Seaview

by Toby Olson

  The beach was crowded, but those on it were as still and awestruck as the ones sitting on the cliff above them. The only movement came from the curling of the edges of beach umbrellas in the breeze and the few children who played in quiet ways in the edge of surf. People sat in beach chairs looking out. Some stood, together or alone, facing the sea. It was so clear, the horizon at such a distance and yet a sharp clear line, that the sea seemed a contained massiveness, and as such dwarfed even the crowded beach, making it seem half empty. In the places between the colorful spread-out blankets and towels with the brown-and-white bodies lying on them, the sand was a clean tan, and where it joined the surf, it darkened and opened, untouched and running as far as they could see to the left, until it hit against the escarpment that moved up to the promontory where the hard white lighthouse stood. Gentle and foamy whitecaps kept the children back, and beyond them the water turned blue, and as it went out and deepened it became emerald green. About two hundred yards out there was a finger of seaweed rising and shifting and lowering in the swell, and beyond the weed, where the water was blue again, long lines of variously colored lobster-pot buoys were bobbing.

  The whales’ river appeared so gradually that the watchers on the beach took no notice of it. Those on the cliff saw it coming, a broad white line of gentle turbulence snaking from beyond the promontory on which the lighthouse stood and stretching a good two miles before them, well to the other side of the pots. Then they saw the backs, the dark islands rising, lingering in slow movement along the coast, and sinking again. There was a glittering line in the air above the whales’river: gulls and terns riding the currents, diving occasionally in the whales’ wake, lifting the bait fish that were stirred to the surface. The two lines, of whales and birds, continued far out, moving parallel to shore, and after they had passed a mile off to the right, they turned and headed seaward in the direction of Europe. When the drama was over, the watchers leaned back on the cliff’s edge, realizing they had been tensed by the sight. The sea continued as if nothing at all had happened. Below where the whales had been were the shipwrecked hulls the comers to the New World had left. On a day like this, they might have risen to the surface and moved leisurely in to the shore. Today, there was a Japanese factory boat in the far distance, it was working the water with its indiscriminate nets. Two boats steamed around the lighthouse point and began pulling the lobster pots. There were no pleasure crafts on the sea, and this seemed right. Everything was serious, unconcerned, and real.

  Back at the clubhouse, the Chair finished up with the handicap cards, got a cup of coffee, and went into the pro shop to see if there was anything he could use his holdover winnings from last season to buy. Bob Days was there, working on a bad connection, and while the Chair checked out the shirts with the alligators on them and the various versions of the golf cap, they chatted about nothing in particular, and both of them greeted Barney Packett, another enlisted man, when he came in with four cases of beer he had gotten at the P.X. and fed the refrigerator in the small snack-bar area.

  In the middle of the eighth fairway, across from the short ninth and the clubhouse, seven Canadian geese were moving around and pecking in the grass. They had drifted in at three in the afternoon. The adults were fat and sleek, and the young kept close to them. A few terns and a crane in from the edge of the sea moved inland lightly at times, the crane dropping down for a few moments to find food, then lifting away and sailing. From where the Chair stood at the window, he could see the whole of the short ninth fairway, from the tee to the two-tiered green only a few yards from the clubhouse to his right. The fairway was shaded a little by the building and the three pines standing back near Chief Wingfoot’s park bench. John Reuss and Tony Worthington were lazily practicing on the ninth in the crisp air, and the Chair watched them. They would each hit a few balls from the tee, then stroll up and chip the ones that had landed around the green. When all the balls were on the green, they would putt the longest ones, joking and laughing lightly when a difficult one fell in the hole or came close. The two were in their early eighties. They had fine, casual, almost second-nature chip shots. Their game was very relaxed and very sure. They drove the short green not with conventional wedges but with low straight pitch-and-run shots, trickling their balls up through the fringe, rolling them into good positions on the green. Their clubs were old and well used. They fit their hands like good and familiar tools.

  While the Chair was watching, Eddie Costa came into vision from the parking area and greeted the two players and joined them. Eddie was wearing baggy work pants and a bright red shirt. John and Tony joked about his shirt, smiling and nodding to one another. The three laughed, and Eddie dropped a couple of balls on the green and putted them.

