by Cole Alpaugh
“It’s beautiful.”
“Those are my fingernails inside.”
“I thought so.”
She sat next to him and leaned hard, as they listened to the carolers’ version of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” She yawned and covered her mouth.
He rubbed the smooth disk with his fingertips. “I’ll keep it forever.”
Chapter 18
Dash sat rubbing the smooth disk, the sun setting on another day with no escape plan. Willy hummed a Christmas carol from the window seat.
“There’s never a ship out there,” Dash said.
Willy began drumming his fingers. “Only takes one, right? Gotta look at the glass half full.”
“I’m a lonely man with malfunctioning parts. A man in the blue Pacific without a whole lot of options.”
“These seats are sublime.”
Dash turned to look at him. “You just stole that out of my head. It was a word Sarah used all the time. She said it about everything, even about dopey things, like ice cream.”
“I love ice cream.”
“You’ve never eaten ice cream,” said Dash.
“No, but I know it’s sublime. What’s your point?”
Dash shrugged. “The girl thinks I’m protected from the Volcano God, delivered from sin with a baptism by spiders. They’ll throw me in to save her people, and I’ll swim out of the fire and brush myself off.”
“Kids, nowadays.” Willy lifted one giant foot at a time into the tide pool. Tiny trapped creatures fled to the far side. He reached up and pushed an imaginary button for the reading light, his own flesh bulb brightening.
“Really, Willy?” He felt violated by Willy’s mind reading, which produced a physical sensation that ran across the inside of his skull. A tickling, as though a feather lightly stroked his brain’s gray matter. It was unnerving, and a little stomach turning. Dash scratched his forehead. “You know that was my father’s favorite phrase. ‘Kids, nowadays.’ The antique business doesn’t have a place for kids. Tourists would come into the shop and their kids would head straight for anything fragile, or at least that’s how he saw it. They’d flick lamps on and off, and he’d go crazy.”
“Kids were the best part of my job,” said Willy. “They had just as many worries as adults, but were much easier to calm down. Sometimes I didn’t even need words. You know how mothers sing lullabies? It was like that.”
“You miss the kids.”
Willy’s head tilted, mouth full of pointed teeth opening and closing slowly, bulb pulsing dimmer. “My island went underwater. There was no safe place, no ground high enough. A volcano would have at least saved them from drowning. But the waves rolled across the backs of other waves, and more waves rode across those until the rich soil was covered from west to east. I know because even though I’d blacked out from all the alcohol, I felt the panic somewhere deep. I heard the prayers in my sleep, dreamed the death of each of my people.”
“Willy ….”
“The storm came and went, took what it wanted. The day after, the sky was deep blue, the sun high and strong. I stood on the beach facing the ocean, my back to what had happened. The sea and heavens were unchanged, the same as they’d always been. The storm only scarred things behind me. It wasn’t so bad standing there, not as long as I didn’t turn around. I wanted to keep looking at that peaceful scene, the pictures you see all over postcard racks in your world. The sun, water, and sand were all the mixings for a tropical paradise. Give me a piña colada with a little umbrella, a beach chair, and some heavy duty lotion.”
Dash waited for him to continue, but the big man didn’t. “You had to turn around,” said Dash.
“It was like those old black and white movies you watched when you were a kid,” Willy said. “It was London during the Great Plague, men pulling carts through mud streets, calling for people to bring out their dead. Only I didn’t have a cart, and I was doing all the bringing out. I carried them two at a time, one broken body over each shoulder. People I loved, and people who had loved me. People who believed in me enough to make me a god. Believed I’d take care of them.”
“No survivors?”
