Half Moon Bay

by Alice LaPlante

  They stay in that position for what seems like a long time. He bends down. His hand moves. He raises it up toward Jane’s face, then swerves off at the last minute to the hair. Always the hair. He caresses it with such a light touch that she can barely feel it.

  Jane is crying. She can feel prickles of sweat on her neck. She endures his touch until she realizes he isn’t going to stop of his own volition. The pressure on her hair intensifies. Jane shakes her head violently, throwing off his fingers.

  Jane, Ammut, woman of mystery, Edward says. That does it. Something inside Jane contracts.

  Leave me alone, she says.

  She struggles to get up from the low rock—awkwardly and with mortification—and turns to go, but realizes she doesn’t have her flashlight. She loses whatever dignity she had left by going back to the rock and scrambling about on her hands and knees until she finds it. After heaving herself to her feet again, Jane begins following the path around the hill, the flashlight beam trained on the ground two feet ahead of her.

  Don’t be silly. Here. Wait. I’ll walk with you. Edward from twenty feet behind.

  Jane starts to say no and then thinks of the alternative: herself walking ahead, followed at a short distance by Edward, who would naturally be watching her. How discomfited would that make her? So she silently waits for him to join her, then begins the walk back. The path skirts the water of the harbor. At this hour, all the fishing boats are tied up, the docks deserted. A seabird calls from the marsh that adjoins the hamlet and is answered by the foghorn, which, now that the entire area is shrouded in a thick fog, comes out as a muffled melancholy lowing, a mechanical sea cow.

  I wasn’t mocking you, Janey, says Edward. His voice is so soft she has to lean toward him to hear. Alma and I are . . . interested . . . in you.

  The mention of Alma calms Jane a little.

  I like Alma, Jane says.

  You and everybody else, says Edward. Jane feels, rather than sees, him smile.

  Jane is breathing easier. They’re walking through the industrial warehouse district of Princeton at this point, with the high chain-link fences and dry boatyards with boats up on blocks to be repaired or painted. Right in the middle of all this, on the edge of the water, sits the so-called yacht club, little more than a glorified bar. True, you had to own a boat to belong, but if an actual yacht had ever moored in Princeton Harbor, Jane had not seen it.

  Ever been inside? Edward asks, gesturing toward the yacht club building. Jane shakes her head. She’s frequently walked along the beach that borders it and seen all the men—for they are invariably men—sitting on the open wooden porch drinking. They have a wooden raft and a sort of pulley rigged up that ferries them out to a platform in deep enough water to anchor their ragtag boats. They look like little boys with toys as they pull each other out from the shallows to their small vessels.

  Let’s go, then, Edward says, and walks up to the front door. He takes a key ring from his pocket and carefully inserts two wires into the lock. He jiggers them until Jane hear a click and the door swings open.

  What did you just do? Jane asks.

  He doesn’t answer or wait for her, but enters the dark building. Jane hesitates, then reluctantly follows him in. She finds herself in a large moonlit room with a bar taking up most of the left wall and, directly in front, a wall of windows that look out onto the sun porch that in turn overlooks the sea. The water glints faintly through the fog.

  “What will you have?” asks Edward. He is standing behind the bar. Jane can see his teeth flash in one of his smiles. It’s fully stocked. Name your poison.

  Jane thinks, Why the hell not? in a rare moment of abandon.

  Tequila, straight, she says.

  Coming at you, he says, stooping down below the bar counter where Jane can’t see him. He stands up again with two limes in his right hand and a knife in his left. So he’s a lefty, Jane thinks, as if that meant anything, as the knife glints palely in the moonlight. She hears rather than sees the knife saw through the thick skins of the limes, then the murmur of liquid being poured from a bottle, and he is suddenly next to her, holding a tray with six shot glasses filled to their brims with amber liquid, and a small bowl of quartered limes.

  Jane lifts her eyebrow. He shrugs.

  I didn’t want to have to go back after each shot, Edward says.

