Authors: Alice Adams
Sandy telephoned at two-fifteen. In his raspy voice he apologized; his assistant had been late getting in, he still had a couple of things to do. He would pick her up at three, three-thirty at the latest.
Irritating: Molly had sometimes thought that Sandy’s habitual lateness was his way of establishing control; at other times she thought that he was simply tardy, as she herself was punctual (but why?). However, wanting a good start to their weekend, she told him that that was really okay; it did not matter what time they got to Carmel, did it?
She had begun a rereading of
Howards End
, which she planned to take along, and now she found that the book was even better than she remembered it as being, from the
wonderful assurance of the first sentence, “One may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister—” Sitting in her sunny window, with her sleeping cats, Molly managed to be wholly absorbed in her reading—not in waiting for Sandy, nor in thinking, especially, of Carmel.
Just past four he arrived at her door: Sandy, in his pressed blue blazer, thin hair combed flat, his reddish face bright. Letting him in, brushing cheeks in the kiss of friends, Molly thought how nice he looked, after all: his kind blue eyes, sad witty mouth.
He apologized for lateness. “I absolutely had to take a shower,” he said, with his just-crooked smile.
“Well, it’s really all right. I’d begun
Howards End
again. I’d forgotten how wonderful it is.”
“Oh well.
Forster
.”
Thus began one of the rambling conversations, more bookish gossip than “literary,” which formed, perhaps, the core of their friendship, its reliable staple. In a scattered way they ran about, conversationally, among favorite old novels, discussing characters not quite as intimates but certainly as contemporaries, as alive.
Was
Margaret Schlegel somewhat prudish? Sandy felt that she was; Molly took a more sympathetic view of her shyness. Such talk, highly pleasurable and reassuring to them both, carried Molly and Sandy, in his small green car, past the dull first half of their trip: down the Bayshore Highway, past San Jose and Gilroy, and took them to where (Molly well remembered) it all became beautiful. Broad stretches of bright green early summer fields; distant hills, grayish-blue; and then islands of sweeping dark live oaks.
At the outskirts of Carmel itself a little of her pre-dawn apprehension came back to Molly, as they drove past those imitation Cotswold cottages, fake-Spanish haciendas, or bright little gingerbread houses. And the main drag, Ocean
Avenue, with its shops, shops—all that tweed and pewter, “imported” jams and tea. More tourists than ever before, of course, in their bright synthetic tourist clothes, their bulging shopping bags—Japanese, French, German, English tourists, taking home their awful wares.
“You turn left next, on Dolores,” Molly instructed, and then heard herself begin nervously to babble. “Of course if the place has really been wrecked we don’t have to stay for two nights, do we. We could go on down to Big Sur, or just go home, for heaven’s sake.”
“In any case, sweetie, if they’ve wrecked it, it won’t be your fault.” Sandy laughed, and wheezed, and coughed. He had been smoking all the way down, which Molly had succeeded in not mentioning.
Before them, then, was their destination: the inn, with its clump of white cottages. And the meadow. So far, nothing that Molly could see had changed. No condominiums. Everything as remembered.
They were given the cabin farthest from the central office, the one nearest the meadow, and the river and the sea. A small bedroom, smaller kitchen, and in the living room a studio couch. Big windows, and that view.
“Obviously, the bedroom is yours,” Sandy magnanimously declared, plunking down his bag on the studio couch.
“
Well
,” was all for the moment that Molly could say, as she put her small bag down in the bedroom, and went into the kitchen with the sack of breakfast things. From the little window she looked out to the meadow, saw that it was pink now with wildflowers, in the early June dusk. Three large brown cows were grazing out there, near where the river must be. Farther out she could see the wide, gray-white strip of beach, and the dark blue, turbulent sea. On the other side of the meadow were soft green hills, on which—yes, one might have known—new houses had arisen. But somehow
inoffensively; they blended. And beyond the beach was the sharp, rocky silhouette of Point Lobos, crashing waves, leaping foam. All blindingly undiminished: a miraculous gift.
Sandy came into the kitchen, bearing bottles. Beaming Sandy, saying, “Mol, this is the most divine place. We must celebrate your choice. Immediately.”
