Wash Ashores

by Anne Fall

  "Of course not. I won't say a word." David was just ahead, and he looked very handsome and tall, but there was something new there that she had not seen before. He looked so young, and it shook her for a moment. How could she be younger than that? She felt so much older for a moment.

  "Sylvia." He was the portrait of a young man waiting for a young woman.

  "David."

  "I can't stay long, I have to go drop off Mary Katherine and pick up Mom."

  "Your step mother? Is she okay?" The idea of a patchwork family formed in her mind, new and nebulous.

  "She's fine, just getting off work at Doctor Paul's office. She hates the motorcycle, though, especially at night."

  "Well, go, then. Maybe we can go for a drive tomorrow night?"

  "I'd love to." He and Mary Katherine had climbed on the motorcycle.

  "Thank you, Mary Katherine, for coming to see me. Maybe we'll see each other again soon?" Sylvia called out against the vibration of the motorcycle.

  "Yes, maybe you can come to dinner when my mother is home." Mary Katherine returned the volley, and the two of them smiled cautiously as they separated.

  That night, Vivian, Catherine, and Eric came home in a gust of laughter and freshness. Adam was there too. There was also a darkness mingled in with them, and Sylvia realized it was the scowl on Adam's face. Apart from him, the three looked revived, as if the trip away from the grandeur of the house had grounded them. They all ate dinner together in the dining room, but it was not a formal meal, and the women and Eric were relaxed.

  "I cannot believe we found it. It's the perfect space for your next show, Eric." Catherine bubbled like the champagne in her glass. Her pure happiness for her husband reminded Sylvia that there was still something left to the sweetness of love.

  "It is, isn't it?" For the first time, Eric seemed to be as lighthearted as the women, joining them in their pleasure.

  "I think so, Eric. It will show so well, there." Vivian smiled, but there was an edge of reluctance in her voice. The art show would mark the end of their summer here. Adam sat silent, seemingly engrossed in his meal.

  "You'll have to start selecting frames for some of the canvases now. We can order them in town, at the frame shop. Oh, what a good winter it will be, darling, darling." Catherine stroked his arm, alive somewhere in the future.

  Without warning, Adam struck the table with his fist. The entire room grew still and silent. He did not speak for several seconds, and when he did, there was a seething steam in his voice. Sylvia froze, immobile like a bird on a wire.

  "The damn lamb is overcooked. Why is the lamb always overcooked?" His fist hit the table again. Vivian's face turned ashen, pulling her calmness around her.

  "I'm sorry, dear. Let me get you a new plate." Standing to reach for his plate, Adam reached out and grabbed her wrist, too tightly, and Sylvia could see her brace herself.

  "I don't want a new plate. It's all overcooked. You know that." He released her with a grunt of disapproval and left the table. Sylvia could not tell what had just happened, but it terrified her. Never before had she seen Adam be anything but obliging with Vivian. What had changed?

  The room continued in silence for too long. Vivian remained standing, and no one at the table moved. It was hushed, resoundingly quiet. Vivian took a deep shuddering breath. Covering her mouth with her hand, she looked up and tried to muffle any clamor about to come from her throat.

  “It’s fine. The damn lamb. What a laugh.” Catherine went to her and stood behind Vivian, her arms wrapped around her chest and neck, bracing Vivian. Eric stood and walked out without pushing his chair in, and it had the air of defiance to it, that chair away from the table.

  "Shh, Vivian. Shh, darling child. It's all right. He was just upset, the day tired him, you know it did.” Catherine's eyes closed as she spoke, and she cradled Vivian. Sylvia kept her eyes downcast, pushed in her chair, and walked out of the room toward the porch. Frightened she might see Adam, she hurried in the direction Eric had gone.

  The porch was empty, and Sylvia looked toward the sea and saw the darkness of Eric passing under a lamp post near the driveway. He was headed toward the shore. Sylvia ran to catch up with him, her long skirt threading out behind her like the tail of a kite.

  "Wait! Eric, wait!" She called out to him, but he could not hear her as the wind whipped her voice back toward the house. He kept walking, and his height and the length of his stride made him faster than her. Before she could see him, she saw Adam standing on the beach. She almost fell, slowing down too quickly.