Willy’s light blinked a little brighter. “One thing lived. A small dog with big ears and sad eyes. Mutt wouldn’t leave me alone, kept right on my heels, back and forth as I carried the bodies to what had been the growing fields. The ground was soft there, the bamboo roots cut away for taro. I suppose I found the kid who’d taken care of the dog, a boy younger than Tiki. I pulled him from the crook of a tree, set him among the rest. It was the only time the dog left me. He hopped around and yipped, started licking the boy’s crooked face. He climbed across his chest, nuzzling and licking some more. I stood watching, maybe hoping something would happen, half expecting a miracle to come from all that love. I mean, how could it not? But the dog finally gave up, came moping back to me with his tail curled beneath his legs. I can’t hear most animal thoughts, but knew he was asking me to make the boy better, to fix him. The dog begged me to wake him.”
Willy was shaking his head.
“I went back to work until I had them all lined up. The ones who hadn’t washed out to sea. The fish took care of those, which was fine because that’s what they’re supposed to do. I started digging holes, one by one. Not deep like the ones your people make, but deep enough to keep the birds away. And it’ll be a good long while before rats find their way back to the island.”
“How long did it take to bury them?’
Willy gave a long exhale. “I don’t know. More than three hundred graves. Four days, maybe. Five. That little mutt never again left my side, though he whined like crazy when I covered up his boy. Started digging real fast, dirt flying up from between his legs. I slapped my hands together, told him ‘no, bad dog.’ When I tamped down the last grave, I sat in the middle of the field, surrounded by my people. It should have been noisy, the air filled up with the chatter of a thousand thoughts. It should have been like standing in the middle of a busy marketplace on a Saturday morning.”
Willy paused again.
“Even the insects had washed away?”
“Yes, the insects were gone,” said Willy. “And not a single dirty seagull was in the air. It was dead silent, not one soul left to pray. Stupid little dog jumped in my lap, all starved looking, shadows between each rib. He hadn’t eaten because there was nothing left. I tried listening for his thoughts, but those had gone quiet, too. The thing he most cared about was buried, like a bone to dig up later.”
“What happened to the dog?” Dash asked, but Willy only dropped his strange chin to his chest. “Did you leave him alone on the island?”
Willy’s mouth opened slowly, the sound of air rushing in and out of his massive chest the only noise for quite a while. He finally raised his head and cleared his throat, took another deep breath.
“I picked him up in my arms and rocked him. It was nice. I’d never held a dog before, but could tell right away what all the hullabaloo was about,” said Willy. “I held him real tight. I guess I held him too tight, because I ended up having to dig another hole.”
Chapter 19
Dash found the cave opening by starlight after Willy slipped back into the sea. He fumbled with the striker over coconut husks, then touched a wick to the flame. Stashing Tiki’s gift with other finds, he drank straight from his bucket, pouring the last of the water over his face and chest. He stepped out of his wet underpants and draped them across one of the knobs protruding from the wall. He shook hidden bugs from his sleeping matt, then grabbed the candle and went around the room touching the flame to all the others.
“Deck the fucking halls,” he sang, and dropped onto his matt. His useless member stared up at him with one black eye.
Numb genitals hadn’t been an issue with Sarah. She’d repeatedly crushed his heart while questioning his spine, but even the darkest times would find him skulking away with a semi-erection.
On the final Christmas break from school, he’d tucke
d a heavily flawed diamond engagement ring into his front pocket. It was the beginning of an ice storm, a light rain falling and freezing to everything, a sugary coating that caused tree limbs to reach toward the dead grass. The ice tested power lines along the empty roads as he drove to Sarah’s apartment building, where she didn’t answer the buzzer. He would have given up and gone home around midnight, but his nearly bald tires were no match for the lousy weather, spinning in place until he cut the engine. The power blinked off an hour later, and his car ran out of gas a little past three while he tried to keep warm.
He plodded back up the walkway to the heavy lobby door and pressed the buzzer again, but it made no sound. A yellow emergency light in the foyer cast long shadows. His own black image divided the icy landing, a weary ghost locked from its haunt. He hammered on the door until his knuckles were sore. A man pushed open a second floor window as he turned away, told him to stop the racket or he’d call the cops. Dash sat on the stoop and watched the ice thicken, his coat turning stiff, until there was a crunching sound each time he shifted his ass on the cement.
