Coldwater Revival: A Novel (19 page)

Twenty-six

Tate and I met at the dune every afternoon. And every afternoon I searched for Mama’s locket, without his knowing it, of course. I didn’t want to talk to Tate about the night I swam the sea. The ache in my heart was still too tender to return to that night. And so I kept my search a secret, along with all the other secrets in my heart.

The days were cooler now, as gunmetal skies of November often ushered in blustery winds and turbulent clouds that formed brief, but savage thunderstorms. At such times, Tate and I sought shelter beneath the overhang of Murdoch’s Bathhouse. Upon occasion, we entered the building and Tate treated me to a soda pop. I had regained much of my lost weight, and my appetite had restored itself sufficiently—enough to placate Granny’s persnickety observations. Jubilant over my physical improvement, Granny rarely forbade my daily walks to the beach; though she sometimes wrapped me in so many outer garments I resembled an Egyptian mummy.

Tate and I shared favors each time we met. As he approached, he would extend a fisted hand, demanding I guess what he’d brought me that day. My favorite gifts from Tate were his carvings, all as finely etched as the beautiful whooping crane. My gifts to Tate were mostly edible, as food maintained a high priority on his list of favorite things. Sometimes our presents were ridiculously silly, like the paper ring Tate slid on my finger one afternoon. By the time we parted that day, it had shredded to pieces. But I hid the precious scraps of ring in my cigar box anyway, just as I did every keepsake Tate gave me.

I no longer peeked at him from the corner of my eyes, thinking him a stranger I should fear. Nor did his behavior remind me of my brothers, as before. Unsure of my feelings for Tate, I puzzled over the way my heart picked up speed at first sight of his lanky form. I questioned if I had stumbled somewhere along the path to friendship; taken a wrong turn and lost my way. Or had I already fallen over the precipice of love and now drifted like a senseless feather in the wind? Whatever my feelings for Tate were, one thing was certain: For the few hours I was with him each day, I forgot to hurt as I did when I was alone.

The idea came to me in the nighttime hours, while clumps of sadness did push-ups against my chest and my wakeful eyes stared at a dark ceiling. Ironic, this plague of sleeplessness that had invaded me—a foe I’d not clashed with during months of druggedlike slumber. I thought about Granny and Mr. Panduso, still grieving after twenty-eight years. I’d be forty-one in twenty-eight years. Would sorrow stand by my side even then, faithfully escorting me through each chapter of my life?

I slipped from bed and hobbled to the window. Beyond the spread of curtains lay the stirring sea. I would return to it tomorrow. My heart jerked as I walked back to my bed. I lit the kerosene lantern and fished beneath the bed frame, retrieving my keepsake box from the floor.

I got to the beach an hour earlier than usual the next afternoon. What I planned to do had to be accomplished in privacy. Even Tate’s eyes were off limits to my sacred chore. Inspired by Mr. Panduso’s love offering to his family, I scoured the beach for the perfect dune: one within easy walking distance, but beyond the stretch of the sea’s far-reaching fingers. I recognized Micah’s dune the moment I spied it. Surrounded by higher, plumper ridges, it lay protected from wind and tide, like a baby elephant encircled by mother cows and long-tusked bulls.

I retrieved several keepsakes from the pocket of my skirt: a ribbon from Holly’s wedding bouquet, the flattened penny Elo and I placed on the railroad tracks, the China key Tate found on the docks. I spread them on the sand, along with a sand dollar and the lifeless pocketwatch Papa had given me a few years back. Such bounty! And I had many more treasures in my box under the bed. I sat and debated over which item to place in the dented cookie tin I had sneaked from Granny’s kitchen.

Like Mr. Panduso, I planned to visit Micah’s dune every day and add another memento to his tin. I dug a hole at the edge of the dune, wedged the can in, and pressed it to a depth of several inches. I spread a swatch of red velvet in the bottom of the tin and placed Papa’s pocketwatch atop the cloth. In my mind I saw Micah—grabbing my hand, his eyes curiously wide as he gazed at the watch. While his smile flashed bright across my memory, I extended my pinky, readying it to poke the dimple in his cheek. ’Twas then he reared back his head, daring me to give chase. How the boys loved the chase, and once caught, they couldn’t get enough tickling. I’d tickle them until laughter swallowed all the air in their lungs. But before I could walk from the room, they’d be begging me for more.

To halt more mind pictures, I turned my face toward the sea. But the sea held its own gamut of memories. After tightening the lid, I scooped sand over the hole and jabbed a stick into the sand, marking its location. Tears poured from my eyes as I stood and buttoned my jacket, for I ached with a hurt that had not diminished at all.

Most likely Tate was already at our dune. After blotting my eyes with my jacket cuff, I gathered my crutch and gave Micah’s dune one last look. His treasure hole blended in perfectly with the sand. Someday, when my keepsake box held nothing but air, I would rummage additional gifts to share with Micah. He was ever so easy to please. I dragged in a breath that smelled of the sea and slid my tongue over lips that tasted of salt. I knew not if the flavor came from ocean mist or my tears.

It felt good to acknowledge my little brother’s life, to mark his passing in a tangible way. Perhaps this was the first step on my road to healing.

Redness must have rimmed my eyes as I greeted Tate a short time later. He sat with his legs bent and his elbows resting atop the pinnacle of his knees, He stared into the whitecapped ocean as though he’d caught sight of a mysterious sea monster.

“Hi,” I said. “Been waiting long?”

Tate raised his head and stared at me. I wondered if my appearance had caught him unaware. “Naw, not long.” He patted the sand beside him. “Guess I was off in another world somewhere. Have a seat.” Tate studied my face, his brows drawing together as his gaze honed in on my eyes, which still felt puffy and sore. “You been crying?”

