The Parting

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— Originally publshed in The MacGuffin, Spring 2004

    The day after Jamey arrived in Carmel, he stood on a high bluff at Point Lobos, as he and Sissy had, and felt the wind hold him back from the precipice. Did I hurt you? What was I doing wrong? Did you know I loved you? No answer. Only the image of Sissy’s face gazing at the sea.
    “Yoo-hoo. Anybody home?”
    A freckled woman with billowing shoulder-length red hair, hoop earrings, and a pointed nose waved her hand like a semaphore. “You are real. For a minute there I thought you were the Wrathful Wraith of San Remo.” She laughed. “You don’t look like a tourist or honeymooner. You a painter or something?”
    “Physician.”
    “I won’t tell anybody. Anyway, you know any beaches around here where my little boy could wade? He’s only six.”
    “Go to the estuary. It’s not safe here.”
    “Thanks.”
    She picked her way in sandaled feet down the rocks. Her orange vest and the Panama hat she carried flapped as in complaint. The wind turned her yellow skirt into a sail.
    As Jamey drove back to the Tickle Pink, the sun cast a blinding shine on the water. The second afternoon of their honeymoon, he and Sissy had sat in silence on the balcony off the living room of their suite and watched the sun sink. That night, she’d cried again in the bathroom.
    At home in Berkeley, he decided he’d rushed their lovemaking. He moved slowly, with affection. Nothing worked. Finally, he gave up. A month later he came home from the hospital and found her in the tub. Blood from the hand behind her head clogged her hair. Her other arm hung over the side above a coagulated puddle on the tile floor. Her eyes were dull, her skin more blue than white in a pool of lemonade-pink. She’d been there since morning. The sweet stink of dead flesh stuck in his memory.
    He sat alone on the balcony and watched the sun, then changed clothes and drove into Carmel. His table for one at Le Lion d’Or on Mission Street was not the one they’d had, but he could see it across the room. The rings of the young couple who sat there flashed in the candle light. Jamey looked at his. The patina of a year had dulled it. The young woman brushed the man’s fingertips with hers. He slipped his foot from his loafer and massaged her toes with his stockinged foot. She pressed her fingers to her lips and placed them on his mouth. Jamey paid his check and left.

Continued ...

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