The Shell Collector

by Hugh Howey

  I convince myself that it’s okay, that I can consider this later, even as I decide to go out for more. I grab the flashlight and a light jacket, leave my pajama bottoms on, and work my way down the boardwalk and the flights of stairs. For a moment, I imagine what Ness’s daughter must’ve felt out here that night, alone, as a young child. Ness says the lamps were added to the boardwalk after the event, that he hates the light pollution, but that his ex-wife insisted. And now he just leaves them on.

  I wonder if there isn’t some deeper reason that he leaves the lamps burning. The lighthouse throbs against the high clouds, and I think of the signals we put out without knowing, the invitations, the warnings. I think of the way I left my social media status as “married” until a year after the divorce was final. Some part of me wanted Michael to know that it was okay to come back, to watch that reef, that rocky shoreline, that it can be dangerous around here, but look: a clear path to safe harbor. If you choose.

  I don’t know what I’m looking for on the beach. Nothing, maybe. In a literal sense. What I hope to see is a blank expanse of sand, exactly what I’m used to, for the world to make sense again. When Michael left, after we lost our child, the suitors were endless. Men I had thought were friends. Coworkers I didn’t know I had. From life in high school and college where dates were nearly impossible to find, to this … scared me. Something was wrong. There were shells everywhere I looked. I assumed they were fake. Lies.

  Not much has changed. Abundance frightens me. Or maybe I believe that I only deserve joy when it’s hard to come by.

  I’m only a hundred meters down the beach when I see someone heading my way. The bob and weave of a flashlight. Ness and I didn’t talk much over dinner. I was too stunned from the shelling, and he seemed content to leave me to my thoughts. But something changed between us, a sheathing of my sword and a lowering of his shield. An unspoken promise, perhaps, to not play roles this week. To just be.

  It was a dangerous sensation. I was reminded over dinner that what I’ve mocked from afar, what I’ve learned to loathe, is only a caricature of Ness. The actual man is just that—a man. However flawed. And it’s hard not to feel something being alone with him. It has nothing to do with what he represents, only that we’re nearly the same age, apparently single, and spending hours alone together along this spectacular beach.

  I watch the flashlight approach. All around me are shells scattered in the sand; they flash wet and shine in the beam of my flashlight. I would rather they be pared down to one. A sensible number. The absence of choice. Take these thousand lies and give me one thing that’s real. Something I can cling to, believe in, and trust.

  Ness is coming down the walkway for me. He has sought me out while I have gone looking for answers of my own. And I’m in a weakened state, thinking of Michael, of all the opportunities missed, of the sad existence of that lighthouse to the south, spinning its warning, unable to break from its foundations and join the little lights out at sea. Stuck. Dire.

  If Ness comes to me and stands too close, I might throw my arms around him. I might cling to him and sob, like a near-drowned sailor who has found a rock. Not because I want him, but because I feel horribly alone here, with the sea crashing at my back, my mind swimming with wine and with recollections, my heart pounding and empty, my emotions strung out like a piano wire.

  If he leans into me, I may not resist. I hate myself for this. I loathe myself in that moment, and I know I’ll hate myself even more tomorrow, but I feel in that split second the need to be needed, and I see myself down where the sand is packed and cool, an arm beneath my neck, lips pressed against mine, the lingering scent of coconut and sunscreen and the Merlot we had with dinner, and the mad, selfish, insane desire to be kissed by someone, even him, and told that everything will be all right—

  “Ms. Walsh?”

  The beam lances me in the face. I recoil and throw my arm up to defend myself.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” And the light drops to my feet. “Saw the alarm go off. Thought we were being raided again.”

  I catch the glint of a gun before it’s holstered. I see the uniform, the bright buckle, the shield on the chest. It’s the young guard from the second gate. He must work the late shift.

  “You should be careful out here,” he tells me. “We get people coming in by boat now and then to take shells. Infrared cameras usually spot them, but all the same it’s not safe to be out here alone.”

