John Lutz: Lightning

He stood for a minute or two leaning on the sink, taking pulls on the beer can and looking out at the immense blackness of the moonlit ocean beyond the wide window with its hanging potted plants. In the quiet night, the surf sounded closer than it was, rushing and slapping against the beach.

Carver returned to stand next to the bed, holding the Budweiser can out for Beth. “Sure you don’t want a drink?”

“I’m sure.”

He leaned his cane against the wall and lay down beside her. Stretched out on his back, his head propped on his wadded pillow still damp with sweat, he sipped the cold beer and listened to the ocean.

“We happy, Fred?” Beth asked drowsily beside him.

“We’re happy.”

In the morning, Carver went for his daily therapeutic swim in the ocean. It always made him feel better to swim far out from shore, kicking from the hip with both legs and stroking with his lean but powerful upper body. He was at no disadvantage in the sea, and not at as much of a disadvantage on land as some people might think. Using a cane, along with regular exercise, forged a strong torso and arms and a conditioned quickness. His grip was iron, and his walnut cane could become a lethal weapon in an instant.

He floated on his back for a while, looking in at the few early swimmers and sunbathers on the public beach beyond the crescent of land where the cottage sat. Near a corner of the cottage his ancient Olds convertible was parked beside Beth’s newer, white LeBaron convertible. The canvas top on his car was up, the LeBaron’s top was lowered. The grouping of three palm trees that had shaded her car when she parked it there yesterday afternoon were now casting their shadows in another direction. The LeBaron’s interior would already be hot to the touch.

He saw Beth walk out onto the cottage’s plank porch, raising her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the morning sun as she gazed in his direction. He lifted an arm and waved to her.

As he rolled over and began swimming toward shore, he caught a glimpse of her turning and going back inside. Then he scanned the beach, found his cane jutting from the sand as a marker, and stroked toward it. He swam hard in an Australian crawl, breathing rhythmically as he swiveled his head, keeping up a steady kick with his legs and reaching far out with his cupped hands with each powerful stroke. He’d taken it easy this morning, with too much floating on the gentle swells and luxuriating in the sun, and he wanted to extend himself, so he was breathing hard when he reached shore.

Carver entered the cabin still dripping with water, his towel slung over his shoulders like a cape. His breath was still a little ragged from his sprint to shore. He tracked sand on the plank floor as he made his way into the bathroom, removed his trunks, and showered.

After drying himself with a clean, rough terry cloth towel, he wiped the fog from the center of the medicine cabinet mirror and regarded his tanned features-catlike blue eyes tilted slightly upward at the corners, a bald pate, and a thick fringe of curly gray hair around his ears and growing too far down on the back of his neck. He ran his fingertips over his chin. Paperwork awaited him in his office on Magellan Avenue in nearby Del Moray. Only paperwork, no clients. Nobody to impress. Why not take advantage of the silver lining? He decided to skip shaving this morning.

Five minutes later, wearing gray slacks, black loafers he didn’t have to lace, and a white polo shirt, he poured himself a cup of coffee from the Braun brewer and sat on a stool across the breakfast counter from Beth.

She was almost finished with a plate of eggs, dry toast, and some asparagus spears left over from dinner last night.

Pregnancy.

“I left the eggs out for you,” she said. “If you don’t use them, put them back in the fridge.”

He sipped some of the strong black coffee, figuring he’d catch the news on TV before having breakfast. “I thought you had an interview to do this morning.”

“I do,” Beth said around a bite of egg. “At nine-thirty. I’ve gotta get out of here within a few minutes.”

“Better take a towel to sit on,” he told her. “You left your car’s top down.”

She smiled at him in a way he recognized. Oh-oh.

“It isn’t running right,” she said, “and I didn’t want to waste battery power raising or lowering the top. The engine’s missing like I might have bought some cut-rate gas that has water in it. Mind if I borrow your car for the interview?”

“I need to get into the office,” he said, “catch up on paperwork, pay some bills, see if the electric company’s turned off the power.”

She thought for a moment, chewing toast. “How about if you follow me into Del Moray, make sure I make it to the interview? Then if the LeBaron quits running I can call you on the cellular and you can pick me up.” She used the edge of her fork to cut an asparagus spear in half. “That is, if it starts in the first place.”

“I’ll follow you,” Carver said, “and after the interview phone me and we’ll take your car to a repair shop where they can drain the tank, if water in the gas is the problem.” He didn’t want her stranded somewhere in the summer heat. After all, she was pregnant. “If you got a bad tank of gas, you shouldn’t be driving around much anyway. Rough on the engine.”

She agreed to that plan, then sprinkled pepper on and consumed the asparagus spear. She glanced at her watch and frowned. Maybe she was going to eat it next.

Carver looked wistfully at the carton of eggs on the counter. Now that he knew breakfast would have to be delayed, he was hungry.

He took a throat-scalding gulp of coffee, then got down off his stool and put the eggs in the refrigerator. The second part of his plan would be to stop at Poco’s taco stand on Magellan for a takeout Mexican breakfast after making sure Beth got safely to her interview.

The day could be starting better.

Carver followed the Lebaron down A1A, which jogged east just outside of Del Moray and for a few miles became Magellan Avenue. It was easy to keep the LeBaron, which had started easily and seemed to be running okay, in sight. Despite its advanced age, the Olds, with its powerful V-8 engine, was faster than the newer convertible, and Beth was wearing a very visible bright yellow headband to keep her hair neat in the swirl of wind.

They passed the strip mall on Magellan where Carver’s office was located next to Golden World Insurance, drove south for a while, then turned west on Flamingo. South again on de Leon Boulevard.

De Leon was a wide street with a grassy median lined with palm trees whose trunks were painted white to a height of about five feet. There were mostly office buildings and shops on both sides of the street, then farther west de Leon narrowed and the neighborhood became residential. In the extreme west end of Del Moray, it ran through a poor, mostly Hispanic neighborhood, then continued west through orange grove country and ended near Interstate 101. John York, the subject of Beth’s interview, lived outside Del Moray, so they still had a long drive ahead of them. Carver didn’t mind. He had the top up on the Olds, but all of the windows were cranked down and the morning breeze bounced and buffeted through the car’s interior. The vibration of the rumbling, prehistoric engine ran from the accelerator pedal and steering wheel through his entire body. Shadows were still soft and the digital sign on the bank they were passing indicated that the temperature hadn’t yet touched eighty, He felt good, following Beth’s jaunty little convertible and watching errant strands of dark hair escape from beneath her headband and whip in the wind, loving her and contemplating their future with more pleasure than uncertainty. He didn’t mind the drive at all.