mean?”

“There has to be something better,” she says.

“Like what?”

“You have no imagination.”

“Possibly not.”

“Something that’s not such a waste. Not so self-indulgent.”

“We’re who everyone wants to be, Viv.”

“How sad,” she says, glancing out at the haze at the horizon. She loves diffuse light — light in which objects have no edges.

“Unbearably sad, really,” Dickie says. “You fancy a martini? Hair of the dog and all that?”

She digs her toes into the sand. “Go away.”

“Tea with ice?”

She shrugs. Dickie looks around for the waiter, catches his attention, and orders two iced teas. “About last night,” he begins.

Vivian puts a hand up. This is a conversation she doesn’t want to have. “Sorry to disappoint you, Dickie, but you’re not the first.”

He fingers a shell and begins to use it to scoop the sand between his legs. “Didn’t think so,” he says quietly.

“Nor the eighth either, if you want to know.”

He seems mildly surprised. “As bad as all that?”

“I’m afraid so,” she says.

“How come, Viv?”

She stretches her bare legs out and burrows her feet into the sand. “I’m twenty-eight. Twenty-nine in September. I’ve missed my chance.”

“Poppycock.”

“Besides,” she says, “I don’t believe in marriage.”

“Really not?”

“Name me a good one.”

He thinks a moment. “Jean and Eddie?”

“She’s a simp. Doesn’t count.”

Dickie ponders her question.

“See?” Vivian says.

“Brain’s not up to par this morning,” Dickie says. “You’ve had proposals, surely.”

“Oh God, yes,” Vivian says. And it’s true. She’s had dozens. Well, not dozens. Maybe six or seven. Two of them serious.

“You come across as hard-boiled,” Dickie says, “but I’m not sure you are.”

“Count on it,” she says.

“I have a girl,” he announces suddenly. “Actually, I’m engaged. To be married.”

A small jolt runs the length of Vivian’s spine, and she sits slightly forward. Dickie engaged? She monitors the shock. She ought to be upset. Furious, really. Should she act furious? But, oddly, Dickie’s announcement feels good, like diving into the ocean does. Painful at first and then refreshing.

She lowers her dark glasses and peers at the man beside her. “A small detail you forgot to mention yesterday afternoon, perhaps?” she asks.

Dickie looks away.

“I hope she’s liberal minded,” Vivian adds. “Who is she?”

“Someone I met in Havana,” Dickie says.

Vivian registers a small ping of jealousy and then a larger one of intrigue. Anyone in Havana is bound to be interesting. You can’t go to Havana and not be interesting. She lays her head against the canvas back of the chair, as if she might doze off.

“Not sure I love her, though,” Dickie says. “That’s the thing.”

“Don’t whine,” Vivian says. “I can’t stand a man who whines.”

Dickie throws the shell toward the water. “Just trying to explain about last night,” he says.

“Not loving someone is no excuse for being disloyal.”

“You believe in that, do you? Loyalty and vows and so forth?”

“Not sure,” she says.

“It was just that you looked so . . . so . . . I don’t know . . .
smart
standing there at the reception desk,” he says. “No one’s as smart as you, Viv.”

“Don’t be smarmy. It’s beneath you.”

“But it’s true,” he says.

She glances over at Dickie’s shins, long and bare and sandy. A waiter appears with two glasses of iced tea with lemon pinwheels on their rims. “I hope you’re not falling in love with me,” she says, sitting up. She takes her glass and sips.

“Don’t think so,” Dickie says honestly. Too honestly, Vivian thinks. “What’s your story, Viv?”

“How do you mean?”

“Rumor is that your mother went off with another man. A French industrialist or something.”

“A contradiction in terms,” Vivian says. “But yes. She did. When I was eight.”

“Poor Viv.”

“I hardly knew her, so don’t feel sorry for me.”

“Never feel sorry for you, Viv. You’re probably the last person I’d feel sorry for. I’d probably feel sorry for myself before you.” Dickie puts his glass in the hole he’s dug in the sand so the dog can drink from it.

“When are you getting married?” she asks.

“At Christmas.”

“I’ll send you a present,” she says. She thinks a minute. “A nice glass lamp.”

“Viv . . .”

“I’m quite serious,” she says. “I know where I can get some terrific glass lamps.”

“Want some lunch?” he asks.

“What’s on the menu?”

“Haddock, I think,” he says. “And strawberry shortcake.”

Vivian shakes her head.

“I’m sure we could get some sandwiches,” Dickie says.

“Cucumber sandwiches?” she asks. She pictures a cold cucumber sandwich.

“Your arms are getting pink,” he says.

She slouches back down into her canvas chair, and for a moment her head swims. “Yes, I do need something to eat,” she says.

Dickie stands and brushes off his trousers. He takes her hand, and she lets him help her up. She rests her forehead on his chest. “What are we doing, Dickie Peets?”

“I don’t know, Viv,” he says. “I just don’t know.”

  Alphonse

Alphonse sits on the sand in his short pants and watches the dark-haired woman and the man lying on a blanket on the beach, though he has to turn his eyes away when the woman lowers the straps of her brown bathing suit over her shoulders. He digs his feet into the sand and buries them. He’s sweating so much that his skin is slick.

He watches the woman fix her straps and stand up and begin to walk to the water, slowly at first and then faster, so that when she gets to the water’s edge she is almost running. She stops and puts one foot in the water and takes it out immediately. The man calls out
Honora,
and the woman puts her arms out wide for balance and high-steps above the waves and then dives into the ocean. The cold is such a shock that she immediately stands up and hollers simply because she has to. The man runs to the water’s edge and dives in and swims toward the woman underwater. Alphonse wishes he knew how to swim and he tries to imagine what it feels like to hold your breath and plunge into the water. Do you close your eyes or do you look for fish?

The woman stands a moment, but a wave hits her and her knees buckle. She rubs her eyes and then begins to laugh. She laughs like his mother does sometimes when she’s on the verge of crying. Hysterically, the notes of the laugh rising into the air and then floating away. A wave carries the woman into shore, bumping her along the sand, and then begins to pull her out again. Alphonse pretends that the woman is drowning and that he will have to rescue her.

The woman digs her fingers and knees into the sand and holds on even though the ocean tries to pull her out. She crawls to the waterline. She turns and sits on the sand with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. Her dark wavy hair is straight now from the water and lies flat to her head like a cap. The boy watches the man point his body toward the woman and throw himself onto a cresting wave. He slices through the water like a shark.