  Eric deliberately walked toward him. Sylvia did not know what to do. Her entire body was shouting to run, but she did not know in which direction. What could the two women at the house do? What could she do? She crept closer to the scene, and there was nowhere to hide on the beach. There never is anything but exposure on the sand.

  "You remember what happened last time, last time you got like this, man? What's happening to you? Pull yourself out of this and go apologize to your wife. She's done nothing wrong." Eric threw the words at Adam, directly toward his face. The wind pushed their voices to her.

  "You know what she's done wrong. You saw her today, with that man. You know what she was doing to me, damn you! You know, you were there." Adam paced, furiously flailing his fists into the air, fighting an unseen opponent.

  "I do know." Eric's voice drifted away into a softer tone, and she could not make it out any more. The scene ended with Eric's hands on Adam's shoulders, and they faced each other quietly in whispers. The two of them looked like they were praying. Before they could head back toward the house, Sylvia ran into the distance, as if chased. Her feet carried her in thumping cyclical movements. How could they have not seen her? Was she that small?

  That night, troubled dreams came to her and shook her into wakefulness. She dreamed of a baby, a baby crying into the night. It had been left on the beach. It slept in towels, a bundle, and the waves were too close to it, threatening it. Waking to the sound of the ocean outside her window, Sylvia climbed out of bed and looked at the blank expanse of the beach, empty and lit in the moonlight.

  CHAPTER 10

  The next day passed in solemn tones, as if someone in the house had died. Sylvia could not shake off the idea of a baby. She walked around the house, listening to the silence in each room until she finally took to the outdoors for a walk on the beach.

  The same sand dunes as last night greeted her, whispering in their sea grass voices. The sun beat down on her, and Sylvia felt the heat of it prickling her fair skin. The sand pulled her steps back, dragging her and begging her to sink. Finally, reaching the water, Sylvia stripped off her clothes and stood on the shore in her undergarments. The water called to her, spoke a language she could not understand. Stepping in up to her knees, the water pounded against her, forcefully threatening her. Despite the threat, Sylvia plunged forward into the waves and swam as hard as she could. The waves battled her at first, pressing her down and up, up and down, challenging her strength. Once she made it out past the waves, she treaded water and looked back at the house. She could make out no one on the front porch, but she felt that someone was watching her. The water was cool and all enveloping, the salt promising to heal her and support her for as long as she could stand it.

  Sylvia stayed out in the water longer than she should have done. By the time she made it back to the shore, her entire body was drained with the physical effort of how far she had gone out and how far she had swum to come back to safety. Pulling her blouse over her head, she collapsed in the sand in a wrinkled damp heap. Her body throbbed, every pulse point galloping. The sand nestled her back and adhered to the wet tangle of her hair. Taking on the appearance of seaweed, her hair was coated in sand and dark with the water of the sea. She closed her eyes against the glare of the sun and allowed it to burn her.

  An image of her mother appeared in her mind, a photograph framed in silver on her bedside table at home. Her mother stood in a garden in a light summer dress
with her face upturned in laughter. She held the infant Sylvia in her arms. The tears burned the corner of Sylvia's eyes. It was loneliness.

  An hour must have passed before Sylvia was able to make herself stand up. The sand no longer bothered her. It was a necessary evil of the sea. It clung to her wet body, falling away like tiny diamonds as her skin dried in the thirsty gusts of sun-soaked wind. Sylvia's mouth was dry, and she was ravenous, starving in the heat. She pulled her skirt over her hips and walked toward the house in exhausted motions, like she had traveled the expanse of a desert.

  At the house, she found Hanna in the kitchen. Calmly preparing Sylvia’s tea and lunch, Hanna regarded her sea-damp hair and pink face.

  "Are you all right, Sylvia? Are you still not well?" Hanna's concern was a kindness, but it was not a kindness Sylvia wanted. It made the tears come closer to the surface again.

  "I'm well, Hanna. I'm just a little worn out." Hanna nodded, preparing a sandwich with capable hands. It did not look like enough food to stay her hunger, and Sylvia found herself wanting more.

