This short story, the first free offering, is from the collection "Since the Sky Blew Off: The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction, Vol. 1"
NOT JUST TRACES OF ME
He remembered it so well.
The bridge over the bay. The shipyard, quiet and empty at this hour. The clam shack, plywooded until spring. The turn into park. The access road, freshly plowed. And the pine trees. A wall of pines, blocking his view of the ocean. But he could hear it.
He drove with the window down, and he could hear it, boiling and swirling against the rocks.
The bridge over the bay. The shipyard, quiet and empty at this hour. The clam shack, plywooded until spring. The turn into park. The access road, freshly plowed. And the pine trees. A wall of pines, blocking his view of the ocean. But he could hear it.
He drove with the window down, and he could hear it, boiling and swirling against the rocks.
"This is where I will be," she had said. "Not
just traces of me, but me. Me, Donny. Me."
On down the road, passing no one, the radio off. Past the
refreshment stand to the edge of the parking lot, buried in white drifts.
Stopping the car, silencing the engine, getting out and standing, his breath
enveloping him like steam. A cloudless sky, full of stars, and dominated by a
frozen moon. Starting toward the beach, his footsteps puncturing the crusty
snow with a sound like eggshells being crushed.
He remembered.
The two of them, there between the rocks, newly met, crazy
in love. Kissing, and whispering, and then his hand under her suit, and then
both of them unable to wait, stripping, making desperate love that leaves their
bodies shaking and soaked in sweat.
Summer, and no end to time, no beginning, just him with her
on a deserted beach on the sun-drenched coast of Maine.
"This is where I will be," she said that first
they when they had dressed, and were moving arm-in-arm back to her car.
"I will linger here for you."
He walked.
The sound of the ocean, louder, angrier as if battered the
granite rocks, laminated with icy spray.
Out of the parking lot and onto the boardwalk, which the wind had swept of snow. Closer now.
Through the dunes, the beach plums bearing last autumn's shriveled fruit. Stepping onto sand. Stepping over dead crabs. Driftwood. A rotted can. Tangles of seaweed, spit out by the cleansing surf. South, to where the rocks began.
Climbing now, the ocean pounding in his ears. Over the ridge and down to sand again.
Out of the parking lot and onto the boardwalk, which the wind had swept of snow. Closer now.
Through the dunes, the beach plums bearing last autumn's shriveled fruit. Stepping onto sand. Stepping over dead crabs. Driftwood. A rotted can. Tangles of seaweed, spit out by the cleansing surf. South, to where the rocks began.
Climbing now, the ocean pounding in his ears. Over the ridge and down to sand again.
It was her theory.
He never expected to have to test it. He expected them to go
on forever.
Jokingly, she called it the Theory of Endurability, a play on Einstein’s words.
She did not laugh at the concept. It was impossible to scientifically prove, of course. You either believed it or you didn't.
She did.
She said she felt it in her soul. She said it was a part of nature, the most mysterious part. She said that an echo of every event lingers forever in the places where it occurs. Visit a battlefield, she said, and if you are patient – if you will give them their chance – you will feel the soldiers. You will hear their weapons, smell their gunpowder, see their dead and their dying. Every detail of the battle, no matter how insignificant or long ago, still lingering.
Still faintly echoing, on and on through eternity, like light from a star a billion light years away.
Jokingly, she called it the Theory of Endurability, a play on Einstein’s words.
She did not laugh at the concept. It was impossible to scientifically prove, of course. You either believed it or you didn't.
She did.
She said she felt it in her soul. She said it was a part of nature, the most mysterious part. She said that an echo of every event lingers forever in the places where it occurs. Visit a battlefield, she said, and if you are patient – if you will give them their chance – you will feel the soldiers. You will hear their weapons, smell their gunpowder, see their dead and their dying. Every detail of the battle, no matter how insignificant or long ago, still lingering.
Still faintly echoing, on and on through eternity, like light from a star a billion light years away.
