To Sea

To Sea

By Michael LoCurto

NEW YORK : SMITH POINT PRESS

ISBN-13: ISBN-10:

978-1475078947 1475078943

TEXT COPYRIGHT 2012 BY M. I. LOCURTO

ILLUSTRATIONS COPYRIGHT 2012 BY SEAN HUDSON

FIRST EDITION

FIRST PRINTING

2013

THIS EDITION HAS BEEN SET IN CAMBRIA TYPEFACE

For my Mother.

Smith Point Press, 001.

CHAPTER 1

When the oaks were leafless atop the hamlet of East Marion, when the winter’s frost hushed close across the taupe lawns and when the light air rustled only the needles on the peaks of the tallest pines, Jon Brand rocked the porch swing slow one morning as he stared out to sea. The swing creaked. Between the crash of waves and the whisper of a chilled breeze running off the water. A breeze ran through the man’s beard, up over his small, rimless glasses, making his gray eyes ache.

The swing creaked. Then bells of the neighboring church chimed in, echoing for miles between the low-lying clouds and the solemnly still, frost-bitten land.

That damned church. Jon ripped his glasses from his face, lifted the hem of his shirt and smudged sea-misted specks across the lenses. He glanced over at the blurred steeple. To hell with it, he mumbled. Jon placed the glasses back on his high nose. Then he took long hard blinks to refocus his eyes back into sight.

It had been four decades since he’d broken that stained glass window with that blue rubber ball. Jon’s hands clenched hard enough to show the whites of his knuckles.

It’s not even my god-damned God. Damned by a false prophet. Not even my Son of Man. He loosened his grip on the air. He could feel the blood circulating back into his long fingers. His face deserved to shatter all those years ago.

Jon pushed the porch swing slower, which allowed the creaks to resonate along with the distant clapper as it swung around the lip of the bell.

And damned be that Robert Gully.

The name had not come to him in some years. His mind froze on the image of him…Robert Gully…who appeared on the rocky shore where white caps of murmuring sound seeped between the stones. Robert looked exactly as Jon had last remembered him. Short and stout and wearing short black hair waved up to the left.

Jon closed his eyes and he watched the whole ordeal play out. There was young Jon fiddling with the blue ball—hurling the rubber off the concrete steps and then catching it. Silently mouthing off the recorded number of consecutive catches until the ball slipped from between his fingers—and then it was Robert’s turn. Jon would wait, seated on a patch of grass, and he would watch the blue rubber bounce high and then low and then through Robert’s fingers. The ball dribbled away, across the street into the dunes. Back to Jon’s turn. And then the crash. Jon’s misstep. His falling arm guided the ball up, right through the Greek Jesus’ head. Shattered to pieces. The faceless Christ.

Not even a real faith, Jon moaned as he grabbed at the reigns of the swinging porch, silencing the creaky thing. He’d had to paint that whole church that summer. If it wasn’t for that damned Gully.

Jon looked out at the billowing waves that caught the grainy sand. The water crashed atop the land, then dragged the tan shore back into the mouth of the sea. The images of that gloomy summer drew themselves in each gray wave. The scuffed blue ball. The shattered stained glass Greek Jesus. The pink hue of whitewash and blood mixed on Jon’s dry, skinned knees. And Robert Gully. Tugging on the pastor’s black cloak. The little boy whispering heresy into the priest’s ear.

Damned be that Gully. And damned be that Greek Orthodox Church. Jon blinked hard and the images cleared. Robert Gully. The blue ball. The pinkish knees. The pastor’s black cloak. All faded on the gray horizon.

It had been four decades since all that had happened. Four decades since the sea’s last blight. Four decades and only Jon and his neighbor, the church, remained. The pastor had died some twenty years back. Robert’s father had owned the farm next door. A farm that yielded corn and cabbage ‘til he’d sold the land off given the fishing industry’s first crash. When the town first unsettled. Four decades back. Robert’s father had moved the Gullys up north. To sell insurance, he could hear old man Gully’s rough voice. To live the dream. The farm was now yielding three-story McMansions that had sprouted up the way the corn harvest once had. One of the giant houses casts a dense shadow over the Brand’s cottage every morning ‘til the sun eclipses noon in the sky. From there on out, the sun shines vivid rays through the living room and kitchen until the light sinks into the sea. But only to rise again, drawing a thick Garage-Mahal outline over the Brand’s place the next morning.

