Shattered Castles 1 : Castles on the Sand

for Jared Lyman

(March 28, 1975-February 3, 2012)

A man who knew how to love people. For his son's twenty-fifth birthday (sixteen years from now) he wrote:

No Unlesses

I love you and I'm proud of you

You might be watching this from prison

If so-

I love you and I'm proud of you

If you're watching this from backstage at Carnegie Hall-

I love you and I'm proud of you.

It doesn't really matter where you are or what you're doing...

I will always be proud of you and I will always love you.

I think that's what I'd say.

I almost said “Unless...”

But I couldn't think of an “Unless”

Nope

No “unlesses”

I
am on my way to work, after school, when I see them. Two men in suits and pea coats, their breath frosting in the chill air. I'm walking down the side of the street that abuts redwood forest, the tall trees reaching high into the mist. They're walking on the side of the street with houses, the little, four street subdivision that is home to all of us who aren't millionaires, but who live here in Pelican Bluffs. The homes are small and dilapidated. More than one has a car up on blocks in the front yard. Junked out appliances slouch against the back fence of the house directly across from me. The stucco is cracked and an ancient television antenna juts up from the roof, twisted and broken.

The MAV shoots past as I walk – that's what we call the gray minivan that arrives at the high school every morning full of Mormons, and leaves every afternoon with just Carson and Chelsey Montrose. (MAV stands for “Mormon Assault Vehicle”.) Carson and Chelsey wave at the two men in suits, and receive a jovial wave in reply. This confirms my suspicion. The two men are Mormon missionaries.

“Hey,” barks one of them.

I glance around, but find that no one else is on the sidewalk just now. More cars shoot past, and it looks like everyone else either drove or hitched a ride from the rapidly emptying high school campus.

The missionaries have stopped walking, though. One of them stares intently at me. He’s maybe five eleven and has dark blonde hair and skin that's bright red in the cold.

I pause and turn. We face each other across the dusty, gray, asphalt road. The other missionary, a brunette, says something to his friend, but I can’t hear a word from this far away. What is now clear to me, though, is that the “Hey” was meant for the blond, staring missionary, not me. His friend shakes him by the shoulder. It’s odd behavior, but I decide to ignore it and resume walking.

Only, the blond missionary keeps pace with me on the opposite side of the road. I speed up and so does he until the other missionary grabs him by the arm. There’s a brief scuffle, and then the blond missionary darts across the street, right in front of a sports car. An SUV gives an indignant honk.

I run.

“Hey!” shouts the brunette missionary. “Elder Britton. Stop! What are you doing?”

Good question, I agree. More honks make me glance over my shoulder, and I see that the brunette has run the blond down. He holds him back. No one’s chasing me anymore.

I keep going. Once I'm far enough away, I glance back again to make sure they haven’t followed me. I'm nearly to Wilkstone Road by now, our town's main street, where I turn right, walk past Jacksons, the gas station and mini-mart; past The Shack, a little burrito stand that serves home cooked Mexican food for exorbitant prices to the tourists passing through town on their way up the Pacific Coast Highway; and turn in at our tiny branch of the Public Library.

Once I'm inside, my cheeks stinging from the sudden warmth, I glance back once more to make sure I’ve lost the missionaries, and then let myself relax.

“Madison,” the head librarian greets me in his lilting, Indian accent.

“Hi, Siraj.”

“How was school?” He always asks, though I don't really know why. He's one of those people who is ageless. I don't know if he's thirty-five or fifty-five. His hair is salt and pepper and most of the lines in his face come from repeated smiles, rather than frowns. He's short and slender and all angles, but nevertheless, he's the sort of person whom you feel you can tell your deepest secrets to and know that he'll just listen and understand. Or in my case, it's my silence that he understands. He never tries to pry into my thoughts.

“Fine,” is how I always answer. I dump my backpack behind the circulation desk and sit down at the computer. The library is devoid of other people, and the only sounds are the hum of the computer fan and the barely audible buzz of the fluorescent lights. I check my email and work on my homework to pass the hours until we close.

A
s I power down my computer, someone whooshes in the door. “We're closing,” I say, without looking up.

“Hey.” The voice belongs to my best friend, Kailie. Her sky blue eyes are dull with exhaustion and her lustrous dark hair is a little windblown.

“Oh, hey.” I smile at her.

“So, when I walked over here, some guy stopped me and asked if I knew you.”

“What guy?”

“A Mormon missionary. Totally random.”

“What? Where?” I crane my neck to look out the front windows.

“No, they're gone now,” she says. “He was really nice about it. He just asked if I went to the high school and if I had a friend who worked in the library, and when I asked him why he wanted to know, he just said to tell you he's sorry he bugged you earlier. Did he bug you earlier?”

“He chased me down the street.”

