Sandcastles

by Luanne Rice

  The girls, mainly. Even when Bernie had offered to have them stay at the convent so Honor could be with John, it never seemed to work out. Honor would decline, saying she didn’t want to disrupt their daughters, or the trip was too expensive, or that she didn’t want to distract John from his work—so he could return home sooner.

  Until Ireland, John had never really pushed her to change her mind. He understood that people were who they were: the drive-to-the-edge recklessness he had inside himself was the exact opposite of Honor’s nurturing, stay-by-the-fireside grace. And even though his large-scale work got the attention, she was ten times braver than he: her canvases of people captured such depth of heart, nuance of emotion, it was almost as if his wife could see beneath people’s skin.

  He rolled another large chunk of rock into place, stood back to survey the emerging stone circle. It felt so good to be working again. Reaching for his camera, he recorded the latest placement. He’d lost the chance to photograph his last work-in-progress in Ireland, and he never wanted that to happen again. Waves broke on the sandbar a hundred yards out, and for a moment, he thought he was hearing things.

  “John?”

  He looked up, scanning the beach. A shadow caught his attention, up on top of the bank. His heart skipped to see Honor standing there—silhouetted by light coming from somewhere at the Academy.

  “Is everything okay? Is it Agnes?” he asked.

  “Everything’s fine,” she said.

  He walked up the beach, over the far edge of the stone circle, past the stacks of driftwood that he’d gathered over the course of the last week. She made her way down the narrow path, through the beach roses to the edge of the seawall. He jumped up on the granite outcropping, to give her his hand.

  “Thank you,” she said, and laughed softly.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked, shocked and thrilled to hear her laugh.

  “Just that I know this beach as well as you do, but you’ve always tried to help me find my way in the dark.”

  “We’ve been here many nights.”

  “Yes, we have.”

  All the times he and Honor had come down to this beach—he pictured their entire history contained in the stone circle, and he felt electricity sizzling through his skin. Her hand felt small and cool. He held it and wished they could just stand there all night.

  When she pulled away, he saw the trouble in her eyes. What had she come here to tell him? His heart clutched, but he knew he had to let her say what she had to say. Her eyes grazed the tidal flats, dark silver in the starlight, coming to rest on the circle of stones.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Did you come down here to see my work?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer, but walked over to the largest rock fragment. A long cube at the water’s edge, nearly the size of a refrigerator, with jagged edges—she ran her hand over the top, feeling the broken rock. John stood right behind her.

  “What is all this?” she asked without turning around.

  “It’s a stone circle,” he said.

  “Like the one near Clonakilty?”

  “Drombeg?” he asked. “Yes, but on a much smaller scale,” he said.

  He watched her walk around the circumference. The smaller pieces were at twelve o’clock, at the top of the beach, and the largest ones were just below the high-tide line of seaweed and driftwood. She seemed to be absorbing the placement, wondering about the meaning.

  “The effect I’m trying to achieve—” he began.

  “I’m not an art magazine,” she interrupted quietly. “I’m not asking you about your sculpting practice. I want to know what made you attack the boulder and then pull the pieces out of the water. This is glacial rock. You broke it apart in one night. What does that mean, John? Do you know how extreme that seems?”

  “Honor, Agnes came running down that wall, free as can be, wanting only to swim in the Sound—and she dove in, and this rock nearly killed her.”

  “I’m not sure that’s what Agnes had in mind,” Honor murmured. “A swim…”

  “What do you mean?”

  Honor shook her head as if he wouldn’t understand, and he felt frustration rising, just below boiling.

  “God, Honor. I feel so out of sync with our family, or at least with you. I love you all so much, but it seems all I do is screw up.”

  Honor turned to stare at him. Her eyes blazed in the starlight. “It’s been awful for the girls,” she said. “Having you away.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s been awful for all of us,” she said. “We couldn’t bear to think of you there—”

  “Honor, what can I do?” he asked, despair welling up. “What can I do to make it better?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “If I can’t make things work between us, what’s the point? I thought if I showed you…I wrecked it, this rock, because of what happened, but now I’m going to put it back together, in a circle. I know it’s just a sculpture, a symbol…”

  He stepped forward, took her in his arms. He had no choice, and because she didn’t pull back or say no, he didn’t even hesitate. They swayed together, moving to the rhythm of the waves rolling in, one after another, regular as heartbeats. The water rushed around their ankles, and the blood pounded in his ears.

  “Forgive me, Honor,” he said.

  “I have forgiven you,” she said. “I just don’t know if I can go on with you.”

  “What do you mean? Did you meet someone else?”

  “John,” she said. “Of course not.”

  He held her tighter; as impossible as it would be to imagine Honor with another man, it had also been one of John’s worst fears. She was so beautiful, and she had so much love inside—how had she gone six years without letting it out?

  “I had the girls to think of,” she said. “They needed me twice as much. We all missed you terribly.”

  “Then why aren’t you sure if we can be together? I love you more than ever. I’m the same person,” he said.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she whispered.

  “Afraid of?”