It wasn't only a function of war, she'd explained. Wasn't
only a function of tragedy, although tragedy almost certainly left the stronger
imprint.
Every conversation, every handshake, every walk through a park, every plunge into a pool, every baby's smile, every mother's hug, every lover's summertime kiss on the sun-drenched coast of Maine – echoes of it all, lingering forever, like some kind of metaphysical fingerprint that cannot be erased.
Every conversation, every handshake, every walk through a park, every plunge into a pool, every baby's smile, every mother's hug, every lover's summertime kiss on the sun-drenched coast of Maine – echoes of it all, lingering forever, like some kind of metaphysical fingerprint that cannot be erased.
This was their beach.
It had been four years, a very different season, but he was
sure of it. "Our place," she'd called it.
Rocks to both sides, and tucked in there between, a sliver of bleached sand. Such a secluded spot.
Where he had had her that very first time, had her with no blanket, just him on her on sand, their hearts exploding out of their ribcages. He closed his eyes and he could see her, just as she'd promised, could feel her engine-hot body, the incredible taste of salt on her skin, his mind and his senses crazy all over again. In his trousers, his masculinity stirred, and it was as if she was really there, opening herself to him, glistening
Rocks to both sides, and tucked in there between, a sliver of bleached sand. Such a secluded spot.
Where he had had her that very first time, had her with no blanket, just him on her on sand, their hearts exploding out of their ribcages. He closed his eyes and he could see her, just as she'd promised, could feel her engine-hot body, the incredible taste of salt on her skin, his mind and his senses crazy all over again. In his trousers, his masculinity stirred, and it was as if she was really there, opening herself to him, glistening
Do not wait.
She'd come to him nightly in his dreams the last two weeks –
the last two weeks of December – and that, only that. had been her message.
You know where I will be.
And then her final words, just last night, only hours before
beginning his drive east from Chicago, where he'd settled after her drowning.
I want you, Donny. I want you now.
He was at water's edge.
The waves foamed at his feet, soaking his boots. Ahead, the
ocean. To both sides, the rocks.
Above, moon and so many millions of stars, impossible to
count.
He started with his gloves. His wool cap. Then his coat. One
arm, then the other, folding it and placing it in a careful bundle on the
beach. He took his watch and tossed it ahead of him, into the water, black and
noisily restless.
Only once had she indicated it was possible to be more than a trace.
Only once had she indicated it was possible to be more than a trace.
You could exist like that forever, she'd said, but
only if you plan ahead.
He unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it to the sand.
The wind caught it, whipping it along the beach until it snagged on rocks. He felt that wind on his bare chest. It had an edge like a blade, but he did not mind. Did not notice. Everything he was feeling now was concentrated lower in his body. He stooped to get at his boots. His fingers already were beginning to numb, and he had difficulty with the laces, but eventually he loosened them. His socks. His belt. His fly. His trousers falling down around his ankles in a heap.
The wind caught it, whipping it along the beach until it snagged on rocks. He felt that wind on his bare chest. It had an edge like a blade, but he did not mind. Did not notice. Everything he was feeling now was concentrated lower in his body. He stooped to get at his boots. His fingers already were beginning to numb, and he had difficulty with the laces, but eventually he loosened them. His socks. His belt. His fly. His trousers falling down around his ankles in a heap.
He stepped out.
Now he saw her, a hundred yards out, dancing just above the
waves, the moon casting silvery shadows across the whitecaps.
I love you with all of my heart, she'd said the last
time he saw her. I will love you forever.
He walked seaward, deeper and
deeper, eager for her embrace.
LANDING PAGE for all the Free Reads during #coronavirus
(Should you wish to purchase any of my collections and books, fiction and non-fiction, visit www.gwaynemiller.com/books.htm)
LANDING PAGE for all the Free Reads during #coronavirus
(Should you wish to purchase any of my collections and books, fiction and non-fiction, visit www.gwaynemiller.com/books.htm)
No comments:
Post a Comment