Alissa Nielsen

I rolled three green buds in the divorce papers, took in a long, hard drag and exhaled our piece-of-shit marriage into the ocean air. Ripping through the first page, I rolled each shred into a lumpy joint, smoking it fast before the end of the paper uncurled. I made it half way through the second page before I grew paranoid of ink poisoning. I threw the pile into the sand, poured whiskey, a match, and let the flames burn. Fuck her. Fuck marriage. And fuck this divorce.

When I finished off all the pot, I started in on whiskey. The fire quickly turned to ash and I sat alone in the midnight, drunk off my ass, nodding in and out of consciousness. For the past couple years she really hated it when I drank, end up just like your father, she liked to say, twisting the knife slowly.

A speed boat rocked near the dock, moaning the wet wood. The air was damp, a heavy pressured rain in the clouds, coming in from the west. When you grow up in a town, when you’ve lived there and only there, the weather speaks to you like family. It tells you to obey. The weather told me, “From here on out it’s winter, son, nothing but fogged-out mornings and soggy skies. Best wear them boots, boy. Don’t want to be taking care of no cold’n’flew.”

I brushed the sand off my jeans and rummaged in the empty pockets. The ocean waves grew closer and, it might’ve been the weed, but I got that feeling of being very, very small...and trapped. So small, a mollusk, or a limpet attached to a rock, larvae clinging for life in the tidepools.

I blinked to keep my eyes from drying. In the distance a flash of white dipped in the ocean. I pushed myself from the sand and stumbled the length of the dock. Water slapped the sides of the boat. A cold rush went through me, peering out into the dark at what looked to be pasty limp arms gripping the waves. As the tide pushed it closer, I saw shimmering, like tiny silver scales. I leaned in from the edge to catch a better look – round, shiny plastic and many layers of sinewy alabaster fabric rolling in the waves –

“A wedding dress,” I laughed at the ridiculous irony of it all, “A goddamned wedding dress!” I bent over in hysterics, my hands on my knees, in tears, “They’ll never believe this.”

I kneeled down, reaching, reaching and just as my fist clenched the shiny pearl fabric, a inky black arm sprung like a viper from the water and grabbed hold of my wrist, gripping tight suction eel-like fingers thick long nails claws cutting into my wrist. I pulled back, my feet planted, but it kept hold slipping to my fingers, squeezing, sucking, Pop! and a pain shot through my hand, a hot pulsing, my two outside fingers throbbed. I fell back, the flipper-hand slipped from mine and disappeared into the dark depth.

“What the fuck?” I lay on the dock, blinking, trying to breathe, the mist from the Pacific dampening my face. I watched the stars quiver like silver eyes before I grew dizzy and passed out cold.

I awoke the next morning to broken fingers, a fierce hangover, my stomach sour and my whole body shaking. It was a miracle I ever made it into work on time.

The lunch crowd would be arriving soon. I entered through the backdoor of Trawbreaga Bay Restaurant, a seafood joint in Charleston, Oregon, where I’d been cooking for the past ten-odd years.

“Jesus, Paxton. You look like shit.” Kelley said, prepping scallions.

“It was a hellova night.” I passed him, swiping some duck tape from the shelf and stumbling into the bathroom to throw up, wash my face, and stare good and hard at myself in the mirror. I ran my fingers up the hard bristle of unshaved neck, dark cups around my eyes, chalky lips. The new single me, what a catch. I taped my two swollen purple fingers together and washed the crusted blood off the three large scrapes that ran down my wrist and hand. What the fuck did I do to myself last night?

I stepped into the walk-in cooler to see what I had to prep. Kelly’d already plowed-through most of the veg and sides, put everything in the huge cylinder containers, labeled and dated like a good employee. The kitchen didn’t even smell like fish yet, just soap and bleach and onions. Kelley already had the stove going, with six order slips dangling at a safe distance overhead. Gotta love the early-lunchers, ‘bout the only thing people do in this town is eat out. I grabbed the first five slips.

