The Last Night at Tremore Beach

by Mikel Santiago

  And just then, I noticed something was different.

  I staggered over to the table to read the paper. But the table was empty. There was no newspaper. No whiskey. No cigarettes. Nothing but the old polka dot tablecloth and napkin holder that had always been there.

  TWO

  “MOM SAID we had to share!”

  “Beatrice, please . . . !”

  We were on the road heading north. Fleetwood Mac filled the Volvo’s cabin. In the backseat, my kids fought over ownership of an iPad. But up front, I drove in silence, deep in thought, my eyes glued to the road.

  It was all in your head. There was nothing there. It’s the damn lightning strike, that’s all it was. What did the doctor say? “Hallucinations are normal. They go away in time.” You’re an adult, Peter. Act like one. Do you want to ruin Jip and Beatrice’s vacation because of a couple of bad dreams?

  But even Dad admitted it. He said Mom really did have visions. Premonitions. And I know that voice told me not to leave the house. Maybe all these visions are . . . are . . .

  By the time we’d left Louth County, I had nearly rationalized away the newspaper nightmare at Dad’s house. An hour later, when we reached Fermanagh, I’d filed it away deep in my mind. Hyper-realistic nightmares caused by the electric shock, I told myself. I need to start taking the new medication. Maybe I’ll even go and see that psychologist, Kauffman. I’ll make an appointment after the kids go back. For right now, concentrate on driving and getting your kids to the house and giving them the best vacation you can. They deserve it. They’ve had a horrible year.

  We arrived at the beach house at about six, and the view was spectacular. Several elliptical clouds floated over the ocean like UFOs, painted in the last rays of a dying sun. The sea was a deep green that appeared illuminated from within, and the sand glowed in pink hues. And there, in the foreground of this picturesque scenery, was my little house on the hill, surrounded by a (very) manicured lawn.

  “Oh, my goodness, Daddy,” Beatrice said. “It’s like a fairy tale!”

  “Yes it is, my love,” I said, stroking her face.

  The children immediately wanted to go down to the water for a swim. It was windy, but after being locked up in the car for so many hours, it was only normal that they’d want to stretch their legs. I parked, and we walked down the wooden staircase toward the beach. Jip ran into the wind, opening up his jacket so the breeze would carry him like a kite. Beatrice started doing it, too. “Look, Dad, I can fly!”

  Maybe it was their playful, childlike imagination that inspired me to join them. I ran as fast as I could, leaped into the air, and opened my Windbreaker to the powerful wind. The wind tossed me, and I fell to the sand in a pile. Gravity quickly reminded me I was no longer a child, but a forty-two-year-old, two-hundred–pound adult. But Jip and Beatrice came to the rescue. They each grabbed me by a hand and helped me up, and together we headed back toward the house, arm in arm.

  MARIE REALLY WENT all out in cooking dinner for us that night. The second we walked through her door, the delicious scents of her labor mingled in the air: fresh-baked bread, pie . . . Jip and Beatrice were a bit shy and followed me in, trying to be invisible. But Leo met us at the door with outstretched arms. “These must be the famous Jip and Beatrice I’ve heard so much about,” he said. Beatrice responded, “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” and Jip copied her answer. “My, what well-mannered children!” Leo said, winking at me.

  Marie appeared a few minutes later, perfectly dressed for the occasion, as always. She’d prepared two “welcome bags” for the kids. Each contained a sketch pad, a box of colored pencils, and a large eraser. They said thank you timidly. And after asking permission (something they only did when they were at someone else’s house), they quickly tore open the packages, spread their contents over the coffee table, and started drawing.

  “Careful not to color on the furniture, okay?” I said, while Marie cleared out some picture frames and ashtrays to make room.

  Judie arrived a few minutes later. I heard her old Vauxhall pull up to the house, and I started to feel a little nervous. The kids had heard me mention Judie, but only in the same way I mentioned Marie or Leo. They thought she was just another person I’d met in my new neighborhood, but nothing more. I’d planned to tell them about her during our drive up. To explain to them subtly that she was Dad’s “special” friend, something like a girlfriend. But I never found the right moment to bring it up.