  By the time Chip and Sammy were back to the path across the road from the clubhouse, five others had joined the three in their practice on the ninth hole, and the Chair was getting ready to go out there himself. The sun was moving away, but it was still very pleasant and dry, and the light breeze had shifted to the bay side, toned down a bit, and became warmer. Bob Days had finished his electrical work and had gone out to sit on the park bench and watch the casual players. Some of them were not playing at all but were standing around, joshing the others occasionally and talking, their putters and irons hanging along their sides, an occasional can of beer in hand.

  As Sammy and Chip got to the road, a large silver Cadillac with Texas plates drove slowly in front of them, heading up to the parking area at the lighthouse. A man and a woman were in the front seat, both wearing cowboy hats.

  “Hey! That was Roy Rogers in that car!” Chip sang out, grabbing Sammy by the arm and pointing after it.

  “Texas plates, a Cadillac, and those hats,” Sammy said, “but that was not Roy Rogers.”

  “Yes it was!” Chip said, “Yes it was! Old Roy and Dale on the move! Rhythm away from the range! Good old Roy and Dale for sure!” And he dropped Sammy’s arm and trotted off up the road after the car.

  “Roy Rogers, my ass,” Sammy said to himself, shaking his head and smiling, watching Chip trot up the road, slapping his thighs in little-boy horse-riding-play fashion. Then he crossed the road and went into the clubhouse, where he saw the Chair taking a seven-iron and a putter out of the club rack in the pro shop.

  “What’s up, Chair?” he said, still smiling.

  “Going out back to hit a few,” the Chair answered, “no business while you were gone. Have a good round?”

  “Okay, Chair. Hey, see you out there in a minute.”

  Sammy went into the pro shop as the Chair left it, and by the time he got to the window and saw the crew gathered out on the ninth, the Chair had come around the side of the building and was already greeting this one and that one, asking about wives, children, putts and iron shots, complimenting and judging.

  Sammy went back to the cash register, checked the day’s receipts, and locked it. Then he got a beer from the refrigerator and headed out the door himself. Before he could go around the building, the Texas Cadillac pulled up in one of the parking places next to the clubhouse and Chip hopped out of the back door. He was grinning and winking; he opened the door on the driver’s side, and a rather short and broad Texan got out.

  “Sammy, this here is Bobby Lee Bando,” Chip said, “and this here is Melda Bando.” He indicated the rather squat woman in the squaw dress who got out of the other door. Sammy noticed the woman did look a little like Dale Evans, but he could see nothing of Roy Rogers in the man.

  “Hi,” he said, and the man extended his hand.

  “How you be?” the man said. “Nice spread you got here. Course looks good. Is it on the pro tour?” His wife smiled and looked around, nodding in agreement with her husband’s comment. Sammy glanced at Chip. They both figured they would have to get that pro tour question on The List. Chip was a little off to the side and behind the Texans. Sammy could see him bobbing and winking, making furtive gestures.

  “No, not on the tour yet,” Sammy said. “Come
a long way?”

  “All the way from Texas,” Bobby Lee Bando answered. “All right to look around a spell? Maybe hit a few?”

  “Just closing,” Sammy said, “but you’re welcome to come out back and chip a bit.”

  Chip jumped a little when he heard Sammy’s offer, and he stepped up and took the man and the woman by the arm, putting himself between them, and led them behind the clubhouse to where the others were gathered. Sammy was watching Chip introduce the two around when he heard a loud sputtering motor. He turned to the road and saw Manny Corea pull his old pickup into a parking place beside the Caddy.

  “Hey, Manny!” he said as he went to the truck. Manny indicated the truck bed with his head, and when Sammy looked he saw four good-sized buckets, two of mussels and two of quahogs, in the back.

  “Can you use these?” Manny asked him.

  “Hell yes!” Sammy said, “let’s take ‘em around back,” and the two lifted the cans out of the truck bed and carried them over to the park bench where Bob Days was sitting.

  The day was beginning to fade away, and the shadows of the three pines were extending over the fairway and touching the edges of the green. The Canadian geese were still pecking over on the eighth, but they were hard put to find patches of sunlight in which to shine. Though some of the men still pitched and putted, most were by this time standing in small groups and talking. A few came over to see what was in the buckets. Chip was herding the two Texans from group to group, and when the shellfish appeared, he brought them over to the park bench. They had not seen quahogs before, and Melda Bando wondered if they were good to eat. The men standing around the buckets assured her that they were better than that even, and Manny Corea suggested that they steam them up in the clubhouse.