I shrugged and then nodded. “Yeah … a little.” My cleverness with words astounded me at times.

“Then, I guess we’re both a little blue today.”

“What’s wrong, Tate?” As I sat beside him, I ran my fingers across the paper-wrapped bundle in my jacket pocket. Perhaps a slice of Granny’s pound cake would cheer Tate a bit. When he returned his gaze to the sea, my heart kicked into high gear, for I could now view his profile, unimpeded by distance or sparseness of time.

Free of tethers of any sort, his wild curls swished about his head like Old Jack’s tail across his rump. I sat unmoving, fascinated by his blacker-than-night curls. Coming from a family of fair-haired people, Tate’s darkness intrigued me. He reminded me of heroes I had only read about—sword-bearing swain and knightly lords and princes. Even the brush of whiskers on his chin spoke of strength and masculinity. The wind proved to be my friend as it blew across the dunes with a blustery attitude, for it whipped my hair here and there, concealing the boldness of my stare. I gathered wisps of my curly brown hair, stuffed them behind my ears, and watched Tate. While he kept a steadfast gaze on the sea, I inched a tad closer to him.

“Been thinking about my mother. She died five years ago today … just three days after my eleventh birthday.” Tate picked up a clump of hardened soil and whipped it into the ocean without looking my way again.

This was the first time I’d seen Tate in anything but high spirits.

“Tuesday … when we were together, why didn’t you tell me it was your sixteenth birthday?” Mildly perturbed, I cruised on, hoping to crash through the barricade of Tate’s silence. “I would’ve baked you a cake or something.”

“Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell you.” Though slight, his grin had finally returned. “You know how much I hate your cooking.”

I punched Tate’s arm, though I was sure he couldn’t feel it through the thickness of his jacket sleeve. “I’m sorry about your mother. I know what it’s like to lose someone.” I felt a swell of tears flood my eyes. Swallowing hard, I blinked back wetness, determined not to submit to another siege of crying. As I fished in my pocket for a hanky, Tate thrust a white, neatly stitched cloth into my hand.

“One of these days you’re going to tell me what makes you so sad.” Tate’s gaze held steady as I honked my nose and wiped spit bubbles from my mouth. “I’d really like to know, Emma. Something really bad has hurt you. If you tell me about it, maybe I can help in some way.”

I took over Tate’s sea watch, gazing into choppy green waters while I composed my emotions. I desired to tell Tate everything. Get it off my heart, so to speak. But I thought I might die if I read condemnation in his eyes—should I divulge the full truth of my story to him.

“Ma used to say that when you shared your troubles with someone, you divided them in half. You might think some on that.”

“Tell me about her.” Avoiding the truth had become another bad habit of mine. My hands fidgeted with my skirt as I sat close to Tate, mesmerized by changes taking place on his face. His features shifted and moved about like a bucket of sloshing water, settling, at last, into a faraway smile.

“She was real pretty. Had long curly hair, black and shiny as a crow’s wing. I used to like it when people told me I looked like her. And, boy, did she love to laugh. She was always giggling about something. Always happy … always beautiful. Anyway, that’s what comes to mind when I think about her now.” Tate’s smile faded as he chewed on his upper lip and bobbed his head as though in agreement with himself. I knew he was remembering the way his mother’s lips curled up … the way her eyes twinkled when she burst into laughter. They were two of the things I most remembered about Micah’s laugh.

“’Course … that all changed once she found the bottle.”

“Found the bottle?” I didn’t mean to sound like a parrot, but Tate’s words confused me. I peered into his eyes, which were fixed with a stare into yesteryear.

“My pa was a longshoreman. He left us when I was six. But before he took off, the three of us were a family. A real family. We ate together, laughed together, and on his day off we’d do things … like walk the jetties, or swim in the bay. But the accident changed Pa.” Tate sighed and shook his head as he thought back on his childhood. “God help me, I loved that man. Thought there wasn’t another person in the world that could measure up to him.”

“What happened? I mean … to your pa?”

“Oh, it was a stupid, careless slipup. Pa and some men were hoisting a cargo net, bound for the hull of a ship. One of the metal hooks gave way and the crate crashed onto Pa’s foot. Mangled it like squashed tomatoes. The doctor couldn’t save his foot. Had to whack it off near the anklebone. After that, Pa turned angry and resentful. He wouldn’t smile … or talk to us. Guess he couldn’t stand the thought of being a useless cripple. He left after his foot healed. Just … disappeared one night and never came back.” Tate jerked his head toward me, aware, evidently, of the impact his words might have on a person who walked with a crutch. “I’m sorry, Emma. I could cut my tongue out for saying such a stupid thing. You gotta know I wouldn’t hurt your feelings for the world.”

“It’s all right. Believe me; you can’t say anything I haven’t heard a hundred times before. It doesn’t bother me most of the time … guess I’ve sort of grown used to it.” My heart thumped as I told my sweet lie to Tate, for careless words had too often wounded my heart and pinched my pride to the point of physical pain. I’d never in my life been complacent about my crippled condition, but the world didn’t need to know that. Did it?

“For a while, Ma tried real hard to keep things going for us. Worked as a housekeeper for a time. Took in laundry, too. But it was never enough to support us. Can’t tell you how many times we had to move because we couldn’t pay the rent. Times went from bad to worse. When I was eight, I quit school and hit the streets, scrapping for money any way I could. Picking pockets, stealing, selling the things I stole. I even worked as an errand boy for a while. I did everything but beg. Something inside me wouldn’t let me take charity, though it didn’t seem to bother me to rob people blind.”