He huddled and eventually dozed, hair freezing to the brick wall, fingers and toes aching from the icy dampness, even in his dream.
There would be a girl and a boy, close in age, with Sarah’s blonde hair. They would be three explorers roaming the paths of his lonely childhood, holding hands when there was room. He’d show why he’d brought sheets of construction paper when they reached the grassy patch next to the stream. Dash blew on his hands, despite the summer heat, then went about folding and creasing paper the exact way his mother had made hats for her porcelain babies at play time.
“What are you making?”
“Can mine be green?”
“I want the red.”
“It’s a hat!”
Dash shook his head, smiled, and began work on the sheet of green.
These hats would be boats made to sail away from little fingers, occasioning nervous gasps when they went out of reach, then glee when approaching the rapids, four feet spinning and scurrying along the bank to play catch-up.
“Mine is faster!”
“Mine will sail forever.”
Wet sneakers and muddy pants. Miniature clothing covered miniature body parts.
“Be careful.”
The explorers would go as far as thorn bushes allowed, boats driven by fearless captains finally dipping into dark channels between mossy rocks.
Everything disappeared.
A truck with a flashing yellow dome over the cab rolled up the street, pushing a wave of dirty ice over the curb. Brakes squealed at the end of the apartment walkway. The truck’s salt spreader cast pellets in a shimmering arc.
The driver’s face was in profile, lit by dashboard instruments and plow lights reflecting from the giant blade. Tommy Chambers was behind the wheel, eyes closed and head tilted up, cigarette dangling from his lips. Tommy was rocking in his seat, a slight but steady motion as if the truck was rolling over a cobblestone street. Dash first thought he was moving to music, but that wasn’t it. Not the way his back arched, the way his head lolled. What else could it be? The local tough guy, too cool for school, or any boss for more than a few weeks, was bopping his bologna along a public street in the heart of an ice storm, had pulled over to masturbate while his truck continued flinging salt against the grill of a parked Chevy.
Dash could feel the smirk draw across his own cold face, the slew of snide comments bubbling forth. You gonna buy that hand dinner, Tommy? Hey, Tommy, you bowl righty and beat it lefty? You wanna polish my car when you’re done polishing your knob?
It was just too good to disturb. The great and awesome Tommy Chambers spanking his monkey in a town plow truck, face now scrunched up as if it hurt, orange tip of his butt so low it should be burning his greasy chin whiskers. Dash half-expected some cowboy to yahoo when he finished, but Tommy only went limp, head drooping forward. Tommy took a deep drag that made his face glow, blinked and rubbed his eyes as if he’d just woken up.
Dash was flush with superiority for the first time in his life. There he sat, suffering through a brutal night while waiting for the love of his life to return, a man right off the pages of a romance novel. So what if he was actually stranded, and that Sarah had been wise enough to stay off the roads, probably spending the night with her folks? It had turned out to be a good night, priceless even, despite his freezing extremities.
When Sarah sat up in the truck cab next to Tommy and wiped the back of a hand across her mouth, Dash discovered the rain had somehow gotten inside his body to turn the rest of him to ice. His frozen lungs could draw no more breaths, and his rigid heart could no longer beat.
Time stopped, or at least hesitated. The spinning salt spreader went still. The truck’s exhaust hung in a cloud that did not drift. The turning dome light over the cab paused on the same tree and the same porch across the street.
Tommy didn’t climb out and open Sarah’s door. He let her push it open, step down from the high seat into the slushy mess without help. Dash knew Tommy was thinking, Fuck it, she’ll be back. They love it when you treat them like shit. They eat it up. Dash could see her brown boots under the truck’s belly. The door slammed and the boots turned and disappeared around the plow blade. Tommy revved the engine and Sarah skipped back into view, in and out of the blazing headlights. Dash imagined himself behind the wheel, dropping the transmission into gear and popping the clutch when she was in the center of the massive blade. Here, let me wipe your mouth, I’ve got something to get rid of what Tommy left on your lips, and I’ll toss some road salt on it for good measure.
