The Wreck

by Landon Beach

  “Maybe,” Hutch said and then sat down to look at his rubbing of the coin.

  9

  Nate arrived home just before six. Lucille had offered him another glass of lemonade, which he couldn’t pass up. Brooke stood in the driveway. Her hair was pulled back giving him a profile shot from forehead to sunglasses to nose to lips to chin to neck to bare shoulders, turquoise tube top stretched tight, short white skirt, smooth legs, and sandals.

  Nate turned off the engine and exited the vehicle, ready to apologize for being late.

  ✽✽✽

  Brooke Scarlett Martin was a high school English teacher and had taken him to task in a chess game on the first day they had met. He was the sponsor for the after-school chess club, and he’d underestimated her when she walked into his classroom, heels clicking on the hard floor, and said, “I was told I could find a good game of chess in here.”

  He had replied with, “Step right up.”

  His queen had come off the board in ten moves, and he had never recovered. She was an attractive woman and had distracted him. A craftier player? That too.

  After the game, he tried using humor to hide his embarrassment. “So, who blindsided me by letting you know where my room was?”

  She had stood, straightened her skirt, and said, “Oh, a friend.”

  His students had stopped their games long ago, preferring to watch him match wits with Brooke.

  “Friend got a name?” he had said.

  “Of course, but I’ll make a deal with you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “My friend’s name will remain secret, but I’ll allow you a rematch.”

  He had wanted to ask her to dinner right there, but instead had acted like he was pondering her offer. The quiet seconds seemed to be filled with his students’ thoughts: “C’mon, Mr. Martin, kick her ass!” or “He who hesitates is lost, Mr. M—you’re done.”

  Finally, he had stood up, shook her hand, and said, “Deal.”

  Only three months later did she tell him that she hadn’t asked anyone who he was or where his room was located. She had seen him at the first faculty meeting of the year and had watched where he went afterward.

  ✽✽✽

  He approached with caution but before he could speak, Brooke gave him a quick hug. “The Gibsons will be here for dinner any minute. Tim dropped by earlier and I thought it would be fun.”

  “Works for me,” Nate said. “Sorry I was late.”

  “You can make it up to me later,” she winked. “Now, get inside and clean up.” She noticed the newspaper package he was carrying. “What’s in the paper?”

  “Fresh fish from the guy I went to see. Should last us a few dinners,” Nate said.

  “That was nice. I’ll put them in the freezer while you get ready,” she said. “Was he any help?”

  “He’s going to do some research and call me if he comes up with anything.”

  In ten minutes he had shaved, showered, and put on a pair of jeans with a tight fitting long sleeved white t-shirt. He put the coin in his pocket—he liked knowing it was on him—contemplated splashing on some cologne, but decided he was clean enough and headed to the kitchen. No one was there. Looking out the living room window, he saw Brooke outside on the deck. No Gibsons.

  The deck table was set with cloth napkins, Pfaltzgraff plates, and both a water and wine glass at each setting. In the middle were two ice-buckets. A bottle of chardonnay chilled in one and a bottle of cabernet chilled in the other. As Brooke set a pitcher of water next to the ice buckets, Nate opened the screen door.

  “You should go into business,” he said.

  “I thought it would be nice to get out our dishes and napkins and actually use them,” she replied and worked on straightening the white table cloth. They mostly ate off paper plates during the summer months—less hassle.

  “Why are we chilling the red wine?” Nate asked.

  “I read that it should be served between sixty and sixty-five degrees, so I brought out the other chiller.”

  Nate had never had a cold glass of red wine in his life. “Anything I can do to help?”

  She shook her head ‘no’ and went into the house. He followed her.

  “What are we having tonight?” he said, entering the kitchen.

  “Potato casserole, barbeque chicken, and salad,” she said.

  Nate approached her from behind and put his arms around her. She was bent over looking in the oven to see if the casserole was done. He smelled her perfume. “Are you sure we didn’t get stood up?”

