The One True Ocean

by Sarah Beth Martin

  I remember this tone from years ago, how it made me self-conscious and frustrated, how it made me want to stop talking to her. I wonder how I used to listen to it, and why I bothered to come here today and listen to it again. “Whatever,” I say, but I won’t let her talk me down. “Let’s say it wasn’t a dream. Let’s say it was a real person.”

  Paula’s torso lifts into straight posture, and her head whips around. “Ooh, is it?”

  “I knew that would perk you right up,” I say.

  “Oh, stop it,” she chuckles. “Look, it’s okay for you to feel something. I even think it would be okay for me to feel. As long as I don’t...hurt Gerard.”

  “Do you ever think about anyone else?” I ask.

  “Of course I look and stuff,” Paula says. “Of course.” She rolls her eyes. “There even was this one time...” She bows her hand, as if to warn me that what she is about to say is insignificant, and shouldn’t be taken too seriously. “This guy named Andy. He was in the same design group as me, at my first job in Portland. The ad agency, remember? We started having lunch together and the next thing I knew...”

  “You liked him,” I interrupt.

  “It was a little more than that.”

  “Paula?” I interrupt.

  “Ah, ah, ah—you’re jumping to conclusions,” Paula says. “Let me finish. So I grew to sort of like this guy, you know? He was so adorable, I just couldn’t resist.” She gives Erica another spoonful, wipes her mouth off with her already grimy bib. “But nothing really happened...I mean we kissed, but nothing happened.”

  “You kissed?”

  “Yeah, but that’s all.” Paula seems calm about this kiss, as she cleans up her daughter’s messy face, the baby who won’t remember this conversation because she doesn’t recognize the words, the subject matter. “We met on the beach once,” she adds, her eyes gleaming. “Very romantic.” Paula appears sad in a way, as if it has been forgotten until now. “And a very bad idea.”

  Even Paula I never suspected would do such a thing. I’d assumed that all her extracurricular desires had been fulfilled in those promiscuous years before she married, that she had gotten it out of her system. “I can’t believe you actually kissed somebody,” I say. “But was it really just a kiss?”

  “Yes!” Paula grabs a paper napkin from the holder on the table, wipes her hands. “What do you think—I’d lie to you? Hey, kiss is where I draw the line.”

  I would hate it if I knew Seth had this same book of rules, if he felt no guilt after a kiss. “Maybe you shouldn’t bother drawing lines,” I say. I feel like a hypocrite, remembering how close I came to breaking my own rules. How quickly my life could have changed.

  “You should draw lines,” Paula says. “A person needs rules, a moral center.”

  “Paula, I was trying to make a point—that it didn’t seem to do you any good, drawing lines.”

  “Hey, we didn’t have sex or anything.”

  “Come on,” I scold, like a mother. “But isn’t it all about sex?”

  “Hey,” Paula snaps, “don’t get all moralizing on me. At least I liked him, you know? I mean...I knew him.” Perhaps she means as opposed to just wanting a body, a sweaty young stranger, as in my dreams.

  My own views of sex and love have mingled and mutated so much over the years. When I was young it was all about love, and sex was a byproduct, as the textbooks described. Then when I married it changed—to love and sex, two different animals, that, in some cases, merged. Now that I’m alone again it seems more confusing and perhaps more discouraging. It seems more about sex than I originally suspected, and all the little things: the kisses, the innocent embraces—even in dreams—have much more implication.

  “But really,” I say, “what difference does it make whether you liked each other or not?”

  “Hey, don’t rain on my parade,” Paula says. “You’re one to talk.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re always playing innocent.”

  I want to defend myself but don’t have the right words; I know Paula will be quicker, snappier with her comebacks. “So, what happened to Andy?” I ask.

  “He ended up leaving the agency. I never saw him again.” Paula looks down as she cleans off the baby spoon with a paper towel. “He just sort of stopped talking to me. It was weird, you know? I think he felt guilty.” She wipes Erica’s face with the towel, a spot that seems clean already. “I always thought women were the ones who felt guilty, not men.”

