The Beauty of Death Vol.1

Fathomless Tides-1

FATHOMLESS TIDES

by Tim WaggonerA woman isn’t a puzzle to be solved, but rather a mystery to be enjoyed.

It’s the first thing Lila ever said to me, and now, standing on this thin strip of beach, gazing out at the slate-gray water of the Atlantic ocean, searching for some sign of her, these words return to me, like waves rolling into shore.

I shout her name—once, twice…At first there’s no answer, and then, from far out across the water, comes a reply. I can’t make out the words, but I can tell it’s a woman’s voice, and I’m fairly certain it’s hers. I try to spot her, but the sun’s above the horizon now, and I have to shade my eyes with my hand and squint. Even so, all I see is water.

Water, water, everywhere…

The voice—hers?—calls to me again, and this time I can tell what she says. Three simple words.

Come to me.

A cold pit yawns wide in my stomach, and I shake my head no, raise my hands as if to ward her off, and step backward. The sand beneath my sneakers suddenly shifts, feeling no more solid than the water it borders, and I almost slip and fall.

Laughter now, amused.

Fine. Then I’ll come to you.

I don’t see anything at first. I’m no longer shading my eyes, and the morning sunlight glares off the water in shards of too-bright light. Several seconds pass, and then I see a thin dark shape heading toward me across the water, and as it draws closer, I realize I’m looking at a shark’s fin. Panic surges through me like cold fire, and I no longer care about finding Lila. All I want to do is get the hell away from the water as fast as I can. But before I can turn to run, the sand subsides beneath my feet, and I sink up to my ankles. The sand solidifies then, becoming hard as cement, trapping me.

The fin is halfway to shore now, and I can see the water parting before it as it cleaves the ocean like a sharp black blade.

I try to shout for help, but I’m unable to form words. All that comes out of me is an inarticulate wail that ends in a choking sob. There are other people on the beach this morning, plenty of them. Young couples, parents with kids, older folks walking along the shore or sitting on blankets and watching the waves. They all turn to look at me, but none make a move to come to my aid. Instead they stare at me with inhuman night-black eyes, and they smile, revealing mouths filled with rows of sharp triangular teeth.

I hear laughter—her laughter—and it’s so very close now. I turn away from the teeth and dead eyes and look once more toward the water, and I try to prepare myself for what’s coming.

“Take a picture of me in the water.”

Lila stands at the edge of the shore, where the beach sand is wet—gray, flat, and heavy. Her bare feet leave depressions to mark where she’s been, as if she’s been walking on half-dry cement. I’m standing three feet up shore from her, where the sand is dry, and I’m wearing socks and sneakers. I don’t like the feel of water on my skin, especially saltwater. I can’t stand the rank smell of it either, the stink of fish slime and decaying plant matter. I’d breathe through my mouth so I wouldn’t have to smell it, but Lila would surely notice, and while I doubt she’d say anything for fear of hurting my feelings, I know what she’d think. So I inhale through my nose, and then say, “Sure.”

She’s been holding her camera since we left the hotel, occasionally taking pictures of the rising sun, seagulls, rock formations, an old dock that looks as if it might collapse the next time the wind blows. She’s even taken a few pictures of me, and a couple of us together, standing next to me, our cheeks touching, her arm outstretched, camera pointed toward us. I tried to smile, but I fear it probably came out closer to a grimace.

Lila loves taking photos—or being the subject of them. It’s her favorite hobby. She’s kept scrapbooks of her life and adventures since she was a child, although these days the “books” are digital and posted on social media. Usually she takes the photos, but I’m pressed into service from time to time, and while I don’t think much of my photography skills, Lila always seems satisfied enough with the pictures I take. I just wish she didn’t want me to take photos of her in the goddamned ocean.

She hands me the camera, flashes me a bright smile, then jogs into the water until it’s up past her knees. She’s wearing a blue two-piece swimsuit she put on at the hotel, and she moves without the slightest sign of self-consciousness about her body. She’s not much over five feet tall, straight brown hair cut short, body trim, almost boyish. She’s twenty-seven, and I’m forty-four. I’m at least a foot taller than she is, and I’m more than a few pounds heavier. Most of my hair is still black—only a bit of gray at the temples—but my goatee is white as snow, making me look even older than I am, while Lila—my exuberant, coltish girlfriend—looks as if she might be a teenager. When we’re out in public, I’m often self-conscious, believing people are staring at us, thinking I’m some kind of s****l predator. So as Lila stands in the water, surf breaking against the backs of her tanned thighs, I take a quick glance around to see if anyone’s looking at us and judging. But no one seems to be paying any attention. Relieved—and feeling foolish for feeling that way—I turn on the camera and raise it to my face, ready to start taking pictures of Lila frolicking in the water.

But she isn’t there.

A cold fist grips my heart, and for an instant I expect to see a widening pool of red spread through the water where she was standing.

She’ll be back up any second, I tell myself, and I’m relieved to discover I’m right. Her head emerges from the water first—wet hair plastered to her skull, eyes closed against the sting of saltwater. Her thin neck appears next, followed by the slopes of her shoulders. Last come her hands, bursting upward, trailing streams of water, palms raised toward the sky.

I take a picture quickly, before the moment passes, and I hope it’s in focus.

“The water’s cold!” She laughs and shivers as she runs toward me.