They settled in the living room with their drinks, with that view before them: the almost imperceptibly graying sky, the meadow, band of sand, the sea.
And, as she found that she often did, with Sandy, Molly began to say what had just come into her mind. “You wouldn’t believe how stupid I was, as a very young woman,” she prefaced, laughing a little. “Once I came down here with a lawyer, from San Francisco, terribly rich. Quite famous, actually.” (The same man with whom she had so quickly rushed off to bed, on their arrival—as she did not tell Sandy.) “Married, of course. The first part of my foolishness. And I was really broke at the time—
broke
, I was poor as hell, being a typist to support my poetry habit. You remember. But I absolutely insisted on bringing all the food for that stolen, illicit weekend, can you imagine? What on earth was I trying to prove? Casseroles of crabmeat, endive for salads. Honestly, how crazy I was!”
Sandy laughed agreeably, and remarked a little plaintively that for him she had only brought breakfast food. But he was not especially interested in that old, nutty view of her, Molly saw—and resolved that that would be her last “past” story. Customarily they did not discuss their love affairs.
She asked, “Shall we walk out on the beach tomorrow?”
“But of course.”
Later they drove to a good French restaurant, where they drank a little too much wine, but they did not get drunk. And their two reflections, seen in a big mirror across the tiny
room, looked perfectly all right: Molly, gray-haired, darkeyed and thin, in her nice flowered silk dress; and Sandy, tidy and alert, a small plump man, in a neat navy blazer.
After dinner they drove along the beach, the cold white sand ghostly in the moonlight. Past enormous millionaire houses, and blackened windbent cypresses. Past the broad sloping river beach, and then back to their cabin, with its huge view of stars.
In her narrow bed, in the very small but private bedroom, Molly thought again, for a little while, of that very silly early self of hers: how eagerly self-defeating she had been—how foolish, in love. But she felt a certain tolerance now for that young person, herself, and she even smiled as she thought of all that intensity, that driven waste of emotion. In many ways middle age is preferable, she thought.
In the morning, they met the dog.
After breakfast they had decided to walk on the river beach, partly since Molly remembered that beach as being far less populated than the main beach was. Local families brought their children there. Or their dogs, or both.
Despite its visibility from their cabin, the river beach was actually a fair distance off, and so instead of walking there they drove, for maybe three or four miles. They parked and got out, and were pleased to see that no one else was there. Just a couple of dogs, who seemed not to be there together: a plumy, oversized friendly Irish setter, who ran right over to Molly and Sandy; and a smaller, long-legged, thin-tailed dark gray dog, with very tall ears—a shy young dog, who kept her distance, running a wide circle around them, after the setter had ambled off somewhere else. As they neared the water, the gray dog sidled over to sniff at them, her ears flattened, seeming to indicate a lowering of suspicion. She allowed herself to be patted, briefly; she seemed to smile.
Molly and Sandy walked near the edge of the water; the dog ran ahead of them.
The day was glorious, windy, bright blue, and perfectly clear; they could see the small pines and cypresses that struggled to grow from the steep sharp rocks of Point Lobos, could see fishing boats far out on the deep azure ocean. From time to time the dog would run back in their direction, and then she would rush toward a receding wave, chasing it backward in a seeming happy frenzy. Assuming her (then) to live nearby, Molly almost enviously wondered at her sheer delight in what must be familiar. The dog barked at each wave, and ran after every one as though it were something new and marvellous.
Sandy picked up a stick and threw it forward. The dog ran after the stick, picked it up and shook it several times, and then, in a tentative way, she carried it back toward Sandy and Molly—not dropping it, though. Sandy had to take it from her mouth. He threw it again, and the dog ran off in that direction.
The wind from the sea was strong, and fairly chilling. Molly wished she had a warmer sweater, and she chided herself: she could have remembered that Carmel was cold, along with her less practical memories. She noted that Sandy’s ears were red, and saw him rub his hands together. But she thought, I hope he won’t want to leave soon, it’s so beautiful. And such a nice dog. (Just that, at that moment: a very nice dog.)