  “Of course men feel guilty,” I say. “But do you really think that’s why he never talked to you again?”

  “Why?” Paula snaps. “Do you think something else?”

  “I wasn’t saying that.”

  “You’re implying,” Paula says. “And anyway, why can’t I believe what I want to believe? I like to think it was because he felt guilty.” Paula’s eyes suddenly appear moist, brimming with sadness.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because any other reason would break my heart.”

  Paula’s emotional honestly rarely surfaces to this level. I remember Paula as being shallow, never looking for or realizing emotions, someone sheltered by tradition and religion, who rarely would think of hurt. Perhaps this emotional person is the real Paula, who pokes her head out from hiding every once in a while—and who rarely emerges into real life because it is much less painful below the surface. Maybe this is why I talk to Paula, to see the transformation, to witness the Paula Doctrine that first bewilders, then inspires me to turn my own beliefs inside out and reevaluate them.

  This also may be why I don’t tell her some things.

  ***

  On my way home I drive slowly past the Jones’s house again. I see the woods to the right of the house and the river deep within, down the hill. Through the trees I can see the blob of my own yellow house—three stops down around the curve but a straight route through the woods. I wonder how much has changed and grown in these woods where Hunter and I buried our treasures, try to imagine Angus’s picture in the ground—the outline of dark hair, the hollow eyes. What did he look like?

  He must still be out there, somewhere, amongst the young trees and sprouting poison ivy. There are a few spots I remember, landmarks in the woods where he might be. But to find such a treasure would take a miracle, or at least relentless, passionate digging.

  As I pull in the driveway I notice the two figures standing in the road before the house, peering through the lilacs. One of them is Rick, red cap and all, and standing next to him is a taller, younger man with wispy blond hair. It is the man from the field, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, pointing at the house. They both look up as I drive up, watch me as I get out of the car.

  “Hello,” I say. “Can I help you guys?”

  “Jenna?” The blond man says. “I’m Hunter...Hunter Jones. Do you remember me?”

  So different from my dream, I think, and from what I imagined from far away. As a boy his hair was like wheat, and his eyes the color of Dad’s metallic-blue Chevy. Now the hair is sun-bleached, the eyes not so bright-looking. He looks worn-out, old for his twenty-six years.

  “Hunter,” I say. “It’s you.” A rush of embarrassment moves through me as my dream flashes in my mind; but the picture quickly dissolves, as if it were some kind of joke I played on myself just to kill the time, the tension. A new feeling has overtaken me, one of childhood trust and understanding, of pure comfort. It is like twenty years has not passed between us at all and suddenly I am seven years old again.

  thirty-one

  The last time I saw Hunter was a strangely bright August day, the kind of bright that reflects off leaves and pavement like crystal. It was crisp and cool for mid-summer, and the sky was a gorgeous, saturated blue. It was a perfect day but a sad one, as we had just buried Angus’s picture in the ground.

  I felt so terrible for Hunter, a
nd I wanted him to come back to the house to meet Aunt Adeline. But as we were walking toward the house I saw Mom pull up the driveway, her pale face, her hollow eyes looking out from the car window. She had come to pick me up.

  “What’s going on?” I heard, even before she got out of the car. The car door slammed and she stomped toward us. “What are you doing in the woods?” Mom scolded.

  “Burying things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Pictures of dead people.”

  “How morbid can you be?” Her voice was loud and sharp, and her eyebrows low and cross. “Playing in the dirt...where is your aunt?” As she spoke her head jerked about, loosening the hairs from her ponytail.

  “In the house,” I said.

  “Not even watching you,” she said, then looked at Hunter. “Where are your parents?” Hunter pointed through the woods, to his house, and Mom’s eyes followed.

  “We were just playing,” I said. Hunter looked too frightened to answer, and suddenly I was ashamed of my witch mother.