  She pushed away, and even in the darkness, he saw the exhaustion in her expression. “John, it got to be too much. I thought I could handle it, and I tried to—but what happened in Ireland, with Regis, was the last straw.”

  “You’ve made up your mind?”

  “I thought I had,” she said. “Counting down to your release, I’d pretty much decided.”

  “To divorce me?”

  She nodded. He felt as if she’d just punched him in the stomach. He wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t. She was two feet away and he was frozen like a stone statue. He felt despair, the failure of their marriage swirling around him. The idea of Honor had kept him going in prison—the hope of returning home and being a family again. He burned now, wanting to tell her everything—maybe she’d understand then, and change her mind. But he’d sworn he’d go to his grave with it all, and he swallowed his words.

  “You’re leaving me,” he said, numb.

  She shook her head. “Then I saw you,” she said, the words barely intelligible.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I called a lawyer,” she said. “I’d planned to have papers drawn up, have you served when you got home.”

  “I get it, Honor,” he said. “You want a divorce.”

  “No,” she said harshly. “I did. But then I saw you. It’s one thing to imagine how much easier life would be without this. Without the constant drama, the worry—being married to a man whose idea of a solution is to smash a boulder to bits. And then put it back together!”

  “It’s just a symbol,” he said.

  “I need more than symbols, John,” she said, her voice cracking. She raised her eyes to meet his. He wanted to feel some hope, but reading her eyes he saw only anger and despair.

  “I do it for you, Honor. So you’ll be proud of me. It’s like when we were kids. The only way I could be sure you’d not
ice me was if I took bigger risks than anyone else. Sure, the other boys might cross the railroad tracks, but who else would dive into Devil’s Hole?”

  “Don’t remind me,” she said, softly punching him in the chest. John caught her fist, holding it as they rocked back and forth. His heart was pounding; he had to let her know how much he loved her, how he’d do anything to keep her.

  “I climbed the water tower, just so I could hang a flag with your name on it.”

  “And I watched you from the ground, terrified the rusty ladder would give way, that you’d fall to your death.”

  “But I didn’t,” he said.

  “Not then,” she said. “But I’ve never stopped worrying about you. All these last years—every time the phone rang, I thought it was going to be your lawyer…” She stopped, swallowing as her eyes filled with tears. “Calling to tell me someone had stabbed you in jail.”

  “I kept myself safe,” he said. “So I could come home.”

  “This is what I did every day,” she said, facing the water. “Stood on the beach, looking east. I’d imagine the water flowing out of Long Island Sound, into the Atlantic Ocean, all the way to Ireland. It was the closest I could get to you.”

  “What would you have said to me?” he asked, holding himself back from telling her his version of the same thing.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, but he didn’t believe her. He saw the thoughts racing behind her eyes. Her face was alive with emotion—he tried to read it all, but didn’t trust himself. He could swear he saw love in there, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Try,” he said.

  “There was a whole ocean between us.”

  “There isn’t now,” he said.

  “I left you there,” she said. “In Ireland. In prison. I stopped visiting you…I stopped taking the girls. I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t bear thinking of you there.”

  Her eyes blazed, and his heart began to race, wondering what she’d think if she’d actually seen the horrors of that dark day.

  “John,” she said, “you were my heart. And the heart of our family. You were everything.” She shook her head, looked down for a long minute. Then she seemed to make up her mind about something. As he watched, she reached into the back pocket of her jeans, held a paper in her hands. His blood froze as she held it toward him.

  “What is it?”

  “Just read it.”

  “Do the girls know?” he asked, holding the paper, unable to look.

  “It was their idea…”

  “Honor,” he said, staring at the paper’s edge lifting in the soft wind. This was it, the end of their marriage; it felt like the end of the world. “Don’t do this.”

  She handed it to him, backed away. He watched her walking down the dark beach toward home, and his hands were shaking as he raised the paper to his eyes, peered at it in the dim light.

  He looked at the piece of paper, expecting to see legal letterhead. Instead he saw pale gray stationery with Honor’s monogram at the top. There, in her handwriting:

  Come for dinner, tomorrow night, six o’clock.

  We will be waiting.

  Honor

  John read the words over and over, and he felt the ice in his veins at last beginning to thaw.

  Sixteen

  It felt like the way holidays used to be, with everyone pitching in to help, and a growing excitement—not just about the meal itself, but about what it all stood for: a time to celebrate, give thanks, and be together. It was going to be a real feast, too—with everything their yard, beach, and region had to offer.

  Regis had dug clams and gathered mussels from the waters near Tomahawk Point; she had asked Peter to take her fishing at dawn, and in the morning mist she’d caught three big flounder. Peter had seemed quiet, out of sorts, his thoughts a million miles away—as he’d been ever since they’d crossed Devil’s Hole. Cleaning the fish, Regis had felt her stomach clench, and wanted to ask him what was wrong. But she held back, afraid of what he might say. And she was so happy about her father’s coming for dinner that night, she couldn’t bear to rock the boat.

