Erika Swyler - The Book of Speculation

“No.” No one hears me, so I say it a second time. When silence at last descends I say, “I’m not staying here. I have to be somewhere.”

Enola’s eyes get round. Alice lets go of my hand.

The sand is hot and riddled with stones, unbearable for a man his age. It would take a lifetime to build feet to walk on this sand — hard feet. His loneliness is unexpected, but it’s been some time since he’s traveled without his wife. Marie is minding the shop under the guise of indulging him. She saw how worried he was; it was kind of her to let him come. He would not have come at all were it not for her gentle push, her patient encouragement of his flights of fancy. He’s been fortunate; true companionship is an elusive type of butterfly. He puts a foot in the water. Good lord, that’s cutting. He misses his wife and the warm blanket that is an Iowa summer. This is the Northeast, he thinks, bitter and cold at the core. He wonders how anyone stands it.

A dilapidated staircase sprawls up the cliff’s edge. A man journeys down it, an older fellow by his pace, though younger than the man on the beach. The descending man is stout, wears a fishing cap, and has the look of a carpenter. He walks past a smattering of rubble, what remains of a house.

“This beach is private. Are you somebody’s guest?” the hatted man calls as he nears.

“Are you by any chance Franklin McAvoy?” the man on the beach asks.

Confusion crosses the hatted man’s face, but is followed by a terse nod.

“I’m Martin Churchwarry, a friend of Simon Watson. He’s spoken of you fondly. Do you know if he’s around?”

At the mention of Simon, Frank McAvoy’s expression shutters.

Churchwarry’s knees wobble, but he soon steadies himself. “Is he all right? I saw the house,” Churchwarry says, motioning to the cliff.

“He’s fine, he’s just not here.” Frank shakes his head slowly. “Damndest thing. That house has been around since the 1700s, then gone in one night. He’s lucky he didn’t go with it.”

“Very.” The relief Churchwarry feels is palpable. It’s odd to feel protective over someone he’s never met, but he’s fond of Simon, almost unaccountably so. Both men put their feet in the water and stand next to each other, neither admitting to the cold.

“Churchwarry, you said?”

“Has he mentioned me?” Churchwarry’s eyebrows snap up.

“Once or twice.” Frank looks at the man beside him — a disheveled figure, pants rolled to the knees, a wild brush of gunmetal-gray hair, a long-ago-broken nose. “How do you know Simon?”

Churchwarry pushes his hands into the pockets of his threadbare trousers. He lets the wind blow at his back and wonders what on earth Simon might have said about him. He settles on something easy. “Our families were once close.”

“You’re the bookseller, aren’t you? The one who sent him that book,” Frank says.

“I thought he’d find it entertaining,” Churchwarry replies. “It had a bit of family history in it. You knew his parents, I believe?”

“Yes,” Frank says. At the mention of Daniel and Paulina, he winces. I killed her. I am a killer.

“Will Simon be back soon, do you think?”

“Doubt it. He left a letter for me to send you. Haven’t gotten around to mailing it.”

“A letter? How wonderful.” Churchwarry nearly stumbles as a wave splashes his shins. The water is cold and of course he’s not as young as he once was.

“I read it,” Frank says.

“Of course you did,” Churchwarry replies. “It’s impossible to leave a letter unopened.” Out in the water a bluefish jumps, twisting and splashing down.

“It’s a thank-you, mostly, and an apology for losing your books. He wants your help on some kind of project. Didn’t make much sense to me. Wasn’t supposed to, I guess.” He shrugs, not the least bit bashful. “It’s back up at the house. You can come in, if you don’t mind a walk up the stairs.” He looks up the steps, thinking perhaps he should have checked with Leah first. He never would have in the past, but now he is learning his wife again, a process not unlike walking barefooted on the rocks.

“That would be fine.” Churchwarry agrees. There’s something pleasant about the idea of sitting down with Frank McAvoy. There’s a familiarity to Frank that’s more than just having one of those faces — a peculiar breed of déjà vu that Churchwarry finds himself reveling in.

“He doesn’t have a phone right now, but he said he’ll be in touch once they’ve settled. He’s with his sister.” The word they has a bitter sound to it.

“Oh, of course. He’s moving. I should have assumed that after seeing the house.” He scratches the back of his neck. “A fresh start can be a very good thing,” Churchwarry says, looking back up at the house. Simon’s sister is alive. A breath that he was unaware of holding escapes. He feels Frank surveying him, trying to puzzle him out. “You have a daughter, yes? I think Simon mentioned her.”

Frank nods. “She left with him. Alice, Simon, Enola, all of them went together.”

Churchwarry smiles. Fitting, he thinks. A small flash of white rolls at the top of a wave. Too far out to reach, Churchwarry waits for it to come in. “Simon’s family, yours, mine, there’s history there.” The rest he does not know how to say. “In a strange way we know each other, Mr. McAvoy. You have grandparents a few generations back who went by the name of Peabody.”

Here a murmur. “I do. And?”

“I was hoping to be able to tell Simon; I think he’d find it important. Does the name Ryzhkov mean anything to you? Ryzhkova, perhaps?”

Franks shakes his head.

“Ah, never mind then. Have you ever wondered why you’re drawn to certain people?”

“Haven’t thought much about it,” Frank says, though he knows it is a lie.

Churchwarry inhales deeply. He’s never understood the uninquisitive; but Frank McAvoy is a boatwright, so there must be a spark of art somewhere in him. A small white rectangle washes in on the tide, swaying with the waves. Churchwarry bends down for a closer look. A wave carries the flash of white close enough for him to snatch it. A bit of paper, soft, ruined. Out in the water another piece rolls in. Churchwarry’s hands shake. A sharp pain runs through his chest, but it is soon chased by elation. He is touching history. His history.

“What’s that?” Frank asks.

“A tarot card, I think,” Churchwarry says. Across its face a blurred image, the faint outline of what was once a man’s leg, with a small dog by its heel. The Fool. He watches the ink bleed and pool around his thumb until the last suggestion of what had been washes away.

“Oh, hell. Those were Paulina’s,” Frank mutters.

Churchwarry looks for cards in the waves. He thinks of all Simon told him and what little he remembers of the book. Of course. It was the tarot cards. There had been something more about the sketches, something outside the pleasure of old paper and fading ink. It makes sense, he thinks, that the family of mermaids would destroy a curse with water, far more sense than burning things. He chuckles. More poetic. He looks at the man next to him, then thinks of the young man he never met. Alive. Churchwarry knows it matters little how much of it he believes, only that Simon believed. And he’d like to as well. For all the wideness of the water, the town he is in feels closed, isolated. Perhaps the book opened a door; books have a way of causing ripples. He watches a card dip and vanish under a whitecap and sees in the water’s spray a hope so bright it blisters.

At the shoreline a dark shape skitters near the sand. Churchwarry can make out the gentle movement of a sharp tail. He leans closer. “Horseshoe crab,” he says softly. He turns to Frank, smiling at the descendant of the book’s original author. “Magnificent creatures.” He thinks on how they grow and shed shells, each new skin a soft and glistening beginning. Millennia of crawling, traveling, and clearing their tracks with swishing tails, patiently correcting. He smiles.