  I think Leo sensed some tension building, and he disappeared into the kitchen to “help Marie.”

  “Will you get the door?” Leo said.

  Come back here, you coward! I thought, as I nodded and he left the room.

  Judie looked a little nervous, too, when I opened the door. Neither one of us made to kiss the other, and we almost broke out laughing. “Should we shake hands?” I noticed she was wearing makeup and had dressed for a special occasion, with a black skirt and lilac top that made her look like a nice school teacher. The only thing she was missing were the professorial glasses.

  She approached the coffee table by the fireplace where the children were absorbed in their drawings and squatted down next to them.

  “Hello,” she said, stretching out her hand. “I’m Judie.”

  “Hi, Judie,” Jip said, giving her a quick and unexpected peck on the cheek. “My name’s Jip.”

  “And I’m Beatrice,” my daughter added. “I love your braids,” she said, gesturing to Judie’s hair. Her braids were like twin vines that started at her forehead and stretched back into a bun twisted into a flower shape.

  “If you like, I can do it to your hair, too,” Judie said. “You have such pretty hair.”

  “So do you,” Beatrice said. “Do you live here?”

  Was it just an innocent question? Maybe she thought Judie could have been Leo and Marie’s daughter. (You’d be surprised how keen a child’s instincts are.)

  “No,” Judie said, “but Leo, Marie, and your dad are friends of mine, and they asked me to join you for dinner. I live in town. You probably drove through it on your way here. I work in a store.”

  “A clothing store?” Beatrice answered.

  “Well, there are some vintage outfits, but we really sell a little bit of everything. Books, movies, souvenirs . . .”

  Marie called us to the dinner table, and we all sat down. Jip and Beatrice sat on either side of me, and Beatrice wanted Judie to sit next to her.

  Okay, not a bad start, I thought to myself. Judie gave me a complicit smile and I noticed Leo and Marie sharing one themselves.

  The first course was fried calamari with a Caprese salad. The children, who’d only had a gas-station sandwich and a bag of chips, had to resist digging in with both hands.

  Marie asked them how their flight had been. Had it been exciting to fly alone for the first time?

  “The flight attendants gave us toys,” Jip said.

  Leo had leaned over and was talking man-to-man with Jip.

  “You’ll love this place, son. It’s full of cool, interesting spots. Has your dad already told you about the Monaghan monastery? It’s on the other side of the cliffs. In ancient times, the Vikings attacked it two or three times a year but were never able to take it. The monks were tough guys in those days. Legend has it they buried treasure near the castle in case the Vikings ever succeeded, and that the loot is still out there, somewhere.”

  “Really, Dad?” Jip turned to ask me wide-eyed.

  The Monaghan monastery was little more than ruins, three semi-upright walls that scarcely recalled their past splendor.

  “Well, son, if someone did bury treasure there, I’m sure it’d be hard to find. They must have stashed it a thousand feet below ground.”

  Leo and Judie entertained the kids while I helped Marie clear the table. I carried a pile of plates into the kitchen, and she asked me to set them next to the sink. Theirs was a square kitchen with a window that overlooked the dunes and a door that led to the garage. The kitchen cabinets we
re all light wood and the newer black refrigerator had no fewer than a dozen souvenir magnets on it from Vienna, Amsterdam, London. . . .

  “Just leave them. I’ll toss them in the dishwasher later,” she said when she saw me pick up a sponge. “How’d it go in Dublin? How’s your dad?”

  “He’s alive,” I said. “Not much more than that. But I do think it did him a lot of good to see the kids. I saw him laugh for the first time in a long time.”

  Marie was usually a woman of few words who kept a formal distance from people. So it caught me a bit off guard when she took me by the shoulder and smiled at me warmly.

  “I’m sorry about your dad. But maybe there’s still another chapter waiting to be written for him, something really good . . . once he stops mourning.”

  “Yeah . . . maybe,” I said. “Thanks, Marie.”

