The Sea Taketh (Alex Singer) (2 page)

             
“Sure, I’ll call you this afternoon.” I look at my watch and find it is almost eleven. “I’ve got to go. I’m supposed to eat lunch with Gramps.”

             
I run through the town, hoping my bra can handle the strain. I wave to friends and neighbors as I pass. Turning onto the beach, I disappear in the rugged shoreline. This is my domain. I know it better than anyone. I spend all my free time at the seashore, walking the coast, listening the breathing of the waves. Like Gramps, the sea is in my blood.

I make my rounds, checking the beaches and tide pools. Finding only a few sticks of driftwood, I sigh. I am going to have to break into my cache. Over the years, I have accumulated a substantial pile of driftwood which I keep very well hidden. It is my rainy day fund for the things I need.

Making sure no one is watching, I roll a large rock and crawl into the hole behind it. Slithering like a snake, I work my way to the back of the small cave. I found it by accident on one of my many trips to the beach. I climbed a small hill and fell through the sand into the cave. I spent the next few months securing the ceiling and walls to make it my cache.

Once there is enough headroom, I stand and go to my pile of wood. I pick several nice pieces, and grab a few shells from my stack of shells. On the outside, I return the cover to the entrance and carefully smooth the sand to hide my activities. This is when I realize that the wind is blowing fiercely. Gramps’ storm has arrived right on time.

Holding tightly to my treasures, I run toward the village. I am on the final stretch when the wind surges. I trip on a jagged rock. One of my shells slips and slices my hand. I recoil and drop the shells into a tide pool. Using words I learned from my grandfather, I wrap my hand with a clean sock from my swim bag. With my uninjured hand, I reach deep into the pool, retrieving the shells. I am just about to stand up when something catches my eye. There is a strange shell in the bottom of the tide pool. Curious, I pick it up, but I don’t have time to inspect it. The winds are picking up, and I still have to go see Bill. I stuff it deep into my jeans’ pocket.

The sock is saturated with blood, but I hide it behind my back as I push my way into Bill’s shop. Behind the counter is a big burly man with a full beard, and tacky Hawaiian shirt. Bill smiles when he sees me.

“Alex, you don’t know how happy I am to see you! I just sold the last of the drift wood and there are a few days left before the season officially ends.”

“Hey, Bill. How much for the wood and shells?” I say, getting straight to business.

He continues to smile as he pulls out his calculator. He quickly adds a bunch of numbers. “I’ll give you twenty bucks for everything, but only because you bring me the best stuff. Don’t tell anyone else, or I’ll have an uprising on my hands.”

             
With the twenty in my pocket, I run for home. It is pouring, and by the time I push open the door, I am drenched. “Gramps, I’m home!” I call out of breath.

             
“You’re late.” He meets me in the hallway. There was a look of relief on his face… until I lift my wrapped hand.  “Damn it, Alex!” he swears, unwrapping the sock, and inspecting the wound. “What did you do?”

             
“I tripped and sliced it on a shell.”

             
“It’s pretty deep. You’ll need stitches. I’ll go get the truck to take you to the hospital.”
              “No,” I say pulling my hand away. “Marjory can sew it up. She only charges a portion of what the emergency room would cost.”

             
“But I thought that Marjory scares you?” He raises one of his bushy eyebrows.

             
“She doesn’t scare me. She’s just a little creepy. But she’s willing to barter.  I’d rather have her stitch up my hand and save our money for windows.”

Fact # 2 – Marjory Rockwell is creepy.

Proof – She talks to herself and refers to herself as “we” instead of “I,” wears clothes left behind by tourists, and eats more fish than a shark.

             
Gramps nods. He rewraps my hand and puts a raincoat over my shoulders before grabbing his own. With an arm around me, he leads me back into the storm. We cross the street to a large, gloomy, Victorian house on a cliff. The shutters are closed, but a faint flickering of light can be seen behind them. I turn into the wind as Gramps knocks. The wind whistles across the decaying porch. The door flies open.

             
“He’s angry tonight!” An old woman screeches under a black shawl. “Someone’s been very naughty!”

             
“Hello, Marjory,” says Gramps as he tries to shield me from the wind. “Can we come in? Alex hurt her hand.”

             
“The beauty?” she asks as she tears her gaze from the sea. She looks at me and gently takes my hurt hand. “We can’t have this! No, we can’t! The Singer beauty can’t be damaged!”

Fact #3 – Marjory Rockwell is
creepy but she’s also a good and loyal neighbor.

Proof – She never refuses help to those in need, rescues stray animals and finds them homes, visits and
assists elderly people who are nearly twenty years younger than her, and babysat me for free when I was younger.

             
She pulls me into her house behind her. Gramps follows and shuts the door to keep the wind out. Marjory directs me to a seat next to the blazing fireplace in her parlor.

             
Marjory has always called me the “Singer Beauty,” but not because I’m beautiful. She calls me that because my grandmother and mother were great beauties. The way Gramps tells it, boys would throw punches just for the chance to sit next to them on buses. Unlike most girls, I’m grateful I didn’t inherit that particular…um…quality. I want to be known for my mind, not my bra size. I’m a nerd through and through and proud of it.

             
Looking around Marjory’s old Victorian house, I think it must have been lovely, years ago. Once elegant chandeliers and paintings of long-since-gone Victorians still hang on the walls, but all the furniture is covered with dusty sheets. For as long as I can remember, Marjory’s home has been like this. I once asked Gramps about it, and he told me that Marjory doesn’t own the home. Her family has been the caretakers there for over a hundred years. He couldn’t tell me about the owners because it was before he married Grandma.                                               

Marjory goes to a closest to get her equipment. Dried plants hang from a corner. The shelves are lined with the oddest assortment of supplies. Bottles of revolting salves and rem
edies are labeled in Marjory’s scribbled handwriting. In many ways, Marjory lives up to her reputation as a witch: she talks to herself, rummages for the most disgusting ingredients along the shore, and is at least half crazy. But the reason the old timers go to her for medical care, instead of Dr. Powers, is her cures and remedies work. There has been more than one instance when one of the doctor’s treatments hasn’t worked but Marjory’s has.

