A Solitary Blue (13 page)

Jeff felt broken and bruised. When he looked at her, she smiled right into his eyes, so he tried not to look at her. He'd thought he wasn't really vulnerable any more and maybe not even angry now that he'd let some of his feelings steam out. But there was some feeling like anger in him. He hated her, he thought, and he knew it was true when she left the table to answer the phone and came back to say she'd been invited to a party; nobody minded if she went, did they? She kissed Gambo's head when she asked permission and then kissed Jeff too, on the top of his head, with her perfume in the air all around him.

He thought: alligators stayed near water, if he kept well away from that inland pond he'd be able to continue exploring the island.
And what did it matter if an alligator got him, anyway; at least it would hurt so much he wouldn't be able to think about Melody. Because he was beginning to hate himself for being so fragile, so easy for her to break.

 

T
HE DAY BEFORE he was due to leave Charleston, Jeff crossed over the top of a low, sandy dune, overgrown with scrub bushes. He saw the beach stretching away to the south; the ocean stretching out to the endless east; the line of waves breaking on the shore; sandpipers in nervous bands fishing the waves' edge; three pelicans flying in a line over the surface of the water. He breathed in the salty air, the wind against his face. He saw a world in which he was the only human inhabitant.

It was midmorning and hot. Jeff ran down the dune and across to the water. To the north, he saw a narrow spit of land and a turbulence of waves where the tip of the island made currents, marking the entrance of the creek into the ocean. To the south lay an unbroken distance of beach, thirty feet wide, sandy white. Jeff ran south. He had to run, he didn't know what else to do to celebrate what he had come to find here. And found. Sandpipers and gulls fled from his approach, circled and landed again behind him. When he had run himself out, he walked, mile after empty mile. The waves broke beside him, and he succumbed to the temptation to walk among them. When he realized how hungry he was, he turned around and walked the long miles back to where he had dropped his brown paper bag full of food on the duneside.

The afternoon flowed over him. He sat at the water's edge, watching. Watching the birds, the waves, and once the gliding backs of porpoises cutting arcs through the ocean in front of him. He took off his clothes and waded out into the water to swim. He lay down to bake dry on the fine sand, first on his stomach, then on his back,
soaking in the tireless whispering of the wind, the dry warmth of the sand, the heat of the sun, the spacious solitude all around him.

When the shadows grew longer and the temperature started to drop, he knew he ought to cross back, return to the boat. But he couldn't do that. He made no decision to stay the night, but he couldn't make himself leave the beach. Gradually, he understood that he would miss the last bus. That made no difference.

Jeff walked the beach again, this time picking up sand dollars, which lay flat and bleached white on the mudflats, and whorled conch shells. He made a pile of them by his empty paper bag and folded clothes. Then, sitting at the very edge of the waves, he discovered how the little pastel plaid cochinas tumbled down from the sides of pools his fingers dug. A shower of fragile mollusks poured down with the water that came to fill up the pools.

At his back the sun went down. The sky's colors, reflected by the ocean, went from orange to pink to velvet blue to midnight blue and then black. Stars — millions of stars — came out. The moon rose, just past the full, and shone down with its sad face. The path the moon made on the water glowed silver.

Jeff slept on the beach hungry, but that made no difference. He awoke to a sky the color of thick smoke. All the stars had faded but one: Venus, the morning star, low on the eastern horizon, large and white; it too shone bright enough here to make its own narrow silver path on the water. Jeff sat up and watched, watched light and sunrise. During the night the wind had shifted to the west and blew into his ears from behind, heated by the closer air of the inner island. He saw fishing boats hundreds of yards off shore, so distant they looked like toys. All morning long he walked, through puddles between sandflats left by the receding tide, until he came to the southern tip of the island. Then he turned to go back.

He felt — washed clean, healed. He felt if he could just live here he would be all right. He felt as if he had never been alive before. He felt at ease with himself and as if he had come home to a place where he could be himself, without hiding anything, without pretending even to himself. He felt, thinking his way back up the beach, as if his brain had just woken up from some long sleep, and it wanted to run along beside the waves, to see how far and fast it could go.

