The Moon Around Sarah (3 page)

From their approach, they could see the long pier, the surf curling around the pilings; a dark, long finger pointing
westward
like a clock’s hand indicating the vanishing hours of night. A tired, creosote-smelling pier, the timbers rotting and encrusted with green slime. It was a local landmark, some sort of mournful symbol of forgotten community pride with its peeling white arch of a sign reading: ‘Sundown Pier.’

God, Edward thought, surveying it. Is everything in this country rotting away?

Edward glanced at his mother. She grew more eager as they swung into the buckled asphalt parking lot with its barely visible striping. She leaned forward to look intently through the windshield. She was anticipating
something
. A dread and powerful force. He believed he knew what it was. He glanced away. The salt-scent and heavy smell of kelp were almost intolerable to him.

‘Here we are, darling,’ Ellen said to Sarah in her
birdsong
way. ‘Oh, this will be a glorious day.’

‘Mother, you only have an hour or so,’ Edward said, glancing at his watch. ‘I’ll be back for you then, all right?’

‘Of course, Edward,’ Ellen said cheerfully, and she climbed out of the car, holding the heavy door open. She took Sarah by the hand and towed her out of the back seat. Edward watched them go in sullen mystification. They strode toward the foot of the pier, Sarah being hurried, holding her floppy straw hat down. He wondered what the pier represented to Mother. Her mind was so murky – impenetrable to him still after all these years. He sighed as Trish got into the front seat and rolled the window up.

Trish, too, was watching her sister in the faded
blue-dress
hurrying toward the pier where a few fishermen in anoraks passed, carrying poles and tackle boxes.

‘I know what she’s up to,’ Trish said in a bitter murmur, ‘she was never like this when she was young.’ Her voice drifted away; she seemed to be revisiting a far away time. ‘It started when that man…’ and she stopped, biting off her last word savagely, after realizing she was talking to Raymond Tucker’s son. ‘Ellen was a good girl, a happy girl,’ Trish could not help adding. Slowly they drove away then, heading toward the center of town.

Sarah liked walking along the pier. Morning was casting a strange and dreadful wash of color against the sea and sky alike. Bright orange devoured deep violet and faded away to morning crimson. Clouds were building to the north and
west above the tessellated sea. The surf hissed past far beneath her feet, swirling around the pilings. She could see the moving white water between the dark yielding planks.

Mother darted here and there, talking to people she had never met, startling a whiskered man who slowly smiled and then showed her a twenty-four inch halibut he had on a stringer. The pier smelled of oil and rot, cut-squid bait and fish blood.

Within twenty minutes, Mother had found a big, dark, man in a checked shirt with a pint of whisky in his tackle box.

Sarah walked on toward the end of the pier, her hand clamped firmly on her pink-ribboned hat as the gusting sea breezes played pilfering games with it. The sea rolled in with metronomic constancy, heavy with the scent of the ocean’s saliva and sailors’ Chinese memories.

She became aware only in tiny increments of the young man walking beside her, stride for stride.

He was her age – maybe a little older – no more than 25. He was handsome, she supposed, but there was something quirky in the way his features had been arranged;
everything
in the proper place but not quite matching. He was bareheaded and had very fine, flyaway blond hair, perfectly straight. He had a well-formed skull with a high forehead and his eyes were very pale blue, nearly gray. But it was his mouth that seemed to carry the burden of his personality; small, pursed, one corner uptilted wryly as if it had been set by injury, but there was no scar marring it. His teeth were small and very white.

‘Hello,’ he said, ‘it’s a crazy sky this morning, isn’t it? A crazy sea. A frenzied expression … is Neptune tossing in his bed?’

Sarah frowned with her eyes. Did he always talk like that, she wondered?

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how to begin
conversations
.’ His smile became boyish, diffident. ‘And I don’t walk up to strange women usually … do you know what a
beautiful
smile you have?’

Sarah continued walking. The man kept pace with her. A brown variegated seagull lifted itself lazily from the rail of the pier and circled toward the shore. The man spoke again:

‘I
really
am sorry, Miss. Let me try to start over. My name is Donald March. I’m a photographer. I like to think of myself as an artist,’ he paused, looking seaward, gathering his thoughts, ‘you must know you are an extraordinarily good-looking woman. Your presence is really remarkable. I would be deeply gratified…’ his voice began to stumble, ‘if you could ever possibly consider sitting for me … I have a studio in town….’