  “Still having those weird dreams?” She meant to ask breezily, but there was a disturbing silence after the question.

  I smiled stiffly.

  “I’ve had some nightmares,” I said, “but nothing like the other time. Nothing to make me drive over here in the middle of the night. God, I’m really sorry about that.”

  Marie smiled as she pressed a steak into a sizzling pan.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Honestly, I was worried, Pete. I’m not like Leo. I believe in those kinds of things, dreams. I think it all comes from somewhere. . . .” She poked the steak to check it. “This one’s ready. Hand me a plate, would you?”

  There were six plates on the table, already served with salad and a baked potato. I put one of them next to the stove. Marie speared the steak and carefully laid it in the place of honor.

  “You mean, you think this dream of mine means something?”

  Another steak hit the searing pan. Marie watched it sizzle without looking away.

  “If it were a recurring dream, maybe. But, if it was just that one time, I guess it’s nothing. . . .”

  I thought of the newspaper on Dad’s dining room table. And of the dream where Leo was covered in blood.

  “Right,” I stammered. But I fell silent and readied a plate for Marie.

  “If it were something you were seeing over and over, it might be some kind of message. Know what I mean? That’d be something you’d want to decipher.”

  I remained quiet, staring at Marie, trying to read between the lines. What are you trying to tell me?

  “Ready,” she said, placing the second steak on a plate. She looked at me right in the eye, and I didn’t look away. And we stared at one another for a long moment. “You can talk to me if you need to, Pete. Always.”

  “Thank you, Marie.”

  “Now, go serve these steaks before they get cold. And tell them not to wait. Dig right in.”

  The conversation at the dinner table was lively. Beatrice was recounting a couple of anecdotes from her trip to the south of Spain recently. Jip had brought his new sketch pad and pencils to the table and had asked Leo to draw him a couple of dinosaurs. Jip was deep into his dinosaur phase.

  WE FINISHED the second course and all agreed Marie had outdone herself that night. As we awaited dessert, I noticed Jip had been quiet for a while. I started to suspect what was going on and was proven right when he got up and came over to whisper in my ear.

  “Dad . . .” he said, blushing. “I have to go. You know.”

  “Bathroom, sport?”

  He nodded, embarrassed. It was bad enough having an unpredictable digestive tract and worse when it decided on its own it was time to move in a stranger’s house.

  The bathroom was upstairs at the end of the hall. We excused ourselves just as Beatrice was telling a story about Amsterdam’s houseboats, and we slipped out relatively unnoticed.

  When we got to the bathroom, I had one of those moments that happens to divorced parents who have to miss long stretches of their children’s lives. As I went to unbuckle his pants, Jip said, “I can do it by myself, Dad,” as he lowered his pants and sat on the throne.

  “Okay. I’ll wait for you outside. Good luck.”

  I stepped out and closed the door behind me, chuckling silently.

  The hallway led to three rooms: Marie and Leo’s room—a comfortable master bedroom with a double bed and an en suite, a guest room, and a bedroom they used as a catch-all room, where Leo kept his weights and where Marie played solitaire on her Windows PC. I paced the hall quietly with my hands behind my back, listening to the conversation and laughter coming from downstairs. I was glad the children’s first meeting with Judie had gone so well and that Marie and Leo were wonderful neighbors. What a meal! And they’d even thought to buy the kids gift bags! Best of all, I’d gone the better part of a day without even thinking about my headache. Not that it went away altogether. I could still feel a mild pulsating in the center of my head, but it hadn’t gotten any worse all day. It’s like my entire body decided it was going to get better for Jip and Beatrice’s sake.

  I paced up the hallway, passing a bookcase that jutted out halfway into the hall, and paced back. I rapped against the bathroom door.

  “Everything okay in there, champ?”

  A second or two passed before Jip said, “Yeah, Dad,” with the voice of someone carefully trying to pluck a splinter. Poor kid had the same problem as his mother. Bea and I were the exact opposite.