  "I heard there was a scene at dinner last night." Hanna spoke the words barely above a whisper. "I hope it didn't upset you too much." Sylvia mulled over the words in her mind, and how she should respond to them. How much was she supposed to understand?

  "It did upset me. But, nothing is perfect, is it?" Sylvia rubbed her temples, and finally found the nerve to ask the question that had been haunting her. "Hanna, why haven't they had a baby?" Hanna started, eyeing Sylvia.

  "Vivian can't carry a baby—there was just another miscarriage, Sylvia. She lost a baby two months ago, when they first came here for the summer. It was very hard for her. She and Adam have tried for a long time to have children, but it was not meant to be." The silence that filled the room burst into flames with the question waiting to be asked.

  "But, Hanna, why did she have a miscarriage?" Hanna's face turned stern and silent, her lips pursed together tightly.

  "There was an accident. Sometimes women lose babies, Sylvia. I don't expect you to know much about that, but maybe you should ask your aunt about her business." The remark silenced Sylvia, and she ate her sandwich in quiet hunger. Hanna left the room after that, and Sylvia sat in the kitchen for a time. The word, accident’, resounded in her mind, the vowels and consonants exaggerated.

  She had never done it before, but she then went to the cabinets. She pulled out crackers and chocolates like she was stealing. She took them up to her room and ate them, lying on her bed, the crumbs everywhere.

  When David picked her up that night, he told her he wanted to be alone with her.

  "No more parties or people. They're no good for us, Sylvia. I just want to be with you. It's going too fast, the summer."

  Once they were on the motorcycle, Sylvia buried her face in the warm flannel of his overshirt. She could hear his heart through his back. They passed through a crowded residential neighborhood. Houses were practically on top of each other, small and grey in the moonlight. The fences sagged, and the lawns were more sand and dirt than grass.

  David pulled the motorcycle into a short driveway in front of a small classic Cape Cod house. The yard was neatly kept, and there was a plaque with a pineapple emblem announcing their welcome. Sylvia stepped off the motorcycle and steadied herself, dizzy from the ride.

  "This is my parents’ house. I wanted to show you. What do you think?"

  "It's lovely." Her nerves were flaring. Who was inside? She took his arm, and they walked into the dimness of a front room. Two couches were pressed together, and there was a faint odor of an animal. It may have been a cat. The room was neatly kept but littered with too many figurines, many of them angels in pastel robes. David led her through the maze of furniture, pulling her towards a kitchen.

  A woman sat at a table too large for the room, reading the newspaper with a cup of coffee next to her. Sylvia had the distinct impression that she was a woman who looked like her mother who looked like her grandmother. The room around her was painted yellow. There was a small vase of wild flowers on the table, breathing freshness into the air. The woman looked up when they entered.

  "David. Hello, there. Will you introduce me to your friend?"

  "Sylvia, this is my mother, Agnes." The name struck her as wrong, but she retained her composure and looked the woman evenly in the eyes.

  "How do you do, Miss Agnes?" Sylvia extended her hand, and Agnes looked at it a moment before taking it.

  "Can I make you some coffee?" Agnes busied herself in the kitchen, making the coffee before waiting for a reply.

  "Where's Dad?" David's voice sounded a little lost.

  "Sleeping, as you should be. You know what time you have to be up tomorrow to help him."

  "I can't go to sleep tonight, you know that. It's too late to sleep now." His voice, new and different in this house, was weary and exhausted. Even his posture was unusual. It was as if the weight and responsibility he felt in this place pulled him down into a crude form of submission or even hopelessness. Agnes did not respond, but she put two cups of coffee in front of them without cream or sugar.

  Sylvia had never had coffee before. It was scalding hot and scorched her tongue with bitter heat. It felt good and right in her throat. More than her first sip of beer or champagne, the coffee put a piece of her childhood behind her.

  "What time did you get off work tonight?" David's voice took on a tone of politeness, respectful concern.

  "After dinner time. It's past two o'clock now, you know." She gazed pointedly at Sylvia. "I imagine you have a curfew, don't you?" Sylvia blushed painfully.