A seagull wheeled and cried raucously, diving for cast-off bait thrown to the sea, its shriek rose and intensified wildly, becoming a human scream. Sarah turned to see her mother rushing toward her, fury darkening her face.

‘You!’ she panted, waving her arms violently at the young man. ‘Get away from her! What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Pardon me?’ The photographer staggered in surprise. ‘I was just talking to this young lady.…’

‘She’s not a lady! She’s a girl, only a girl,’ Ellen screamed.
She stood hunched forward, trying to catch her breath after her run along the pier. She held her abdomen and hurled her voice against the young man again. ‘She can’t even talk! Don’t you understand that? Leave her alone. Whatever you want, just leave my Sarah alone. Can’t you even tell when a person is retarded?’

And then Mother began to cry. The photographer, after a few attempts to form words with his expressive, interesting mouth, looked into Sarah’s eyes and, with a shrug, walked away down the pier with his hands deep in his pockets. Mother hugged Sarah tightly, continuing to cry; the smell of bourbon and of grief was strong on her.

Sarah knew that Mother was thinking of Baby; but Sarah did not cry. There are no ghosts, after all, but only times past and objects left alone in cold basements or flung into the cold and long-reaching sea.

She walked Mother landward.

Sylvia Torquenado was a young, dark-haired girl whose every movement was frenetic. Her manner was nearly slavish, as if she feared losing her position at Dennison & Dennison at any moment if she did not fawn over visitors and remain in continuous motion, even though she had been in the law firm’s employ for more than six years. A part of this was undoubtedly due to the fact that she had a fatherless child at home and a mother who needed spinal surgery.

Her work had been totally satisfactory to her employers, and in those six years she had never had more than a mild
rebuke for switching two sets of contracts, mailing them to the wrong parties: a trifling matter. Neither Dennison brother had ever even considered replacing Sylvia. Nevertheless, her habitual manner was of one easily
intimidated
and constantly jittery.

The tall man who now strode into her receptionist’s area, which was decorated in various shades of orange, muted by dark mahogany trimming, intimidated her immediately, although his expression hovered between tolerance and humor. Sylvia could not have explained her sudden rush of anxiety, she simply felt some sort of power radiating from the man. He was craggy and self-assured – perhaps it was the way he strode across the tangerine-colored carpet. He did not saunter exactly, nor shuffle; his gait was one of oiled, careful precision as if he could damn well move a lot faster if he cared to, but chose measured steps as if approaching life and its intricacies with grave caution.

In that rapid estimation, she came very close to the heart of Raymond Tucker’s personality.

‘’Name’s Tucker. I have an appointment with Sal Dennison,’ the man said. His shave was very rough; his cologne sharp and inexpensive. He wore a tweed jacket over faded blue-jeans and a white shirt, open at his tanned throat.

‘Yes, sir. He is expecting you.’ Sylvia met his gaze briefly, broke off and shuffled a few papers meaninglessly. The man, she knew, was expected. All of the Tucker family was due in that morning. Some sort of real estate sale. Why they were not all scheduled at the same time, she did not know.
‘Mr Dennison is not in his office yet … your son is here. You may feel free to go on in. Unless you would prefer to wait downstairs in the coffee shop? I could call.…’

‘My son?’ Raymond Tucker was smiling now, but Sylvia did not find it an inviting expression, her eyes shifting away again. ‘I’ll wait with him if you don’t mind,’ Tucker said, ‘that’ll be fine. My son and I can have a talk.’

‘Of course, sir,’ she said, rising sharply, awkwardly. Sylvia led the way to the heavy, carved-oak door to the inner office. She opened the door for the man and stepped aside in rapid, tiny steps.

Beyond the door, the office was all dark-green carpet and oak paneling and was cool and curtained. The younger man in jeans and a red sweatshirt sat in a heavy corner chair, legs crossed, dark eyes lifting with casual interest. The door was closed in Sylvia’s face and she wobbled back to her desk. She could feel … something. Something nearly
electric
swirling around her, and she did not like it. Not at all.

