Summer Hours

by Amy Mason Doan

  One whole night! So nice of you to give me a heads-up. So generous of you to grace us with your presence, Eric. Your mom’s birthday and all. You really went out of your way.

  “Becc!” My mom, louder now, positive that I simply hadn’t heard the news or I’d be tearing across the patio, dripping wet. “Becc, get out, look who’s here!”

  I rolled off my raft, face-first into the silky water, kicking hard until I touched the slick white bottom of Mrs. Logan’s pool. I waited in the beautiful empty room. For what?

  For Eric to cannonball down to me.

  I could see it.

  It would be like the old him to splash into his mother’s perfect party. One well-placed cannonball would soak the couples in the hot tub, dilute their cocktails.

  If he plummeted down here, if he sensed where I was and came to me, maybe I’d forgive him. Maybe.

  It was the only reunion I could handle.

  Just us, hiding. A silent, shared joke.

  My lungs were still strong from my years of high school track. They protested and burned, but I stayed under, waiting, watching the surface. It remained clear: an undulating, bright blue OC sky. I waited and waited, but no crash came.

  Gulping air as I burst up, I found him out of the corner of my eye. A tall, dark shape, standing with my mom by the crowded food table.

  “Look! Becc, look who it is!”

  I side-stroked to the ladder and climbed out, sat on the edge.

  He waved. A slow, exaggerated greeting, a full 180-degree sweep of his arm.

  I returned the wave, degree for ironic degree, my dripping arm mirroring the arc of his.

  His hair was a little shorter but still messy. His shoulders strained against his dark T-shirt. And though he was still thin, the taut, boyish lines of his body had changed, his divots and angles had smoothed out.

  But the sun was behind him and I couldn’t see his face.

  My mom, wound up as a child, patted his arm. “Eric, can you come for ice cream? Spend the night? No, of course you’ll want to spend time with your mother. But how nice of you to fly out for her birthday! Becc, isn’t it wonderful? Get over here!”

  I stood. Slowly. Pausing to wipe my nose and tug my suit down at the hips.

  “Hey,” he said when I walked over. “Been a while. Two years?”

  Twenty-three months and one week.

  I cleared my throat. “Yeah.”

  “Give him a hug!” my mom said.

  I looped an arm over his shoulder from a good foot away, bowing awkwardly at the waist, stepping back with a nervous laugh before his hands could leave his sides.

  “She doesn’t want to get you wet. He’s only here for one night, Becc, but wasn’t it sweet of him to arrange a layover?”

  “One night?” I said.

  “You didn’t hear my mom’s big intro?”

  “I must’ve been underwater,” I lied.

  “Got it. Yeah, I fly up to Vancouver to meet a good friend from school tomorrow, first thing. She got us work on a cable series in her hometown.”

  Good friend. I imagined her, the offspring of Pamela Anderson and Steven Spielberg. My replacement.

  “Your mom told me all about the job this afternoon, Eric. She’s so proud of you! Becc, isn’t it wonderful? Look at you two, it’s just like back in high school!”

  No. It most definitely isn’t, Mom. And you know it isn’t, or you wouldn’t be working so hard to bury that fact in chatter.

  “They need us right away,” he said. “A last-minute thing, you know how it is. You have another big media internship this summer?”

  Subtle emphases on media and internship. Still disgusted about CommPlanet.

  “She’s working so hard, Eric. Going to conferences out of town and putting in late hours and everything.”

  “Oh, yeah? That’s awesome.” To my mother, nodding his approval.

  “They offered me a good salary for the rest of the summer. I’m learning a lot.”

  “Well,” Eric said. “Sounds like you’re in demand. I wouldn’t have expected anything different.”

  “Becc, tell him about the article in the Times.”

  “You wrote something for the Times?” Eric said. “I’d like to read it, where—?”

  “Mom, Eric doesn’t want to hear my boring work stories.”

  “It’s not boring! Eric, she didn’t write the article, exactly—”

  “I didn’t write it at all.”

  “Well. Okay, but it was about the ten hottest new companies in LA, Eric, and one of them is where she’s working. It made it sound so exciting... Becc can explain it better than me. It’s really too bad you’re only here for one night. You two are like...ships passing in the night. Or...you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” he said to her, kindly.

  “Next time you’ll stay longer. Maybe at the end of the summer, before you go back to school? Wouldn’t that be nice, Becc? We’ll dust off the pinball table in the garage. Becc hasn’t played pinball once since high school.”

  “Serra will be sorry she missed you,” I said, staring right at him. “She’s working at the museum tonight. An opening.”

  “How cool. She emailed about the job, she said she couldn’t believe they were paying her.”

  “She’d have blown it off if she knew you were in town. If you’d let us know.” I couldn’t hold back the needle of accusation.

  His voice was tight but he kept his eyes on mine. “Like I said. It was a last-minute thing.”

  I looked down, nodding.

  Words were messing everything up. I wanted to jump into the pool and hide out at the bottom, where we couldn’t talk if we wanted to. Eric and I could stay down there until everyone else left and we could figure it out.

  Figure it out? Like a calculus problem? Why don’t you say figure it out one more time, Becc?

  My mom, almost pleading now: “We’re just glad to see you, even if it’s not for as long as we’d like. Right, Becc?”

  “Eric! Come say hi to the Garlands!” Mrs. Logan, summoning him to the patio.

  “You should go say hi,” I said. “The Garlands await.”

  A pause. “Right, I guess I should. Well, I’ll find you later. And we’ll catch up.”

  “Sounds good.”

  He waited for me to say more. To look up.

  And I wanted to. The warm line was still between us.

  I wanted to give in to it, to come close and search his eyes for something real, hurt or hope or confusion mirroring my own in their brown depths.

  I felt him watching me. But I stared at his black Vans a second too long, and by the time I looked up, he was saluting me. An army gesture, flat hand knocking his eyebrow.

  Once it would’ve been funny.

  * * *

  I sat on my bed with the door shut, trying to tune out the distressed cabinet bangs and whisks in the kitchen. My mom was preparing a special mint-chip freezer cake to cheer me up.

  She’d been shocked when I tugged her wrinkled sleeve after Eric left us and said firmly, “We’re leaving. Right now.”

  But she hadn’t argued.

  The whole, hot walk downhill to the gate, as the sounds of the party became fainter and fainter behind us, she hadn’t spoken.

  Not even a simple, “Did something happen with you and Eric?”

  I loved her for that.

  19

  Joy

  2008

  Thursday, 3:30 p.m.

  Outside Big Sur

  The address I’m looking for is 12 Seakist, but we’re hardly kissed by the sea. We’re miles east from the waterside cliff mansions, down a series of dusty farm roads. We’ve passed three vineyards and an abandoned artichoke stand.

  It’s hotter and drier, well removed from the moist ocean wind I’ve been b
reathing since dawn. By the time I park on the dirt road next to the tilting 12 Seakist mailbox, my blue T-shirt dress is soaked under the arms.

  I come around to the passenger side, stretching my legs, rolling my neck. Taking in the rambling, weedy property up the hill. Assorted outbuildings with corrugated iron roofs, two campervans, and an Airstream in the distance. Abstract, rusted-metal sculptures the size of whale ribs strewn everywhere.

  He joins me by the mailbox. “Interesting place. The vibe is...” He surveys the dozens of oxidized metal pieces, many of them bigger than us, scattered around the shaggy yellow fields flanking the driveway. “Artistic.”

  “I was thinking post-apocalyptic.”

  Like Mad Max. I still think in movie references sometimes, but I keep this one to myself. It feels wrong, like treading on sacred ground.

  “That, too.” We walk up the dusty gravel driveway side by side, careful to keep a good foot of separation between our shoulders. “It seems like a lot of trouble to go to for hinges. You couldn’t find anything in Home Depot that would join the panels together, huh?”

  “Serra obsessed over the hinges. She wanted them to blend perfectly.”

  “You’re going all out.”

  “Oh, not really. It only took me one Google search to find this woman. Artist AND Joy AND Gold. But it took her forever to find the hinges. She only emailed Tuesday to say she still had them.”

  “It’s a real quest. All that’s missing are some trolls and a dragon.”

  We look around at the bleached-out fields scattered with tawny metal. And I know he’s kidding, but it is a bit creepy, like a giant’s boneyard.

  “So which one do you think is the main house?” he asks.

  “Not sure, she just said she’d be outside.”

  We continue our march up the driveway, drawn to the hiss of a blowtorch. But when we spy a corrugated metal shed a hundred yards away on our right, at the end of the curving driveway, we slow down. Inside, a hulking figure sprays a shower of amber sparks in the dark.

  We look at each other and he says, low and serious, “The dragon?”

  I laugh. “Maybe.”

  “Seriously, does anyone know we’re here?”

  “No, but she sounded pretty normal on the phone. I’m not too worried. Her name’s Joy Gold—that’s not the name of a blowtorch murderer.”

  “Famous last words.”

  I smile, grateful for this brief silliness. Too grateful, maybe. But he’s come out to play again. The boy inside the man—he’s still there. “I think we’ll survive, her internet site’s pretty normal—”

  Wind chimes. Not the good kind.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this one,” he says, hurrying off down the driveway.

  This one?

  “Hey, thanks for calling me back...” His voice recedes, fades away.

  I feel foolish, standing alone here seconds after joking around in our old way, just when I thought he was getting into this trip.

  It’s like being abandoned on a dance floor.

  I head into the shed, surprised by the intensity of my hurt. If I’m blowtorched, it’ll be his fault.

  My eyes adjust to the darkness and I watch the strange creature inside. Not a dragon. A tall woman in denim coveralls and face mask, thick, curly gray-brown braid. From her heavy movements I guess she’s in her late sixties, maybe older.

  She’s completely absorbed in her work, oblivious, and I don’t want to break her concentration as she circles a long, slender curve of metal propped on two sawhorses. She prowls around it, evaluating, touching it up with her blowtorch.

  Then she sees me, jumps.

  She switches off the blowtorch and flips up her face mask. “Well, I don’t need my afternoon coffee now.”

  “I’m so sorry I scared you. Joy?”

  “The very. You made good time. I’d shake your hand but...” She holds up a grimy glove.

  “I love the...” I consider the piece on the sawhorses. Little Bo-Peep sheep crook? Giant candy cane, pre-stripes? “I love this.”

  She cackles. “It’s going to be a handle for that beauty over there.”

  Joy shows me another piece—a rusty half dome the size of a café table, formed of giant, overlapping leaves.

  “A leaf umbrella.” I kneel to touch it.

  “Yes. They’ll go over the outdoor tables at this tech campus in San Jose.”

  “How beautiful.”

  A snort. “I thought so, too. Six umbrellas ago. But I’ve got to crank out a dozen more in two weeks.”

  She leads me to the back of the shed, where six finished umbrellas are lined up.

  They don’t look like assembly-line pieces. They’re like the fairy cups I used to craft up on the wild hill across the street, out of leaves and sap, before The Heights was built. Fairy cups and daisy chains. I spent hours sitting in the shade of a scrub oak, happily absorbed in fitting them together. But some things don’t fit together forever.

  I glance over my shoulder at the sunny driveway but he’s nowhere in sight. He’s probably down at the car, taking his call in peace. He couldn’t possibly let one roll to voice mail.

  I’ve been storing up energy for every smile, every laugh. Taking his cues, acting light, changing my lunch plans to suit him.

  And he’s only humoring me, passing the time until he can ditch me again for the next call.

  It’s pathetic.

  Pathetic is not a word I’d associate with you.

  Joy and I wander out, cross the driveway toward a silver Airstream trailer without tires.

  “That’s my overflow storage,” she says. “The hinges are in there, all ready for you. Though it took me some digging.”

  “I really appreciate it.”

  “It was kind of fun. I found some stuff I haven’t thought about in years. So are you staying up in San Francisco tonight?”

  “No, near Big Sur. This inn on the cliffs I found online. I thought it would be nice to avoid afternoon rush hour. So we could relax a little, break up the drive.”

  “Smart plan. Traffic in the Bay Area’s gotten...” She shakes her head. It’s too grotesque to articulate, what’s happened. “It’s one reason I moved down here. Is it the Sandpiper Inn?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “It’s a gorgeous place, the views are unbelievable. Doesn’t get more romantic. And they do a phenomenal apple Dutch baby for two, make sure you stay for breakfast.”

  She gazes down her driveway at the red convertible, curious about the we joining me at the Sandpiper Inn for relaxation and a romantic Dutch baby breakfast.

  He’s in the car now. He’s reclined his seat so all we can see are his long legs splayed over the windshield.

  “Sorry, he’s working. He really wanted to introduce himself.”

  “Oh, sure. You’re lucky you didn’t have to drive up solo. I can’t stand doing I-5 all alone. Around Bakersfield my ass goes numb and I start muttering to myself.”

  Sympathy is mine for the taking. Right inside this stranger’s good-natured brown eyes.

  Actually, we took PCH, not I-5. I thought it would be prettier. But all it added was another hour to the drive.

  I’ve driven every inch myself so not only is my butt numb, both cheeks, and I mean dead-asleep numb not tingly almost numb, but my right leg and arm are killing me.

  And that man in the car? He’s hardly good company. He’s on his phone most of the time.

  To be honest, Joy, at the moment I kind of want to whack him with an artfully rusty umbrella handle.

  “Yeah, the drive’s fine with two people.”

  “I’ll get the hinges, back in a sec.”

  She disappears into the Airstream, returns with the triptych hinges in a small plastic bag. “I threw in a couple extra. Will you say hi to Serra for me? And congratul
ations, of course.”

  “I will.”

  I slip the bag in my purse and pull out five twenties. “Thank you so much.”

  But she shakes her head. “I have no use for them these days, honey. No charge. Just take them.”

  “Please, let me pay you for your time.”

  After a moment’s hesitation she accepts one twenty, stuffs it down a coverall pocket. “But I’ll keep this only if you take something else. Your name’s Becky, right?”

  “Becc.”

  “And your friend down the hill lounging in the red Mercedes? What’s his name?”

  I tell her and she disappears into the trailer again.

  She returns with two miniature sculptures the size of doorknobs. One red and one green.

  Mine’s the red one. My initial, a sleek B made out of flayed, flattened Coke cans. His is made out of 7 Up cans.

  “I used to sell them in Berkeley. Had a blanket on Telegraph and asked three bucks each. Good beer money, back then. Now I’m doing the fat corporate commissions.”

  I wave goodbye and trudge down to the car. I have the hinges, and I should be cheered by their new silver-dollar shine, their reassuring weight in my shoulder bag. Serra will love them.

  When I reach the car he’s not on his phone anymore.

  He’s asleep.

  So peaceful. His mouth relaxed, slightly open, the phone detached from his ear for once. Instead of his silver money-making machine, there’s a tiny yellow leaf in the stubbly place where his sideburns would be, if he had sideburns.

  He still looks so young, so vulnerable, when he sleeps.

  I know the curves and shadows of his face, how he breathes when he’s dreaming. I’ve watched him sleeping next to me so many times.

  I don’t feel like hitting him with the artsy umbrella now.

  I want to brush the leaf away.

  Hey, Sleeping Beauty.

  He opens his eyes, jerks his legs, and I’m embarrassed that he’s caught me staring. “I guess I’m still a little jet-lagged,” he says, blinking, looking around, trying to figure out where we are.

  He fumbles for the seat adjuster. Raises his seat back up and smirks. “Guess you escaped the mad blowtorch lady.”

  “Barely.”