  I hadn’t thought of this. I’m walking around in the middle of a jewelry store, my flashlight not a beacon of warning but an invitation. “Sorry,” I say.

  “I can join you if you like. You lookin’ for anything in particular?”

  I don’t know if it’s because of my state or something in the way he says this, something in the way he takes another step toward me, closer than would be comfortable, but this offer sounds like a proposition. He’s either being helpful or coming on to me, and as it tends to work with men, I have no idea which.

  “I’m fine,” I say. I no longer feel like shelling. I no longer feel like company. If this man were to touch me, I would scream. His gun makes me feel less safe, not more so. “I was just restless. I think I should go to bed. We’re getting an early start tomorrow.”

  I glance up at the main house, where nothing moves.

  “You sure?” the guard asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. I take a step back toward the boardwalk that leads up to the guest house. “I appreciate it, though.”

  “Because Mr. Wilde lets me shell here any time I want. I don’t mind joining you.”

  “No, that’s all right. I appreciate it.”

  I turn to go. A small beam of light follows me, and another one, larger, arcs across the sky. I am in a dangerous place. I am in a wild place. I wish I could say that reefs were all around me, but the threats I feel all lie within.

  17

  The following morning, I am awoken by a glowing horizon, by a blooming dawn. No alarm bleeping at six, no traffic noise, no blaring horns or car alarms, no urban cave with curtains closed tight, no headache or grogginess—just the trickling awareness that it is a new day, a slow slide to consciousness, rolling around in fine sheets while the sound of a crashing sea permeates the walls.

  It isn’t even six yet, and I’m wide awake and rested. A breeze swirls down from upstairs, where I must’ve left a window open. In the small kitchen, there’s one of those capsule coffee makers. I choose a dark roast and find a mug in the third cabinet I try. Peeking inside the fridge, I find basic staples: milk, eggs, butter, sliced deli meat, cheese. None of it is opened. I’m dying to meet Ness’s housekeeper. Things are seemingly done by magic around here.

  While the coffee is brewing, I decide to take a quick shower. The walls of the shower stall are made of transparent bricks the colors of sea glass. I watch the sunrise through them as I soap up and rinse off. It occurs to me that someone on the boardwalk could see my silhouette inside the shower, which makes me feel suddenly exposed. I decide not to care.

  I chalk the lack of concern up to my general good mood. And I chalk up the good mood to the great day of shelling the day before. It’s human, I think, to be buoyed by a sudden increase in resources. This is how I try to be clinical about my rising spirits, rather than trust or embrace them. It helps me forget the moment of abject weakness the night before and what might’ve happened if Ness had been the one to find me on the beach.

  I towel off and put on a clean bathing suit, a sundress over top. The coffee waits beneath the brewer. I take a sip and find it passable for instant brew. The worrier in me is troubled by how absolutely perfect the first half hour of my day has gone. I expect trouble ahead to balance it all out.

  Watching the sunrise from the deck, I cup my mug in both hands and enjoy its warmth. Several gulls cry and chase along the beach, and I try to remember the last time I saw more than one or two sea birds together in the wild. I spot at least four here, a sign of some feeble life in this corner of the sea. I remember being a kid a
nd seeing dozens of birds at a time: high-flying Vs of seagulls and low-gliding pelicans whose wingtips seemed to graze the water. I remember tossing french fries from the aft deck of a ferry once, and not a single fry reaching the ship’s wake; they were gobbled up mid-air by a hovering flock of birds. Years later, on the same ferry, you could toss bread over the rail and nothing would come to claim it. The bread would disappear in the water. Michael told me to stop wasting it.

  One of the crying gulls over Ness’s beach tucks in its wings and plummets into the sea, sending up a small geyser. I’m too far away to see whether or not there’s a fish in its beak as it reemerges, but the two birds that immediately give chase let me know breakfast is on. I feel like a child again, witnessing a glimpse of the secret goings-on of Mother Nature. And just as quickly, I’m saddened that such a banal scene has become a rarity to treasure.