  He carries the tray out the back door to the porch, still without turning on any lights. He pulls two chairs close to a little table and sets the tray down. He motions to the closest chair, but Jane isn’t ready. She goes to the railing and looks out over the bay. She can’t see far because of the fog, but she can hear the lapping of water against the pier and see the little pulley contraption the clubbers had contrived swaying in the breeze. The wooden boarding platform bobs in the restless sea.

  Now, this is the strange part: here is a place Jane truly doesn’t belong, with a man, another woman’s man, who makes her uncomfortable. And yet a sense of well-being floods over her, related to having her two feet firmly planted on the worn wooden floor, the cool air that blows on her face, the faintly sour bar smell of booze and sweat, and three lovely shots of tequila to ingest. She feels that she has found a place of respite on a difficult planet. She walks over and picks up one of the full shot glasses and a quartered lime. Pouring the liquor back in one motion, she then squeezes the lime into her mouth, wincing at the sourness. Suddenly Edward is beside her. Two of his shot glasses are already empty. He reaches over, takes the lime from between Jane’s teeth, throws it over the railing. He is not gentle. Jane feels the pressure on her front teeth where he tugged, hard.

  And now Number 2, he says, and holds up another shot glass and another quarter of lime. Jane repeats the drinking, the sucking. The liquor goes down warm. She hadn’t eaten enough dinner and is running the risk of getting drunk. The hell with that. She picks up the third glass and a third lime, and does it again. She is drunk. She puts her hand out to steady herself on Edward’s arm. He lets her. Then he reaches out and suddenly pushes her, forcefully. She loses her balance and, for a panicked moment, falls backward into space. Then she lands, hard, on a chair.

  Stay put until you get your sea legs, says Edward. Then come over and look at this. He gestures to his right, at a wall that is covered with what look like nonsense scribbles. As Jane’s vision clears, she sees they are words, written haphazardly on the wall using permanent markers of various colors and widths.

  Nothing like a little housebreaking to make one appreciative of the idiosyncrasies of one’s fellow humans, Edward says, pointing. Jane gets up and walks unsteadily over to the wall. At the top of it, written in large block letters: YOU CAN’T LIVE WITH THEM. Jane attempts to look more closely at the scrawlings. They swim in and out of focus. They are words, all about women, and many are accompanied by crudely drawn pictures. They range from quotes that Jane believes are Shakespearean (she makes hungry where most she satisfies) to lyrics from punk rock songs (you suck at love / get your heart on) to obscene (today I ate pussy twice) and plain insulting (a pessimist is a man who thinks all women are whores. An optimist is one who hopes they are).

  Hell is empty and all the devils are here, says Edward. He has come up behind her. She feels his hands reach out and touch her from behind. He places them on her waist. Then they gently lift up her cotton T-shirt, slip inside, and slide up her back. Fingers against skin. He holds them there, flat against her back. She can feel his breath on her neck, the warmth of his hands under her shirt. She is intensely aroused. She waits.

  But he pulls away, withdraws his hands, pats down her shirt.

  Jane turns. Her back, robbed of the warmth of Edward’s hands, feels suddenly cold. Edward has moved to the window. He is not looking at the wall of indictments and praise of women. He is staring out at the shrouded sea.

  Do you include yourself when you say that all the devils are here? Jane asks, trying to recover. Her voice is somewhat breathless.

  Especially myself, he says, and smiles, but i
t is a humorless smile, more of a grimace. And then, of course, there’s you.

  Jane doesn’t ask what he means. She knows. Black Heart.

  Tell me, Edward says, and leans toward her. What do you most fear? Jane is thinking of his hands withdrawn, the warmth denied, but she says the next thing that comes to mind.

  The dead.

  Edward raises his eyebrows. That’s a bit abstract, he says. Can you be more specific?

  Okay, she says. My dead.

  Ah, but how do you decide which are yours and which belong to other people? he asks. He turns his back on Jane to look out at the sea. He asks no more questions, but something has shifted. There is a stiffness in his stance, in how he is holding his head. Both hands are now in his pockets.

  Jane is uneasy. Yet another transition? To what? The evening has taken too many turns. She is exhausted.

  Let’s go before someone notices we’re here, she says. She is moving unsteadily away form Edward as she speaks, toward the front door. Edward doesn’t budge.

