The Gray and Guilty Sea

by Scott William Carter

  "Of course," he said. "Pick you up at eight?"

  "On the dot," she said.

  His van pulled up first, spitting out a nice plume of black smoke. It was a different kid than before, one who was wise enough not to sneer at Gage's dilapidated ride, so Gage handed him a five. As he stepped inside, Carmen called out to him.

  "Garrison?"

  He turned. "Yeah?"

  "Aren't you forgetting something else?"

  "Uh . . ."

  She smiled. "My address?"

  Chapter 15

  Their second date began much better than their first. Gage was now resigned to calling it a date, even if he still wasn't quite comfortable yet with the idea of dating. He was getting more comfortable with Carmen as a person, but the thought of being intimate on any level with a woman other than Janet was enough to cause flurries in his stomach—and not the right kind of flurries, the nervous kind. These were darker and full of dread. Instead of butterflies, he'd have to say he was full of hornets.

  Yet when he pulled to a stop in front of her little cottage on the north side of town, and she opened the door to her house before he'd even put the van in park, his heart did a little jig at the sight of her.

  Even through the mist that dotted his passenger side window, even in the weak porch light, she looked resplendent in a black leather jacket and a hip-hugging black skirt. When she stepped into the van, sliding in one long tan leg, and then another, he found himself staring. She noticed his staring and smiled.

  "You're on time," she said.

  "You sound surprised."

  "I am, pleasantly. What's this on the radio? Sounds like John Coltrane."

  "Right you are. You a jazz fan?"

  She was. In fact, she was more than a casual fan. She could have practically taught a course on the subject, making her one of the few people he knew whose knowledge of jazz surpassed his own. She knew the difference between Miles Davis and Dave Brubeck, and when a new song came up, she could say who played it, wrote it, and any bits of trivia associated with it. Even Gage could only name the composer two thirds of the time. To top it off, she'd played the saxophone for nearly twenty years, and in high school even flirted with going pro until she got bit by the journalism bug.

  Turned out jazz wasn't all they had in common. He took her to a Greek restaurant, one of the few restaurants he went to on the rare occasions when he felt like eating out, and was surprised when she said she was a big fan of Greek food and Greek culture in general, and had even gone on a ten-day cruise through the Mediterranean. This got them off on a tangent about the Roman Coliseum, a place he'd visited in his own youthful travels, and he discovered that, like him, she was something of a history buff. At one point, while eating their sofritto and sipping their white wine, they found themselves arguing about whether Aristotle or Plato was the greater philosopher.

  Even their arguing wasn't unpleasant, a playful banter that was more like teasing. Carmen was no wilting flower. This was a woman with a formidable intellect. She tried to come off as average, denigrating her education by calling it "state-level smarts," and saying she was just a small town hick at heart, but he didn't buy it. It was a way to disarm and befriend, to put others at ease.

  She wasn't really much like Janet, but her smartness, the intelligence, now that was everything like Janet. It was enough to get him thinking about her, remembering their own playful arguments over the dinner table, a half-empty bottle of red wine between them, the candle nearly burned down to the nub. It was something she'd loved, a candle at dinner time, and the surest proof of their love for one another was the number of candles she'd had to buy to keep up with their conversations. She must have bought hundreds over the years. So many candles.

  "What's wrong?" Carmen said.

  They were on their way home, having finally gotten the hint from empty tables and the waitress who kept glancing at her watch. He hadn't been aware that anything was showing on his face. The earlier mist had turned into a steady drumming of rain, the windshield wipers squeaking at full speed.

  "Ah, nothing. The weather." He attempted a smile, but the glumness was too heavy.

  "Thinking of Janet?"

  He gazed at her in amazement. He hadn't wanted to confirm that was what he'd been thinking, but his look was enough. She placed her hand on his leg and squeezed it gently.

  "It's okay," she said. "It doesn't bother me."

  He could see that there was more that she wanted to say, some bridge she was thinking of crossing, but instead she looked forward. They drove the rest of the way to her house in silence, her hand remaining on his leg. The van felt smaller, warmer. He wanted her to take her hand away. He wanted her to leave it there. There was something unraveling within him. It was both the best and the worst he'd felt in years.

  When they reached her house, he put the van in park. She still hadn't taken her hand away, and her face, with the light of her porch behind her, was lost in shadows. He caught just a hint of the whites of her eyes, saw the way they were wide and expectant. His heart beat faster.

  "You want to come in for a drink?" she said.

  He looked out the rain-streaked window at her doorstep, then back at her. Not sure. Hesitating.

  "You won't melt, Garrison," she said.

  "Okay."

  They were instantly drenched. She ran, laughing, to the doorstep. He stumbled after her with his cane, tripping on the step and bumping against her, making her laugh even harder. The rain on the back of her leather jacket looked like diamonds. She fumbled with her keys, her breath fogging. When she turned the lock and opened the door, she smiled at him mischievously. She walked inside, saying she had to get the light. He followed her into a dark living room.

  He felt as if he was playing Russian roulette. Except he was the bullet, spinning, spinning in the gun. Something was going to happen. Five years was a long time to spend in a spinning gun. He hadn't even known that's where he'd been until now, but it was true. He'd been there ever since Janet died.