  There’s a tremble in the wood rail. I turn toward the house to see Ness descending my way. Probably been watching for any sign that I was up. He has two large duffel bags, one on each shoulder, the straps crisscrossed over his chest. They look heavy, just judging by the way they’re pinned to his hips and not swaying. But Ness moves down the steps like they weigh nothing at all.

  “Good morning,” he says.

  I lift my mug in salute. Ness drops the bags, lifting the straps over his head, and they thud and clank to the deck. “You brought your fins and mask?”

  I nod. “Are we going snorkeling today?”

  “I had planned to. But something may come up this week that I’ll have to attend to. Just in case, I thought we’d skip ahead to diving.”

  “I don’t dive,” I tell him. “Never have.”

  “Well, today you start. Have you had breakfast?”

  I shake my head.

  “Eggs? I’ll make some eggs and toast. You take cheese in your eggs?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  Ness lets himself inside. I stay on the porch and enjoy the feel of the first rays of sunlight slicing through the morning chill. The air feels dry, the day promising to be warm. I glance down at the duffel bags, butterflies in my stomach. Michael tried to get me certified during our honeymoon in the Caymans. I was too scared to go through with it, chickened out on the side of the pool, said I wanted to spend our honeymoon not feeling any pressure. What I felt the rest of the week was the burn of his disappointment.

  Funny how that disappointment made me never want to get certified, even after Michael left, and even though most of my friends dive. So much baggage. Heavier than those duffels with their tanks and all that gear. I watch Ness busy himself in the kitchen, whisking eggs, and consider the decision I need to make. Refuse to get in the water once again? Or, for the sake of the story, soldier through?

  For the story, I tell myself. Because I’m a professional. Not because I want to. Not because of any pressure or fear of disappointment. I can’t let this be about that. I can’t be thirty-two, making more of this day—any unimportant day—than I made of my honeymoon nine years ago. But I can’t make the same mistakes, either. I can’t let every opportunity pass me by.

  18

  After a quick breakfast on the deck, we carry the duffels down to the manmade breakwater and the enclosed bay with the docks and boathouse. I insist on carrying one of the bags. It must weigh fifty pounds once I add my fins, mask, and wetsuit. I let Ness walk ahead of me and thank my Pilates instructor that I’m able to haul the bag without complaint. In fact, I feel strong. Maybe it’s the coffee or the good night of sleep, or the day on the beach, but I feel a power in my limbs. I feel courage and conviction. I’m going to learn to breathe underwater.

  Ness leads me across the beach and to the boathouse. At the end of the dock, a metal ramp leads down to a floating platform. The ramp is hinged on both sides so it can move with the tides. There are cleats here for smaller boats to dock up. We set the bags down, and Ness flips a smaller ramp into the water. It’s a beach entry for launching kayaks and the like. I imagine we’ll be walking down this ramp and into the bay.

  “A few safety rules,” Ness says. He starts unpacking his bag, and I follow along and do the same with the gear in my bag. “You don’t dive deeper than sixty feet, and you don’t stay that deep for more than ten minutes.”

  “How will I know?”

  He shows me a fat wristwatch with a black rubber band. “You’ve got one of these in your bag. It shows your depth, how much air you have left, and how long you’ve been diving. I’ll teach you how to use it. Don’t worry, it’s simple.”

  “Sixty feet. Ten minutes,” I repeat. I really don’t want to die. I don’t want this story to turn into an obituary. My heart is racing, and it occurs to me that I’m placing my life in the hands of a man I barely trust.

  “The most important thing is not to be nervous,” he says, like he can read my mind. “If you’re nervous, you’ll breathe heavy, and you’ll go through your tank in no time. Stay calm and breathe deep, nice and slow, and you’ll be able to enjoy the dive longer.”