“Half-shells. Eleven AM and everyone wants half-shells.” I waved the slips at Kelley and pulled out the plastic barrel of live oysters brought by Wallace and his guys from the docks.

I tried to ignore the blaring pop music. The station had been playing this same music since the early 90's, when I’d first started working here ten fucking years ago. I hadn’t talked to anyone about music since high school, part of what happens in this town, current music being Grady’s band that play classic rock at Hannah’s Bar on Sundays.

“You gonna be okay to shuck pussy?” Kelley asked, looking at my bandaged up hand. He meant the oysters, he liked to call ‘em pussy, for obvious reasons.

“Yeah, man. I’m fine.” I said, pouring the oysters out on the cold marble counter top and pulling on my gloves. I could shuck an oyster with hand behind my back. I’ve been doing this shit for too long.

***

After being gone in Alaska for five days longer than expected, Dad walked through the door sopping wet with rain. Mom had been boiling potatoes and I was drawing pictures with my thumb in the moisture of the windows.

He threw open the door, a bucket in one hand, duffle bag in the other. Mom and I looked at him quietly, equally surprised and not surprised to see him. He smiled at us and held out his arms, a friendly gesture he’d use with pals as well as strangers. When he came in he brought the rain in little puddles, one at the door, one where she stood in the kitchen, and one puddle grew under the table as he showed me the barrel-full of oysters.

“You see this?” He pulled out a short, stout blade with a downward curve at the tip, “This is how you get into them.” He held an oyster in his palm, peeled the coat from his shoulders and sat next to me at the kitchen table.

“Careful,” Mom set a beer and a large cutting board down on the kitchen table.

I sat on my knees and watched carefully.

“The trick is to find a way to jimmy the knife in and cut the adductor muscle so the damn thing with unclamp. See – ” He held the oyster down with his palm, his right hand gripped the knife, trying to stab through the shell, “you see, son, they keep themselves locked tight, they don’t want noone in.”

He clenched his jaw and growled. “Aw! There!” The tip of the knife slipped into the shell and he sawed until the muscle was cut, “See – ” He pried open the shell to reveal a wet, pale gray muscle, purple and bits of black on the edges. “This is what they eat in the fancy restaurants.” He said and tipped the oyster into his mouth.

“Ewww.” I imagined the muscle sliding down the back of his throat, swimming in his stomach.
He smiled, clenching his back teeth. He leaned back on the chair and dug in the bucket, “Got a meal fit for a king in here.” His green-auburn eyes watched me and he slammed an oyster down on the cutting board, “Now you try.” He slid the knife to me. I gripped the wooden handle in my hand.

***

I’ve tried to convince the boss to front me money to compete in the Galway oyster shucking competitions, but he thinks it’s all nonsense. “But I could win a lot of money for the restaurant. I did some research and the world record is one minute 31 seconds for 30 oysters and my best time is one and 56, so I think I have a good chance.” I said. But he just shook his head at me and pretended to work on his fancy new computer.

Kelley’s always impressed, though. He’s been working here since the place opened 20 years ago and he says I’m the fastest shucker he’s ever met.

“So what the hell happened to you?” He said, “Your hand looks like a goddamned lobster claw.” He positioned his fingers like Spock. I tied on a rubber black apron, my oyster knife in pocket.
“Katie’s papers came in the mail yesterday.” I held the oyster down to the marble, stabbed at the hinge and slid upward to cut the adductor muscle. The knife went in too far, cutting the meat too much, damaging the presentation.

Kelley shook his head, “Shit man. That’s fucked.” The oyster popped open, the raw moist sea smells flooding my nostrils. “That’s just fucked up.” He said.

And that’s all that needed to be said about that.

All day long I tried to focus, but I hurt like hell. The hand, sure, but my stomach and chest burned, worse than a teenaged hangover. Luckily business was slow and the boss sent me home early.

Instead of going home, I went to a bar way down the pier and bought every stranger I saw a round. Too many shots and pints later I was speaking jibberish to any loser who’d listen.