Edward took the elevator to the third floor of the professional building. Brushed aluminum and fake pecan-paneling, it moved with barely a hiss. He was the only passenger; it was still very early and most of the offices – legal groups,
insurance
companies, a medical association – were not yet open. He had left Aunt Trish in the coffee shop enjoying a Danish.

‘I don’t give a damn about any of the preliminaries,’ she had told him. ‘You’re the lawyer in the family. Let me know when they want my signature and when they’re ready to cut a check.’

When the elevator door whooshed open on the third floor, Edward was surprised to see Sal Dennison, a little red in the face, walking toward him, his stubby legs pumping vigorously. He had a briefcase in his left hand. With his right, he reached up to adjust his tie before extending a welcome to Edward.

‘Took the stairs,’ Sal said with a weak smile, waving a thumb over his shoulder, ‘the doctor says to use ’em.’ He tapped his heart in explanation.

‘Is anyone else here yet?’ Edward asked.

‘Only you, so far as I know. Where’s your mother?’

‘She’ll be here.’ Edward glanced at his watch. ‘I have to pick her up. Aunt Patricia is downstairs. I know I’m way early, but can we just get through the prelims, Sal? It’s easiest if we can just hand them a pen when they get here and let them each sign. It’ll save you from having to go over the fine points with two women who don’t have any interest in them anyway.’ They walked together toward Dennison’s office. ‘I’ve explained the final terms to them; they
understand
and agree.’

‘Good. Far preferable,’ Sal agreed.

‘What about the Golden West representative?’ Edward asked, referring to the land development people.

‘Power of attorney,’ Sal said, patting his briefcase. ‘That’s all I need from them.’

‘Great. It’s in everyone’s best interest to expedite this.’

‘Uh …’ Sal stopped, his bearded face serious, pouched eyes showing concern, ‘about your sister, Edward….’

Edward smiled remotely, and touched his own briefcase.
‘Power of attorney, Sal. I’ve been her conservator for quite some time.’

‘Good,’ Sal said. His face relaxed. He patted Edward’s shoulder, but then asked cautiously, ‘She can sign papers, can’t she? Understand them? I mean.…’ He meant he didn’t want any snag in the transaction that might threaten the large fee he was charging for midwifing the deal.

‘She doesn’t have to sign, Sal. I have full power over her share of the estate.’

‘I mean, we wouldn’t want any … ramifications.’

‘There won’t be any – no legal ramifications anyway. I consulted with Judge Randolph. I have a letter from him. We’re totally OK all the way down the line – although Randolph required a consulting fee, and I’m expecting your firm to take care of that for us.’

‘Sure, Edward. Of course!’ Sal laughed, not revealing his relief. Edward could refer casually to the fine legal points as ‘prelims’, but that was what he was being paid to oversee, and paid well too. The last thing they needed down the road was some sort of legal challenge to the settlement. Hardly likely to occur now, not with Judge Randolph on the team. ‘Everything will go as smooth as Japanese silk then.’

‘So long as you’re sure my father and Eric haven’t gone and changed their mind for some reason.’

‘Don’t give it a thought,’ Sal told him. ‘I’ve made numerous confirmation calls to both of them. Neither one of them has any objection to the terms. It seems both Raymond and Eric are as anxious to get this over and done
with as you are. This should be very quick and simple: in and out. An hour, tops. Everyone happy.’

Happy
. Edward wondered at the use of that word. This all seemed to him like some dry, forced conjugal duty, completed lovelessly. The act is completed, but no one is
happy
with the result.

‘It’s just something we have to finish,’ he said, almost to himself.

They entered the office door, Sylvia becoming nervously alert as if she suspected they had been spying on her from the hallway. Her naïve, guilt-ridden eyes fumbled toward them.

‘Good morning, Mr Dennison. Mr Tucker…’ she
hesitated
, ‘have I made a mistake? Your father and brother are already here, Mr Tucker.’

‘Alone?’ Edward said roughly; Sylvia cringed. ‘In the same room!’

Sylvia couldn’t answer. Her throat moved nervously. God! What had she done wrong now?

A response to Edward’s startled question came hot on the heels of his words. From the inner office they heard a roar, the sound of furniture crashing and a thud that must have been a human being thrown against the wall.

‘Jesus!’ Sal shouted. He dropped his briefcase and started toward the office door, but Edward put a restraining hand on the lawyer’s arm. He spoke with the voice of experience: