Landsman

Chapter Four “I watched you drag the boat across the sand, but I couldn’t help.” Jamie straightened and turned. He was taken aback that anyone would comment on his labor, but anger evaporated in an instant, like spume in sunlight, when he saw the speaker. With anger went impatience and surprise. The positive emotions of good humor and hope left as well. The only emotion that remained was wonderment. That emotion made it difficult to speak. “You look strong enough to carry the boat on your shoulders.” Jamie had to remember to move his lips to speak. “I’m not that strong.” “I really wanted to help, but I couldn’t have done anything.” Jamie’s lips broadened to a smile born of the simple pleasure of looking. “I can’t expect anyone to help. Besides, it’s just a few planks of sawn wood and treenails.” At eye level Jamie stared at hair striped blond and black—the young woman was not tall, but his feet had sunk in the soft mud of the shallow water. Her face was tan and slightly wider than it was long. Her nose was curved and feline-like with wide nostrils and a bulge at the tip. Her sensuous lips resembled waves in motion—the upper lip was poised to break over a bottom lip that had already crested. He couldn’t see the color of her eyes, as she wore reflective sunglasses. All he could see in the black lenses was his own bafflement. She wore an unbuttoned orange blouse over an emerald bikini top and low cut blue pants that started below her navel. Her midsection was as tan as her face. Strangely, her sandals concluded in elevated heels. He thought it must be difficult to walk on a beach in such heels. He couldn’t tell how she kept her balance. “You live around here?” she asked. Jamie stepped out of the water and onto the solid mud above the low tide line. They were no longer at eye level. “Right in that blue house up there.” “You’re tall,” she commented. “I’m six foot two.” Jamie raised his hands over his head. “I’m eight foot three when I lift my arms up.” “It must be great living on a beach.” “It is. How ‘bout you? Where do you live? I know it’s not around here. I’d have noticed, if you did.” “I live in Baltimore.” “This beach is a long way from Baltimore.” “I’m visiting my aunt, Mrs. Enterlin. She owns the Sudchester Arms. She’s getting old, so we have to check on her every now and again.” She didn’t disclose the real reason for her trip to East Ocean View. She had an arrangement-wrecking argument with her boyfriend and she fled Baltimore to test whether he would chase after her. She knew he would show up at the Sudchester repentant and regretful—it was merely a matter of time. He thought he dominated her, but the contrary was true. He thought she would fall in his arms once he started to show remorse, but he was wrong. She intended to make their reconciliation difficult. Out of spite she was going to make him pay. She supposed she would go back to Baltimore, but only if he debased himself sufficiently and if he bought her sufficient gifts. In the interim she intended to demonstrate that she could pick any male in the state of Virginia and turn him inside out and make him do tricks like a tamed seal in an aquatic show. She would prove to herself what her boyfriend foolishly gave up. Jamie heard the sea percolating through the grinds in the slack water. He heard the slap of the waves behind him. He heard the meowing of the gulls as they battled for scraps. He heard the unbroken voices of a troop of juveniles jostling in the water. He heard the monotonous conversations of the sun worshippers and he heard their radios, set to different stations at the same intrusive volume—for being in church they made a lot of noise. He heard the whirr of the unseen traffic on East Ocean View Ave. beyond the wall of dunes. Occasionally, there was a honking sound. He heard—he thought he heard—a voice asking for his name. “So do you have a name?” “Jamie,” he answered in spite of his trance, “Jamie Drake.” “Mine’s Christine Powers.” She stepped back hastily to avoid the surf that threatened to soak her sandals. “Where’re you going?” Jamie asked, following. “I hate the ocean.” “It’s a bay.” “It looks like an ocean.” She pointed to the waterline and stepped back a few more paces. “And I hate all this—this junk.” “It’s not junk,” Jamie said defensively. “Didn’t you ever go hunting for shells when you were young? Didn’t you ever search for deep sea life where the water was knee high, where needlefish were barracuda and sunnies were sharks and sea bugs giant squid?” “That was when I was young. Now, I—I don’t do those things.” “Why do you come to the beach if you don’t like the water or the sand?” “Boys,” she answered bluntly. “A beach is a place where people go to misbehave.” For safety’s sake Jamie stepped into the water at her response. For a moment he wanted to jump into his boat and row far out to sea. For a moment he wanted to dive in the sea and swim as far out as he was able. He became frightened that her bold statement mated unspoken desires not altogether disparate and he became frightened of his mawkward advance. He didn’t know what to say or do or where his skittish behavior was leading. He felt the most urgent attraction to her—to her body—and, simultaneously, the most intimidating ineptitude. He nodded, appreciably for no reason, and stared in the direction of Gosport toward a fleet that wasn’t steaming to his rescue. “I don’t think I have to worry about anything dragging me out,” Christine said, changing the subject when she perceived his discomfiture. She was prepared to navigate in tacks than in a straight run. “I think I’ve found my protector on the ocean—bay. You will protect me, Jamie Drake?” “On my honor.” He laughed and crossed his hands on his chest. “You don’t have anything to worry about on a beach, except for the sunlight. Life on a beach is mostly below ground. Kids like to bury themselves—or their parents—in the sand. Sometimes you see just their heads poking through. They wouldn’t be so eager to do that if they knew the awful-looking creatures that live in the moist sand. “Most of what you find in the wrack is perfectly safe and perfectly dead.” Jamie walked to the raddled hem the waves tied. He crouched and sifted through the knots of seaweed and clam culch deposited by the tide. He heard the sizzle of the surf as it ran across his feet, but he didn’t adjust his posture as he peeled the strands. He fingered carnelian-colored chitins broken off larger shells, loosened barnacles hard as teeth, and a knobbed whelk that could easily have served for the weapon that shattered the other specimens. He flicked the shells off his fingers as if they were marbles. He picked up a small shell chipped at the bottom. “This shell’s a volute—in this case, a con-volute. Just another piece of flobbage that comes ashore.” She bent over him and pointed. “What are those shells?” He hesitated to look up. Instead, he knelt on one foot and leaned to retrieve the shells. “Cockles, they’re cockles,” he answered. “Cardium costatum, I think, and Corculum cardissa. The latest in conchic.” “Why do you know the names of the species?” “I don’t know. It’s a habit of mine. I like to know the scientific names of things.” “I’m impressed. You must know a lot about the sea.” “I’m a student of conchology—conker for short, which makes me a conker-re.” He had to deepen his voice to get in the full sound of all the “r’s”. Jamie watched as a white-and-red beach ball trundled across the sand and into the water. A girl of about four years followed the ball. Properly trained, the girl stopped at the water’s edge and waited, but the tide wasn’t playing catch. It had no intention of throwing the ball back. Jamie stepped after the ball—he jogged a few steps to retrieve the ball before it floated to the next block. He walked back and gave the ball to the girl, who carried it with two hands.