Sea Glass

by Anita Shreve

  He looks at the fuel gauge. A quarter of a tank, more than enough for a spin.

  Sand drifts across the cracked pavement like blown snow, but the Buick handles well, the weight of the typewriters in the backseat giving it welcome ballast. He likes the products that he sells, understands their value and knows that he can convince almost anyone of their necessity. But he likes the typewriters as objects even more: the enameled keys with their silver rings, the gold engraving on the black casing, the satisfying thunk of the carriage return. The Fosdick is a good and serviceable machine, heavy as a son of a bitch.

  Christ, he thought the house would have some furniture: a table, a couple of chairs, a bed. He and Honora would have brought furniture with them if they had known, and surely Honora’s mother would have given them some household bits and pieces, just to get them started. Sexton has eighty dollars saved from his commissions — a fat one just last week, though he had to shave off a bit for the earrings. He thinks about Honora’s face when she saw the earrings in his hands. Smiling, but still there was that solemn thing in her eyes, taking in the ritual. He couldn’t remember exactly what old Harold had said and so he’d had to make it up as he’d gone along. Odd that bit about unlocking secrets, he thinks now. Where had that come from?

  The coast road hugs the contours of the beach, leaving only the cottages between the Buick and the water. Beautiful they are, even boarded up before the season starts in July, as if their eyes and mouths were taped. Old dames facing the sea. The houses mute till someone comes and rips the tape off.

  He turns a corner and skids a bit on the sandy pavement.

  Take it easy, he thinks.

  The road is a ribbon now, threading through the beach on the right, a marsh on the left. A marsh and something else, he sees, as he pulls out from the shadow of a house. A tidal pool, maybe half a mile across, and at its entrance a feisty current tossing whitecaps against the banks of a narrow channel. There are boats anchored in the pool, half a dozen lobster boats and someone’s yacht, its mast tilting wildly in the chop. A channel has been dredged.

  He hadn’t planned on getting married so soon. Jesus, he’s only twenty-four. And for a while there he thought he might not ever get married, the thrill of the open road too deep inside his bones. But he knew, even that first day at the bank, with Honora behind the grille, that this might be something different, something worth staying put for. He will never forget the sight of Honora’s hands, long fingered and slender and white, so white, slipping out beneath the grille, as if she were a nun and that was all she would allow him to see. The hands snagging his thoughts — practically the only thing that could take his mind off the car, the shine of the paint job a gleam across the front of his brain.

  He looked up then at her face, the dark eyes blanketed with lashes. Her hair shingled back from her cheekbones. A beautiful jawline, almost masculine, and a long neck. She had on that day a low-waisted dress that was pinkish beige with complicated buttons along one side. He couldn’t see her legs and he remembers wanting to. Wanting to know if the skin there was as perfect as the hands. Was that what made him go back that second time — driving from Portsmouth to Taft with a pressure inside his chest, trying out phrases all the way, finally relying, in the end, on that old salesman’s trick: announcing the time of the appointment as if it had already been agreed to? I’ll be outside at four, he said, knowing instinctively that she was not the type to tell him to buzz off. The nerve of him when he thinks about it. How had he known for sure she wasn’t married? Of course — the hands. White and unadorned. Then afterward, before she got off work, scurrying for appointments at the courthouse in case she asked, casually, for a name.

  The legs were as good as he’d hoped.

  He comes to a slight hill and a fork, the road pulling away from the beach. He takes the left fork down to a wharf and a tiny village with a sprinkling of houses and shacks, a fish house near the end of the road. There’s a stiff breeze from the east, blowing a flag straight out. Across the street, against a storefront, an old man is sitting in a rocking chair. There are signs in the window: Nehi and Za-Rex and Old Golds.

  Sexton’s coat, when he gets out of the car, billows out behind him. He crosses the street, holding his coat closed and his hat to his head. When he reaches the steps of the porch, the wind stops abruptly, as if someone had shut a door. He lights a Lucky Strike and crumples the empty pack.

  “Hello,” he says to the man.

  The old geezer is dressed in summer garb, a light suit, his legs spread wide, the trousers riding high over his ample belly. He has on a bow tie and a straw boater, and a medal is pinned to his lapel. Sexton can see the loop of the chain of his pocket watch but not the watch itself. Without the wind, Sexton realizes, it’s pleasantly warm on the porch. He tosses the empty cigarette pack over the railing.

  “‘Lo,” the old man says. The one syllable without inflection. Welcoming or not, it is hard to say.

  “Not a bad day,” Sexton says.

  “Not ‘tall.” The old man’s hands, one holding a cane, the other a handkerchief, are dense with liver spots and moles. Sexton takes a deep pull on his cigarette. “East wind today,” the old man says.

  “Nice on the porch, though,” Sexton says.

  “That your car?”

  “It’s a Buick.”

  “A twenty-seven?”

  “A twenty-six.”

  “How many miles on it?”

  “About four thousand.”

  “Hope you got yourself a bargain.” The New Hampshire accent, a deadpan lilt, is thick on the man’s tongue.

  “I think I did,” Sexton says.

  “What are you doing in these parts?”

  “My wife and I have been asked to look after a house,” Sexton says, the words my wife giving him a pleasant jolt.

  “What house would that be?”

  “It’s at the end of the beach. Three stories high. White with black shutters. In pretty bad shape.”

  “That would be the old convent.”

  “Convent?” Sexton asks.

  “Thirty-five, forty years ago now,” the old man says. “The house used to be a convent. That salt air, it’ll age a house before its time.”

  “The house is empty. We didn’t expect that.”

  “Don’t know why not. Been empty four years now.”

  “Guess I got some bad information,” Sexton says.

  “Guess you did.” The old man starts to rise.

  “Don’t get up,” Sexton says. “I’ll just go inside and look around. Is the owner in there?”

  “You’re looking at him.”

  Sexton watches the tortuous unfolding of the old man’s limbs.

  “Name’s Hess. Jack Hess.”

  “Sexton Beecher.” The man’s hand in his own is all bones — fragile bones, like those of a bird.

  “Don’t have much in the way of furniture,” the old man says. “But if it’s hardware you’re looking for, I reckon I can help you some. We got staples and whatnot too.”

  Sexton holds the screen door while Jack Hess pulls himself into the store with a hand hooked around the doorjamb. His walk is stooped, and just looking at him makes Sexton want to arch his back.

  It takes a moment for Sexton’s eyes to adjust to the gloom after the bright light coming off the water. The store is a marvel of bins and boxes and tin trays and hooks holding all manner of hardware and food. Lightbulbs, brooms, doorknobs, boat winches, birdcages, enameled pots, fans, axes, knives, brushes of all kinds, paints and varnishes and oils, spools of string, cheese graters, meat grinders, jelly glasses, toilet plungers, ice skates (ice skates!), and even a wire chair held upside down on a hook. Despite the clutter, the store appears to be spotless, the wood floor varnished to a high sheen, the mahogany counter with its jars of screws and hinges and buttons seemingly clean enough to lick. Behind the register are tins of food. Raisins and flour and cereal. Coffee beans beside a grinder.

  “Guess I’m set,” Sexton says.
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  “Don’t have it in here you probably don’t need it.”

  “No, I probably don’t.”

  “I got the one chair you can have for seventy-five cents.”

  “I saw that.”

  “I can fix you up with some wood crates you’re desperate.”

  “We’re desperate.”

  “What line a work you in?” The old man takes his position behind the counter, ready to fetch whatever Sexton might ask for.

  “I’m a typewriter salesman.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “That’s right.” Sexton steps outside to crush his cigarette with his foot.

  “You go around in that car of yours and sell typewriters?” the old man asks when Sexton has come back through the screen door.

  “I do.”

  “Don’t reckon I have any use for a typewriter,” the old man says, pronouncing the word as if it had four syllables.

  “Don’t reckon you do. Though one might be a help with the bills. And the orders.”

  “Easier just to write ‘em down.”

  Sexton laughs.

  “Who you sell ‘em to?”

  “Pretty girls,” Sexton says.

  The old man grins, revealing yellowed teeth.

  “You want to go for a ride?” Sexton asks the man.

  “In your Buick?”

  “You could show me around.”

  “Don’t want to keep you from your errands.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  “Don’t want to keep you from your wife. She mind if you take your time?”

  “Don’t know,” Sexton says. “I’ve only been married a day.”

  “Oh, Lord,” the old man says, and takes a step toward the door.

  Jack Hess sits with his legs splayed. Either his belly has simply grown too big or he has lost the use of the muscles in his thighs. “You should try the mills over to the Falls you want to get rid of them typewriters,” he says.

  “Your store do a good business?” Sexton asks.

  “In the summer it does. Duller than a preacher’s sermon in winter. That there’s the Highland Hotel. They do a dandy rice pudding.”

  The Buick rounds a rocky point. To one side of the road is an inhospitable stretch of coastline; to the other are some of the largest houses Sexton has ever seen. He whistles appreciatively.

  “More money than sense,” Jack Hess says. “That one belongs to Gordon Hale. He owns one of the mills over to Ely Falls. That one there is George Walker’s house. His grandfather started the Walker Hotel chain, don’t you know. That one there, that’s Alice Beam’s house. Her father made his money in shipping. She’ll stay on over the winter. About fifty of ‘em do. You got heat?”

  “I think so,” Sexton says. “I hope so.”

  “Well, they had to for the home, didn’t they?”

  “The home?”

  “Folks you’re rentin’ from, they didn’t tell you much, did they?”

  “Not much,” Sexton says.

  “There was a woman came here when she was a girl — oh, thirty years ago now — and she got herself involved with a doctor, and, well, that’s a long story for another day, but she went away and then came back and started a home for other girls who had gotten themselves in the family way, don’t you know. Marvelous enterprise too. Never a complaint from anyone on the beach, even though the place was full of what you would call high-spirited girls. Closed down four years ago.”

  Sexton pulls to the side of the road to let a beach wagon pass. “The home was a convent?”

  “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?”