The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

by Robert Dunbar

  Red wetness sopped through the terry cloth, and he prodded the towel with his foot. Lifting it gingerly by a corner, he let the things wrapped within clatter down. Sand caked on the dampness. His eyes moved first to the chisel, then to the small saw and the clotted hammer. Two carving knives lay darkly encrusted, and the center of the towel still glistened.

  Fluids hung heavy and gelid in his stomach. Gulls slid across the sky.

  The wind rasped myriad sounds over the low sand hills: the distant clatter of the pines, the hushed roar of the waves. The dull whisper held hissing cries that broke, pleading in his ears. Turning away, he leaned one bare hand against the boardwalk, and the frost bled into him. He began to sob, the wind dissipating the sound until he himself could barely hear it.

  A stream of sand slithered into the tunnel at his feet, and all around him loose grit wound across the beach in stray currents of air. "No!" He jerked his face up. "You don't get away from me again!" Running for the boardwalk stairs, he shouted at the sky. "I don't let you get away."

  He pounded up the steps. "Do you hear me?" He sprinted across the deserted planks. "I'll find you!" Empty shops stood silent and shuttered.

  On the other side, he bolted down a ramp to a ragged field. "I'll stop you!" But he moved with a jerky stiffness now, and under his tread, flat stones slid and crunched, slowing him even further. The sparse streets beyond the field looked as deserted as a moonscape.

  Halfway down the first block, he halted, shoes scuffing heavily on the sidewalk. Empty dwellings have a distinctive look, like dead trees. Not one of the summery curtains twitched, and some of these cottages even had boarded windows. Leaning against a pole, he coughed and wiped at the grit that clung to his damp face. He tasted brine, felt sand between his teeth. At last, the coughing fit subsided.

  The sidewalk curved back in the direction of the beach, and his footsteps scraped a hollow noise from the concrete. Dead grasses rattled at a fence where sand leaked between slats. My one chance. Dry leaves and yellowed newspapers clumped and drifted. He'll go to ground now. In a puddle by the curb, oil shimmered like a rainbow. I'll never find him. A creaking chorus filled the wind. Quaintly lettered ROOMS TO LET signs swayed in unison while SALE signs tilted from several of the tiny lawns. He saw only one car, an old gray Plymouth with flat tires near the end of the block. Even from here, the windshield looked opaque with grime.

  Right now, he's running. Hooks of guilt dug into his flesh. And I can't stop him. He felt his feverish thoughts teem.

  never stop him my fault never catch him in the open like that again so close my fault

  He stumbled across the cracked ground. With a shuddering exhalation, he jogged to the end of the block. Never catch him. Around the corner, another boardwalk ramp rose. He halted, listening to the dull roar of the beach while broken sections of pavement slid underfoot, crunching.

  The knives. His breath plumed. Got to go back for the knives. As though throwing off a dream, he shook his head and began to climb the ramp.

  Beneath the incline, gusts moaned, and tangled in the shadows, debris shuffled rhythmically, as though stirred by the sigh of a sleeping beast.

  II

  Cracked by sun and wind, the flesh on the backs of his hands resembled drying mud flats. As he struggled to close the padlock, he exhaled heavily so that cigar smoke shrouded him. With his cane hooked over one arm, and the cigar tightly gripped between his lips, the old man grappled with arthritic fingers until at last he managed to jam the door shut. When the padlock on the shed clicked, he turned to face out over the bay.

  Waves gurgled and sloshed, the pier swaying stiffly. He stared a long time. Nearly twenty years had passed with grinding tedium since last he'd gone to sea; still he came each morning, never dawdling over the short walk, to fix his Spartan breakfast over a coal stove. By the light of each dawn, he monitored the disintegration of his nets and inspected the progression of the rot that had long since claimed his boat.

  A frosty breeze stretched across the bay to tousle the few whitish strands on his head, and still his gaze tracked across the water. Terns wheeled. Buildings on the mainland appeared feathery and vague, while pillars of smoke flattened into haze. Edgeharbor clung to a narrow strip of land that branched southward from the coast, but on foggy mornings, he could imagine with desperate longing that he lived upon an island...an island in another time. He scratched a wiry eyebrow with his thumb, and let his gaze sweep farther out to sea.