  After midnight, no one is likely to come by, he says. A beat passes. Then another. Jane feels a flutter in her stomach and her hands feel cold. She is suddenly aware of the blocks and blocks of industrial waterfront warehouses and work spaces that are completely uninhabited between here and her safe cozy cottage. Edward is not smiling. But neither is he frowning. He has turned and is looking at Jane. He is evaluating her, the situation. Jane thinks of the knife in his left hand as he cut the limes, the adept way he wielded it. She can see the handle sticking out of his front pocket of his jeans. He follows her eyes down and smiles. It is his usual captivating smile. But who is it for?

  I thought I might need this again, he says, and reaches down and pulls it out. It flashes in the dim light. He then pulls a whole lime out of his other pocket and places it on the table before swiftly quartering it. He hands one of the sections to Jane. Suck on this, he says. It’ll sober you up. Jane finds she can breathe again.

  They walk back to Jane’s cottage in silence. She does not invite him in. He doesn’t appear to expect her to. After a perfunctory good night, he leaves.

  And Jane goes into her solitary bed, where she doesn’t sleep until dawn.

  * * *

  Jane meets Alma for a promised excursion to the beach at Three Sisters Café the following Saturday. She doesn’t mention the yacht club evening. Alma makes no sign that she knows about Edward’s visit to Jane.

  They’d agreed to meet at 5:00 p.m. Daylight saving time was still on, so it would stay light until 7:30 or 8:00. The light isn’t exactly fading, but has softened, festooning everything with a muted glow. A tranquil time.

  Jane is naturally first. Alma arrives at five minutes past the hour, motions to Jane to keep sitting, and goes to the counter. I need caffeine, she says, coming to the table. And we have plenty of time.

  She sits down opposite Jane, who is still nursing her own black coffee. The first thing we are going to do, Alma says, leaning forward and speaking deliberately, is talk about the lost children. Not Heidi and Rose. But our own lost children.

  Jane panics. No.

  Yes.

  I can’t, Jane says. She reaches into her jeans’ front pocket, feeling around for enough change to pay for her coffee and leave a tip. She is more agitated than she can express. She feels that she has been ambushed. Brought here under false pretenses.

  Why not? Alma stirs sugar into her coffee, tastes it, puts in another spoonful.

  It’s not possible. Now Jane is standing up, putting her jacket on. Alma stands up too and puts a hand on Jane’s shoulder.

  Yes it is, says Alma. Although she is speaking softly, people from surrounding tables are listening with interest, scenting drama. It’s been— When was your daughter born? Seventeen years ago now?

  Jane nods.

  Then it’s been sixteen years since you lost your baby. It’s time to face up to all the real losses you have suffered. Only then can you put last year’s loss in perspective.

  Jane stops agitating She takes deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. She is thinking that Alma mirrors something she, Jane, often felt herself as she watched Angela grow up.

  Alma pulls out Jane’s chair and indicates she should sit again. Alma sits down herself, continues speaking in the same low voice.

  Raising a child is a series of little deaths. The death of the infant. The passing away of the toddler. The end of the preteen.

  Jane doesn’t say anything. Images of Angela crowd into her mind. Angela in her ridiculously furry one-piece snowsuit at one year old when they were in the mountains skiing. Angela at three tearing off her clothes as she ran down the beach toward the waves. Angela slamming her door at fourteen.

  Think of it another way. Alma has taken Jane’s hands and is holding them tightly. By losing Angela when you did, you missed out on more deaths, more grief. With children, you lose, and you lose and you lose again. And it doesn’t end when they’ve grown and leave the house. If anything, it gets worse.

  And what do you know about all this? Jane asks, her voice deliberately monotone, expressionless. She is feeling much and doesn’t want to give anything away.

  I remember when I lost my first baby, Alma says. It’s as if she hadn’t heard Jane’s bitter words, instead concentrating on what she has to say.

  Jane and Alma are now sitting very still, facing each other. They are still holding hands. My baby was perhaps eight months old She was crawling. She could say mama and could point to the rain and say agua, which she’d learned from her Mexican babysitter. I wasn’t with her. I was in my office at Tulane, meeting with students, and making the final edits on my latest research paper. That’s when I realized it. I hadn’t thought of Emily for three hours. I hadn’t been a mother for three hours. We were no longer conjoined. Where was my baby? She was no longer. She was gone.