“She wouldn’t let go, she held me tight, the evil woman, trying to drown me.” I leaned into the guy next to me, a fat guy who sat awkwardly on the bar stool, like an elephant trying to balance on a match.

“Your wife tried to drown you?” The fat guy asked.

“No. I mean yes. It’s hard to say who, or what.” I wasn’t making sense. I could hear my slurred speech echo in my head, as if my ear were plugged.

“I had a son die. He was only seven.” An old man with ashy eyes spoke up from the end of the bar, “I’ll tell you I fought in two wars, saw lots of dead bodies, killed people. But to see your son, your flesh and blood wither away and die. That’s some fucked up shit.”

The place had emptied out, only our thirsty bellies to the bar, a protected circle around the precious bottles. The fat guy pulled strings of tobacco from a tin and stuffed his lip. Nothing played on the juke box, no cracking of pool balls, we all sat in an awkward quiet, “Here’s another draft, on the house.” The bartender slid a beer in front of the old man.

“I’ve seen a lot of hell in my life, but nothin’s worse than grief, nothing, except maybe the guilt of knowing you could’ve done something.” He looked like he might say something else, but instead took a long swig from the mug, “Shit. I never knew grief would be so scarey. Sad, sure, but I never expected it’d turn me into a fuckin pussy.”

“Or me into a pussy,” the fat guy lumped the tobacco in his cheek and hit the old man on the back, “I’m damn near cryin’ in my beer here.”

I slid from the stool and headed towards the john. The old man reminded me of my father, he had the same far-off distant look when he drank, the same sad, arrogant intensity that stopped everyone from havin’ a good time – poor me, oh how I suffer. But I sat and listened to his bellyachin’, even though I had to piss.

Inside the bathroom someone had hung an air-freshener of a naked woman that looked like it could’ve been from the 50's. Obviously it wasn’t working, the place reeked of puke and shit. I unzipped and let out a slow, satisfying stream.

The floor next to me creaked.

I looked over and saw a man in a long, black leather coat standing next to me, “Geud night,” he warbled.

His voice made my whole body go icy, the hallow-shakiness, like he was half gargling salt water. I zipped up, “Fuck! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Geud night.” He garbled, as if he were saying hello, his lips wet and pale.

He sounded foreign, “Where you from, man?” I asked, watching his dark, drunk eyes, his long face wrinkled and gaunt.

He starred at me, an angry invasive stare I’d only gotten from my wife, “The sea.” He hissed, his lips gleaming.

Water trickled down the drainpipes. Fuckin’ creepy-ass drunk fisherman. Think they’re all Captain Motherfucking Ahab, “Well I have some serious drinking to get back to.” I said and slipped out the door.

I watched the blur of orange and brown carpet as I stumbled toward my chair. The bartender fed the juke a couple quarters and Johnny Cash sang Ring of Fire. Someone had propped open the door. Two turquoise mini skirts walked by looking in, they giggled, maybe at us.

“You doing okay down there? You look a little green.” The old man said as I sat down.

“He’s fine.” the bartender said, “His wife’s just left him is all.” He had heard an ear full last month, when Katie moved the last of her stuff out.

“Hey pal. Hey pal.” The old man tried to get my attention, “You’ll like this one, then. How is a woman like a laxative? Hey pal, How is a woman like a laxative?” The old man chuckled into his shoulder.

“How?”

“They both irritate the crap out of ya!” The old man let out a coughing guffaw and the bartender shook his head.

I laughed politely, “That’s a good one,” and took a shot.

“You need me to call you a cab, Paxton?” The bartender leaned in on one elbow, he had nice hair this guy, probably 42 or 43 this guy, and nice thick, dark hair, nice teeth, tips in the jar.

“Naw, thanks. I don’t have the money. I’ll just walk.” I had to speak up over the old man’s hee-hawing.