  Clouds hung motionless, fissured with a milky light that seemed to leak away even as he watched. Today no ships marred the frozen horizon. The wind slapped up small waves, and the few tarp-covered boats bucked, furled sails shivering in place.

  Decades earlier, the fishing boats had ceased to venture out--he remembered their decks heaped with fish of all descriptions and covered with dead squid like mounds of empty gloves. Long before the births of his grandchildren, the cannery had closed its doors, and now the brick structure brooded dismally at the edge of the larger dock. Its muddy reflection quivered.

  While the wind stung at his unflinching face, he stretched and grunted. His compact body had remained lean throughout the years, his arms much harder, he knew, than the arms of many a younger man. He found satisfaction in the thought, but still his vision tracked along the horizon, searching. After a lifetime as a fisherman, he harbored no romantic illusions about the sea, but if it stirred no poetry in his soul, neither did it evoke the superstitious awe harbored by so many of the old men he'd known as a boy. If anything, he sported a faintly hostile, even grudgingly proprietary attitude, regarding it. Behind him, the corrugated roof of the shed rattled, and he shuffled away against the wind, not bothering to turn up his collar. Above all, he was a methodical man, practical, and often the futility of this daily ritual of inspection vaguely troubled him, but he shrugged it off, instinctively dreading the alternative. Better to rise at dawn and hurry to his dilapidated hut than to sit in his daughter's house and listen to the television and the vacuum cleaner and his daughter's blurring telephone chatter. Here at least--brewing coffee and playing solitaire--he retained some memory of purpose.

  As he crossed the weathered dock, he savored the sound of the waves. His daughter might lament his advancing deafness, but the sea never fell silent for him. Even on days like this, so still, could he hear it slide against itself, coiling to hump against the pier, while all around him boats plodded up and down in their shifting places, refracted lights dancing on their hulls like memories of vanished summers. He shook his head. Smoke billowed away from him, and he tossed the chewed nub of his cigar in the water.

  Something pale shimmered in the swells.

  He squinted. Even on such an overcast day, the trembling surface glittered. The object bobbed between two of the old boats. Stooping, he strained to make it out. Some odd sort of fish, belly-up among the sodden pilings? Squidlike, the thing wavered down, now visible, now gone. He crouched at the edge of the rotting wood.

  The surface stirred as a swell approached, sloughing sideways like an aquatic serpent. He bent to prod the thing with his cane, to bring it closer, but with the perversity of things in water, it twisted the other way, and he shivered, leaning farther.

  Something watched him from the water.

  A clammy heat climbed his back. Fear dropped through the tight knot of his stomach, and he gripped the post, struggling to maintain his balance. Memories welled, all the evil tales flooding back. In the old country, his grandfather and the other men of the village had often spoken of la sirena, drowned women who devoured men with small sharp teeth in wet and secret places, and dreams of such creatures had terrorized his childhood. He blinked. Small waves slapped fitfully at the broken pilings.

  Black tresses smoking around it, the face in the water turned away, one eye, white and yellow, emerging. The head rolled again, bobbed against a floating bottle.

  Something pushed against the cane.

  Numbly, he regarded the thing that first had attracted his attention.
The digits, stiffened and outstretched, did resemble tentacles, and the knob of bone trailed filaments like a lure into the murk. Other things also floated among the pilings--he regarded them clearly now. Clutching at the warped and swollen post, he jerked to his feet and slapped fitfully at his coat as though beating away cinders.

  Stumbling across the dock, he limped stiffly away from the peaceful lapping noises. He tried to hurry, but agony thundered in his chest, and pain sparked in his knees. Wheezing in the chill, and leaning heavily on the stick, he hobbled into the streets of the town.

  Overhead, seabirds laughed like harpies.

  The boy ran until pain slashed his lungs, until reeling with exhaustion, he staggered and caught himself against a fence. Gasping raggedly, he looked back.