The bell had stopped ringing some time before, but Jon had not seemed to notice nor had seemed to care. His face hung low and his ears now focused on the hiss of cars that skipped over concrete slabs of highway far off in the distance. The bare trees tried to muffle the mechanical sounds of rubbed rubber over rock, but were too weak to catch the distant whispers in the static and still winter.

He heard the sound of his neighbor’s four-wheeler ignite and slip out of the drive. Must be time for work, Jon thought. "Mindless man drives back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. For what? To work in the big city and raise a family out in the rustic rural? Driving countless hours to pay for his oversized house. All for the dream, he sighed. I miss the days when you worked where you lived. You lived where you worked."

What are you mumbling about out there, Jon? A voice called from the other side of the screen door. Breakfast is almost done. It was Elea. His wife of twenty-five years. She spoke to the scrambled eggs, but loud enough for Jon to hear. Stop it with your nonsense and come inside. Barry will be in any second. Sit down, already.

Jon shifted his feet over the worn wood of the back porch. He placed his hand on the door’s aluminum latch and he shook off his thoughts about the neighbors. Jon turned towards the sea, giving it a long stare as he sniffed at the air’s salt. A flock of gulls flew along the shore, crying for a morning’s breakfast as they passed. Jon released his grip and he kicked the door. He licked the salt caught on his lips and he scowled, I miss the feel of water beneath my feet. The sea moaned softly with small waves crashing to the sand, the rippling water sparkled gold—gold like the sun that shined the backs of the gray clouds. I miss the sunrise over the sea. His heavy boots traced the grains in the dry deck with precision. There is no peace with the land. My feet are still here. He looked up behind the house and he watched the sun shine through a break in the clouds—as those clouds drew a dark shadow of his neighbor’s house covering the land, out to sea. He clicked the steel-tips of his boots on the deck. You cannot be barren. I miss the taste of matured bluefish. I miss the feel of a full net of fat-bodied tuna. Jon’s head fell forward. But so dry. So long. His voice trailed off into the somber echo of crying waves and crying gulls. He gave the porch swing one last good push. He finger-combed the mist’s sea-salt droplets out of his bearded curls.

And he headed to sea.

CHAPTER 2

Elea stood at the sizzling black range in the once white kitchen. Her eyes glittered, reflecting the pixilated television’s sheen. Jon stumbled in from the back porch. He tripped over his untied boots that were covered with wet sand. He fell into his chair at the head of the table, sniffing at the bacon with a smile.

Elea turned the gas up—with it, the television volume. Her long black hair dangled across her back. Each lock danced, tumbling over the apron strings affixed around her thin waist. She flipped the eggs. Then she scraped at the burnt yellow film caked upon the black pan. All the while watching whatever it was on the screen. Did you go to the bathroom? Her voice challenged the fizz of the eggs, some dogs barking through the televisions speakers and the sea just outside the window.

I did, he said. But then I didn’t. Jon pulled his feet from his boots, stretching his toes.

Elea shoved the spatula under the eggs and she rationed them out between three plates. Then she flipped the bacon. You did what? The bacon hissed.

I did, he said. And then I didn’t. He looked out the window and he watched a sea of gulls fly overhead. I went for a walk.

Elea turned from the television to Jon, who was frozen-eyed in his stare toward the sea. Knock it off, Jon, she said as she walked to him. There’s nothing in it for ya. She dumped a plate of eggs in front of him and she returned to the range. You call the market at least? I’m sure they could use a hand today.