Shuffling back from the closet, Marjory carries a wooden tray with some simple pieces of medical equipment. She places the tray on a small table and takes the seat across from me. Very carefully, her wrinkled fingers unwind the bloody sock. She shakes her head when she sees the deep cut.

“This won’t do.” She clicks her tongue. “We must stitch it. This will hurt the Singer beauty but just for a moment.”

She opens a jar and sprinkles a green powder into the cut. My eyes fill with tears as the wound burns. Before I can blink them away, the pain stops. Working nimbly, Marjory sews up the cut in perfect, even stitches. I watch the procedure with great scientific interest. I wrinkle my brow as foul smelling balm is generously applied to the wound before it’s wrapped in gauze.

“The Singer beauty must not swim for five days,” Marjory gently pats my cheek.

“Thank you, Marjory,” Gramps says. “What do I owe you?”

“Thomas owes us nothing,” the old woman smiles as she stands. “We are grateful for the fish.”

I know immediately what she is talking about. Every time Gramps brings in his catch, he leaves Marjory a bucket of some of his smaller fish. He has been doing this as long as I can r
emember. It’s just the kind of thing Gramps does.

“Then I’ll bring in enough wood to last you through the storm,” Gramps disappears out her back door.

I help Marjory clean up her equipment.

             
“The Singer beauty must have lots of suitors?” she asks.

             
“Boys are a joke,” I answer.

             
“No admirers?” She puts up the balm.

             
“Only if you count Jackson Powers,” I say.

             
She drops the wooden tray and looks at me with wide eyes. “Singer beauty, stay away from the Powers offspring! You are not meant for such as them!”

*     *     *

Marjory’s strange words echo in my mind as Gramps and I trudge through the rain on the return trip home. She has always had a degree of contempt for Dr. Powers and his family, but I thought she liked me. Ever since I was very young, she seemed to take an interest in my welfare. I often spent time with her while Gramps was fishing. Marjory is the one who taught me where to find the best shells and driftwood. She freaks me out at times, like a peculiar great- aunt should; however, I never expected her to think that Jackson is too good to date me.

Hypothesis #
3 –I hurt Marjory’s feelings when I turned down a half-rotten peach last Tuesday.

             
“Alex, why don’t you go take it easy?” says Gramps as he takes off my raincoat. “I’ll whip up something for a late lunch.”

             
I kiss his weathered cheek before going down the hall to my room. I haven’t changed a thing in the room since my mom decorated it for me seven years earlier. The old, sky-blue paint is cracked and peeling in places. My faded curtains have seahorses on them, matching the blanket on my bed. There is a huge, cracked window which overlooks the sea, but all that I can see at the moment are raindrops running across the duct-taped glass.

I take off my wet clothes and put on a thick nightgown. After hanging up my wet clothes in the bathroom, I return to my room and curl up in my bed.

“Alex,” Gramps opens the door. He has a steaming bowl in his hands “I made you some soup.”

I sit up and gratefully accept the soup. It’s just chicken noodle soup from a can, but it tastes wonderful. Gramps sits on the bed while I eat.

“Jen called,” he says. “I told her that you would have to postpone the movie. I also called Coach Jones and told him you wouldn’t be to swimming practice until Wednesday.”

I put down my spoon. “But Marjory only said five days?” I complain.

“Alex, you scared me to death.” He looks down at his calloused hands. “You’re free to go into the village but no beach or swimming for the rest of summer vacation. I want you resting and healing.”

“Yes, Gramps.” I surprise myself with a yawn.

He pats my back and kisses my forehead. “Why don’t you take a nap? I’m going to check on the boat.”

             
It isn’t long before I fall asleep.

             
My dreams are filled with images that constantly haunt me. The ocean lulls the boat beneath me. Sunshine warms my face. I feel the refreshing ocean spray on my face. The world has never been more beautiful. Then, quite suddenly, the storm clouds roll in, and I am clinging to the side of the boat. Slowly my grip weakens, and I am ripped into the tempestuous sea. Water surrounds my body, dragging me to the depths. I fight against it, kicking and screaming silently beneath the waves. The harder I fight, the deeper I descend.  Water swallows the light as I sink. Then there is darkness… only darkness.

             
Knock! Knock!

             
I sit up, rub my eyes, and find the house is also very dark.

             
Knock! Knock!

             
I stumble through the darkness, turning on lights as I go. Finally, I open the front door.

             
“It’s about time!” Jen pushes her way into the house. She pulls back her drenched hood; her short, brown hair is matted against her head. She opens a soaked brown paper bag, and pulls out a video and a carton of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.

“Since you couldn’t come to the movie, I brought the movie to you.” She hands the vi
deo to me. “You go get it started. I’ll dish up the ice cream.”

“You’re the best,” I say.

Fact # 4 – I
am lucky to have a friend as awesome as Jen.

Proof – When I ripped my pants in the sixth grade, she let me wear her jeans
, leaving her with nothing but nasty gym shorts to wear for the rest of the day – enough said.

             
“I know!” She laughs from the kitchen. “How’s the hand?”

             
“Stiff,” I answer as I turn on the video.

             
“I heard Coach was upset, but no one argues with Tom. What did Dr. Powers have to say?”