  I paced up the hall again, and this time stopped in front of the bookcase. It was a narrow piece of furniture that fit right between the guest room and the office. Its shelves were filled with books, movies, and CDs. There were some old photos of Leo and Marie taped to the inside of one shelf. Pictures of when they were much younger. In one of them, they were embracing in a wheat field beneath an orange sky. In another, Leo was carrying Marie in his arms on a beach toward the water, though Marie looked like she wasn’t too keen on the idea. I couldn’t fight the tiniest bit of envy. Deep down, I’d always thought Clem and I would end up happy sexagenarians like Leo and Marie with a house full of photos, and the kids—and grandkids—visiting on weekends and holidays.

  I grabbed a book off a shelf. It was a collection of Mark Twain short stories, a very early edition. I flipped it open carefully to a random page.

  Q. How could I think otherwise? Why, look here! who is this a picture of on the wall? Isn’t that a brother of yours?

  A. Oh! yes, yes, yes! Now you remind me of it, that was a brother of mine. That’s William,—Bill we called him. Poor old Bill!

  Q. Why? Is he dead, then?

  A. Ah, well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was a great mystery about it.

  Q. That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then?

  I read a little more then put it back on the shelf then took a thick album filled with photographs of North American national parks, which was serving as a bookend. I pulled it out carefully so as not to knock over any books and opened it. I took my time looking at pictures of the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, Lake Powell, remembering a road trip Clem and I had taken as newlyweds down Route 66 from Chicago to Los Angeles. As I reached to put the photo album back, I noticed something at the back of the bookshelf. It was a paper scroll that was partly unrolled and yellowed with age. I realized it was a rolled-up canvas. A painting Marie hadn’t framed yet, I figured.

  Which, for some reason, is hidden in the back of this bookcase, I thought to myself. I was surprised to feel my curiosity piqued. It was a like a whisper inside my head: Do it, Pete.

  Don’t even think about it, I told myself. What’s with this sudden urge to snoop?

  I tried to make room so I could squeeze the photo album back on the shelf. But the books were so perilously piled in place that the whole stack tumbled onto the floor.

  Good job, klutz.

  Downstairs, there was still talking and laughter. Good, no one heard a thing. Someone might think I was rifling through their things.

  Though . . . wasn’t I?

  I picked up the fallen books and started to stack them again. That’s when I realized they’d been positioned just so
to leave a space of a few inches width behind them. A space for a rolled-up canvas.

  Go on, take a look, the little voice inside my head said.

  You are not doing this, I told myself. You’re going to turn around and walk back up the hall, and knock on the door to see if Jip’s ready. What you’re not going to do is snoop around this canvas, which was so purposefully hidden. . . . But Marie had paintings hung all over the house. Why not this one? There was probably a good reason. And whatever the reason was, something inside my head told me I had to know it.

  C’mon, what are you waiting for? You know you want to do it.

  I peeked back at the stairs. The sound of conversations continued to rise from the dining room. Besides, Marie and Leo’s stairs creaked like they were going to split in two. If anyone started up them, I’d have more than enough time to stash the evidence.

  The subtle scent of paint wafted up toward my nose as I unrolled the small canvas, which was about fifteen by twenty inches. It was the portrait of a child, a months-old baby. The baby looked like he was lying upon fluffy cotton, though it could have been clouds. The boy looked happy and peaceful. He radiated tranquility. His face was the most detailed part of the portrait, with bright eyes that followed and transfixed you. I stood almost hypnotized. I couldn’t stop looking at it, but at the same time, it started to dawn on me that I’d overstepped my bounds. I wanted to put the painting back quickly.

  At the bottom of the painting there was a signature. I was expecting to see the signature “M. Kogan,” with the left side of the “K” connecting to the “M,” which is how Marie signed her artwork (including the one I had hanging over my fireplace). Instead, it was signed, “Jean Blanchard.”

  Jean Blanchard, I whispered to myself. Wonder who that is? Obviously another painter. Someone from town? But why would Leo and Marie have a painting of a baby, signed by another person?

  “Everything all right up there?”