Elea, he said. There is no work today—like how there was no work yesterday. Like how there was no work the day before that. No work at sea, El. No work at the market. He bit his lower lip, lifted his head and he closed his eyes. The sea’s dried up. Listen. He cuffed his hand around his ear, gesturing to Elea to do the same. But she stayed static in her stare at the screen. The gulls, he said. They cry of hunger. I cry of hunger. I walked along her before. I tasted her. She don’t taste dry. But she is. Only the sharks remain—coming closer to shore and they are looking for the same thing we all are. But it’s dry, El. Barren as a desert. Dried up. He opened his eyes and Elea gradually came back into focus.

She blinked hard and she glanced over at Jon—for but a moment—then she eyed the TV. So you say. Well, you got only but a short time to go without work ‘til it starts to cave in on not only you, but myself and your son. You better get on a boat soon or man up. Get a real job, she said. And stop playing out in that damned sea.

Jon closed his eyes, taking long controlled breathes before he could find the words. Fishing is a real job. My father’s whole life was fishing and it bought this house. He tried to remember his father’s words to his mother across the very same table. "‘Fishing is the last real honest living out there. And you can be damned to ever find me behind some desk pushing pencils and papers all day’. Jon recollected the words perfectly, capturing his old man’s tone. Now, when the sea fills up in the spring, things will start to look up. I know it."

But Jon, Elea said, turning back to the range. What if it stays dry? The sea isn’t paying the bills right now and a nine-to-five pushing papers and pencils will. Todd said he could help you find work in the city.

Fuck Todd, Jon said. He’s not a native. He’s of the city. I’m of the sea.

His bony elbows shook on the hard table. Jon suddenly felt muted. The sea, he thought to himself, was speaking to me. It is not dry. But it is. It cannot be long. He shifted his position on the chair. Then he looked up at his wife who was writing what was on the television into a small notebook. It won’t be long, Hon. It’s just a little longer than usual. That’s all. Just wait ‘til spring. You’ll see then.

I hope you are right. She paused for a second, looking at him. For your sake, I hope you are right.

The tea kettle whistled into the air, startling them both.

Elea dashed the kettle from the flame. Tea? she said, as if the fight before had never been. She paused for an answer, but when none was received, she mumbled, I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, and she poured two steaming cups of tea.

Jon rubbed his eyes under his glasses with the sides of his long index fingers. He looked up at Elea who was keeping her conversation with the television alive—her eyes plastered to the TV. She looked older to him than he’d last remembered. The TV lit up wrinkles under her high cheek bones. Gray roots in her hair showed ever so slightly in the light. He knew she had dyed her hair by the empty hair-dye boxes in the bathroom trash basket, but he had never actually seen the gray roots before. The skin under her neck now seemed to hang a little loose, too. Not much. But just enough for him to look twice at her. Is this really the same woman who I asked to marry me? Jon asked himself. He pulled on the seam of the red tablecloth that hung over the small wooden table. His father had built the table the same summer when the old skipper first took Jon out to fish. Jon could barely remember that day. All he had known was that fishing was the family business. And he remembered that he had tried to match the seriousness of the matter—wearing the same stern face of his father’s tight lipped expression.

Jon folded the cloth over. He rubbed the underbelly of the table. The grains were thick and smooth and ran like rivers over rocks through the notches in the wood. This table is from the land, he mumbled to himself. Right from this yard. It consumes the nature of the sea. It flows through this very house. He streamed his fingers along the wood for awhile. He knew that the sea would suffice. It had for his entire life. And before that, it had for his father. The famine was a fluke. But far, in the outer trenches of his mind, Jon knew this day would come. He knew that the ease of life could not come without hurdles. For this long, he had taken the sea for granted. As had his father. Jon had never thought twice about the sea and what it offered him. He never thought of what the sea gave him as a gift. He had taken all he could from it. Exploiting every catch to a sizeable profit. And when times got rough, a slight dry spell, he would have enough saved from the surplus to survive. But times were different now. Jon had not turned a profit since August. Christmas had come and gone—and now Jon was facing the new year.

He looked out the small window above the sink. Gulls flew overhead crying from a hunger in their hollow bones. The bare trees held moaning crows that had nothing to pick at. The sea’s hushed waves floated away, distancing themselves from the land. The beating heart of the sea runs right through me. Right through this house.

