Paula Guran - The Mammoth Book of Cthulhu

The sky above the gulf was the color of oysters, a pale, sunless stretch. It might have been late morning or late afternoon. Verdigris waves rolled over bone-grey sand, leaving behind a lace of foam and swags of rusty sargassum. The wind gusted warm and sticky off the water. Beneath the brine, it smelled faintly of decay. The shore was empty save for a few distant beachcombers, a couple swimming, a man and a dog.

At the edge of the beach, between the dry sand and Seawall Boulevard, a woman sat at a picnic table on the weathered gray planks of a shrimpshack patio. A plastic cup sweated at her elbow, leaving rings on the wood. She stared at the sea through dark glasses. The damp wind pulled her hair loose from its braid and set it frizzing around her face.

A car idled by the curb on the street above the strand. It had been there ten minutes. Finally the engine died and another woman stepped out. Younger, sleeker, also wearing sunglasses. The wind had its way with her styled hair. She stood beside the car for a while, staring at the water. Then she made her way down the steps to the beach. Her expensive, impractical shoes sank into the sand.

The older woman didn’t stir except to lift her drink. Moisture dripped off her fingers. When the younger woman sat down opposite her, she turned. Each pair of dark plastic lenses reflected the other.

“You’re the one,” the young woman said at last.

The other woman smiled, a flash of white in a light brown face. “I am.”

“You know why I’m here.”

“Yes.”

“You can really do this?”

“Are you hungry?” The woman lifted her cup again. Ice rattled. She raised a hand and a stooped, balding man stepped out of the shack.

“No.” The young woman reached into her purse for a cigarette and a lighter. A diamond glittered on her left hand, brilliant even in the wan daylight.

Dark glasses tilted. Brown lips pursed. “Do you think you should do that?”

“Why—” The angry question died away. She looked down at the cigarette she held between two manicured fingers. “They told you.”

“I have to know if I’m going to help you.” The bald man had arrived at their table. “Are you hungry?”

The young woman frowned. “Shrimp,” she told the man. “I don’t care what kind.” She lifted her chin. “And a beer.”

The man turned away, shuffling across the warped deck. “Can you?” the young woman asked when he was gone. “Help me?”

“I can change things. You have to help yourself in the end.”

“Did they tell you why I’m here?”

“Some. The details don’t matter. People only have one reason for finding me in the end. You need out.”

“This is crazy.”

The woman shrugged. “You don’t have to do it.”

“Then what?”

“Eat some shrimp. Drink a beer, if you want to. Go home and wait.”

“Just like that?”

Another shrug. “It’s a nice day, and I have all the time in the world.”

“I have money.”

“So do I. I’ll take yours, though, if you want. It’s useful.”

The young woman fell silent, staring at her unlit cigarette. Slim fingers tensed and the paper cylinder crumpled. Flecks of tobacco danced on the salty wind. “Money solves problems. But not this one. He’ll find me.”

“You don’t have to go through with it. With me. With him. With . . .” She lifted a hand and let it fall. “Any of it.”

“It doesn’t matter if I do or don’t. He’ll find me. He’ll find you if you help me.”

The woman grinned. She showed a lot of teeth. “I don’t care.”

“The worst thing is . . . part of me still thinks I can go back and everything will be fine again. Just like before.” She shook her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The wind whipped it loose again.

“You can’t go back from this,” the woman said. “Only forward.”

The old man returned, one sandaled foot dragging softly across the boards as he walked. He set down a paper basket full of breaded shrimp and a plastic cup of pale beer. The young woman handed him a bill from her purse. “Keep the change.”

He nodded. The creases on his weathered face never shifted. The money vanished into his pocket and he returned to the shack.

She picked up a shrimp. It crunched between her teeth and she exhaled a short, hot breath. “Coconut.” Her voice lifted with surprise. She touched the cup of beer, studied it for a moment, then sighed and inched it away from her.

“Why? Why do you do this?”

The older woman watched the waves roll in. White foam surged against the sand. “For the same reason. But this way it’s on my terms. I know what it’s like to be trapped.”

“What’s it like? What you do, I mean.”

Brown shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It can be perfectly simple, if you let it. Or it can be hell. It’s what you make it.”

“Really? Perfectly simple?”

“Well.” Her lips curled, a lopsided smile. “Not perfectly simple. But easy enough. You can’t have your old life back, but you can make a new one.”

“Really?” the young woman said again, softer this time.

“Yes.”

“What will happen to . . . everything?” One hand settled in her lap.

She put it back on the table again. “If things were different — less complicated — I could take care of it myself. I know lots of people who have. Some of them say that’s simple, too.” Her mouth twisted. “Or maybe I wouldn’t. I wanted a family, once. I thought it would all be so easy.” She laughed, and the sound rose high and wild over the steady crush of the waves. “Did you ever have a family?”

Plastic lenses reflected the sea. “My mother left when I was young. My father” — she made a soft, ugly sound — “taught me a lot of things. Part of me always wanted a daughter. I know I’d leave, too, eventually, but I’d at least make sure she was in a good place when I did.”

The young woman sighed. “It doesn’t matter, I suppose. I just don’t want . . .” She trailed off. “You’d leave her in a good place? With people less selfish than me?”

“With people less selfish than either of us.”

“Let me see your eyes.”

The older woman turned to face her and slowly removed her sunglasses. The other woman did the same. They studied their reflections in each other’s eyes.

“How does it work?” the young woman finally asked.

“Give me your hand.”

She reached across the table, but stopped halfway. She stared at the diamond flashing on her finger. Her lips peeled back from her teeth and she twisted the ring free with three sharp tugs. It traced a glittering arc through the sticky air, vanishing somewhere in the damp sand and foam. She rubbed at the crease it left on her finger. Then she extended her hand.

They sat for several moments, two women under a cloudy sky, holding hands and watching each other wordlessly. The man and the dog walked behind a pale line of dunes in the distance. The swimming couple had disappeared. The man inside the shrimp shack didn’t look up from his crossword puzzle.

The older woman jerked, chest hitching. Her eyes widened.

The younger woman blinked once, twice. She lifted her left hand and studied the careful manicure, the fading ghost of a diamond ring.

“Look in your purse,” she said. Her voice was slower, lower. “Do you have everything you need?”

The other woman sorted for the bag beside her on the bench. With shaking hands she fumbled through its contents: wallet, driver’s license, cash, passport, a keychain full of keys.