  She playfully brushed him off. “Behave yourself.”

  He held her again, stronger this time, and started kissing her neck. “You’re looking a little too good for me to behave.”

  “Naaayyytte,” she said shivering as he nibbled on her ear.

  There was knocking at the back door. “Later,” Brooke said and started toward the door with Nate following. “I’ll get the door,” she said, “could you check on the chicken?”

  Nate reversed his steps and went outside. He raised the grill cover and flipped the chicken. Soon, he heard laughter followed by the screen door opening. Tim and Jane Gibson stepped out. Gibson was dressed in chinos and a black collared shirt. Jane was in a summer dress that exposed her sinewy tanned legs. She was almost as tall as Nate with blonde hair past her shoulders. She was attractive, and knew she was attractive. It was hard to believe that she had two children. Of the four of them, she was the oldest at forty-three.

  “Nate, good to see you again,” Gibson said shaking Nate’s hand.

  “Likewise,” Nate said back.

  Gibson moved aside and Jane leaned in to give Nate a careful hug so their chests didn’t touch. “It’s been too long,” she said.

  Nate offered them a seat while he worked on the chicken and Brooke entered with drinks for everyone. She had a martini containing a toothpick with three olives for Gibson and a sea breeze for Jane. After passing them out, she brought Nate over a can of Busch and then took a sip of her own sea breeze.

  Gibson took a drink. “Nate, how was the school year?”

  “Fine,” he lied. He didn’t mind talking about teaching; he just didn’t want to talk about how his father’s death had affected him the past year. Nate closed the grill and motioned to Brooke that the chicken was ready. She headed indoors. “And yours?”

  “Nothing to complain about. The usual university politics, committees, subcommittees, audits, senate hearings, arrogant grad students, you know.”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t, but it sounds like a hassle.”

  “Probably just a larger scale of the bells and whistles you deal with at the high school level,” Gibson said and slid an olive off the toothpick and into his mouth.

  Nate cracked open his beer. “I see you’ve lost the beard.”

  Gibson paused to register the shift in topic. “Oh yeah, it got to be a pain in the ass last fall.”

  Nate turned to Jane. “Enjoying vacation?”

  “Much better now that I’m having this,” she said, raising her glass. “Your wife can make a mean drink.”

  “Yes she can,” Nate said.

  “Here we are,” Brooke said as she emerged from the house with the casserole. She handed Nate a plate to put the chicken on.

  Gibson rose. “This looks fantastic, Brooke,” he said grabbing the tray from her. “Where may I set it for you, ma’am?”

  “On the hot pad next to the red wine,” Brooke said.

  “Is that your boat out there?” Jane asked Nate.

  “Yep,” Nate said bringing over the chicken. “I put it in yesterday.”

  “Got it augered in?” Gibson said.

  Nate nodded, picking up their corkscrew and opening the bottle of red.

  “Think it’ll stay put in heavy weather?” Gibson said.

  “It should,” Nate said. He was sure that the Gibsons had a boat, but he couldn’t remember if he had asked Tim last summer. He didn’t think that he had. “Do you have a
boat, Tim?”

  “We have a fifty foot yacht we keep berthed at Shelby’s.”

  “Nice,” Nate said.

  “Yeah, but we’re thinking about selling it,” said Gibson.

  “Why?” Brooke asked, pouring wine into everyone’s glasses.

  “Tim hasn’t been getting much use out of our toys lately,” Jane said.

  “What toys?” Brooke said.

  “For one, we thought it would be fun to have our Porsche up here to cruise around in, but have rarely used it,” said Jane, “We like the roominess of our Escalade too much.”

  “Do you have an All-Terrain Vehicle, Nate?” Gibson asked.

  “Don’t have one of those,” Nate said.

  “I saw some kids riding them around on the beach a few summers ago and it looked like a blast. Bought one last summer, and the first few rides were okay, but it got boring. One night, I decided to take a zip down the beach and almost ran over a couple half-dressed, rolling around in the sand.”

