Still Waters (24 page)

Hartley

And so, life moves on. Unfortunately, there are
no little black boxes in life that we can crawl into and close the lid above us
until we’re ready to face the world again. Bills need to be paid. Food needs to
be bought, prepared, and eaten. At some point, the bathroom will need to be
cleaned, and the laundry will have to be done. Life’s little reminders that
despite your pain, the world keeps turning.

Thanks
to the sale of my house and the remaining money in my trust fund, I have some
time to consider what I want to do next. I apply for jobs at various
universities and read through the research I was doing at Preston on pollution
management and oil spills. I tag along when Jake and Eleanor go to the movies
or out for pizza. I try to move on.

And
one day, in the middle of the kind of summer you remember from your childhood -
all blue skies and crickets and ice cream cones - I realize that I haven’t
thought about him. And when I do think of him, I feel peace. I close my eyes and
let the breeze coming off the ocean tickle the skin on my face and I walk home
with a spring in my step that I haven’t felt in months. I kick off my sandals
at the door and make my way to my room at the back of the house feeling light
and free and miraculously happy. And so of course, because life’s like that,
this is the day that the first envelope arrives.

It’s
small and white and unassuming, like the kind of envelope you’d find in a box
of cheap Christmas cards. But to me, it’s a loaded gun. Someone, probably Jake,
has left it propped up against my pillow for me to find. I sit next to it for a
few minutes looking at Crew’s unmistakable handwriting. I pick it up and then
put it back down again, debating with myself over whether I really want to read
it, and if I do read it, will it make any difference now anyway? I walk to the
door and shut it and then turn back to the bed.

It’s
a small scrap of paper, mimicking the little quotes I sent him. I feel a surge
of happiness that he received them, but it’s soon followed by a sense of
bitterness that it’s taken him this long to reply. With shaking fingers, I slip
the paper out of the envelope and unfold it carefully. It’s written on lined
white paper like the kind I use for taking notes.

Two things
are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the
universe.

It’s
Albert Einstein, of course, and it makes me smile. I know what he’s doing. I
wrote to him in his language, and now he’s writing back to me in mine. Is he
telling me that he's acted stupidly? Even if he's not, I tell myself that he
is. I tuck the paper under my pillow and lie down, resting my head on top of
it. And then I fall into the kind of sleep I’ve done without ever since I was in
Venezuela, in that little wooden house amongst the trees.

After
the first envelope arrives, they come daily. If Eleanor or Jake collect the
mail, they leave them for me on my pillow. I never tell them what’s inside, and
they never ask. He writes out chemical formulas for reactions producing heat
and light getting them all horribly wrong, and draws little scientific diagrams
of the flowers I loved in Venezuela. I store them under my pillow and sleep
with them at night. Some of them tell me nothing and others hint at secret
meanings, but it's never enough to let me know how he feels about me. It's
deeply frustrating, and I want to write him back demanding an end to the game,
but lately the postmarks are haphazard; Costa Rica for two days, then Venezuela
and the U.S the next. I’d never know where to send it. After a while the sight
of a new envelope both thrills and sickens me because as much as I love the
things he chooses to send me, I desperately need to know one way or the other.
Does he still mean it? Because I do. I think I mean it more now than I did
then.

In
the middle of summer, I take a long afternoon walk along the beach and up the
steps to The Point. I return home wind blown and tired and when I walk down the
hallway and open my bedroom door the first thing I see is an envelope sitting
on the bed. I look at it for a second, briefly contemplating throwing it away
unopened. But before I can help myself I'm bouncing on the bed holding it in my
hands, delaying opening it for as long as I can stand it just so I can savor
the anticipation of the moment. When I do tear it open and look inside, I
notice that it's different from every other note he's sent me. It’s a postcard,
and I pull it out slowly, looking at the picture for a long time. It's of a
beach with white sand and turquoise water, but it's not rocky like the beach in
Venezuela. A row of palm trees bow towards the shore and in the middle of the
photo two scrubby looking trees stretch their branches towards each other as if
they're holding hands. Their limbs are covered in tiny candles that sparkle and
glint in the dusky light of early evening. Thin gauzy white fabric has been
draped and looped up one tree, over to the other, and down again, creating a
little covered gazebo. Or a cubby house. I trace my finger over the photo
slowly, along the path leading to the gazebo, over the fabric and down to the
bouquet of orchids abandoned on the ground as if they're waiting for someone to
reach in and pick them up. I press the card to my heart and then put it down on
the bed, only then do I notice the words he's written in the sand.

The meeting
of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances; if there
is any reaction, both are transformed.

I
pick it up again, looking at the words carefully and then turn it over, hungry
for more. There are just three simple words written neatly on the back in
pencil. But to me, they mean everything.

I mean it.

“Feel
like an ice cream?” Eleanor asks when I walk back out into the kitchen, my
heart bursting through my skin. “Jake is working. You know what that means…”

“Extra
chocolate sauce?”

“And
all of the special flavors that he keeps out the back…”

I
look over at her and smile. “Let’s go.”