“Madison,” Siraj cuts in, “how come you never tell me these exciting stories when I ask how your day was? You've got to think of me, sitting here with all these books all day long and no people to talk to.”

“Sorry.”

“That sounds positively action packed.”

“It wasn't. It was me speedwalking and a guy in a suit trying to keep up with me.”

“How is that not action packed?” says Kailie. “You know how many movies have that exact scene?”

“Okay, fine. It just didn't feel all that action packed.”

“Because your life is that exciting?” says Siraj. “How come you never tell me about any of this?”

“Okay,
okay
. The next time I get chased by a Mormon missionary, I will make sure you know all about it.”

“Anyway,” says Kailie, “I was wondering if I could borrow your phone?”

I hand it over and sling my backpack onto my shoulder. “See you tomorrow,” I say to Siraj.

“Your parents take your phone again?” Siraj asks Kailie.

“Yep. They felt I wasn't adequately respectful at dinner last night.” She rolls her eyes and taps away at the keypad with her thumb. “I will totally pay you back,” she promises me.

She never does, but she's so generous with her things, there's no point making an issue out of it. I may not have much money, but I don't have many expenses either. It pays to be boring sometimes.

I wave goodbye to Siraj as Kailie and I head out of the library.

“Shut up!” she yells into my phone. “You are
so
lying to me.” Next comes a stream of curse words.

I know better than to ask whom she's talking to. Kailie's mood shifts like a wind sock, and when it's blowing the wrong way, the best thing to do is just wait until things right themselves. She continues cursing all the way to the corner, then hangs up in a huff and hands the phone back to me. “Jerk,” she mutters, which sounds mild enough to be a compliment given what she'd been saying just a moment ago.

“Ben?” I ask.

“Yes. We are so over.”

“His loss.”

“Yes. Completely. Okay, I gotta get home. See you later.” She waves and heads across Wilkstone, towards Ridge Road and the Pelican Bluffs Inn, which her family owns and runs.

I'm grateful to hear that she and Ben are on the outs. Too often, when she sneaks out to see him, she drags me along and I've been short on sleep for a while.

T
hat night, a tap on my window wakes me up. I roll over with a groan. My bed is right up against the wall with the window, so the tap sounds right by my head, and there it comes again. I reach up and flip the latch. The pane swings out and Kailie leans in. “Come on.”

“Mmm, I'm tired. I thought you and Ben were over.”

“Ben won't be there tonight and I'm bored. Come on.” She climbs in the window, her boots sinking deep into my mattress as she steps over me, down onto the floor, and starts going through my closet.

“Do you have that cornflower blue sweater, or did I borrow it?”

I crack open one eye and look at her. She's got her face all done up with sparkly eyeshadow and pearly lip gloss and is wearing a cute tank top under a stylish shirt, knotted at the waist to accentuate her figure.

“I'm tired,” I repeat.

“Here it is!” She switches on my light, hauls me out of bed by one arm, and pushes me to sit down in my desk chair. “'Kay, hold still.”

I know better than to argue with her when she's in a makeover mood. Kailie and I are best friends because we were assigned to sit next to each other in kindergarten, not because it makes any kind of sense. She's gorgeous, with her deep blue eyes and dark brown hair, while I'm plain, with hair and skin so pale that they glow slightly in the dark. She's rich, with parents who own the Pelican Bluffs Inn. Mom and I live in this tiny two-bedroom house off the money Mom makes from the pottery she sells at Pelican Sky Gallery on Ridge Road. Kailie makes me popular by association, I guess, though in a school where everyone's known everyone since toddlerhood, “popular” isn't all that meaningful a term. Still, everyone treats me as if Kailie and I go together like two peas in a pod. If only they knew how much work that is for Kailie.

She grabs cosmetics out of my desk drawer, plants one booted foot on the seat next to me, leans in, and gets to work, dusting on eyeshadow, smearing on lipstick, and drawing on eyeliner while I try not to flinch even though I'm sure she'll veer off my eyelid and onto the eyeball any second. My eyebrows and eyelashes are blond too, so without eyeliner, I basically don't have a face.

I grab tissues to blot the lipstick and she laughs at me. “Oooh yeah. Wouldn't want to be too
daring.”

“Let's just go.”

“Cornflower blue sweater, denim skirt,” she orders

“I'm gonna get cold if that's all I wear.” She's wearing cute cargo pants that hug her curves.

She grabs the skirt out of my closet and throws it at me. “You'll live.”

“I don't have thick tights.”

“Fine, then skinny jeans.”

“No.” I put the skirt back. Skinny jeans weren't made for people like me. I muffintop even in clothes that don't have a waistline. Kailie bought some for me on our last shopping trip in order to override my protestations that I couldn't afford them. Really, I just didn't want them, but now I own a pair and I've regretted it ever since. I get out my comfortable, baggy jeans.