  I nod. This feels a lot like a piece I wrote years ago, which got me into surfing. I was terrified at first, but I eventually found my footing. The root of a good interview is to throw yourself into someone else’s world with wild abandon. Seek new and scary things. It occurs to me that I could’ve been a better spouse if I’d approached my marriage the way I tackle my work.

  Inside the dive bag, I find a black steel tank. The one in Ness’s bag is bright pink. I like that he doesn’t ask to switch, just begins showing me how to hook up what he calls the first stage of the regulator to the tank. He then teaches me how to check the small rubber ring on the tank, make sure there’s no sand or debris there, how to crack the main valve and listen to the hiss of air, and how to blow out any water that might be in the valve. We then begin to hook up the tangle of hoses to the tanks.

  “Mine feels loose,” I say. Everything is a worry. A possible danger.

  “That’s good. You want it a little loose. It’ll tighten when you open the tank. The air will blow that rubber gasket out.”

  That doesn’t sound like a good thing, but I crack the valve, and sure enough, the regulator stiffens where it’s attached to the top of the tank. Ness shows me how to test the air flow from what he calls the “second stage” or “regulator.” I press the button, and the mouthpiece hisses. Ness puts his in his mouth and takes a deep breath. I do the same, not knowing what to expect the air to taste like. It doesn’t. Maybe a little metallic from the tank, or a little plasticky from the hose, but that could be my imagination.

  “Okay, second safety rule. When you ascend, you’re always exhaling, okay?”

  “Ascending is going up,” I say, knowing this is right but seeking confirmation just in case. My temples are throbbing and it’s hard to think. I really don’t want to die because I assumed something or because I didn’t want to look stupid in front of someone I barely know.

  “Correct. When you go down, the pressure of the water around you will compress the air in your lungs and make it take up less volume. But you’ll be filling your lungs with new air. So when you come up, that air is going to expand. As long as you’re breathing out the entire time, that expanding air can’t hurt you.”

  I start to say something, but Ness continues. “Don’t worry, we won’t be going deep enough or stay down long enough to get the bends.”

  That answers my next question.

  “There are a few things that can freak you out when you’re diving, and that’s the regulator coming out of your mouth, your mask filling with water, and losing your sense of which way is up. We’re going to put our tanks on, walk down this ramp, and I’m going to show you how to deal with all three. Twenty minutes of instruction, and you’re going to be a pro.”

  Ness smiles, and I believe he’s being sincere, that he knows what he’s doing, that I’m going to live through this day, which started out a bit too perfectly and would be nicely balanced by a gruesome death. In fact, this would be one quick way to put an end t
o my questions about the shells. I flash to an image of a police boat there at the dock, blue lights flashing, my inert body being hauled up from the break wall, Ness saying he doesn’t know what went wrong. I think back to how calmly he crushed shells that should’ve been worth a fortune. Getting rid of me would be like getting rid of more damning evidence.

  “Don’t be scared,” Ness says. I refocus to find that he’s watching me, a look of genuine concern on his face. What I assume is genuine concern.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Just spaced out. What’s next?”

  Ness shows me how to attach the tank to something called a BC, then shows me my weight belt, which explains, besides the tank, why the duffel bag was so heavy. I take off my sundress, thinking as I do that at least my sister and Agent Cooper know where I am. Henry, too. No matter what happens, Ness won’t get away with it. And anyway, I’m being paranoid. Unreasonable. Whatever Ness is, he isn’t a killer.

  I drill this into my head as I squeeze into my wetsuit, which is an act as awkward and oddly intimate as getting re-dressed past airport security. But Ness is donning his own suit, and he doesn’t glance my way once. He’s either uninterested or a gentleman. And there’s a vast gulf between the two.

  “I would’ve thought you’d hire a dive master to be here, doing all this for you,” I tell him.

  “I am a dive master,” Ness says.

  “No, of course, I assumed you would be, what with your shelling experience. I just mean—”

  “You mean hiring someone else to do half-ass what I can do for myself.” He smiles at me.