Darcey Steinke - Up Through the Water

Eddie stared at her. She saw that he was shaking, and she reached for him, but he slipped away and walked to his room. She heard the door shut, then lock behind him.

Emily went to the door and cupped a hand to listen. “Come out,” she said. “I want to talk to you.”

“No, I won't,” he said.

Emily went into her bedroom and lay in the dark. She heard muted sounds through the wall. Quiet, she said, quiet. And then carefully she began to plan. No matter how boyish their lips looked in the hot sun at the beach, or how bad the feeling got of wanting a stranger, from now on she would choose only one. Every day she'd pick a Bible verse. Start now , her mind stomped out. From near the bed she picked up the Bible and flipped through, trying to find her fate in the rice-paper pages. He turneth the rivers into a wilderness, and the water springs into dry ground.

Eddie opened the door and walked to the bed, brushed hair away from her face, took the Bible from her hands and set it on the side table. “You pushed him too far,” he said, his voice as clear and deep in the dark as a lover's.

Emily turned from the image of herself in the bar mirror. “You alone?” the tourist said, his hairy hand resting on the bar, on one of his fingers a square ring with a too-big-to-be-a-diamond stone in the center.

“I'm waiting for someone,” she said and walked to the bath, room. She'd stopped at Paolo's for a drink on her way to Birdflower's. The light and chatter from the bar had drawn her over. In the stall she leaned forward, not letting her thighs touch the seat. She rinsed her hands in the sink and ran her wet fingers through her hair.

She came out, sat down, and watched a few couples dance drunken and awkward. There was a man with white blond hair sitting alone. She posed her hips forward so he could see better and slowed her eyes, let them take in all but him, looked at him as though he was any other detail, then gazed back to the dancers. Quickly, he was up and coming to her. Lanky build, narrow hips, awkward swagger. He smiled in an offhand way and asked her name. She told him and then he asked if she was married.

“I was,” she said. “But it turned out bad.”

The man's arm brushed her shoulder. She backed from him, nearly dropping her beer, and walked barefoot out of the bar.

The rain was light but steady. She walked along the road on the broken yellow line. It was as if some giant needle had seamed up the soundside and the beach, and carefully, heel to toe, she followed the stitches toward the murky signpost.

Usually she tried not to think about that night she left Daniel. But it was impossible now. Slowly, as the seasons change, as snow gathers on the highest Tennessee mountains, a restlessness had come over her. A hurried feeling in talking to Daniel and even sometimes a carelessness in handling Eddie. It seemed as if the floor of the house began to tilt backwards. Now it was obvious that she should have told him, that maybe together they could have figured it out. But instead she started to go to Nashville on Saturdays. She made up excuses about shopping, about doctor appointments, about lunches with old friends from high school. She found bars: the Blue Note, the 100 °Club, one called Dover's. It never took more than an hour for her to pull some man over. She'd start a careless conversation with them, let her knee slant toward theirs, and listen to their stories. She fell into them gradually. The first few Saturdays she'd left the bar early, insisting that she had to get out to her parents’ house in the country. Then after a month of teasing, of trying to figure out what was happening and if it could be remedied by simple attention, a shy man had come along. He was like the blond children in Christmas pictures. Drunkenly they undressed each other as slates of sunset fell through the hotel blinds.

This became her way then. There were moments of remorse: while bathing Eddie, she caught her eyes in the medicine chest and thought, How can I do this? Once, sorting through old photographs of her wedding, her stomach had clenched and she'd felt dizzy. Often on Mondays she'd swear to herself that this weekend she would not go. But on Saturdays she would drive to Nashville.

It was unclear who had finally told Daniel. He accused her and immediately she admitted — not to all, but to one man. She created him by combining all her favorite qualities from each. One's fragile scent of mint and wool, another's chest, one's lovely pale body hair, the fingerlet curls from another, one's pondish-green eyes, and another's cowboy thinness. It did seem, even to her then, like a single man.

Daniel had silently taken the bottle down from a high shelf. “Do you love him?” he said. “That's all I want to know.”

Emily tried to answer honestly, to piece together all those afternoons. The details slipped away like water into the ground and Emily felt as if she too was somehow evaporating. Yes, she said. Not because it was true, but because she knew it would give her a foothold in whatever came next.

Now she'd come to the highest point of the ramp and looked out to the dim shore. No moon. Just a million pinpricks of light. She heard the roar of water and felt wind mixed with rain against her skin. She turned her back and walked quickly off the ramp and started to run in what felt like long elegant strides up the beach highway.

Their cigarette tips glowed, moved up to their mouths then down as they sat in bed against the cool wall in Birdflower's cottage. Emily said, “It's always been like this: from one bed to another.”

Birdflower took a drag. “Does he have a gun?”

Emily felt the heat and closeness of his legs. “I don't know,” she said, tipping her ashes over the side of the bed. “He's not what I knew.” She flinched at the sound of a car's tires and then saw the lights flash quickly over the wall. ‘'I'm sorry,” she said, pulling hard on the cigarette, trying to make herself, the bed, and the room all into smoke. Her spine was getting sore against the headboard so she slipped down under the sheets. “I have things to think about,” she said, pressing her head to the pillow.

Birdflower looked down at her. “So do I,” he said.

“This is me,” she said.

“I know.” He let his fingers brush her shoulder.

“You'll never know everything,” she said.

“I don't need to know but so much,” Birdflower said.

“There are things—”

“I don't care,” he said. “Just tell me if you feel like doing it with anyone else.” He rubbed his eyes and tipped his head back to the wall. “ I might hurt you.”

“No, you wouldn't,” she said.

“We've been up too long,” Birdflower said. “I don't even know what I think.”

“The light will help,” Emily said. “Everything will change then.” She saw a big pink shell on the rag rug. She held it to her ear. “Do you hear me?”

The ocean roared and she pressed the big shell into her temple — she knew the trick; her own pulse magnified in the caverns of the conch shell.

Ten years was a long time, especially on an island like this one. She was familiar with the seasonal routines. Summer heat's steady work, the pause and seep of fall, cedars sculpted by winter, then spring's rustling pulse and the peeling back again to summer. Each had its own grooved ways, familiar as sisters to her. And this was the first time — besides that December years ago when a man had offered to take her to Barcelona — that she had tinkered with the thought of leaving. She knew John Berry never went farther than Norfolk. Emily watched the bars of light on the ceiling; she shook her head.

Anywhere it would begin again. She held the shell close to her ear and after another hour or so, at the first rise of gray light, let it lull her to sleep.