  “Anybody for mussels and chokers?” Sammy yelled out to the crew on the fairway and green, and he was answered with assenting calls. Bob Days said he would fix some lights, and he went to his truck. Bobby Lee Bando said he had some music, one hell of a stereo tapedeck in his Caddy, and while Bob Days hooked up some spots and floods and fixed them to the trees, Bobby Lee went to his car to select tapes. Chip and Sammy went in and put two of the buckets up to steam on the small stove in the snack-bar area. When they got inside and were alone, Chip let his agitation go.

  “That’s him! Old Roy!” he said, “That’s him! That’s him!”

  “Hell, look at how short and fat he is,” Sammy said, “that’s not him.”

  “He’s in disguise!” Chip said. “Traveling incognito! But pretty old Dale can’t hide her cowgirl charms and beauty! That’s her, did’ya see her?!”

  “Looks like her,” Sammy said, “but, hell, that’s not her.”

  “Old Roy and Dale. Who – ha!” said Chip.

  “You’re nuts,” Sammy said, getting the buckets of shellfish going over the flame.

  “Come here!” said Chip. “Watch this!” and he pulled the mildly protesting Sammy over to the door of the clubhouse, stuck his head out, and yelled.

  “Trigger!”

  Bobby Lee Bando was on the front seat of the Caddy with the door standing open, going through the tapes. When he heard the sharp yell, his head jerked up. Chip ducked back into the clubhouse, dancing around.

  “See that! See that! Sound of the old hoss name! Dear old Trigger! Those little pistolas along his snout, stuffed and waiting for re-incarnation! My, oh my! Old Roy and Dale at Seaview!”

  “Okay,” Sammy said, “I give up.”

  They fixed the mussels and quahogs, adding some white wine to the broth and a few herbs that somebody managed to come up with. Bob Days got the lights up and on and carefully adjusted so that they lit the bench, the green, and a part of the fairway. Earl came in from his mowing, got his gallon jug of iced tea out, and joined the group. Bobby Lee Bando put a quiet Neil Hefti tape in the deck, with a Frank Sinatra backup. Chip was surprised at Roy’s choice of music, but figured him for a low profile. The cases of beer were brought out to the park bench. A few of the men’s wives, wondering why they had not come home, showed up and joined in. Chip and Melda Bando were the first to dance. They did a slow foxtrot, very gracefully and with considerable skill, around the flagstick on the lighted green. Eddie Costa grabbed his wife and joined the couple, but he kept just below the apron on the fringe, not wanting to spoil the green’s integrity. They ate the shellfish and drank the beer. A small cluster of men, with the Chair at their center, practiced and talked about various short-chip techniques in the middle of the fairway, at the edge of the lighted place. Bobby Lee Bando showed them a Texas grip he knew.

  It got darker, and the lights created a kind of lawn party atmosphere, a lighted space with the slight mystery of the encroaching darkness held back. The tapedeck floated Frank Sinatra’s “Nancy” over the various grasses and the trees. The geese, what few were left, quietly honked in response to Frank’s singing. The owner of the nearby Exxon station and his wife, who took a lighthouse drive each evening, saw the activity and stopped and joined in. They were excellent dancers, and their turns on the green were admired by all.

  There was a chipping contest. Sammy talked about the whales and saving them and handed out a few bumper-stickers. Chip talked to a few men about various green-maintenance techniques that he had learned in school. Melda Bando talked to the women about Texas chili. Manny Corea told the story of the mussel find. The Chair’s poses and gestures were subtle and abbreviated and unobtrusive. He felt calm and peaceful. His wife came, and he danced with her. They did a simple two-step. Chief Wingfoot came over and sat in the shadows above the green, beyond the play, and watched. Sammy brought him a bowl of quahogs.

  Eddie Costa sang an old Portuguese fishing song. They all loved hearing it, but he refused to translate it, saying that that would not do at all. The women gave Melda Bando recipes for kale soup.