  “I’ve seen some people using them to haul wood or make runs down to the party store,” said Nate.

  “I thought about using mine for that,” said Gibson, then he drained the last of his martini. “Bottom line is that it hasn’t been worth it.”

  ✽✽✽

  “So, you met my new friend?” Hutch said.

  “I did. He seems like a nice young man,” Lucille said. “Chances are, he is, so you should be nice to him.”

  Hutch scratched his beard. “Sounds like you think I won’t be?”

  “I was born at night, Abner, but not last night.” She sipped her coffee. Deciding, she leaned toward him. “You haven’t had anyone out your way in some time. Having Nate around might be good for you.”

  Hutch began to say something but drifted back into the wicker chair on the porch. He looked down into his empty coffee cup.

  “Watch your hands,” Lucille said, pouring coffee from a thermos into his cup.

  “I can’t figure out why that coin washed up on his beach.”

  “Sounds to me like you want to.”

  “I still have your assurance that you don’t tell anyone that I allow you to call me out on things, right?”

  “Now, why on earth would I want to see your reputation as a tough old salt be tattered? Not even a little. You should be ashamed, needing to ask.”

  “Well, things change. Never noticed that, Lucille?”

  “Plenty do. But some don’t. And a man that’s been alive as long as you ought to be able to tell the difference.”

  Hutch frowned. “That makes twice you putting me down over a single cup of coffee.”

  “That’s your second cup you’re finishing, Abner.” She smiled.

  Hutch stared at his cup, looked back at her.

  “That’s better,” she said. “When you smile, you don’t look near as mean as usual.”

  Hutch got up. “Fish weren’t too bad tonight,” he said stretching his arms.

  “Mighty tasty if you ask me,” she said.

  “You staying for a brandy and our rematch in Cribbage?”

  “Not tonight. I’ve got some papers to look over that might tell me more about that coin,” Hutch said.

  “So, you are interested.”

  “I said might.”

  “Well, off you go then. I’ve got the dishes tonight.”

  “You sure?” said Hutch.

  “Yes. I’ll see you for coffee tomorrow morning.”

  Hutch left from the porch and was a few steps onto the dirt when Lucille said, “Abner, your daughter called me today.”

  Hutch stopped, staring into the darkness of the woods.

  “You need to call her,” Lucille said.

  Hutch lowered his head for a moment, raised it, stared some more, and began to walk again. Instead of heading to the wooden post marking the bike path, he walked around the side of the house and into the back yard. The thick grass felt refreshing on his calloused feet. In the far corner of the lawn was a path Nate had not seen earlier in the day.

  10

  After a dessert of chocolate brownie and ice cream topped with raspberry sauce and macadamia nuts, Nate excused himself to start the bonfire. He dropped down the steps from the backyard to the beach and began positioning wood in the fire pit. He heard footsteps behind him.

  “What do you do to keep in such good shape?” Jane said.

  Jane? He turned around to see her with a glass of white wine—they had killed the red over dinner and Brooke must have opened the other bottle in the chiller. “I try to run every day,” said Nate, “and touch the weights a few times during the week.”

  “As a yoga instructor, I’m always interested to hear how other people do it,” Jane said.

  “Well, I doubt I could do what you do,” Nate said, continuing to get the pit ready.

  Jane grinned and then sipped on her wine, her eyes watching Nate. “You were a collegiate athlete, right?”

  “I played baseball,” Nate said.

  “I remember,” Jane said. “For Michigan State.”

  “The enemy,” Nate said.

  “I won’t hold it against you,” Jane said. “It’s not polite to pick a fight with one’s host.”

  “I know a little bit about fighting,” he said.

  “Please, fill me in.”

  “My coach mandated that we boxed at least once a week during the season.”

  “What for?”

  “He called it ‘inspiration.’ Something about nothing prepares a man to be mean and tough more than connecting a punch into another man’s face.” Nate paused. “Seems silly now.”

