“Oh, Heather,” Letty said, holding a tissue to her face. She began to cry afresh, and Heather kissed her cheeks lightly, careful to keep Letty’s tears from her own dress.

  “Hush, Letty,” Heather said, “it’s okay. Tell Heather what’s wrong.”

  Part Two

  Chapter 11: Alarm Clocks

  It was a warm, sepia afternoon with a kind of stillness settled over everything. Dogs lounged in porticos, horses rested in their loafing sheds. Even the scattered birds moved little and chirped sparingly. The black flies and yellow bees, however, continued to buzz about with purpose. The bees—whose task was beautiful—visited flowers and bothered no one. The flies occupied themselves with disrupting the serenity of higher animals.

  From within the northernmost bedroom of the Walsh house emanated a buzzing of another kind. The sound, much greater and deeper than that produced by the insects, came not from the rapid movement of tiny wings but from the overly relaxed throat of Robert Aiden Walsh. Robert lay supine, in jacket, tie, and dress boots on the floor.

  The bottles strewn around the room reflected either the diverse preferences of a small party or one person’s desperate attempt to get drunk. On the old rolltop desk, two empty bottles of Chimay Cinq Cents flanked one started (and forgotten) of their own kind. They looked down upon three small bottles of Duvel, bone-dry, gleaming in the sunlight from the open window. Finally, in the arms of its beloved, one perfectly finished bottle of Tsarine Brut Rosé, still wearing the burgundy ribbon Mary had tied about its neck. Innocent of having been purchased for a much dearer purpose, it rested in the crook of Robert’s arm, twisting delicately.

  This situation might have carried on much longer, exactly as you see it now, but for the actions of a small device, ticking away on the nightstand. For the hard-working, honest machine was greatly misinformed of the sun’s position and was preparing to sound the morning alarm. Presently, the hammering of its little bells would summon Robert’s consciousness to face once more the terrible reality he had so recently escaped. The clock would ring loud and well for the first time since its unboxing and before abandoning this task would cease to function completely.

  The long, black hand arrived at the short, red marker, and the clock began to ring. Robert awoke, blinking and confused. The antique had sat unwound for years until the night before. Robert could not remember winding it. Inside his throbbing head, the pealing of its tiny bells felt awful. The clock had been a gift from Letty, long ago. That was the only reason he’d kept it. A ghastly specter arose in Robert’s mind: Leticia, his love, ineffably beautiful, surrounded by her friends, her waist encircled by a man’s arm. On the man’s arm a gold watch, garishly large and altogether profane.

  Robert struggled to his feet, dripping with sweat, and stumbled to the nightstand. He grabbed the clock in both hands and slammed it to the floor. It stopped ringing, and glass went everywhere.

  The cost for repairs to the MR2 would be immense. The damage seemed mostly superficial, and he himself was unharmed, but it grieved him to replace any of the car’s original parts. Worst of all, when the rear tires lifted off the ground, a roll of hand tools levitated from its place behind the seats, and as the car came to an abrupt stop at the base of an old Eucalyptus, the heavy canvas roll shot forward to obliterate the face of the stereo unit. Robert rarely used the stereo, preferring instead the machine soundtrack of the motor, but certain of the knobs and buttons showed wear from when the car belonged to his father.

  Though terrible, the myriad costs and complications resulting from the accident swam beneath the surface of Robert’s pain, like fish under ice in the dark. He struggled to accept what he had seen the night before. It could not be possible, and yet he knew it to be true. Leticia was, without question, the most excellent of women. And for his wife, Robert felt he could accept no other. That she was romantically involved with Alberto defied the very essence of logic. It could not be possible, and yet he knew it to be true, as much as anything else he’d seen with his own two eyes.

  The visual evidence his brain at first refused to process, so that he missed entirely the initial presentation of Letty and Alberto as a couple. Various cues and signals, intended primarily for Robert, had only thickened the awkward tension for everyone else. And then, all at once, he had seen with his eyes, his mind, and his heart together. The spectacle attending his departure was sure to become infamous.

  Robert sank down into a chair, loosened his tie, and surveyed the room. Broken glass, bottle-glass, and something like glossy, multicolored confetti covered the floor. Amidst the confetti lay a pair of gold-plated embroidery scissors, shaped like a slender bird. The sharpened beak lay open, shining, hungry to cut again. Robert peered fearfully around the edge of the desk, at the open wainscoting which discovered the safe. The door of the safe was ajar.

  He did not hear Mary enter.

  “Robert, sweetie—”

  “Don’t come in!” Robert bellowed hoarsely, jumping to his feet. Mary shrank back. Toast cowered behind her. “I’m sorry, Mary,” Robert said, gently. “Don’t let Toast get in here. There’s broken glass all over.”

  “That’s all right, Robert,” Mary said. “We’ll clean it up.” Noting the empty bottle of Tsarine, she asked, “Was Letty here?” Robert lowered his head.

  “No,” he said, “ she wasn’t here. No one was here.”

  “Oh,” Mary said. “Oh dear. I’m sorry, Bobby.”

  “It was awful, Mary. I made a total fool of myself. Not just with Letty, I mean ... it was a total disaster.” Robert groaned, and pulled on his beard with both hands. “I’ll have to go around to the Johnson’s today and make a formal apology. If they’ll speak with me.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Yeah.”

  They stood in silence, neither Robert nor Mary knowing what to say. Toast looked from one to the other, wagging his tail. Mary thought of Robert’s car, missing from its place in the garage and began to ask him where it was. Realizing in time it was better not to, instead she asked, “What can I do to help you, Bobby? Want me to call Sheila?”

  “No, thanks,” Robert said, “I’ll call Eddie directly.”

  “Okay, but can I help you clean? You’ve made quite a mess here.”

  “No, I’ll take care of it myself, thanks. If you could just grab me the broom please.”

  There was nothing left to do but go surfing. Robert knew his upcoming conversation with Eddie would go better after some kind of light physical activity. Nothing too crazy, just some ocean time and a little exercise at an easy break. From his surfboards he selected his father’s trustworthy fish and loaded up his old SUV.

  The stereo in this vehicle had been his mother’s. The buttons on the console showed no wear patterns. The leather was cracking in places, and the carpets were full of sand.

  The downward stretch at the terminus of Encinitas Boulevard was crowded and slow. Coast Highway was worse. Like his friends and neighbors, Robert had grown accustomed over time to the bright, relatively unadorned boulevard. Today he mourned the departed trees. The once convergent lines of that ethereal roadside canopy bracketed his dearest childhood memories, where he and Maisie still walked together. Hot blue sky now filled the place where once met leafy branches. Carpetbaggers and tourists watched for passing trains, milling about beneath metal signs discouraging suicide.

  The little parking lot above Beacons was full, so he continued on to Grandview and found a spot there. While parking, he decided to call Eddie before suiting up, and by so doing expiate the shame that would otherwise accompany him into the ocean. Summoning his courage, he made the call.

  Chapter 12: Invaded

  Leticia looked toward the beach where Veronica sat reading. In school, it had been the same. Veronica loved the beach and the ocean but seldom ventured more than waist-deep into the water, preferring instead the sandy shore and a thick book. What a good friend she has been, thought Leticia. I’m so glad she’s here. From behind her Kylie called her name. A set was rolling in.

  A few proud locals fixated on the horizon, determined not to be impressed. Otherwise, all eyes were on Kylie, including those looking through viewfinders from the shore. She caught waves deeper, and did more with them than anyone else in the lineup. Kylie merely surfed, largely oblivious to anyone but Leticia, who she made much of.

  “This one’s you, Letty!” Kylie shouted, her visage at once fierce and joyful, “Go! Go!”

  Leticia turned and paddled hard, almost missing the wave. She caught it, however, and set a high line, rocketing away. Behind her Kylie howled with delight. Leticia was conscious of carving deeper and snapping sharper than usual. The wave curled, lifted, and boiled, and Leticia sprayed coronets of salt water high into the air. It was preternatural, and then it was done. The wave was finished, its life cycle completed, storm-born energy, traversing unseen hundred-mile increments, to rise in final glory and be shredded apart before dying on the shore.

  “Girlfriend!” Kylie shouted, as she kicked out of her own wave and joined Leticia for the return paddle out the back. “That was wave-of-the-day, for sure!”

  “Yeah, that was a fun one,” Leticia replied, trying to smile. Already the blank euphoria she had felt while riding the wave was dissipating, giving way to the heavy, baseline sadness with which she had entered the water.

  “Seriously, these kooks are like, ‘who’s that precious baby just shredding oshee over there?’ And we’re just like, ‘we don’t need boys, so skip you.’ Right? We don’t need those fools.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” Leticia said. “At least ... ”

  “At least what?” Kylie said. “At least what, weirdo?” Leticia did not answer, but looked past Kylie toward the stairway with frightened eyes. Kylie followed Leticia’s gaze and saw nothing out of the ordinary. “What is it, girl? You trippin’?”

  “Pink board,” Leticia said, pointing, “on the stairs.”

  Kylie looked back to the stairway and trained her eyes on the faded pink surfboard. It seemed familiar to her, but for a moment she couldn’t place it. The person carrying the board turned the corner, and she saw his beard. It was Robert.

  “Dude,” Kylie said through clenched teeth, “skip that guy.”

  “No, Kylie, don’t make a scene please.”

  “Naw, dude,” Kylie said, “I’ll straighten his ass out right now.”

  “Please, don’t,” Leticia said. “He’s just coming out to surf. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “Well he’s gonna know I’m here,” Kylie said and began paddling toward the shore.

  “Kylie, please. I really don’t want you to do this.” Kylie stopped paddling and turned back to her friend.

  “Okay. But I swear, if he gets weird I’m gonna handle it.”

  “He won’t do anything. Last night was ...” Leticia paused, recalling Robert’s vitriolic, exclamatory disavowals of intent and affection. “I don’t know what that was. You know Robert, Kylie. He’s not that guy.”

  “I know he’s a dick. But whatever.”

  “No,” Letty said, “Alberto is a dick. Robert was being a dick. There’s a difference.”

  Kylie thought for a moment and said, “I suppose. I didn’t say this before, but I didn’t like you and Alberto together. That guy’s such a douchebag. If I had to be a bridesmaid at your wedding, and you were marrying him, I’d wear black.”

  Chapter 13: Serendipity

  Robert descended the long, wooden staircase, refreshed at every turn by calm ocean breezes. He encountered many familiar faces, with whom he paused to exchange greetings and information. Theirs was a serious business, these of his kind. Would they enter this water? If so, when, and with which board? They saw not only the waves, but tides, swell direction, and bathymetry, all behind infinitely variant layers of nostalgic glaze, so that no two of them would arrive at the same conclusion.

  They made room as he passed, but a man Robert did not recognize stopped him. The man expressed his admiration for Robert’s fish, having noticed the little wings emblazoned across its top. He claimed to know Skip Frye, and to have sold “one just like it,” and said he now regretted that decision. Robert told the man he understood the feeling, having made similar mistakes, and continued his descent. The man pursued him and asked Robert if he would consider selling the board. Robert told him the board was not for sale. As the man began to fall behind, he shouted out a considerable offer. People heard it and turned to look at the man. Robert did not turn around, but only shook his head and continued walking away.

  Here and there the steps were narrowed again by sedentary clusters of tourists, and other more casual beachgoers. They did not immediately make way for Robert, and cared nothing for his old, patched surfboard. To these people, the stairway was not a thoroughfare but an elevated viewing platform. But today both species—surfers and otherwise—coexisted in harmonious, late-afternoon calm.

  Near the bottom, a large group stood together, matching from head-to-toe in Texas Longhorns regalia. The sole exception to this theme was a young boy’s hat: a blue Encinitas Surfboards ball cap, from which the stickers had not yet been removed. The boy stood uncertainly, supported by a pair of forearm crutches, and beneath his orange sweatsuit the outline of supportive bracing was visible. Beside him knelt a man, who with one arm helped steady the boy, while with the other he described a passing ship. Robert squeezed past them carefully and descended to the shore below.

  Once on the sand, Robert performed an abbreviated stretch routine, and finished zipping shut his springsuit. He looked back up to where the boy and the kneeling man remained. The others of their group had departed and were making their way back up the stairs, like an orange and white caterpillar. While Robert watched, the man grabbed the boy’s face in both hands, and with exaggerated gestures made as if to kiss him on the cheek. The child squirmed and pulled away, laughing, his face half-shaded and beautiful. The boy turned, and with the man’s help began slowly to ascend the stairway. Robert entered the water, greatly affected.

  To paddle felt good. His back, arm, and shoulder muscles warmed, and the water was clear. Not having much time to spare, he paddled with urgency, adjusting his line only to avoid impeding other surfers. Eddie Johnson expected him before evening, and the catching of waves was Robert’s priority.

  Eventually, Robert arrived to the outside and took his place at the end of the lineup. A few surfers—bobbing erect on their submarine perches—acknowledged his arrival and exchanged quick greetings. The waves were on the smaller side but frequent and shapely. Soon it became Robert’s turn, and a desirable peak arrived immediately. He caught it easily and enjoyed a good, long left, returning to within yards of the stairway. He paddled out for a second helping, full of stoke. Eddie had seemed uninjured from over the phone, which was wonderfully anticlimactic. And yet all was not well, really.

  Sitting on his board, his mind returned to the boy on the stairs. It was clear the man, whom Robert assumed to be the boy’s father, loved the child intensely. Had Robert’s own father loved him that way? Had not they stood near that very spot, replete with happiness? Yes, and many times, ignorant of what tragedy hastened toward them, unflagging and unbidden. Robert imagined his own children would accompany him to this place. Gazing out into the dawn, the beach in shadows, he would never to them appear more alive, vibrant against the sandy cliff, immortal, his arms draped around their mother.

  “You got this, dude?” asked a young girl’s voice.

  “No, you go,” Robert replied, returning to his senses. The girl turned and paddled, but it was too late. The wave continued gracefully its journey to the beach, unbothered. “Sorry,” Robert called to the girl, “I was zoning out.”

  “It’s okay,” she replied, visibly frustrated.

  “Next one’s yours,” Robert said, paddling southward to an adjacent peak. Making peace with Eddie wasn’t going to fix this. As long as Leticia remained beyond his reach, he could not be truly happy. It would be better, he thought, if she was with someone I could respect, instead of that total dork. Robert had always tolerated Alberto, whenever he appeared, as a kind of frivolous accessory to whatever else might be going on. He added little value, in Robert’s estimation, to any group he infiltrated, but was mostly harmless and only ever embarrassed himself. Or so Robert had thought until the party. How that tawdry fool of a remittance man had worked his way into Leticia’s affections he could not comprehend. Letty, he thought, my girl, my love, my Let—

  He spoke not her name aloud, but inwardly, with exceeding passion. As he did so, the mended nose of Leticia’s board came into view. He recognized its dark orange, resin tint rails immediately. Then he saw her wonderfully substantial hips, and then her luscious pooch. And when his eyes met her own bright green return, it was to Robert as though he had summoned her by force of will and magic.

  Chapter 14: Calligraphy

  They sat transfixed, staring into each other’s eyes. Kylie stayed quiet, collecting data, and suppressing her protective instincts. A significant number of Kylie’s audience looked on, confused. At last, Leticia broke the silence.

  “Hi.”

  “Hey,” Robert said and nodded to Kylie, who responded with an almost imperceptible tilt of the head. “Have you been out here a while?”

  “Yeah, a while,” Letty said, “we were wondering if you noticed us.”

  “Uh, no,” Robert said, “not until right now.”

  “Crazy,” Kylie said. “You were just paddling right at us.”

  Robert raised his eyebrows, blinking to show he also thought it strange, and said, “So weird. I haven’t been to Grandview since, like, last winter.”

 

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