I take another picture, marveling at the joy she takes in simply being alive.

She stops at the water’s edge, stretches out her hands, smiles gently, and says, “Come to me.”

I lower the camera. She wiggles her fingers as if imploring a child to come closer, her hands a pair of small octopi trying to entice prey to approach. I shake my head. It’s a cool morning, still in the sixties, but I start sweating. My pulse pounds in my ears, and I feel dizzy.

She gives me a sympathetic, almost pitying, look, and says, “It’s okay. I won’t let go of you.”

My face burns, as much from embarrassment as anger.

“It’ll be okay,” she says, still holding out her hands and waggling her fingers to encourage me, as if I’m a child who only recently learned to walk.

“No,” I say. “It won’t.”

Then I turn and start walking up the beach away from the water—and from Lila.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

I’m standing in the kitchen at someone else’s house, pouring myself a glass of red wine from one of the bottles on the counter. Soft jazz music filters in from one of the outer rooms, barely audible over the sound of people talking. Lila’s the only other person in the kitchen—although I don’t know her name yet. She’s leaning against the counter, holding a glass of white wine. She’s wearing a knitted blue poncho over a white shirt, jeans, and black boots. There’s something pleasingly anachronistic about seeing a young woman draped in an article of clothing more suited for the 1960s or ’70s than now, and I find myself intrigued.

“You were looking at me just now like you were trying to figure me out,” she says. “That’s why I said it.”

A woman isn’t a puzzle to be solved but rather a mystery to be enjoyed.

She goes on. “It’s something my mother used to say. I’m honestly not sure what it means.” She smiles, her gaze so direct that for a moment it puts me off guard, and I’m not sure what to say next. Fortunately, she keeps talking.

“You’re Virgil, right? I can’t remember your last name. Sorry.”

“Duncan. And you’re…”

“Lila,” she says, not offering her surname. “Jenna pointed you out to me earlier. She says we have something in common.”

“Oh?”

Jenna is the host of this party. Ostensibly, we’re here to celebrate Cinco de Mayo, but Jenna loves any excuse to party.

“Yes.” Lila’s eyes glint with mischief. “She wouldn’t tell me what it is, though. She said I’d have to figure it out.”

I repress a sigh. Jenna’s been trying to fix me up for almost a year now, and despite my numerous attempts to tell her I’m not interested, she keeps at it. I’m surprised she’s trying to hook me up with Lila, though. The woman is far younger than anyone else Jenna’s steered my way. I find myself wondering what it is that Jenna thinks we have in common. I know better than to ask Jenna. She’ll never tell me.

“How do you know Jenna?” I ask.

“I’m a massage therapist. Jenna’s one of my clients.” She takes a sip of wine, her eyes still holding mine. “How about you?”

“She’s my sister-in-law,” I say, then frown. “Or was, I suppose.”

Lila keeps looking at me for a moment, and then her expression shifts from borderline flirty to sympathetic, just as I feared it would.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

“That was wonderful.”

Lila gives me a sated smile, eyes half-lidded. It’s a lazy Saturday afternoon, and we’re lying in bed in her apartment, which is on the other side of town from my house—the house I once shared with Bekah, and which I’m not ready to invite Lila to yet. Maybe I’ll never be ready. The curtains are open and light streams through the window. We’re on the second floor, but I feel self-conscious lying n***d on the bed, covers cast aside earlier and strewn on the floor.

“Yes, it was,” I say. She kisses my neck and gives me a pat on the bottom.

“So…when are we going to spend the night at your place?”

She says these words without any special emphasis, as if she’s asking a simple everyday question, like Where do you want to eat tonight? But I’m not fooled. Even if I didn’t already know this is a sore spot for her, her too-deliberate casualness would give her away. I try to come up with an excuse I haven’t used before. I’ve used Your place is nicer than mine several times, as well as I sleep better here and You live closer to all the best bars. I’m still struggling to come up with an answer when she says, “I need a shower. Join me?”

Her tone is a bit forced, but I smile, grateful that she’s given me an out. “Two words,” I say. “Refractory period.”

Her laugh seems genuine enough, and she pats me again—on the leg this time—then gets out of bed and walks into the bathroom. I watch her go, enjoying the way she moves, and I’m tempted to get in the shower with her, refractory period be damned. But I stay where I am, and soon I hear water running in the bathroom, followed by the sound of the shower door opening and closing. I wait a few more seconds to make sure she’s not going to get back out because she forgot something—a towel, shampoo, a razor—and when I’m confident she’s settled, I get up and start moving around the room. Lila takes fast showers, and I know I don’t have much time.

I’ve been seeing Lila for two months now, yet she’s still a mystery to me, and despite her first words to me, I’m not enjoying that as much as she might like. I know any number of facts about her. Where she went to high school (Ash Creek), where she went to college (Kingsborough State), what her major was (massage therapy), her favorite food (cronuts), her biggest pet peeve (people who chew with their mouths open), her favorite s*x position (reverse cowgirl), and I know the sound she makes when she orgasms—something between a moan and a giggle. Despite all this, I don’t know her, not really. She doesn’t like to discuss her feelings in any depth. She says I love you as easily as Good morning or Have a nice day, and seemingly with as much thought behind the words. She doles out the details of her past sparingly, and then only as simple recitations of fact without any emotional context or weight.