  Mom grabbed the trowel from my hand and threw it to the ground. “What is this?” She took my upper arm and pulled me toward the car. “Let’s go,” she said. “We’ll clean you up when I get home.”

  “I have to get my stuff,” I said, “and say goodbye to Aunty.”

  “Your Aunty doesn’t seem to be around,” Mom said. “We can come back and get your stuff later with your father.” She pulled me along, opened the car door. “Go on, get in,” she said. I could see Hunter cutting across hill through the back yards of the neighbors’ houses. Mom got into her side of the car.

  “Who is that boy, anyway?” she said. “Does your aunt know you play with him?” She shook her head. “No, of course she doesn’t...I’m sure she doesn’t pay any attention to what you’re doing.”

  “That’s Hunter,” I said. “Hunter Jones. I don’t think she knows.” I waited for the stern face, the screaming, perhaps another grasp of my upper arm. But it didn’t come. Mom just stared ahead and didn’t say a word.

  “Mom?”

  “He lives up the street, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  She sat silent for a moment, then opened the car door again. “I’ll go get your things.”

  I waited, watching her from the car—storming up the steps and slamming the screen door. Aunt Adeline still was inside, perhaps didn’t know Mom was there yet. Then I heard the screaming—first Mom, then Aunt Adeline yelling back at her. Aunt Adeline’s voice rose up and down, and it grew louder, loud enough for neighbors to hear. Mom tried to yell back, her voice spurting between Aunt Adeline’s bellows. Then the screen door slammed and Mom stormed down the steps and back to the car. She got in and started the engine and quickly backed out of the driveway without saying a word. I looked back and saw Aunt Adeline at the door, her face smoky behind the screen. Her eyes were mean-looking, her mouth tight and serious, like Mom’s. She looked scary.

  It was not until we were up the road a bit that Mom spoke. “I don’t want you going over there anymore.”

  She couldn’t mean this, I thought, but I could tell by her thrusting chin and eyes steady on the road that she did. I was too scared to open my mouth; I knew she would snap back because I’d done something wrong. Or was it Aunt Adeline she was mad at for letting me roam free? I didn’t know and was too scared to ask. Maybe this anger would just go away, and Mom and Aunt Adeline would be on the phone in a couple of days, making up to each other, and this would be forgotten.

  I thought of earlier, what a perfect day it had been, how Aunt Adeline had seemed so happy and different. I especially remembered our talk over breakfast, when we’d made so many plans. She told me she would always take me to the beach down the road; we’d go in the spring and fall as well as in the summer. We could even go in the winter if I wanted, and make snow tracks along the shore. And definitely, she’d said, she would take me that very weekend because the pebbly Cape Wood beach would be alive with the smells and colors of summer for only a few more weeks.

  But two days later Aunt Adeline was dead. How I longed to see Hunter again, to tell him that I, too, had lost someone dear to me.

  ***

  We will meet in the Old Port section of Portland, where cobblestone streets are lined with specialty shops and galleries, and restaurants display their menus on the sidewalks. The ocean is just a walk down the street—boats and fish markets filling the harbor, condos towering over the shallow, murky water. The smell is strong: salt and fish and burning oil.

  I get out of my car in the parking lot of the large boat-­restaurant that floats in the bay, where Hunter is standing in front of the gift shop. He is dressed in a striped cotton shirt and tan vest, blue jeans. I have worn a skirt for the first time in months, my long, swingy daisy-print one, a white scoop-neck sweater. My hair is pulled back in a barrette; it wasn’t until this morning that I realized how overgrown and shaggy it had become.

  Hunter smiles as I walk up to him and reaches out a hand as if this is our first meeting. “How are you, Jenna?” he says as we shake.

  “I’ve been better,” I say, knowing dead husband will come up eventually. I might as well get it over with. Hunter doesn’t even ask what I mean.

  “Let’s walk down to the pier,” he says.