  He closed the door, sealing them in darkness. The rain pebbled the roof. He smelled dust and old books and a hint of lemon.

  "Carmen?" he said.

  "I'm over here."

  "I thought you were getting the light?"

  "We don't need a light."

  Her hand pressed down on his arm. She took his cane and dropped it; it landed on a rug with a thud. She guided him across the room, him following in the wake of her jasmine perfume. His eyes started to adjust; he saw streetlight rimming the living room curtains, a faint glow coming from down a narrow hall, and the outline of her hair. Her heels clicked on a hardwood floor. His own soggy shoes squished and squeaked.

  She pushed open a door.

  There was a pink nightlight in the corner, next to a bedside table. A four-poster bed dominated the room, barely enough space to squeeze around with dressers on the sides and a hope chest at the end. Lace curtains billowed, a cool breeze flitting through the cracked-open window. He smelled wet grass and fecund earth and a hint of the ocean three blocks away.

  "Carmen—" he began.

  She kissed him. His pounding heart, the rain tapping on the ferns, even the smell of her, so close, all vanished into that kiss. Her lips were soft and moist. She leaned into him. Even through their leather jackets, he felt the pliable flesh pressing against him. He found his hands on the swell of her hips, just below the hem of her jacket. Her fingers started working on the buttons of his own leather jacket. He felt his body responding.

  "Wait," he murmured.

  She didn't stop, her kiss turning desperate. She was working on his shirt now, the first two buttons undone.

  "Wait," he said, pulling away.

  "Please—I just—just want to make you happy—" she said.

  She tried kissing him again and he grabbed her wrists, holding her at bay. It was comical, because she continued leaning in, trying to get closer, and he had to use a fair amount of strength to keep her back.

  "Carmen, stop!"
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  It was the shout that finally broke the spell. She seized up, frozen, as if hit with a stun gun. She blinked a few times, then, looking utterly ashamed, dropped her head. Her hair fell down over her face like a curtain coming down on a play. He let go of her arms and they fell to her sides, limp. She stared vacantly at the floor, unmoving.

  "Carmen—" he began.

  "It's all right," she said, defeated.

  "It's just—I haven't even known you a week."

  "It's okay," she said.

  "Carmen—"

  "No, really. You don't have to explain. I'm rushing things. Jesus."

  "Carmen, don't."

  "You must think I'm a floozy. Or a slut. I'm—I'm sorry."

  She looked away. He could still see her eyes, and there were tears brimming. He reached for her, and she spun away, awkwardly, bumping against the bed and bumbling a little on her feet, then finally going down, slumping against the bed. She buried her face in the bedspread, cupping her arms around her head as if trying to blot out the world.

  "Oh, God," she said.

  Her body shuddered, but she couldn't contain it. She sobbed, the sound muffled by the bedspread. Gage was stunned. He wasn't sure what had happened. Where had the smart, formidable woman gone? He didn't know what he'd done to cause this.

  "Things are just moving too fast," he explained.

  His voice sounded pitiful—plaintive, small, and worst of all, cold. He hated himself for it. Was that the best he could do? Was that all good old Garrison Gage had in the way of human empathy? Her crying continued unabated. He crept through the dim light, afraid that his bum knee would decide this was the time to give out and he'd go sprawling at her feet.

  He made it to her, extended his arm, touched her back.

  "Hey," he said.

  The crying slowed. The shuddering turned to trembling. She looked at him, sniffling. In the near-darkness, the room a tapestry of black and white, the tears streaking her cheeks looked like icicles in the snow.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  "You don't have to apologize," he said.

  "I'm quite a piece a work, aren't I?"

  "Well, I don't know if it's the appropriate time to comment on how attractive you are, but yes, you are definitely a piece of work. A knockout, I'd say."

  She laughed. It wasn't much of a laugh, more of a spasming hiccup, but he was still glad to hear it.

  "Now you're just trying to cheer me up," she said.

  "Just stating the facts. You make a man weak in the knees just looking at you, and that's a dangerous proposition for someone who has only one good knee."

  "Uh huh. All right, don't lay it on too thick."

  He helped her up. She hunched on the edge of the bed and let out a deep sigh. He sat down next to her, the mattress sagging under their weight. The cracked open window was directly across from them. The breeze picked up, the curtains rippling against their legs.

  "Can you hand me that box of tissues over there?" she asked.

  He retrieved them from the nightstand. She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. She'd gone through three tissues before she looked at him.

  "Sorry you had to see that," she said.

  "I like a little spontaneous sobbing in a woman. Keeps things interesting."

  "So I haven't totally scared you off yet?"

  "Far from it. It's all I can do to keep myself from ripping those clothes off of you right now."

  She chuckled. "I think that's the nicest thing a man has ever said to me."

  "Well, I mean every word of it." He swallowed, trying to think of what to say, how to put things right. "Carmen—"

  She silenced him with a finger on his lips. He didn't know what surprised him more—the finger to his lips, or that he could taste her tears.

  "It's okay," she said. "I know . . . I was moving a little too fast."

  "A little?"

