tides

The moment is a painting — calm waters, fine sand and rocky outcroppings, untamed shrubs bending to the wind, and a lone boy standing at the edge of the tide.

She breathes it all in. The city, the unreliable car, the cramped apartment, the suitcase, it’s all somewhere behind them and these weatherworn cliffsides and those hilltop mansions. It’s a quiet part of the beach, this spot Mr. Whittaker suggested.

You know what you need? Sunshine. Take that boy of yours to the beach.

She watches Luke pick his way across the rocks, careful not to disturb the creatures in the pools, strategic in his selection of shells and sand-dollars and pebbles. He is a gentle boy, quiet and calm and with a smile that makes her heart ache. She can hardly believe he’s already eight. They’ve been here for nearly two years now, most Sundays spent in an impossible search for the perfect beach.

(She remembers endless New York summers on long stretches of sand, stolen kisses in the surf and the sharp of fingers brushing as the sky turns technicolor masterpiece. They were bottles of champagne then, young and sparkling and with something that she’s lost since then.)

You’re beautiful, you know that?

She squeezes her eyes shut, tilts her head back, sinks into the shore-warm. She will not think about him. He is New York, she is California. He is blizzard-hearted and boroughs-vicious. She is sun-kissed and sun-shined.

He would laugh at her now. She can hear his bitter — A secretary? I thought you wanted more, Betty. She can see the smirk, that twist that charmed her once upon a sunset.

You want a job? What, mine not good enough? Need more, huh?

(She should open her eyes, remind herself she’s here, now, with Luke a kitetail away.)

A slap cracks through the air and she jerks upright, frantic to her marrow. But Luke is there, still examining the seaweed. Nothing but a strong wave against a rock. She takes a deep breath. Then another. Then another.

You’re not going anywhere. I won’t let you.

They had gone back to the beach for their honeymoon, laughing and drawing futures in the sand all summer long. She was happy — she thought she was — it felt like she was —

But summer had faded into fall and his father knew someone who went to school with someone and suddenly they were tucked into an apartment just this side of unfashionable. Those were endless days, too. Him catching trains and staying late, her choosing wallpaper and reading every letter from her mother, twice. She’d pretend not to notice how many he’d had, he’d pretend she enjoyed herself.

It’s a boy.

An unruly tuft of black hair and the brightest blue eyes she’d ever seen. The quietest baby the doctor had ever delivered. The gentlest child the nurses had seen. The only child she asked for.

He’d wanted another. She didn’t. He demanded. She resisted. He decided it was easier to stay at the office even later. There’s an irony here, something about him bedding his secretary and her becoming one, but she blinks it away.

You are my wife.

She watches as Luke loses his footing and rebalances, analyzes where he went wrong, continues his exploration. In the two years of visiting beaches, they’ve swum as far as they can, run through sweeping tides, built sandcastles down the length of the berms. But he is happiest in moments like this — lonely coastlines and lapping water and tide pools full of life.

In moments like this, she finally allows herself to stretch the length of the towel and just be, slowly earning the tan she always thought was Hollywood magic. It’s low tide and Luke is safe. She can rest now.

You’ll never get a divorce. They’ll never let you. I’ll never let you.

…

“She said it’s nice out there,” Louise says, watching as Frank lifts Luke to pet the horse’s nose. “Nevada. Well, nice enough, I suppose.”

“Already remarried, I hear,” Betty says, and the condensation on the glass slips through her fingers, drips onto her skirt.

Louise hums, sips her iced tea, left hand resting casually on her bump. “Ranch hand is what she told us,” she says, “but I have a feeling they knew each other before Reno.”

Betty smiles, winces at the tug on her eye. Louise glances over at her, clenches her jaw.

“Betty…”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. If you need ice…”

She waves it off. “I’m fine. Really. It’s fine.”

Luke has moved on to the sheep. Her boy is beaming, rattling off questions that Frank, bless him, is trying to answer.

“Are you going back?”

She shifts in her chair, bites back the grimace. “He has a company dinner on Friday.”

“That’s not going away by Friday, honey.”

She shrugs. “I know. But unless he tells me to stay here, it’ll be worse than this by Monday.”

Frank gestures to Luke, holds out a be patient hand, reaches into his pockets, reveals two apples. She watches Frank pull out a knife and cut them in quarters, the juices dripping down his palm as he tells Luke how to hold them out to the sheep. Luke’s face goes serious as he places the apple pieces carefully on his palm and holds it out. One of the flock noses up to him and munches it up, and Luke giggles so loudly she can hear it from here.

Betty’s lemonade is long forgotten in her hand as she watches Luke clamber over fences with Frank, settle into the grass beside the animals. She wants him to be this free all the time, wants him to feel safe and loved and…

“Divorce isn’t illegal.”

She looks at her friend, wants to raise an eyebrow but knows it’ll hurt.

“It’s all but for Catholics,” she points out.

“Is the body of Christ worth all this?” Louise asks quietly.

“It’d be a lifelong punishment.”

“So is this marriage.”

“If I suggest it,” Betty says slowly, “it’ll make everything worse.”

“I know,” Louise says. “But promise you’ll think about it.”

She nods. They both know it’s meaningless.

…

She pulls herself up just enough to spot Luke again, lowering her sunglasses to make sure he’s safe. He’s found a stick and is prodding the tide pool with even strokes. He looks over just as she starts to smile and grins, waving the arm with the stick wildly as he gestures at his feet. She waves back, watches as he returns to his scientific exploration. Eight years and he’s still her ever-fixed mark, her lodestar and her criterion. If he is content to poke at tide pools, who is she to interfere?

A quick scan of the beach — still no one. Still safe. She had told Luke to call for her if he spotted anyone, but he’s so engrossed in his unknowable game she doesn’t really trust him to notice. She settles back again with a little shimmy, adjusting her suit and glasses. She shuts her eyes against the glare, tries to focus on every grain of sand beneath her towel, wiggles her toes in the sunshine.

…

Her face is bruise-blue, hairline to chin, all down the left side. There’s a cut under her eye and her lip is swollen.

She’s sure it’s hardly what they expected at three in the morning.

There is no hesitation. She’s ushered through the door, Luke close behind. He’s shaking, fingers tight around his careworn bear. His coat is off by one button, she notices. Wonders if it makes her a bad mother.

Ruth fusses Luke away to their room and Betty knows she’ll look him over and kiss him better and smooth his hair and tuck him in.

By the time her mother is back, George has dug out a towelful of ice and she’s pressing it to her face. It stings along her cheek. She’s about to speak when she notices Ruth’s eyes drift to her wrist. She freezes. Her cuff has slipped. She knows they can’t see how far the marks go, but they can guess.

She has seen her parents angry before, but not like this. Her mother’s anger is quiet, cold, but she thinks if her father were younger, he would find his son-in-law tonight and kill him.

She wonders just how much God forgives.

“He hit him.” Her whisper is a shout and she can’t look at them. “He grabbed him and hit him and I…”

Ruth joins her on the sofa, hands wound together tight. “I put him to bed,” she soothes. “He’ll be all right. Just needs sleep.”

George marches back to the kitchen, and it makes Betty shake and gulp and sob and press the ice closer to her face.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know I shouldn’t have… but Luke…”

Her mother still hasn’t spoken, her father has disappeared, and she is suddenly aware of the fact that she is out of options.

In hushed misery: “I’ll go back in the morning.”

“Like hell you will,” George says, and she jumps as he exchanges a new towel for the old one.

(Ruth studies her daughter’s face and aches. The nose she kissed moments after delivery, the eyes that melted George’s heart, the mouth that turned up so many smiles. Everything blossoming in shades of hurt.)

“He won’t let me go.”

“Then don’t ask permission,” Ruth says firmly. “You brought your things?”

“Some,” Betty says, pointing with her free hand, “but…”

Ruth is already unlatching the suitcase and inspecting its contents. She moves to the purse, runs her fingers over the thin stack of bills.

(That is something they can fix, she thinks, brokenhearted. Money, clothes, tickets, rent — easy problems. Hurt and fear and faith, less so.)

“I’ll call Ada in the morning,” Ruth says, and when Betty tries to argue, she’s met with, “You should take a bath. I’ll put you in the spare room.”

She settles under the blankets, scrubbed and grieving, listening to her parents’ murmurs in the kitchen, feeling every inch the prodigal child.