When he returned to where he had left his clothes, he put them on. He picked out one perfect sand dollar from his collection
of shells, then walked back to toss the rest gently into the waves, returning them. He jammed the paper bag into the back pocket of his jeans and carried the sand dollar tenderly in his hand.

At the top of the dunes, under a blazing noon sun, Jeff turned to take a last look. He drank in the scene with his eyes, to be able to carry it away with him. The empty beach, the line of breaking waves groping up onto the sand, the restless ocean.

He crossed the island as quickly as he dared, giving the alligator pond a wide berth. When he came to the driveway leading to the burned-out house, he began to jog; his plane left at eight; he'd have to pack and get a cab. But when he sat in the rowboat again, the oars ready but not yet dipped into the water to take him away from the island, Jeff looked back. He didn't see the busy land crabs nor the overgrown interior; he saw the beach, knowing it was there just beyond sight, keeping the sight of it clear in his inner eye. He splashed the oars into the water. Behind him, a great blue squawked — Jeff turned his head quickly.

The heron rose up from the marsh grass, croaking its displeasure at the disturbance, at Jeff, at all of the world. Its legs dragged briefly in the water before it rose free to swoop over Jeff's head with a whirring of powerful wings. It landed again on the far side of the ruined dock, to stand on stiltlike legs with its long beak pointed toward the water. Just leave me alone, the heron seemed to be saying. Jeff rowed away, down the quiet creek. The bird did not watch him go.

 

 

T
HE PROFESSOR stood waiting among the throng of people at Friendship Airport. He was taller than most of them, and the first thing Jeff saw was his glasses. Then the Professor raised one hand. Jeff made his way over to his father.

The Professor's brown seersucker suit was rumpled. He didn't wear a tie. He looked at Jeff as if he hadn't seen him for so long he needed to be reminded of what Jeff looked like. But Jeff had made himself a place, inside himself, a kind of tower room, round, without any windows. In that room, he had locked his memory of the beach on the island, all the memories from the day hours and from the night hours. He had discovered how to step inside that room and slide the curved door closed and bolt it across.

“You've only got a couple of days before school starts,” the Professor said. “Is there anything you want to do? Go to Ocean City or anything?”

Jeff shook his head.

“Let's get your suitcase. Did you have a good time?”

“It was OK,” Jeff said. They walked along with the throng, heading down the central aisle, then down the escalators to the baggage claim.

“I bet we're going to have to get you a whole set of new
clothes,” the Professor said. “You look like you're filled out some and gotten taller.”

“Ummm,” Jeff said.

“So,” the Professor said, “what's new?”

“Nothing.”

The Professor waited a long time before asking, “How's your mother?”

Rage surged up against the outside of Jeff's tower room, a tall, black wave. “She's OK,” he said, holding the door safe. Inside the room lay miles of solitary beaches, a spacious, peaceful place. As long as he could go there Jeff would be safe. If the room were not there — he was afraid of what he might do, what he might say. If the room were not there, he would fall apart, disintegrate like music broken into individual melody lines, the lines turning into notes, the notes exploding into unconnected sounds, the sounds dissipating into space itself.

If the room were not there in his mind, Jeff thought, there would be just a sharp-stoned wall, and he would stand in front of it and whack his head against it. Until his head burst open like a pumpkin.

Protecting the room became the thing he did, the only thing, all of his days. He couldn't play his guitar, and neither could he look too carefully at the Professor or the house they lived in together, because all those things distracted him from his watch over the tower door. Luckily, the Professor didn't say much to him anyway; he was busy with his own life. At school, the classes of boys didn't bother Jeff either. The teachers left him alone as long as he kept quiet in class, although when they called on him and discovered that he couldn't answer questions, they looked at him in anger or suspicion or even pity. None of that made any difference to Jeff. He handed in his homework if he had done any, whether it was complete or not. He didn't even notice the other boys in his classes.

The only thing Jeff could do, could really do outside of his tower room, he discovered by accident. One Saturday afternoon in October he found that he'd wandered to the amusement park. He had money in his pocket so he took a couple of rides, the roller coaster and the Octopus. The sheer physical sensations of speed and swooping were exciting in the same way that the island beach had been exciting. He rode the roller coaster time after time, alone in the
car, soaring out on thin rails over the edge of the city, rising slowly up, up, up a steep grade until the train finally made its way over the top of the hill. And fell down, dizzying and uncontrollable.