The dog, seeming for the moment to have abandoned the stick game, rushed at a just-alighted flock of sea gulls, who then rose from the wet waves’ edge and with what must have been (to a dog) a most gratifying flapping of wings, with cluckings of alarm.
Molly and Sandy were now close to the mouth of the river,
the gorge cut into the beach, as water emptied into the sea. Impossible to cross—although Molly could remember when one could, when she and whatever companion had jumped easily over some water, and had then walked much farther down the beach. Now she and Sandy simply stopped there, and regarded the newish houses that were built up on the nearby hills. And they said to each other:
“What a view those people must have!”
“Actually the houses aren’t too bad.”
“There must be some sort of design control.”
“I’m sure.”
“Shall we buy a couple? A few million should take care of it.”
“Oh sure, let’s.”
They laughed.
They turned around to find the dog waiting for them, in a dog’s classic pose of readiness: her forelegs outstretched in the sand, rump and tail up in the air. Her eyes brown and intelligent, appraising, perhaps affectionate.
“Sandy, throw her another stick.”
“You do it this time.”
“Well, I don’t throw awfully well.”
“Honestly, Mol, she won’t mind.”
Molly poked through a brown tangle of seaweed and small broken sticks, somewhat back from the waves. The only stick that would do was too long, but she picked it up and threw it anyway. It was true that she did not throw very well, and the wind made a poor throw worse: the stick landed only a few feet away. But the dog ran after it, and then ran about with the stick in her mouth, shaking it, holding it high up as she ran, like a trophy.
Sandy and Molly walked more slowly now, against the wind. To their right was the meadow, across which they
could just make out the cottages where they were staying. Ahead was a cluster of large, many-windowed ocean-front houses—in one of which, presumably, their dog lived.
Once their walk was over, they had planned to go into Carmel and buy some wine and picnic things, and to drive out into the valley for lunch. They began to talk about this now, and then Sandy said that first he would like to go by the Mission. “I’ve never seen it,” he explained.
“Oh well, sure.”
From time to time on that return walk one or the other of them would pick up a stick and throw it for the dog, who sometimes lost a stick and then looked back to them for another, who stayed fairly near them but maintained, still, a certain shy independence.
She was wearing a collar (Molly and Sandy were later to reassure each other as to this) but at that time, on the beach, neither of them saw any reason to examine it. Besides, the dog never came quite that close. It would have somehow seemed presumptuous to grab her and read her collar’s inscription.
In a grateful way Molly was thinking, again, how reliable the beauty of that place had turned out to be: their meadow view, and now the river beach.
They neared the parking lot, and Sandy’s small green car.
An older woman, heavy and rather bent, was just coming into the lot, walking her toy poodle, on a leash.
Their
dog ran over for a restrained sniff, and then ambled back to where Molly and Sandy were getting into the car.
“Pretty dog!” the woman called out to them. “I never saw one with such long ears!”
“Yes—she’s not ours.”
“She isn’t lost, is she?”
“Oh no, she has a collar.”
Sandy started up the car; he backed up and out of the
parking lot, slowly. Glancing back, Molly saw that the dog seemed to be leaving too, heading home, probably.
But a few blocks later—by then Sandy was driving somewhat faster—for some reason Molly looked back again, and there was the dog. Still. Racing. Following them.
She looked over to Sandy and saw that he too had seen the dog, in the rear view mirror.
Feeling her glance, apparently, he frowned. “Shell go home in a minute,” he said.
Molly closed her eyes, aware of violent feelings within herself, somewhere: anguish? dread? She could no more name them than she could locate the emotion.
She looked back again, and there was the dog, although she was now much farther—hopelessly far behind them. A small gray dot. Racing. Still.
Sandy turned right in the direction of the Mission, as they had planned. They drove past placid houses with their beds of too-bright, unnatural flowers, too yellow or too pink. Clean glass windows, neat shingles. Trim lawns. Many houses, all much alike, and roads, and turns in roads.
As they reached the Mission, its parking area was crowded with tour busses, campers, vans, and ordinary cars.
There was no dog behind them.
“You go on in,” Molly said. “I’ve seen it pretty often. I’ll wait out here in the sun.”