  "Okay, a lot. I don't know what got into me. I—well, I do. Kind of. I just—well . . ."

  "It's okay," he said. "You don't have to explain."

  "No, I want to," she insisted. "You're the first person I've ever wanted to talk to about it since coming to Barnacle Bluffs, and if I don't say it now, I never will. It'll probably scare you off permanently, but that's okay. If we're honest here, I've probably already done it."

  "Impossible," he said.

  That got a smile out of her. "Yeah, well, you say that now, but where will you be on Valentine's Day?"

  "Probably at Hallmark's with all the other poor schmucks buying you the most expensive card in the place."

  "We don't have a Hallmark's in Barnacle Bluffs."

  "Well, then I'll be wherever poor schmucks go in Barnacle Bluffs. But I'll be looking for a card. Probably end up with one of those stupid ones that sings a song. I never know what to do when I'm picking out cards. There's always so many of them."

  She arched an eyebrow. "Finished?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "If you're trying to make me feel like I don't have to say what I'm about to say, then it's not working. I'm still going to say it."

  "After all that build-up," he said, "you better say it now. Okay, what is it?"

  The truth was, he hadn't been trying to change the subject so much as to drain some of the tension. To make it seem like less of a big deal. It worked for a moment, too, but now the curtains fell over her eyes again. She stiffened her back and offered up a wry smile, like she was going to veer off in another direction at the last moment, but then she sagged back down. It was like watching a sheet on a clothes line flutter to the grass.

  "It's about a man, of course," she said.

  "Okay."

  "A man I loved."

  "All right."

  She swallowed hard. "It really does sound kind of lame when I say it out loud. I don't know. You're probably going to laugh."

  "Love is never lame, Carmen. And I promise I won't laugh."

  She searched his eyes, and he could see her thinking: was this someone she could trust? He wanted to be that person for her. But he didn't want her to confide in him something she wasn't ready to confide. Outside, the rain tapping on the ferns faded to a murmur, like a conversation happening in another room.

  He squeezed her hand. "Carmen, you don't have to say anything. It's okay."

  "No, I have to. If I don't, I'll never do it." She took a deep breath. "It was when I was at the Detroit Free Press. First year out of college . . . I thought I was big stuff. I was assigned local color stories for the entertainment section, which was pretty disappointing, but I thought I'd make the most of it. Wrote lots of stuff about Girl Scout troops and bingo nights at the senior centers. Then a few months in, when I went trolling for stories, I heard about this new band called Rock Eyed Angles playing some of the clubs around town. Lots of buzz. So I listened to them play." She stopped for a moment, her eyes wide and bright.

  "And?" he prodded.

  "When I walked in, I heard his voice," she said. "The lead singer. I still remember the song, too. It was called 'Something in the Snow,' and it was about this girl who built a castle in the snow where she lived until the spring came. It was . . . amazing. He was amazing. His voice was like Ray Charles at his very best. And when I squeezed my way into the packed bar, I saw him. And—Gage, I know this is stupid. I know intellectually that these things don't happen. But he looked at me. And it really was love at first sight." She glanced at Gage, challenging him to defy her.

  "You don't have to explain it to me," Gage said. "I still remember the first time I saw Janet." And he did, vividly: walking out of her office at the Museum of Modern Art, high heels clicking on the shiny hardwood floor. He'd been ready to ask her some questions about one of her employees, but when he saw her the entire case went right out of his mind.

  "So you know then," Carmen said, nodding. "You know how your life can go a whole different direction with one look. It was like that. I mean, he wasn't the best-looking man. Tall and thin, brown hair tied back in a ponytail, scruffy. Hi
s denim jacket had holes in the arms. He had cigarette burns all over his T-shirt.

  "But he looked at me the whole time he was singing. I know it's corny to say he was singing just for me, but this time he really was. So when he was done with his set, I told him who I was and asked whether he'd agree to an interview. He said he would so long as I agreed to dinner. I wrote a real glowing piece in the paper about him. Six weeks later we were living together. Six weeks later he got down on his knee and proposed."

  "Wow."

  "Yeah, it seems fast," she explained, "but at the time it was totally natural. Like we'd known each other for years. But here's the thing. Here's where things started to go wrong. I said no. I said I wasn't ready."

  "That's not wrong, Carmen."

  "It is when you loved someone as much as I loved John. John Coller, that was his name. I loved him more than life itself. Seems crazy for how long we were together, but I did. I told him I needed to get settled in my career. I wanted to focus on me a while. I wanted to keep things the way they were just a little bit longer, so I could move up the career ladder a bit."

  "Seems logical."

  "Well, it is if it were true," she said. "But really, deep down, it was because I was afraid."

  "I think you're being a little hard on yourself."

  "Not really. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. There was no doubt about that. I was just afraid . . . I don't know, maybe of jinxing it or something. As long as we didn't get married, then we couldn't get divorced."

  "Let me guess," Gage said, "your parents were divorced?"

  She looked at him. "You're not making light of this, are you?"

  "No. Of course not. I'm just—"

  "Because yeah, they divorced when I was twelve. At the time, it was the worst thing that ever happened to me."