“Well, be careful out there. You got a gun? There’s been weird shit going on by the docks, people killing people. You know ‘bout all that, right? You know ‘bout Sam Hickie and all that, right?”

“Oh right. I’m shitting my pants with fear.” I rolled my eyes and tripped out the door.

The night blew cold winds and no matter how hot my face was from bourbon, I couldn’t get my goddamned hands warm. I thought of Katie, how she’d sit cross-legged and cross-armed on that ragged couch waiting for me to come home. I’d walk through the door and a moment of relief would sweep her face and then the anger’d set in. We’d go to sleep, the 3-inch gap between us, like the grand motherfucking canyon. Paxton, she whispered one night, are we even friends, anymore?

I pretended I was asleep.

Dad always said, Keep ‘em at a distance. He’d put Mom on that boat long before she left him, or maybe it was her that put him there, it’s hard to say about these things.

I put the collar up on my coat and rubbed my hands together. It was extremely dark, the moon just a sliver in the sky. So many times I’d walked on this beach, felt the sand under my boots or between my toes, watched the waves come in with my father or a girlfriend, or wife dozing off next to me. My lower back throbbed, as if I’d been hauling heavy bags of sand.

I could see a man off near the pier, or what I thought was a man, couldn’t really tell with it being so dark and my head dog-paddling in booze, the dock vibrating just slightly. I took hold of the knife in my pocket, not wanting to be stuck in a situation, with all the shit I’d been hearing. But as I walked closer, I recognized him.

“Hey man. You get kicked out too?” I yelled. It was the man I’d seen at the bar earlier, the guy from the bathroom.

He didn’t turn around. His huge boots stuck out over the edge of the pier.

“Hey man? You okay?” I said, louder this time. The waves crashed the rocks, Crsh, Crshhhh, Crssshhh...

He looked over his shoulder quickly, his face hard white and cratered as the moon, shadows moved at his sides, crawling at the cuffs of his jacket, long ... shiny black ... tentacles. As I turned to run a wet arm whipped around my neck and I hit the ground, dragged backwards into the water. My fingers slipped frantic over its slick, blubbery surface, unable to keep a grip, saltwater stung my eyes, cold, syrupy liquid dripped down my neck, my head spun faster and faster, the clouds shuttered, whipping by in a blurry fast-forward, I coughed trying for air, little golden stars swirled, coughed trying for air, trying and then, everything’s dark...

***

One morning she was there for me, and the next she was gone. First Mom, then Katie. Mom left a weeks worth of meals packaged up in the freezer ready to nuke at anytime. It was a beautiful summer morning, there were hummingbirds and the air smelled of mowed grass and roses. We sat at the table like two strangers. I think he expected she was leaving, but assumed she’d take me along with her.

“Want a beer, son?” He finally asked me, after he’d already polished off a six-pack. He pulled back the tab on the silver can and put it in front of me.

“Sure.” My voice cracked, I was trying not to cry. I slurped the yeasty bitter beverage, my fingers ran over my chin where a new pimple was surfacing.

“Well, just us two bachelors, I guess.” And let out a long belch.

I wanted to go after her, to go looking, but instead stayed next to Dad, in some ways, looked after him. Later, I’d be mad, pissed off at her selfishness. But then, as strange and painful as it was, I just knew I had to stay with him.

“We don’t need her.” Was one of the many phrases he’d repeat to me, years and years after she’d gone, giving me advise about women, “Keep ‘em at a distance.” He’d always say, repeating and repeating, trying for his strongest, most convincing voice.

***

“Hey Paxton? Is that you?” I heard a voice, like an echo at first. “You drunk fuck, you okay? You okay?”

I opened my eyes and saw Kelley standing above me, his boot digging into my side, the sun in the sky behind him. People yelled from the boats, throwing bails to the docks.

“What are you doing here?” I pushed myself up, my head throbbed and my eyes stung.

“Boss sent me here to pick up the shipment. Wallace and his boys are gone fer the week. You’re supposed to be at work soon. What the hell you doing here?