The Octopus was inside, within a huge warehouselike building, which held also a carousel, a few rides small children could take, bumper cars, food concessions, and a bingo hall. The Octopus turned in circles, the round covered motor section at the center, eight metal arms spreading out from that, and at the end of each arm four round cars, like the suction cups on a starfish. The cars circled on their own axles within the large circling machine. They swung so close to each other it seemed they must collide, but they never did. While the arms turned and the cars turned, music played, and colored lights flashed overhead, pouring down over Jeff like fragments of sunlight. He sat back alone in his car, facing three empty seats, wearing sunglasses to make it impossible for anyone to see him, his arms spread along the back of the seat. If he relaxed, as the car swung around building up speed, if he concentrated on the rain of colors over him and the wind rushing by his ears, he could feel — almost — as if he were back on the beach.

It was like trying to recapture a dream, and Jeff never could precisely feel as he had. But it was the nearest he could come. That first day he stayed at the park for hours. He went back every weekend and gradually, when he learned it didn't make any difference, during the weekdays too. As the weather got colder they closed down the outside rides; but Jeff only wanted to ride the Octopus anyway. The indoor rides stayed open all winter, so Jeff would be all right. The only times he could relax his vigilance at the door of his inner room was when his body swung with the movement of the Octopus, and calliope music drowned out human voices, and the shattered prism of color poured over him.

Jeff knew that somewhere outside of his tower room he was flunking courses; but the Professor didn't know because Jeff had forged the Professor's signature on his report card. He checked the mail before the Professor saw it, to throw out unopened any envelopes that came from the University School. Jeff didn't ever know for sure what day of the week it was, so it wasn't exactly as if he was cutting classes. Some days the park was more crowded, some days not. Fall turned into cold weather, and on Christmas Day, it was closed. Then it opened, and Jeff had someplace to go again.

It was on an afternoon in deep winter that Jeff sat in the round seat of the Octopus, alone, whirling under a waterfall of color. Inside himself, he was within the tower room. He could almost really taste the salt in the air, he could almost feel that what was pouring down over his skin was the sun. It was only almost, but almost promised so much and was so much better than nothing that he concentrated on losing himself into it.

When the ride stopped he rose carefully from his seat. If he moved slowly, he would not shatter his inner concentration, even when he went to give the man another ticket. So that when he heard someone call his name, it was as shocking as if somebody had slugged him in the face. He whipped around, frightened.

The Professor stood just beyond the gate. Brother Thomas, back from England, was with him. Jeff looked around for someplace to run. They couldn't catch him. They were going to hurt him, he knew that, and he knew how easy he was to hurt. There was no way out, so he just stood still, inside the tower. He made them come to get him while he stayed safe.

Each man took one of his arms and led him out of the enclosure. Brother Thomas stood in front of him, staring into his eyes. Jeff lowered his eyelids. Brother Thomas pulled them up with gentle fingers. He looked worried, puzzled. “Are you on anything?” he asked.

Jeff shook his head.

The Professor's hand was on his shoulder. “I was so afraid,” the Professor said.

“I'm sorry,” Jeff said.

They all went out to the Professor's car. Jeff sat in the back, but they both turned around to stare at him. “You're supposed to be in a math exam now,” the Professor said. “You missed English and geography yesterday. Exams, Jeff. I don't understand. They called me, the principal did.” He knew everything.

“I'm sorry.”

The Professor looked at Brother Thomas. “Take him home, Horace,” Brother Thomas advised. “Take him home and feed him and make him talk to you. Your father,” he said to Jeff, “wanted to leave you be, since you wanted to be left alone. But you're going to have to tell him. Whatever it is.”

Jeff didn't say anything at all. He had an hour, anyway, for the drive back into the city, he had an hour for the sun-bleached stretch of beach, where waves broke and spread.