  Tell me about leaving your daughters for Edward, Jane says. Tell me how you could possibly do that. She wanted to hurt Alma for her beauty, for her apparent serenity when telling of such horrors.

  I weaned my youngest. Susan. It was difficult. Susan was about fourteen months old. It was time. People were starting to stare when I nursed in a restaurant or looked at each other when I took a nursing break at a party. My body rebelled. I got a breast infection and had to bind my breasts. They ached so badly I was eating aspirin by the handfuls.

  The day was coming. So I killed my daughter, that daughter, the one I’d been nursing. And then I knew it was time to leave before I got attached to the next version of her. Before I’d experience even more grief.

  What about your older daughter? You left her too?

  That was even harder, Alma says. She was four years old. I was deeply attached to her, and she to me.

  Why didn’t you take them with you? Would Edward have been so opposed to that?

  Bring them with me? Alma gives a half laugh and shakes her head. No.

  Why not? Jane persists. I could never have left Angela. Never. Not even when she was being so horrible at thirteen and fourteen.

  Alma’s answer startles Jane.

  I needed to be pure. I was tainted as a mother. Tainted by love. Exhausted by love. Exhausted by the constant loss that was motherhood.

  Most women think of it as additive—they get new joys every day, says Jane. The words sound false even as she says them.

  Did you think of it that way? asks Alma. Be honest.

  Jane doesn’t know if it is because of the tenor of the conversation, but the memories that are being aroused are not of the tender kind. She remembers thinking, many times, I didn’t have to do this after all, meaning, have a child. She’d always felt, before getting pregnant, that her life would not be complete without a child. But having done it, she frequently thought, I could have done fine on my own. Without Rick. Without Angela. With Angela’s birth had come great love. But also great fear.

  Jane has a revelation: she wishes Angela had never been born. That would solve the problem of the always-on pain. It sounded lik
e the name of a church, Our Lady of Perpetual Pain. It was physical, hitting her right below her rib cage, making it hard for her to breathe, causing her shoulders to cave inward and her body to refuse the commands she was giving it. Walk. Talk. Smile.

  Let’s get out of here, says Alma abruptly. She takes her hands away from Jane’s. Jane suddenly feels cold, unsupported. Alma stands up, pushes her chair back. Let’s do this beach walk.

  Where did you park? Jane asks when they exit the café. Her own motorbike is right next to the door.

  I didn’t. Edward dropped me off. I thought I could catch a ride with you back.

  It doesn’t matter. Jane gestures toward her bike. This will get us there. It’s only two miles to the beach.

  Can we both ride on that? Alma asks. She looks doubtful, but not nervous, Jane is glad to see. A nervous rider on a small motorbike is always problematic.

  No problem. We aren’t going far.

  Jane straddles the motorbike, then, still standing, gestures to Alma. Okay, get on. Alma swings her leg over the back and sits down.

  You settled? Jane calls over her right shoulder.

  All ready!

  Jane sits down. She can feel Alma’s hands around her waist, her knees touching the outside of Jane’s thighs. Jane hasn’t been this physically close to another human being for more than a year. When was the last time? When her sister Dolores had tried to hug her, at the airport in Tulsa, after their mother died. The touch then had been so poisonous that people had stared at the violence with which she’d thrown off Dolores’s arms. But now, no revulsion. Instead, warmth. And what was that? Comfort? Jane is being held, her whole body in the protection of another’s.

  Let’s go, Alma says. The words tickle, so close is Alma’s mouth to Jane’s ear. Alma’s cheek must be almost touching Jane’s hair.

  Jane turns the key. The motorbike hums to life, and they take off. At first Jane drives slowly, conscious of the need to balance with this new, foreign weight on back. But as she gains confidence, she speeds up. They leave town, merge onto Route 1 going south. Gas stations and Mexican restaurants flash by. Jane turns right on Hawkins, on the access road that leads to a small beach, protected by high cliffs, one that only the locals know about.