And for the first time in years, she sleeps.

…

A splash wakes her. She blinks. The sun is lower now. She sits up.

There is a man standing on the rocks beside Luke.

…

“Reno,” Ruth agrees. “Ada can check in with you, and after six weeks, she’ll take you back to Los Angeles.”

“What’ll I do?” Betty asks, glancing at the papers between them. “I’ve never had a job.”

“You’ll find something,” George says. “Ada knows people. She’ll find a good place for you.”

She nods, studying the notes and times and stations. “What about Luke?”

“He needs you,” Ruth says, her palm warm on Betty’s. “Just you. And he’ll love California.”

…

The man looks about her age. He’s taller than… Less broad. She can’t help but notice the clean lines of his body, the way his skin glistens with sweat, his hair toasted gold by the sun. She is a woman, after all, and has been a lonely one for two years. But he’s a stranger, so she stands up.

“Luke,” she calls, pushing the panic down, “it’s time to go.”

…

“Mr. Clark Whittaker,” Ada says, “this is my niece, Betty West.”

She shakes his hand dutifully. “Pleasure, sir.”

“Your aunt says you’re in need of a job,” he says, and for all his size and presence, he has kind eyes.

“Yes, sir. Though I’ll admit I have very little experience in, well, anything.”

He laughs. “I’m sure we can find something for you. I’ve been looking for a secretary,” he adds thoughtfully. “How ‘bout we try you there?”

…

“Mom,” Luke says, breathless and full-handed, “there were fish and urchins and I found so many shells!”

“That’s great, sweetheart,” she says, tensing as the stranger comes closer.

“This is Harry,” he adds, grinning at the man. “He told me all about anemones and algae.”

“Fascinating,” she says, and the man smiles at her. “I’m Betty.”

“Harry Green. I went to Scripps,” he explains, and when she raises her eyebrow, he adds, “The Institution of Oceanography, I mean. Not… you know… Scripps.”

“Interesting,” she says, and bless him, he’s not looking her up and down despite the fact that her suit is less than conservative.

(She has an urge to cover herself, hide the marks that have been gone for years now. Maybe they run deeper than she thought.)

The sun catches a chain dangling down his bare chest and she leans closer, eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “St. Michael?”

“Yeah,” he says. “From my mom back in New York. Mariners, you know. I went to mass this morning,” he continues, “but it’s too beautiful a day not to come out here and admire God’s creation.”

She nods, looks past his shoulder toward the water. “It really is.”

She can feel him watching her, fills with light at the thought.

“He said it’s just you two,” he offers after a moment, hand to the back of his neck, a quiet apology.

“Nearly two years.”

His hand drops. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs. “Don’t be. Not widowed,” she adds quickly. “Divorced.”

“Ah.”

She bites her lip, glances back at Luke. He’s organizing his collection on the towel.

“We don’t go to mass,” she explains, lifts her left hand. “Communion.”

He smiles, and it is all things bright and beautiful. “Good. I was sure I would have remembered if you went to Our Lady.”

She feels the blush rise to her sunburned cheeks. Her right hand steals to her neck, rubs along the collarbone where a chain used to sit.

“You know,” he says, “there’s a great little ice cream place around here. Reminds me of a shop in Brooklyn.”

“I know the one,” she says. “Matteo.”

He beams. “That’s it. Could I treat you two?”

Luke’s interest shifts from shells to sweets in an instant. She should say no. This man is a stranger. She is a responsible mother. And something about him reminds her of endless summers and kisses in the surf.

But full of soft eyes and tender smiles, now.

“We’ll argue over the bill,” she says, “but we can share a table.”

Luke cheers and she laughs. Something warm flickers through Harry’s eyes. She ducks her head. Remembers what she’s wearing. Flusters at the boys to pack away the biology lab and picnic basket while she pulls on her blouse and shorts. She’s working on her shoes when the sand gives way and she slips and Harry takes her hand, steadies her.

…

“You know,” he says after, walking to her car with Luke seven steps ahead, “it’s not forbidden.”

“What?” she asks, wondering how their hands can be so close without touching.

“Loving again.”

She wants to argue, remind him of vows before God and promises made, but he just ducks in to press a kiss to her cheek.

Brushes his lips soft over an old shadow.