* * *

When they sat across from one another at the little Formica kitchen table and Jeff had finished his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and the Professor had brewed a mug of coffee, the Professor said, “I'm sorry, Jeff; you're going to have to tell me about it. You've been different, and I don't know what it is. I didn't think it was drugs — I didn't think you'd be that stupid — but people say it's so hard to tell. . . . Look at me Jeff,” he said, making Jeff meet his eyes. “I don't care about the schoolwork. I'm not angry, I'm frightened. Tell me what's bothering you, and we'll figure out the best way to handle it.”

“I'm OK,” Jeff told him. “There isn't anything.”

“No, you're not OK. I'm not much of a father, but I can see that. You're not even really here, are you? You act as if you're a hundred miles away. Where are you?”

“I'm sorry,” Jeff said.

The Professor sat back in his chair. He looked at the coffee in his mug. He moved his glasses back up his nose. His voice, when he spoke, was expressionless. “I thought myself, the way you've been acting, that it was probably Melody. I thought it had to have something to do with her. Judging from my own experience, I've been assuming that she told you, somehow, the way only Melody can, that she didn't love you. And you thought she did.”

Jeff saw his own hands clench up into fists. His stomach too, was clenched. He started to talk, fast. “I'll tell you where I was. The last day, I went over to a beach. The last full day. An island, one of the sea islands, uninhabited. I had a boat, I bought it. I'd never explored that far before, and I spent the night there. And — it was so beautiful. Nobody but me was there. I spent all day and all night and half the next day too. I have a sand dollar I found; it's upstairs, I can show you.” He looked down at his fists. “I can remember it; I can go there, inside.”

“It wasn't the worst time when Melody left me,” the Professor said. “The worst time was the years before. Because I didn't know I could hate anybody that much, I didn't know I could be that angry, I didn't know what to do except concentrate on my work. I didn't know anybody could hurt anybody else that much; it was like she'd stuck a sword into me, one of those Japanese samurai swords, do you know the kind I mean? Heavy and razor sharp — and curved — and she'd stuck it in me and then she was . . . pushing it
around.” His hand rested on his stomach, remembering. “I couldn't get free from the feelings. I didn't know how frightened I could be, all the time. But whenever we had to go out together, she'd smile at me and talk to me and listen and look at me the way she did — and I wanted to hit her,” he said, his voice low and ashamed.

Jeff let his head down to rest his face on his fists.

“When I found out how many lies she was telling me, I finally realized that she had always lied to me. About my lectures. About boyfriends; and even after she knew I knew, she'd still lie about it. I hated her. Or the bills she ran up, without asking, without telling; then she'd say she'd taken care of them but she just — ignored them. I know I looked all right to other people — maybe more of a dry old stick than usual, maybe even more boring than usual — but inside I was knotted up, all the time, because I hated her so much, and I hated myself, and I was scared.”

Jeff looked up at his father.

“I didn't think she'd do that to you, Jeff,” the Professor said. “But she did, didn't she.”

Jeff nodded. He knew he was crying, but he didn't know what to do about it. Neither did the Professor. He just sat and waited, until Jeff got up to blow his nose.

“It was the lies,” the Professor said. “They were what really scared me. Even now, if I think about her — and the kinds of things she says. . . . I don't know what she told you, but I never was sorry I'd married her or loved her because of you. You always made a difference, made a real difference, from the very beginning. I always knew that, inside me, but I didn't bother to learn how to show you. I'm sorry, Jeff, I should have taken the trouble.”

Jeff didn't know what to say, didn't even know what to think. He could see, as if it were familiar, his father during those early times. And see too what his father had seen: his son, unchanged by Melody's leaving, everything going on the same, although never the same because Melody had left, taking her own light with her. He could see what the Professor's days had looked like to him: long, empty, to be endured until he could get used to things, day after day of waiting to get accustomed. And he could see the Professor now, too; what the Professor was seeing now — his father was frightened and worried about Jeff. Jeff knew that; suddenly, he knew it as clearly as if the Professor had said it aloud. He could receive the feelings, like some musical instrument, whether he wanted to or not. He
could see what the Professor saw as the Professor saw it.

“Jeff, please, say something,” the Professor asked him.

“She told me she wanted a girl, she told me if I'd been a girl she would have taken me with her.”

At that, the Professor laughed. It was shaky, but it was a laugh. “She's still a liar,” he said. “Besides, I wouldn't have let her.”

“Really?”