  We walk down to the pier where boats are scattered around the docks. The water beneath where we walk is almost brown in color, and there is pleasant fried fish smell coming from within the restaurant. Hunter leans against a wooden pillar and points to a large tanker far out on the water.

  “See that? That’s a Navy ship.” His face beams in the sunlight. “I spent four years in the Navy. It paid for my education.”

  “What did you study?” I ask.

  “Agricultural engineering at Maryland State University.”

  “So,” I begin, thinking how I’m not so good at small talk, “do you work in that field?”

  “I do soil testing for the state of Maryland. But it’s only about two-thirds of the year. I come up here for the summer. I like the job okay...good benefits.”

  “Does your family live here still?”

  “Nah. They don’t come here anymore.” He leans against the wooden rail, bends down and looks at the water. “I really miss the Navy,” he says.

  “Do you?”

  Hunter nods, doesn’t say anything else.

  “I’m a freelance artist,” I say.

  “Hey, good for you.” He doesn’t ask what my art is, what I do. I don’t even know if I want him to ask, don’t know whether I should elaborate or not. I’m not very interested in talking about what I do for a living; I have no passion for it right now. I’m just making small talk.

  “How long did your parents keep coming up here?” I ask.

  “Oh, a few years after you and I met.” Hunter stands up straight again.

  “Do you remember those days?” I don’t know what else to say. Perhaps I should jump in with something about myself—he could just be nervous, waiting for me to talk.

  “Oh, sure, a little bit.” He smiles, a frowny smile with eyebrows to match, as if I’m silly to talk about the past, to walk down memory lane. As if he might be thinking there’s nothing else in my life to talk about and he’s bored with me already. He looks out to the water. “That ship out there,” he says. “That’s like the one I was on for a couple of years.”

  I wonder if I should just let him talk, take his own trip down his own memory lane. I let him list off his Navy achievements, one by one, many he noted just minutes ago. He continues with more technical details, his voice slightly monotone, buzzing in my head. There is a lack of emotion in his eyes, an apathy in his delivery. The words feel exhausted, as if he has given this speech before—to family, perhaps, to a father who requires it of him. I feel guilty about my lack of interest, but perhaps I’m doing the same thing, the obligatory small talk,
giving little of myself. I want to barge in with something real, something with emotional credentials.

  “My husband died in a car accident,” I say. “A few months ago.”

  He looks at me, perplexed it seems, and runs his fingers through his hair the way Seth used to. “Jenna, I’m sorry.”

  I’ve caught him off-guard. I inhale, swallow air, widen my eyes so the tears won’t form. I’ve caught myself off-guard, too. “I’m okay,” I say. “I guess I just had to get it out of the way.”

  “It’s okay, Jenna.” Hunter’s voice has come alive. His hand reaches to my shoulder, and I think of how we hugged when we were seven. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Want to go get that lunch?” he says, his energy suddenly charged.

  ***

  The Portside Diner is casual inside, with dark wood and warm tones and jazz music that is just loud enough to accessorize conversation. Hunter picks a sturdy, tile-top table near the bar, one decorated with a rust-colored glass candle holder. We order dark beers, and when the waiter brings them Hunter quickly gulps down half of his. I tell him about Seth and the accident, and he tells me about his fiancée, Beth, who is working up in Nova Scotia for the summer. It is all he tells me about her—perhaps just enough to let me know this isn’t a date, in case I was wondering.

  He talks again about his four years in the Navy, his studies in Maryland, how he returns to Maine the way he and his family did when he was young, to work on the farm. “Even though I love it,” he says, “I couldn’t just be a farmer. It isn’t practical.” He pours the rest of his beer down. “It wasn’t logical to even try.”

  “Art is hardly practical,” I say. “But hey, I did it anyway.”

  He is still, his eyes motionless, his beer in mid-air. He seems perplexed, as if this is an exciting new concept. Then he shakes his head, snaps out of it. “I say you were lucky,” he says. “For me it was Navy first, then engineering.” He puts his beer down and smiles, as if he is proud. “Gotta be practical.”