  Cecilia had ridden her bike through the vineyard, to the nuns’ vegetable garden. She met Sister Angelica and Sister Gabrielle there—dressed in their black habits, with the sun beating down, they had to be boiling hot…but the nuns just smiled so kindly and happily, as if they knew that Cecilia’s father was coming for dinner that night. They helped her fill her big wicker basket with fresh corn, tomatoes, zucchini, basil, and lots of raspberries.

  Agnes went with her mother to the doctor, to check the results of the MRI, make sure she was healing well, and have her dressing changed. They took off the huge gauze turban and put on a smaller bandage instead. The shaved part of her head, right around the stitches, itched like mad, and she thought it made her look ugly and a little crazy. Dr. Grady’s office was attached to the hospital, so Agnes wore a cap, just in case she saw Brendan, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  On the way home, they stopped at the A&P. Agnes’s mother asked if she wanted to wait in the car while she ran in for a few things, but Agnes felt like moving around. Although she got a little dizzy at times, she felt stronger than ever today; knowing that her father would be with them for dinner that night was like the best medicine any doctor could ever prescribe.

  She pushed the cart while her mother got the items she needed: stuff for piecrust, cheese and crackers, heavy cream, butter, fresh bread. When they got to the greeting-card aisle, Agnes stocked up on a bunch of paper products for the night’s decorations. As she threw crepe paper streamers into the cart, she thought of how she had planned to give Regis a shower this summer. As reluctant as she was about her sister’s engagement, she knew she had to get back on track there.

  The air-conditioning felt too cold. She shivered, wobbling slightly. Just then someone took her arm, to steady her.

  “Thanks,” she said, thinking it was her mother. But when she looked up, it was Brendan.

  “Oh!” she said. “It’s you! We were just at the hospital, and I looked for you.”

  “I’m off today,” he said. “How was your checkup?”

  “The doctor looked at my stitches,” she said. “And took some X-rays. I’m fine.” She reached up, touched her head to make sure her hat was covering the razor track through her long dark hair.

  “Honey,” her mother said, coming down the aisle with a bag of flour. She stopped short, peering at Agnes. “You’re pale.”

  “I thought so, too,” Brendan said. “Hi, Mrs. Sullivan.”

  “Hi, Brendan.”

  “I guess it’s just my first time out since I hit my head,” Agnes said, leaning on the cart.

  “That’s it,” her mother said. “Let’s just leave the cart here, and I’ll take you home.”

  “Mrs. Sullivan, I’ll drive her,” Brendan said. “You can finish your shopping…”

  Agnes’s blood jumped, and her eyes locked with his. He looked so bright and sweet, making her heart kick. She felt excited, if not exactly energetic. Sensing her mother’s hesitation, she smiled. “I’m really okay, Mom. Just tired.”

  “I’ll take good care of her,” Brendan promised.

  Her mother nodded; perhaps she was remembering him at the hospital, taking such good care of Agnes those first twenty-four hours after her fall. Agnes remembered them almost as if they were a dream: images of him taking her temperature, bringing her extra blankets, sitting with her till she fell asleep.

  “Okay,” her mother said. “Thank you, Brendan. Take her straight home.”

  “I will.”

  “And go lie down,” her mother said, gazing at Agnes. “As soon as you get there.”

  Agnes kissed her. Her mother sounded worried, but she looked excited. Her eyes were shining in a way Agnes hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

  Brendan put his arm around Agnes, and they walked through the parking lot to his car—the wild, surrealistic, painted car she’d seen th
e other day. The temperature had to be about ninety, and it made Agnes feel weak. But she couldn’t bear to get into the front seat until she’d looked at some of the images: white whales flying, bears riding bicycles, a little girl turning cartwheels across a lake, swans kissing, a boy walking a tightrope between stars.

  “Better get in,” Brendan said gently. “I promised your mom I’d get you right home.”

  “I want to see more,” she said, gazing at foxes in a green rowboat, dolphins sliding down a snow-covered hill, a boy riding a sea monster, and one white cat on a dark stone wall. But the heat was searing, and she felt really weak, and Brendan was standing there with the door open, so she nodded and climbed into his car.

  The vehicle was old, the leather seats cracked at the seams. A baseball cap sat on the dashboard. A Christmas ornament hung from the long gearshift. Brendan turned the key, and the car sputtered and started.

  “Who painted your car?” she asked.

  “I did,” he said.

  “You’re good,” she said.

  “Thank you. Coming from you, with such talented parents, that means a lot.”

  “You know about my parents’ work?”

  He nodded. “One of the doctors at the hospital was telling us your father is really famous. I looked him up. His photographs are amazing. But your mother’s work is even more beautiful. The way she captures people…” He trailed off.

  Agnes laughed. “You should tell her. She’ll love you forever. He’s the one who gets all the acclaim. I love her paintings, though.”

  “She’s a storyteller,” Brendan said. “Her paintings, the ones I found on the Black Hall Art Colony website, could be really amazing illustrations of a great story.”

  “Well, so are yours. You really want to be a doctor? You’re obviously an artist.”

  “The kind of doctor I want to be listens to stories, tries to see the whole picture. I think psychiatrists have to be artists, in a way. I started painting before I got the idea to go to medical school. Art and stories are ways of finding power…. I see it all going together….”