  It was a clear night, and the lighthouse was dark and silent; no warnings were necessary. Out beyond its softened whiteness, the lights of a few boats glimmered on the sea, a mile away. The surf washed almost inaudibly on the sand, sparks of phosphorous in its gentle wake. The last of the day retired, and the stars came out. Frank Sinatra sang his songs again into the night. The people moved in loose and changing clusters, talking, laughing softly, and listening. The party continued, sweetly, until after twelve. Sammy took the last dance with Melda Bando. The two drifted formally across the green. Everyone became silent and watched them. When the song ended, a light applause rose up. The dancers bowed and smiled. When the party ended, they all went home knowing they would sleep peacefully when they got there. Once they were gone, Chief Wingfoot rose from the grass and stretched. Then he followed the throb of the underground river, Tashmuit, heading home in the dark. A light mist developed out over the sea, and the lighthouse began its sweep, its beam touching the tops of the trees and the roof caps of the clubhouse. The air was perfectly still. The course, under the warning beam, was safe in darkness. And it was quiet at Seaview, there on the edge of America.

  Three

  The Hive

  HE WOKE TO DISCOVER HE WAS STANDING AT THE EDGE of a cliff, looking at something. In the lingering tail-end rush of the cocaine, there had been two women in his head, one silver and one gold, and both severely battered. They were tall and pubescent and very thin, and he had shaved the head of the silver one and driven a slightly domed thumbtack through the flesh in the side of her nose. The head of the tack was black lacquer, and where she reclined, naked like the other, she had been placed with cheek on biceps, her arm extended with palm open, face tilted to keep the tack’s placement, lest it should fall away. He had left the hair on the gold one. In places it was matted and twisted from perspiration; where it was dry it was strawlike, black at its roots and heavily peroxided. He had placed a ring of barbed wire in an anklet above her foot. This he saw as a kind of taming that had something to do with animals and America. It had been the first time for both of them, but he had known that they had the experience in their monads, and he had cracked them like g
eodes, with his instruments opening the hollow crystal cores to the dark. A bicycle chain, a small surgical bone saw, a diamond-head needleholder, a blunt sand wedge, four atraumatic needles, a shackle, a pair of pliers, his wet towel, four dilators, blunt and sharp curettes.

  Except for the velvet-covered platform on which they lay, the room itself was not dark. It was the center of a glowing hive with a chamber at the core. The chamber was like the inside of a geodesic dome or a massive, hollow golf ball. Extending up from the platform on the circular floor, the walls to the apex were a grid of small, square openings, the mouths of narrow ducts through which women were trying to enter. He stood next to the dark platform, watching them. In various places, and in a kind of swelling and receding rhythmic pattern, their heads darted into the chamber or came in slowly through the squares, thrusting for entrance. But the squares were too small to allow their shoulders to pass, and they thudded and bounced back, then darted and moved in, trying again and again. In one place a woman had managed to thrust her arm through an opening; her shoulder pressed against her agonized head at the ear, her sharp earring slicing her flesh; her arm was extended like a battering ram, in the position of a body surfer on the crest of a wave, her fingers snapping and waving and beckoning to him, her red mouth contorted, black eyes blazing. In other places the women had given up and took their lust and ambition in looking. Their heads pushed in as far as they could get them, they craned their necks and strained hard to see him and the two on the dark platform. They avoided the eyes in the heads of those in the other openings across the chamber.

  He had a device with buttons in his hand, and the buttons controlled the sliding doors that could close off the glowing hive openings individually. He had ways of making his selection, and he would push buttons to activate the slow sliding, and the heads would reluctantly recede from the openings as the doors came down from above. At times the adamant would not give it up easily. The doors would press their necks like soft, slow guillotines, and only when the pressure was convincing enough would they wiggle their heads free and recede as the doors closed down. With these adamant ones he would only open the doors again when he judged that the pounding of the heads against them had caused sufficient pain and frustration. At the heart of his pleasure was the knowing that what the women desired was less the activity on the dark platform than the culmination and stasis of what he had done there. The gold one was patterned with silver cuts that were pink lipped, and with hot silver stripes. The silver one had the shapes of small copper cymbals ringing on her shoulders, her back, and her thighs. The two were unconscious and slightly entwined on the purple surface. He felt peace in their posture. If one lifted any part of her body, he would put her to rest again.