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit, you don’t know. You passed out again, you fuckin drunk.” Kelley looked over his shoulder at the boat coming in. It was strange to see him out of his chef uniform – the usual white coat and loose, checkered pants with chef hat or hairnet. This morning Kelley wore loose grey sweats (big guy clothes) and no hat. I’d forgotten he’d gone completely bald. But baldness looks cool on black guys, makes them look tough, not like white guys, when we go bald we just look pathetic and old.

“I had another shitty night.” I said, my hand on my head.

“You gotta get a grip, son.” He said in a way that made me feel like I’d been scolded.

“Kelley,” I paused as if to rethink what I was about to say, “It’s not just about Katie. Something else is going on. Something really weird. At first I thought I was just really stoned or drunk, but it’s more than that...”

“What’re you talkin about?” He pulled me up without effort and we headed toward the dock.

“Something tried to kill me. Tried to pull me into the water.”

“Oh.” Psht, “You’re just wasted s’all. Damn, one time after 12 hours at work I went out an’drank almost an entire quart of whiskey, almost a quart, and I passed out ‘fer a while. When I woke I was in a god damned oyster shell, I kid you not, stuck inside a motherfucker, everything was all grey an’dark an’shit. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, let me out you motherfucker!” He laughed, “But suddenly I looked around, man, I wasn’t in no oyster. I was just hung over, just sick an’ pathetic. Like you.”

“Alright, okay,” I waved his insult, “You need help bringin’ anything over? I could help...”

“Naw, I can get these. Do me a favor – go home an’ take a shower ‘fore you come to work. You smell like shit.”

“Yeah, alright.” I tried to think of a comeback, but I was in no condition.

“Hey Paxton,” Kelley yelled while walking away from me, “that shit’s not real, okay, it aint.” Kelley tilted his chin and raised his eyebrows, “Ok?”

“Alright.” I yelled back like a placating son. I knew he was probably right. Just some weird response to the divorce, to all the shit I’d been going through lately.

At work that night Genevieve, Veve she likes to be called, wore a new, low cut black dress that none of the guys could stop talking about. It held her tits in such a way it’d make my breath leap right out of me each and every bounce. Veve, started working here as a host at fifteen, and that was two years ago, so she’d be seventeen now.

“Just one more year, man.” I whispered to Kelley after she walked by, her sweet cucumber and pear cutting the rotten seaweed of halibut guts.

“Have you ever talked to her, man? I mean, she’s fine, but you really get her talkin’ and she’s got a creepy Dawn of the Dead thing going on. I think she’s Mormon, or Baptist or some fuckin’ wacked-out religion.”

“I don’t care if she’s a Satan worshiper, she’s fuckin’ hot.”

“No, man. I hear ya. I’m just saying, she’s wack-a-doo s’all, I’d be afraid she’d bite my dick off.” Kelley’s happily married with two kids and even though he talks about fuckin’ other women, I think it’s just so we all know that he’s not dead down there, or to show us he’s not a fag.

I walked up front to fill my soda. The restaurant is a comfy size, if you were to walk in you’d see Veve in front of you at the host podium and the bar would be to your right. To your left would be two side rooms with five, four-top tables. If you’re being escorted to one of the six booths in the back you’d walk by the kitchen with a viewing window. You’d see us smiling, but wouldn’t hear us making fun of you and your wife.

The freshly-cleaned linens had just been laid out and candles lit.Veve leaned on the host podium, filling in the reservations with a blue dry erase marker.

“Gonna be busy tonight, huh.” I said drinking Coke and crushed ice from a red, plastic glass.
“Fridays.” She said rolling her eyes, her hand on her hip, her right foot to the side.

I tried to think of what to say. “I think I might enter the international oyster shucking competition. If I win I get to compete in Ireland.”

She looked up, her mouth clenched like she’s trying to hold back laughter, “Um, okayyy.”She scribbled a reservation on A7. I am taller than her and can see straight down her dress.