We
walk down the road and along the sea front to The Sea Shack, taking our time
and enjoying the sun on our skin. Eleanor is on her summer break from school.
She looks tanned and beautiful and completely loved up. I’m quiet, listening to
her talk and enjoying seeing her look so happy. Unlike the winter months, in
the summer The Sea Shack is bursting at the seams. A line of children snakes
from the takeaway kiosk, around the building and down over the grass. Every
table, stool, and booth is taken.

We
make our way to the front and Jake leans around the woman he’s serving, beaming
in our direction.

“Hey
there,” he calls out over the noise. “I wasn’t expecting you two in here today.
Can I get you something?”

The
woman he’s serving turns and glares at us in irritation.

“We’ll
wait,” Nor says, handing me her bag and sunglasses. “I’ll give you a hand.”

In
seconds, she’s pulled an apron over her head and is rolling ice creams like a
pro.

“Hart!”
Jake yells at me, as I make my way to the back of the line. I turn around to
meet his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Guess
who just arrived in town?”

“What?”

“Arrived
this morning. My dad saw him pull into his driveway.”

I’m
rooted to the spot for a moment, getting in everyone’s way but completely
unable to move. The noise level in the room suddenly drops to nothing, and I
can feel my pulse roaring in my ears. But then a man with a sobbing toddler brushes
past me, knocking into my shoulder, and I just about jump out of my skin.

“Hey
lady,” he growls impatiently, “are you in the line or what?”

When
I look up, Jake is eyeing me from the front of the room. He winks at me
mischievously before turning to greet his next customer.

“I’m
sorry,” I stammer to the man with the kid, stepping backward and starting for
the door. “I don’t want an ice cream anymore. I just realized, I really have to
go.”

Crew

The house looks the same as when I left it. The
boards still need repairing, and one of the windows will have to be replaced
before winter comes. I shut the door of my Jeep and try to calm myself down as
I make my way up the steps. I knock a few times and stand back, nervously
pushing my hair off my face as I wait for her to open the door. I knock again,
louder, in case she’s asleep or in the bath, but after a few minutes it’s
obvious that she’s not at home. I walk around to the kitchen window and look
in, my stomach dropping when I see that it’s empty except for a table stacked
with chairs and a mop leaning up against the wall. I reach for my phone and
bring up Jake’s number, feeling like an idiot for not calling to tell him I was
coming into town. For not calling at all. The phone rings once, twice, three
times, and then Jake’s voice fills my ear asking me to please leave a message.
I shove it back into my pocket and climb in the car. I make sure I drive the
streets slowly, making my way up to The Point and then down to Eleanor’s house
in case I see her. I drive around for a full hour before I give up and head
down to the beach. No matter how many times I see it, the crowds in summer
still surprise me. Twin Heads is an empty, blustery kind of place for ten
months of the year. And then summer break hits, and suddenly it’s like
Disneyland.

I
pull open the door to The Sea Shack and look for Jake. He’s standing elbow to
elbow with Eleanor behind the counter; they're rolling ice creams for waiting
customers and sneaking looks at each other when they think no one notices.
Everyone notices. Two old ladies next to me are watching them closely; their
faces lit up by their smiles.

“Crew!”
Jake cheers when he sees me. He passes his scoop to Eleanor and jogs around the
counter and across the room to where I’m standing. “It’s been a while, man.”

“Good
to see you,” I say, pulling him into a hug. He slaps my back before moving away
and looking at my face.

“Is
everything good?”

I
look down at him and see that his expression is suddenly serious.

“Yeah,
man,” I smile. “Everything is great.”

He
nods and grins to himself before looking over his shoulder at where Eleanor is
swamped with orders.

“Argh,”
he groans, “I’ll have to see you soon, ok?”

I
slap him on the arm and nod. “You go back to work. We can catch up later.”

He
turns to leave and then stops himself, looking back in my direction.

“Come
on, man. Just ask.”

We
stare at each other for a second and then I take a deep breath, shoving my
hands in my pockets so he won’t see them shaking.

“Where
is she?”

He
looks out past me to the windows that line the front of the building.

“She’s
here.”

“Here?”
I scan the crowd quickly, but I can’t see anyone who looks even remotely like
Hartley.

“Not
here,” he says, “Twin Heads. She was in here earlier but when I told her you
were in town she kind of freaked out and took off.” He looks at my face and
swallows hard.

“I’m
sorry.”

“It’s
fine,” I say quietly, turning to go. “It’s what I expected.”

We
say an awkward goodbye, and I make my way through the waiting people to my
Jeep. I take the long way home in case I see her, but the only people on the
streets are families with kids on bikes and teenagers carrying their surfboards
home from the beach.