  “Well, you won’t have to worry about fighting me,” Jane laughed.

  “So, I’m off the hook?”

  Jane took a drink and then said, “Yeah, but I’m going to keep my eyes on you.”

  “Let’s hope I can build a fire that meets with your approval,” he said.

  She finished her wine. “I’m on empty. Time to refill,” she said. “Want me to grab you another beer?”

  “Might as well. Thanks.” He took a section of newspaper and crinkled it up into a cone and placed it under the tee-pee of kindling wood he had built in the pit. Grabbing a lighter, he lit the paper.

  ✽✽✽

  Brooke entered the kitchen with the last of the dishes: two Collins glasses. Gibson was at the sink washing the plates and glasses she had brought in on the last trip. She thought that he had just come in to use the bathroom. “Tim, you don’t have to do that,” she said. “Go outside and relax.”

  “It’s the least I can do to say thank you for such a marvelous dinner,” Gibson said. “You keep an excellent table and are even better company.”

  She watched as he moved his hands in the soapy water, taking his time with each plate and glass. Nate would power rinse dishes and then jam them into the dishwasher. The dishes got cleaned either way, but this was different—more gentle. After running them under the faucet, Gibson wiped the rinsed pieces with the fresh towel she had left out. After inspecting, he put them carefully on another towel that was spread on the counter, put the drying towel on his shoulder, and then dipped his hands into the water again. As she approached, she noticed he was wearing different cologne from the afternoon. They both suited him well, but this one was more vibrant and hung in the air longer when passing by.

  “Looks like you have some experience,” she said.

  “With what?” he said.

  She made eye contact and he concentrated on her, not moving a muscle in his face for a few seconds, then grinned.

  “With washing dishes,” she said.

  “Part of my job description growing up with my father,” he said, starting to lather a plate.

  “What about your mother?” Brooke asked.

  Gibson held the plate still. “She left us when I was a kid.”

  “I’m sorry,” Brooke said. “How did she pass away?”

  “Oh, she’s still alive,” Gibson said. “She ran away with some guy when I was ele
ven. Tore everything apart.”

  She felt even worse. “I—”

  “Don’t worry. It was a long time ago,” he said. “Besides,” his grin returned, “I turned out okay.”

  “Yes, you did,” she said.

  He went back to washing the plate. “I’ve found over the years, that washing dishes by hand with someone is an opportunity for conversation. It’s calm.”

  “Calm?” Brooke said. “It was always work to me.”

  “Dishwashers make things easier, but there’s something to washing dishes in a sink. Warm water moving over your hands, the sound of it lapping up against the sides of the sink when you remove a dish—like when you rise from the tub after a long awaited bath. The task starts out as work, but there are hidden opportunities in every task.” He took a Collins glass from her and began washing it.

  She waited until he was done, watching him, but saying nothing. His forearm muscles flexed as he dried the glass. When he was done, he put his hands out to receive the other Collins glass she was holding. Their hands touched as he took the glass from her.

  “I’m talking too much,” he said.

  “No, you’re not,” she said and took out another towel to dry her hands. “I like what you said.” She took a bottle of Merlot out of the wine rack above the sink and began to open it.

  He rinsed the glass and took the towel off his shoulder. “Probably not moving fast enough for you, am I?” he said, wiping the glass and then setting it on the counter.

  She held up the bottle and said, “Fast enough to want some more of this, I’m sure.”

  “Wine does make the job more enjoyable,” he said. “I wouldn’t say no to another glass.”

  “Another glass it is,” she said.

  “I must warn you, though, it may slow me down even more.”

  She poured them both a glass. “I think you have proven to me tonight that slowing down isn’t necessarily bad.”

  “I’m not in as much of a rush to do things as I used to be. Savoring each opportunity adds up to a more fulfilled whole.” He let the water out, rinsed the sink clean with the nozzle, and then dried his hands.