  No one followed. He hung there, chest heaving, while surge after surge of relief beat through his heart. After a moment, he tried to run again, still panting hoarsely, and sand rained from his clothes to the sidewalk with every jolt. Almost immediately a cramp seized his side. Slowing, he tried to maintain a normal gait, though his legs trembled. Appearing "normal" was so important, the most important thing of all--this had been drummed into his head all his life.

  The sky had dulled, and the squeal of a gull echoed above the street.

  Leaves eddied along the sidewalk, and his longish hair blew loosely around his collar as he hurried past the church. With quavering hands, he fished a ball of tissue out of his pocket and wiped at his nose. For just a moment, he thought he'd lost his gloves again, but then he remembered he'd had to bury them because they'd gotten all sticky. He crammed his hands into his pockets and let the wind push him along. His cap almost blew free, but he caught it, tugged it down over his ears. Freezing, he blew on his hands. Around the corner, glacial cold struck at his face, and he marched along with his head down, staring at the sidewalk through sudden tears.

  Crossing Chandler Street in front of the library always seemed the worst part of the trek. Bracing himself, he bolted for the dark scar of an alleyway on the other side. The narrow channel cut through the wall beside an abandoned restaurant, and he plunged in, hurrying until brick walls blocked out the world completely. Deep within the alley, he stopped running and peered back at the entrance.

  A street lamp winked on.

  He trudged ahead. The alley trailed behind the restaurant, frozen garbage blistering the concrete at his feet. Wind whistled.

  A scream scalded his ears. With a savage movement, the creature rose, swelling to the top of a wall, then over.

  The boy's knees unlocked. Just a cat. Heart hammering, he leaned against the frigid bricks and after a moment shuffled forward again. He knew there couldn't be much left around here for the poor animal to eat, and he thought tomorrow he might bring some food for it. Slowly, the convulsive throbbing of his blood diminished, and a moment later, the alley emptied into a deserted parking lot. Raw boards covered doors and windows along the rear of a warehouse.

  Leaping a low dividing wall, he sprinted across a narrow street and darted blindly into another alley. Home turf now. The backs of buildings crowded together and blocked the lowering sky as the passage narrowed. Scraping the shoulder of his jacket, he squeezed around a pile of crates, careful of where he put his feet.

  A door rattled--claws scrabbled loudly at wood, and a broad black nose rutted through a gap.

  He ran. The alley broadened into a canyon of basement doors. In the airshaft above his head, gray clothesline twisted, webbing the fire escapes that tangled up the walls like vines, and wind throbbed through the clothesline as he scurried for the tallest building.

  As always, he jumped for the fire escape and as always missed the lowest rung by inches. Dragging over a dented metal trash can, he stood on it, pulling himself up hand over hand, grunting until his thrashing feet found the bottom rung. The freezing metal scorched his palms, and he decided he'd need new gloves fast.

  When he reached the first landing, he hugged his hands deep into his stomach, warming them. Then he leaned over the rail. He knew he'd messed up bad today. Empty windows overlooked the courtyard in every direction, and over the roof of the lowest building, he could observe a slice of empty street beyond. He'd been so scared, he'd even raced across that last stretch without checking first. Anyone might have seen. Plus he'd forgotten about that dog again. Eventually, someone would hear it bark. They would have to move again...soon. But it would be harder now--things had gotten so much worse. Thinking about the man on the beach, he trembled as the courtyard below him sank deeper into gloom. "I don't want to die," he whispered. "Not now."

  Wind lashed the side of the building. He couldn't die now--she needed him. Something rattled below, and the dog barked randomly.

  Finally satisfied that no one had followed, he charged up the metal stairs to the top floor. The window was open a crack, and while cold sucked around his neck and shoulders, he slipped his fingers under and strained. It always made too much noise. He shoved it up more slowly, shivering. At last, pushing through the sheer summer curtains, he slipped over the sill.

  He slid the window down and locked it, pulled the shade. Still in the dark, he tugged off his hat and started unbuttoning his jacket; then he pried the edge of the shade and peered into the evening shadows. At last, he switched on the kitchen light and tossed his hat on the table. He stripped off his coat, peeling the top sweater along with it so that, inside out, they slid in a lump across the back of a chair. He smoothed the other sweater across his taut stomach, then rubbed his palms above the red coil of a space heater, pain flushing into his fingers with the sudden warmth. When he twisted the knob all the way, the heater hummed. It almost drowned out the whimpering behind him.