I
open the door to my house and kick off my shoes. It’s still the same, of
course, except now I really notice it. Its emptiness and white walls chill my
skin despite the heat of the day. The whole place reminds me of drinking myself
to sleep and screwing women I didn’t care about and endless hours pacing back
and forth in front of the windows, unable to keep still. It’s a mausoleum of
pain and grief, and I want nothing more to do with it. I decide to put it on
the market first thing in the morning. I walk across the living area past the
kitchen and the dining table that’s never been used. The windows are streaked
with salt and dirt from the storms that hit the coast while I’ve been away, but
the view is still beautiful. The beach is emptying out again as people head
home for the day. Down past my lawn and over the dune I can see a couple of
people stop and point as they look down at something on the sand. After a few
minutes, they turn and walk off up the beach. I watch the waves for a while,
reveling in the way I can now stop and look at something without thoughts
racing around in my head and sickness twisting in my gut. It’s taking some
getting used to, this third reinvention of me. I’m not the boy who loved a girl
named Jessie anymore, and I’m no longer the man who fell apart after he lost
her. I feel brand new, untested and tentative, unsure of how I feel in my own
skin, but very sure that I’m heading in the right direction.

Out
of the corner of my eye I see a flash of color down on the sand and for a
moment I think it's someone’s towel blowing in the wind. But it stays in the
same place, whipping up in the air and then suddenly disappearing from view. I
watch it for a while and then slide open the glass doors, making my way down
the steps, past the pool to the lawn and over the dunes to the beach.

When
I finally make it over the dune and see what's in front of me, I make myself
stop and watch for a few seconds. Because I know for certain that one day when
I’m an old man thinking back to the very best moments of my life, I’m going to
think of this.

“That
is without a doubt the worst fort I’ve ever seen,” I say, walking towards her.
“Didn’t you pay any attention at all?”

“Well,”
she says, smiling and looking up. “You wouldn’t let me take any notes.”

She
moves the sheet back and crawls under, holding it aside for me. I look at how
serious she is and try not to laugh.

“Permission
to enter?”

“Permission
granted.”

There
are four long sticks pushed into the sand at the corners and a couple of
mismatched sheets draped over the top tied with string. It will collapse any
minute.

“You
wrote back,” she says, looking up into my face. The sun has given her a light
tan and streaked her hair with copper. She has freckles everywhere.

“I’m
sorry it took me so long.”

She
looks at me for a moment, not saying anything.

“I
was away for a while, seeing a doctor. I didn’t get your letters until I got
back.”

“Jake
told me,” she says quietly, “about the doctor.”

We
sit next to each other, being careful to make sure our arms don’t touch. I’m
desperate to close the gap between us, but I’m not sure how she feels about me
yet.

“After
you left I wasn’t good, Hart. Everything unraveled. I knew I needed to talk to
someone. I couldn’t go on like that anymore. You showed me what life could be
like, and once I had a taste of happiness I didn’t want to live without it
anymore.”

She
closes her eyes, and a tear swells just under her eyelashes. I reach over and
wipe it with my thumb.

“I’ve
missed you,” I whisper, and she opens her eyes. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Why
did you keep me away?” she says, reaching for my hand. “I didn’t understand
it.”

“I
knew that if I came back to you still broken then you’d try to save me. I
didn’t want that for you.”

She
sits up on her knees, pushing her hair back over her shoulders and turning to
me.

“Crew?
Can I give you a hug?”

“Oh
babe,” I say, pulling her hard against me. “You don’t have to ask.”

She
falls against my chest, her face against my neck and her hands in the back of
my hair.

“Oh
God,” she cries into my skin. “I’ve missed you.”

I
wrap an arm around her waist and reach up to stroke her hair.

“Ssssh.
It’s going to be ok.”

We
stay like that for a long time, clinging to each other madly and unable to bear
the slightest distance between us.

“So,”
I say eventually, pulling her even closer, “I see I’m not your landlord
anymore.”

“I
moved in with Eleanor and Jake.”

“How’s
that working for you?”

She
chuckles into my neck.

“Crowded.”

“I
may not be your landlord anymore, but how would you feel about me being your
boss?”

She
pulls away from me and looks up into my face.

“At
Still Waters?”

“Yes.
As you saw from my notes, my chemistry is a little limited. I need someone to
help me design the lab and head up the development team. You interested?”

“Interested?”
she cries. “Of course I’m interested! But wait, where would we live?”

I
take her face in my hands. “Up there, down here, South America, wherever we
want to, babe. We can split our time between them all.”

She
kisses the side of my neck slowly, pushes my hair aside and whispers,

“both
are transformed,” into my ear. I push her back gently and look down into her
face.

“You
got the postcard.”

“It
arrived this morning.”

I
kiss her slowly then, and both of us sigh in relief at the first touch.

“Are
you transformed, Crew?” she says against my mouth.

I
lift her chin so that I can see into her eyes.

“I'm
on my way.”

The
wind picks up and above us the sheets billow and lift. I pull her out by the
hand just as the fort collapses in a tumble of fabric and sticks. We take one
look at each other and burst out laughing. I laugh even harder when I look up
the beach and see her three previous attempts, each more miserable than the
last.

“I
like the little fort I made for the postcard better,” I say, taking her left
hand and pulling a small square box out of my pocket.

“Do
you now?”

“Yes.
Do you think you could see yourself standing under it with me, maybe one day
soon?”

She
stops and looks up at me, the wind blowing her curls around her face and her
eyes bright with wonder.

“Yes,”
she breathes, leaning in and pressing her palm against my heart. “Yes Crew, I
do.”