Elea’s eyes darted towards Jon in question. What are you babbling about?

Nothing.

It’s about that damned sea. I know it is. But before Elea could sink her teeth into her husband and all of his insufficiencies, a slender teenager shuffled his loose sneakers across the floor.

Morning, Pa. Good morning, Ma. The young man grabbed the backs of his belt loops, hoisting his pants up. His high cheekbones and leathered skin resembled that of his father’s, but the boy’s face was clean shaven. He stood motionless in the middle of the kitchen. His fingers dancing across his cell phone keypad. He was enveloped in the conversation he held in his hands.

Barry, I made breakfast. Go sit with your father.

Okay, Ma, he said, not breaking his stare at his phone. But I need to get a move on. There’s a meeting for the Community Teen Service Club before first bell. I don’t want to miss it. He pulled out the chair next to his father and he sat. Barry’s face wore a smile that showed his bright white teeth. His hair was greased and the part on the far left of his head cascaded like a wave crashing onto his forehead. The young man wrapped his arm around his father’s shoulder. Father, you okay? Your eyes look dull.

Jon’s muscles contracted. He knew Barry had heard the loud words he’d had with Elea before. Jon knew his son had heard all of the verbal lashes. But Barry always seemed to break the tension when they needed it most. As if the boy had known the exact time to enter into a situation to diffuse it. But Jon tried not to think of that. Not now. Instead, he tried to paint the image of happiness across his face. He batted down his messed hair and he buttoned up his opened shirt. No, son. I’m just fine. Just a little tired. Didn’t sleep a wink last night with all that wind.

Well, at least it’s died down. But it sure looks like snow is about to fall for days.

Jon spoke soft. It sure does, son. It sure does. He propped himself up on his chair and he rested his lank arm around his son’s shoulders. Jon felt the warmth of his son’s youthfulness fervor up within him and Jon collapsed his head onto Barry’s.

Hey, Pa. Watch the hair, Barry cawed. He fought against his father’s tight hold. Jon’s muscles bulged and he pressed against his son’s soft forearm. Barry shook against the force of a thousand sea voyages—finally the boy’s resistance eased and Jon broke the hold.

Jon squinted his tired eyes into his son’s bright blues. Barry winced slightly. Then he revealed his teeth again, inviting his father to smile. The sea is strong in him, Jon thought. He just needs more learning. More control. More time. Jon smiled. He will save us from this dying ocean. This empty sea.

Elea dropped plates in front of the two men. Here you are. Eggs, bacon and fresh toast. She turned to the range and then she settled an extra plate of bacon in the middle of the table.

Looks great, Ma, Barry said. He gripped his fork back into his palm and he plunged it into the eggs that were scrambled to a golden yellow. And tastes great, too, he added.

Nothing I wouldn’t do for my boys, she said, placing a filled glass of orange juice in front of Barry.

Elea’s cell phone sounded from her apron pocket. Oh my, she said, peering down at the phone. I better take this inside. It’s Lola. She’s been at it all week with her little Jimmy. She shuffled off down the hall, slipping behind the bedroom door, slamming it shut.

Jon swallowed his eggs hard, flushing them down with the boiling hot tea. He could feel the burn of the bronze liquid leave a harsh trail to the bottom of his stomach. His vision blurred as he stared out the small kitchen window. He sniffed back the drips of moisture in his nose, catching the smell of the salty sea. He felt his pain lifting. He smiled at the waves and thought, For a moment, the sea had been my wife—comforting me. And all his body eased.

Barry sat stilled by his father’s reactions. Okay, the boy finally said. Time for my meeting. He got up and he stood over the trashcan next to the sink, scraping away the breakfast.

Jon focused on the image of his son.

It’s Wednesday. I have Math Club. Don’t forget to tell Ma. I’ll be home by dinner. Barry nodded at his father. Then the boy walked out of the house.

Jon sat quietly at the table with his hands holding his head of emptied thoughts. He took his eyes away from the window and over to the food chilling in front of him. He could hear Elea giggle into the phone over the voices of morning television anchors casting the news to the soiled