Stephen Carter - Emperor of Ocean Park

Wainwright is already running for the ladder. I try to go after him, and then the wave crashes into my back and knocks me down. For a couple of seconds, my face is buried in the sand and there is water above me. I have lost track of the bear, of Wainwright, of everything, and if I do not move, pain or no pain, I am going to drown.

With what little energy I have left, I burst to the surface, only to tumble backward into the riptide, the giant wave drawing me helplessly along with it, and I have nothing left to fight with, so I ride the water, waiting to go under, until another wave replaces it and carries me to the beach once more.

I hear Wallace Wainwright, shouting something.

I sit up, shaking the water and sand out of my hair and eyes.

Wainwright is in the waves. He is trying to reach Abby’s bear, which is riding out and out and out on the undertow. I watch. There is nothing I can do to help or hinder, for I have just about enough strength to sit here on the sand, soaked through, waiting for the next wave to arrive and drown me. Wainwright is nimble for his years, and strong, a jogger, but I can see even from this distance that he has no chance. Every time he reaches for the panda, another wave carries both of them further out. He does not seem to be holding the gun any longer; he is stretching for George Jackson with both hands. I find a momentary amusement in the vision of the great white liberal hero desperately trying to recover the great dead black martyr of the militant age. Then I frown, because it seems I was wrong. Wainwright has captured the bear. Cradling George against his chest, he is turning to struggle back to shore. And he is holding the gun. It must have been in his pocket. He is working toward me with grim determination, his face set in hard lines as he fights the undertow and, inch by inch, gets closer to the beach.

I even believe, briefly, that he is going to make it.

Then another six-foot swell washes over him and he is sucked under. His hand flails, his head comes up for air, once, twice, and then he is gone, carried out into the angry heart of the storm.

My head falls back onto the sand and, for a while, I die too.

Among the victims of the hurricane, says the pointedly solemn announcer, was Justice Wallace Warrenton Wainwright of the United States Supreme Court, who drowned off the Island of Martha’s Vineyard after apparently falling into the ocean while walking along the water to get a better look at the storm. Although the hurricane broke up three days ago, his body washed up on the beach just this morning. Wainwright, who was seventy-one, was on the Island to visit friends. Considered the last of the great judicial liberals, Wainwright was probably best known for his stirring defense of…

Kimmer picks up the remote control and shuts off the fifty-three-inch television set that has become, absurdly, an issue between us. She turns to me and smiles. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are, Misha? That could have been you.”

“I suppose.”

“What were you doing out on that beach, anyway?” Maybe she is still thinking I might have tried to kill myself.

“Running away from Justice Wainwright. He was shooting at me.”

“Oh, Misha, don’t be morbid. That’s not the least bit funny.” She hops up to clear away the paper plates off which we have just finished eating carry-out pizza. Kimmer, although shoeless, is still dressed for work, in a cream-colored power suit and pale blue ruffled blouse. She has lost a little weight, maybe intentionally, maybe from stress. She looks more splendid than ever, and more splendidly unattainable. Over in the corner of the family room, Bentley is playing with his computer. When I arrived to pick him up for the weekend an hour ago, he and Kimmer were just sitting down to a double-cheese pizza, and my estranged wife invited me to stay for a while.

“Bemmy zap, Bemmy zap!” our son cries happily. “Tree and six make nine! Nine! Bemmy zap!”

“Bemmy zap,” I agree, still not opening my eyes. On the screen of my imagination, the final scene is played out so many different ways. Maybe I could have put together the energy to plunge into the waves and rescue Wallace Wainwright. Maybe my reserves were too thin or he was too far out. Sometimes I see myself pulling him out of the ocean. Sometimes I see myself dying in the attempt. Sometimes I remember to pray for his soul. Sometimes I am glad he is dead.

“Isn’t our boy gorgeous?” murmurs Kimmer in a stage whisper.

“That he is.”

“Your eyes are closed, silly.”

“You know what? He’s just as gorgeous with my eyes closed.”

But I open them anyway and, for a golden moment, Kimmer and I are together, joined in love and admiration for the one thing in the world about which we both care. Then I recall the expensive leather jacket with the words DUKE UNIVERSITY stitched in blue that I found when I hung my windbreaker in the hall closet, and the gold turns to dross.

“Oh, Misha, by the way. Guess who called here looking for you?”

“Who?”

“John Brown. He said he was returning your call. I guess you forgot to give him your new number, huh?” Standing in the doorway, arms folded across her breasts. She has taken off her jacket. Still smiling. She has plenty to smile about. “Or are you trying to make some kind of statement?”

“I called him from the Vineyard.” I am leaning back on the leather sofa, eyes closed, legs up on the ottoman, the way I used to when I lived here. “I guess I must have given him that number.”

“You should get your new number listed.”

“I like my privacy.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so insistent,” says Kimmer, who could not live five minutes without a telephone. A sudden thought strikes her, and she covers her mouth and giggles. “I mean, unless.. . unless you need so much privacy because… Hey, you’re not hiding some woman in your condo, are you? Shirley Branch? Somebody like that?”

“No woman, Kimmer.” Except you.

“Or maybe Pony Eldridge? You know, the two wronged spouses getting together?”

“Sorry to disappoint you. I’m still a married man.”

Kimmer wisely ignores this dig. “It isn’t Dana, is it? I hear she’s having trouble with Alison. Or vice versa. Anyway, are the two of you gonna do anything after all these years?”

I recycle the old joke: “She’s not into men, and I’m not into white women.”

Kimmer waves this away. She leans in close, her proximity dazzling, then reaches around me, picks up her wineglass, takes a small sip. “Oh, everybody’s into everybody these days,” she assures me with an expert’s authority before padding back into the kitchen. “Ice cream coming,” she calls. “Butter pecan. Want some?”

“Sounds great.”

“Chocolate syrup?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Yes, I could have rescued him. No, I had no energy. Yes, I should have tried. No, I would have failed.

Another shout from the kitchen: “By the way, did you find what you were looking for? On the Vineyard, I mean?”

Good question.

“Misha? Honey?” I remind myself to attach no importance to honey: force of habit, nothing more. Kimmer is probably unaware that she said it.

“Not really,” I call back. “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” A pause. It feels awkward, but I might as well do the polite thing and ask. “Mind if I use the phone?”

“Help yourself.” Her grinning face appears around the doorjamb. “Your name’s still on the bill.” Disappearing again.

I walk into my old study. Kimmer has not converted it to any purpose. A couple of shelves are still in place; the others, along with the desk and the credenza and the chairs, are cluttering the basement of my condo. A few magazines lie here and there, a book or two, but, basically, the cozy room where I spent so many agonizing hours watching Hobby Road for surveillance is empty. The portable phone sits on the floor.