  "No, not really. They don't know I'm gone." She sipped the hot coffee to have something to do, rather than out of thirst.

  "Ah, and who are ‘they’?"

  "My aunt and uncle, Vivian and Adam Fanning." The names surprised Agnes, and she looked up toward the ceiling as if remembering something.

  "Vivian Fanning." Rolling off Agnes's tongue, the name sounded important and significant. "I know her. She goes to the doctor's office I work at during the day." Returning her gaze to Sylvia, the expression on her face changed to something like worry. "Is your uncle living with her again?" The question flustered Sylvia, confused her.

  "Again? Yes, they're married."

  "I see." Agnes fingered the placemat in front of her. It was dark blue with ridges and a frayed fringe.

  "Do you know them?" Sylvia's voice was too loud.

  "Only a little." Agnes eyed Sylvia over the table.

  "I think I ought to head home now, David. Your mother is right. It is late."

  "Wait, let's take a walk before you do. The cranberry bog is just a little bit down the road. I'd like to show it to you."

  "Thank you for the coffee." Sylvia stood, shakily.

  Outside, the moon dangled slender in the sky. The white glimmer of sand framed the dark gravel road as a reminder of the always near sea.

  "The bog is just down here. I think you'll like it."

  "I've never seen one before. Is it a field?"

  "No, you'll see."

  The sounds of the bog came closer, and there was stillness paired with the sounds of little creatures like frogs and crickets. They climbed over a rusted chain hung over the entrance to the bog. There were signs warning them off, but they took no notice.

  The two traveled a short distance along a lane until the wide open vista of the cranberry bog stood before them. It was the first time Sylvia had seen a cranberry bog so close, and it was a maze of high paths and recessed depths where the cranberries were grown. Well-worn trails stood elevated above the bogs below. Unexpectedly, the bog did not look red with fruit yet.

  "Where are the berries?" She turned to look up at him, expecting him to know everything about it.

  "They ripen in fall, and then they flood it. You see, everyone thinks they're water plants, but they're not. They just flood it in fall so the berries float up to the top, and they harvest them that way. Cranberries have a little bit of air in them
, like a balloon. It's hard work. My dad and I helped one summer. It's a small bog, really." The air smelled differently here, like mustiness and moss. They walked forward, deeper into the maze until they were at the center on a round island. The bog stretched around them and stopped with the curving margin of the forest. Isolated in the center, Sylvia and David sat down close to one another.

  "What are those? Are they beehives?"

  "Yes, they keep them here. The bees help pollinate, just like any crop." The white boxes in the distance looked threatening to her, something she must not go near. Were they asleep, those bees?

  The two of them were quiet for a time, occupied by the thought of their aloneness. David's hand was on her knee, and he touched the yielding underside. He turned to face her, but she resolutely kept her face away from him.

  "David…"

  "It's okay." He kept his hand under her knee, now near the back of her thigh. In hindsight, she could see that what was strange and beautiful was the recognition that her thigh was so soft in comparison with the roughness of his hand. So this is what they want, she thought. Touch. Rather than feeling connected to David, Sylvia began to feel the being that was the cranberry bog. She reclined back, and her bare thighs, head, and arms touched the earth. He shifted and ran his hands down her waist. He seemed to think her rib cage would produce a sound, and he searched for it. In a moment, she realized that the sound he expected from his hands against her skin would come from her mouth. He was waiting for a word, a moan that meant ‘yes’. What she said was ‘no’.

  He let go and stood, slowly. Sylvia remained lying on the ground. She looked like a blossom pressed between the pages of a heavy book, flattened. She could see he was hurt, angry even.

  "I want to go home, now." She could not yet stand.

  "I'll take you home."

  "Be a gentleman and help me up." His face grimaced, but he reached out a hand and pulled her to her feet with no effort on Sylvia's part except the extension of her hand. No more words were spoken between them. The walk back through the labyrinth of the cranberry bog left her dazed. She looked back at the island, and it felt very far away and empty. How visible had they been? Anyone could have seen them.