Sarah was pulling her white knit hat down over her ears when she looked up and found Dash. Her stride didn’t flinch when Tommy blasted the horn and ground the gears.
“What are you doing here?” Sarah was smiling, lips shining from the cherry lip balm she always used.
“I’m cold,” was all he could manage.
Sarah dug through the pockets of her puffy winter coat, coins and keys jingling. “The power’s off all over town,” she said, and he wondered if it was something she’d seen for herself, or if Tommy had given her a play by play while she was bent over his lap. Had it been cold in there? Did you keep your coat zipped when you were tugging down his fly? Did he feel warm in your hands? Was the red check-engine light on, flickering in your silver hoop earrings while you went to work under the steering wheel? Were your eyes closed? Did you think of me?
“I brought you something.” He found the ring in his pocket, held it out in his palm. Sarah squinted, her door key pointing at the tiny diamond.
“It’s a diamond ring,” Sarah said, looking up at him. The whites of her eyes were yellow from the emergency light.
He nodded and shrugged, his hand shaking.
“It looks like an engagement ring,” she said.
He nodded again, cupped hand turning pink from the bitter air. Icy rain droplets, each bigger than the diamond, collected on his bare skin.
“Of course I’ll marry you!” Sarah lunged at him, and he squeezed his hand closed just in time. She covered his face in cherry-scented kisses, her lips soft and damp on his cold skin and warm tears. Sarah pulled open her coat to share her warmth, nuzzling into his neck, whispering things about love and happiness. He trembled as she pressed her whole body against him, nearly suffocating him with the residue of Tommy’s Old Spice cologne.
* * *
Dash awoke shivering in the stifling cave, feeling the ghost of Sarah’s embrace. He tried holding onto the dream, grasping it tight to make it stay despite the truth. Loneliness made him want to retain all her smells, even the ones that cut his heart into pieces.
He grabbed his underwear and stumbled into the sunshine. He walked the path along the coast, toward the cove where the villagers did their laundry and bathed, and the fishermen tied their skiffs. He had an urgent need to be near people, to be close to them without being seen. They hated him, wanted him burned to death because he’d failed.
Did they really believe throwing him into the volcano would calm their god?
Ducking low when he heard voices, he crept forward to squat behind a screen of sticker bushes with twisted barbwire arms. Noise carried farther here, the healthy reef slicing apart the waves, sapping most of their energy. Scavenging birds took their complaints away from the shoreline, more intent on silver flashes among the coral and tumbling whitewater. A wedge of quiet space between jungle insects and ocean was left for human voices.
Three women faced one other in mid-thigh water. They chattered while scrubbing small pieces of clothing they pulled one by one from a floating basket. The clean clothes went into a woven sack strung from one woman’s shoulder. A trail of gray water bled from them in a narrow river that led back down the coast. Dash had smelled the soap while sitting by his tide pool on still days.
All were naked, two with small pregnant bellies, the third showed only her backside as she wrung out underpants and sports bras, tucking each item into her sack. They worked slowly, spoke with hands that danced and sprayed droplets. He imagined the women in a coin-op Laundromat back home, meeting once a week at the same time, catching up on gossip, family news. Two would have been friends since middle school, married high school sweethearts, turned up pregnant within a month of each other. The newcomer was young, brought dating stories to the group that the others ate up. He imagined she’d recently struck out on her own, moving into a tiny efficiency, paid for from her salary as an insurance company secretary. She could type like the wind, which was another reason the pregnant homemakers embraced her. It was a skill, something more exotic than their last two years of meatloaves and Lemon Pledge shines.
The women were living artwork and Dash was powerless to look away. He yearned to be a part of their painting, but there would never be a place for someone like him, even if the brushes were still at work. He’d be the lurking shadow, would ruin the composition. He would corrupt the story of loving friendship, expose tension, or introduce dread. The artist would fill his skinny arms with rank chum he couldn’t hold, a few flicks of a talented wrist bringing sharks to the scent.