9
AT THE BEACH
Jack and I trudge along the ocean’s edge, holding hands. Jack is moving at a brisk pace, half dragging me along, carrying a blanket and picnic basket with his other hand, swinging it in cadence to his walk and talk.
The girls didn’t even ask to join us. Not that they would come to any beach at any time. Heaven forbid a grain of sand should ever touch their nice clean floors when they get home. Evvie and Joe might have joined us, but Joe wasn’t feeling up to going out. Just as well. I am in no mood for any company.
Jack is chipper and smiling. He takes in expansive breaths of air. As for me? I am a sullen drudge in black slacks and blouse, with sneakers clogging up with muddy sand. I am not in stride with his mood. Not at all. Kicking up sand like some stubborn kid who didn’t want to go to the beach and had no choice.
“‘I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled … and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.’”
My romantic boyfriend, seemingly impervious to my passive-aggressive behavior, is quoting poetry. Perhaps he even dressed for reciting T. S. Eliot. He wears his pants rolled up, a white T-shirt. He is barefoot. Exuding the sense of a man happy with his world, despite the fact that Eliot’s poetry is depressing, remembers this former librarian.
I wonder why he’s in such a jolly frame of mind. As if I didn’t know. A few days with a romantic long-lost love fawning over him and he’s laughing at “I grow old.”
“What a glorious day.” He finally comes to a stop. Why he’s picked this spot I haven’t a clue. It looks like every other part of the beach, which is crowded as always “in season.” Northeast-coasters and Canadian snowbirds, who come flying down in droves to escape the wretched winter weather, cram the beach with their colorful umbrellas. Their blankets are covered with their melting, lotioned bodies and massive amounts of play gear. Activity galore, as if fun happens only in perpetual motion. Volleyball games every which way I look. Vendors wearing insulated backpacks on their shoulders to carry their ice creams to and fro, calling out their wares. Screeching kids racing in and out of the water. Parents yelling orders that are ignored.
Noise erupts out of all the various boom boxes that carry dozens of musical choices, gorging air space in one big dissonant war. I already have a headache. I am not a happy camper.
Jack spreads our blanket neatly on the sand and sets down the basket. He drops down and beckons me to join him.
I do so and kick my sneakers off to dump out the muck. “Sirens, I say, not mermaids.”
Jack looks surprised. “Where are sirens in Eliot’s poetry?”
“Actually I’m thinking of Homer’s Odyssey where the sirens lured the love-struck sailors to sail their boats onto the reefs and die there.”
He removes a thermos and pours me a cup of coffee and then one for himself. “Whoa, what’s that all about? First day we get a chance to play and you’re on a downer.”
“Maybe it’s because you haven’t been around much lately.” As each whining word leaves my mouth, I want to take it back.
“Do I guess right when I say you are referring to Michelle? A siren, not a mermaid?” He actually smiles. He finds it amusing.
“Could be.”
“It doesn’t matter to me what she is. Michelle was eight years ago. In the past. Over. Done with. It was all about timing. I was lonely after Faye died. I went to Europe and lived a brief fantasy.”
“Your fantasy seems to want to take another shot at you.”
Jack laughs out loud and hugs me.
“Let’s be honest here,” he says. “Michelle wasn’t really all that interested in me. She was playacting. Probably bored. Let’s have fun with the old guy tourist. I realized that when I got home.”
“Something is bothering me about her. I can’t quite get it yet.”
“Come on, eat.” He jokes, “The potato salad will get hot.” He hands me a plastic container. “You know, we’ve never had this conversation. Young kids, when they plan to marry, get into that—Should we tell each other about our past affairs? Or not?”
I feel myself tearing up. He’s hitting a nerve. I look a few feet away where a young couple, probably in their twenties, lie entangled in each other’s arms.
Jack continues. “So, I confess. Before I met Faye, I was randy all right. Lots of girlfriends and good times. I married at an older age than usual. I was forty. But once I settled in with Faye, that was it. I was committed. I’m a simple man. I believe in family and I believe in honesty.”
Now my tears are flowing.
Jack takes my plastic dish from me and covers my hands with his. “You’re adding salt to your salad and salt’s no good for us old folks. Forgive me for being so insensitive. You were widowed at such an early age and in such a tragic way. I just assumed that somewhere over so long a period of time you fell in love with someone else.”
I say sadly, “You assumed wrong.”
He gently wipes the tears away. “You’re a beauty even now. But I’ve seen photos of you when you were younger. You were a knockout. I can’t believe some eligible suitor didn’t grab you off the market.”
“Yes, of course I dated. But I never met anyone who was as good and as kind and as loving as you are.”
Grinning, he pretends to swell his chest and open his arms akimbo. “Here I am. Better late than never.”
I lean into him and I’m crying again. “I can’t bear losing another man I love.”
He rocks me in his arms. “And you actually think Michelle is going to steal me away?”
I nod through my bleary eyes. “Something like that.”
“First of all, that can never happen. Second, as soon as Colette is able to travel, they’ll be going back to France, probably never to be seen on these shores again. So I won’t be spending any more time with her.”
I sit up, indignant now. “She was flirting with you.”
He smiles. “And I was properly flattered. What red-blooded male wouldn’t be?”
“I think she has an agenda. What does she want from you?”
“But our meeting was pure coincidence. Turned out she needed help and there I was. After all, she really didn’t know anyone in America. What happened before isn’t going to repeat itself.”
Now I have an appetite. I chew on my hummus-on-pita-bread sandwich. Even the group dancing salsa, playing their Latin song at ear-piercing decibels, no longer bothers me. “As long as you don’t see her again.”
Jack is suddenly silent.
“What?” I ask.
“Well, I did promise to take her out to a farewell dinner.”
“When?”
“Actually tonight. I was about to tell you.”
“Oh, really?”
“Look, I’d rather just say good-bye on the phone, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
Now I’m silent. Her feelings? What feelings are those? It’s his turn to talk himself out of this sticky predicament. Finally his face lights up. “I’ve got an idea. Come to dinner with us.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. This way you’ll see how unintimidated I am by her. No way can she manipulate me.”
The dancers are moving away and now I don’t have to shout to be heard.
“What are you going to do, just bring me along and say Hi, guess who’s come to dinner?”
“No, I’ll tell her sweetly in advance that you’re joining us.”
Boy, I hate the way he refers to the two of them as “us.”
The wind is picking up. Without saying a word to each other, we gather up our belongings and start to head back down the beach. Others are doing the same.
“Okay,” I say, “I am officially invited.” I bet she won’t be thrilled to hear that update.
It suddenly comes to me to ask, “I’m sure by now you saw the inscription she wrote to you in her book. ‘We pardon to the extent that we love.’ What did it mean?”
He shrugs. “I have no idea.”
We slog through the sand. I keep thinking. And then I get it. “Jack, you broke off the relationship.”
“Yes, and I’m still ashamed of my cowardly behavior. The very next day after that embarrassing dinner, I left her a note and went straight to the airport. I guess maybe the quote means she’s forgiving me for dumping her in that unmanly way.”
Now I know what that weird expression means—my blood suddenly runs cold. “Jack, maybe I shouldn’t go.”
“Nah,” he says, smiling. “I can’t wait to see you gals together.”
I doubt there’ll be mermaids singing to each other. More like sirens slinging mud.