  Weeks earlier, he'd clumsily screwed a heavy latch into the wood of the closet door. As he unhooked it now, he heard a shuffling sound within, and when the closet door swung open, the pale mask of her face hovered low. He yanked on a length of chain, and the lightbulb swung shadows at him.

  Her hair shone softly. She groaned, huddled on the floor, her back pushed hard against the far wall. At the sight of him, her eyes squeezed shut, rolling wildly beneath the lids, and she thrashed her body from side to side with a soft rustle, like the sounds made by a sleeping child. Her elbow struck the wall. Somehow she'd gotten her hands around in front of her, though heavy nylon cord bound them. A strip of adhesive tape still covered her mouth.

  "I'm back." He pushed into the closet and knelt beside her, shoving a long woman's coat out of the way. She began to choke. Above them, hangers jangled.

  "I told you I was gonna come back." Slowly, he reached for the tape, but she jerked her head with a moan. "You always get nervous." Falling to her side, she drummed her feet against the floor.

  Gently, his fingers stroked her throat. "Don't worry." The flesh felt moist and hot, and he could feel the rapid pulse.

  Her eyes became glittering slits.

  "I'm home now. See?"

  As tears coursed down her cheeks, she tried to roll her face away.

  "Don't be like that. You know I won't never do nothing to hurt you." He stroked the long tresses, savoring the pale softness. "It'll be all right. You know I love you." He stared hard at her face, knowing that in the sealed cavern of her mouth, she screamed. "I do. You know I do." He slid down next to her, and his thin arms slipped around her waist. "Don't be afraid. You got to trust me. Everything I do is for you."

  She trembled convulsively.

  "Were you trying to get this off, or what? Good thing I come home when I did." The caressing flutter of his touch strayed to the tape on her lips; then he stroked the ropes. "Don't look at me like that. You know why I got to do this--it's 'cause you don't believe me. You'd try to run away if I left you untied. You know you would. And they'd get you. I know you don't believe me, but they're out there. Hunting us. I mean it. That's why we got to hide." His fingers silked through her hair again. "Or else you'd yell until they found us. Yes, you would. And they'd kill us. Please try to understand. Why c
an't you believe me? You and me might be the only real people left in the whole town. All the rest are monsters."

  III

  Beneath the ramp, a rasp echoed. Coughing damply, the fat man lumbered out into the daylight. His parka, which gleamed a dirty orange, distorted his girth and rendered him almost shapeless. He approved. Blinking through wire-frame glasses at the dingy sky, he held up the prizes he clutched: three lengths of thin rope. Stiff with brown stains, they dangled from his fists. Behind him, the contents of a plastic trash bag lay scattered on the sand.

  He understood what the ropes meant, and he brought them closer to his face. The girl still lived.

  The boy had her.

  His gaze raked across the buildings before him, probing empty windows. He would find them. His fists clenched with a spasm of anger. He would. No one else.

  Scanning broken glass and eroded porticoes, he turned his scrutiny to the largest structure in the area. The dulled contours of The Abbey Hotel towered above the neighborhood. Terraces scoured by the wind, facade flaking away, the hotel faced the sea. The color of sand, it might almost have been a natural outcropping, a cliff pocked with caves. Even at this distance, he fancied he could hear wind whistle through boarded windows. He knew that sound only too well: it never stopped. For weeks now, he'd been living like a rat in the Abbey's deserted halls. So many windows--the huge old building had provided an excellent lookout, but now the winter had grown more intense, forcing him to move a few blocks inland.

  One thought drove him on. No one else must be allowed to get them, not now when he drew so close. The day before, he'd witnessed the stranger almost take the boy down, and thoughts of it still whipped fury through his bulk. He'd searched and searched, and there remained only so many places where they could be hiding.

  Wind billowed suddenly, swamping him in dust, and pale oily tendrils of hair danced free of the parka's hood to flutter over his forehead like the legs of a frantic spider. He needed just a bit more time. He lowered his face, teeth grinding, and retreated to the relative shelter of the ramp.