“So...Kelley said he found you drunk on the beach this morning.” She smiled, her lips glossy.
“Yeah, well. It happens to the best of us.”

She turned and looked at me, my perfect view thwarted, “It’s never happened to me.”

I looked away, spinning my Coke like it had rum in it. “It was a weird night,” I said.
“Why, what happened?”

I stood there for a moment, contemplating what I should say. Before I knew it I was telling Veve the whole goddamned story. Maybe because I liked the attention from her, maybe because she was the only one who’d listen, but for some reason I decided to tell her everything – the man with tentacle hands, the wedding dress, the whole bit. She stared at me, enthraled by the story, her big blue eyes warm and attentive.

Afterward she took in a long, deep breath. “I think you’re being stocked by a Finman.” She finally said, matter-of-fact.

“A what?” I said with a nervous laugh.

“I’m serious” She said sternly, “Finfolk are people who’ve died at sea. They’re cursed people – half human, half sea creature.” Veve stared me down, her voice different, a droning, as if she were repeating scripture. “They are a jealous and angry people. Once you see a finman, he won’t rest until he has drug you to the sea.” Her eyes widened, she gently placed her hand on my shoulder. We both stood for a while, silent.

“How do you know about this?” I asked not sure if she was joking or for real.

“My grandparents were finfolk. It’s in our blood, that is why we, my family and my family’s family, will be forever bound by the sea.” She cupped her hands together calmly.

I had to think before I spoke. Clearly Veve’s parents were fucking with her. Some weird story to keep her from running off. She’s 17, she’s old enough to know the truth about these things.
“Veve? Do you think the Finfolk are maybe just a cautionary tale you parents told to scare you? Make sure you didn’t run away, run off with strange men?” I tried to be as delicate as possible.
She stood there for a while, her eyes almost grey.

A nicely dressed couple walked into the restaurant. Veve turned from me, “Hi there!”She grinned her pearly whites.

I started for the kitchen, Veve grabbed my arm and swung me around, her eyes quivering, “Now that you’ve seen the finman, you are bound to him, as he is to you.”

The couple gawked at us, the man trying to hold back a smirk. I pulled my arm from her, annoyed at her theatrics, and went back to the kitchen.

“You ask her out?” Kelley asked as he chopped heads off salmon.

“No, man. You were right, that chick is weird.”

“Sounds like she said no.” Kelley looked at the dishwasher and they both laughed.

That night, after work, I decided to just buy a fifth of Jack Daniels and head home to do my drinkin’. I had the next day off, so I planned on getting good and hammered. I threw my keys on the old couch and turned on the heat. The floors creaked and the vent rumbled. I opened the shades to a dark night, a reflection of myself in the glass. We’d decided to buy the house, despite it being so tiny, because of the amazing view of the ocean just a half mile off. The house smelled like her for a while then faded into whiskey and hash and arm pit sweat. I tried to watch television, but couldn’t get comfortable. It’s hard to get comfortable when for the last 15 years there’s been someone to lean on. She’d been by earlier, to get her mail, left all the junk mail addressed to resident under the door along with an angry note, I needed those papers signed two weeks ago, Paxton! I stumbled into the garage with the bottle of Jack and pulled out some old boxes, one’s with the photo’s she’d wanted me to sort. I tilted the bottle to my lips and opened to our first album.

She’d written things in the margins – Pax and me in waders, fishing by the bay, Pax and me with Georges (our first cat! What’s next, kids?), Me and Pax drinking at Robinson’s, he made them put Cab Callaway on the jukebox, the peepers song, just for me! “A photo album for every year,” Katie said. We were married by the third album and by the sixth album the comments stopped. By the eighth album the pictures weren’t even in the slots, they were just thrown in a pile in the book. And most of the pictures weren’t even of us, but of Katie’s friends, of her family at Christmas time. It was unbearable. If a stranger looked at the albums they would’ve known by year eight that we were done for. Fifteen years worth of pictures – Nine albums (the last two empty), year fourteen and fifteen she’d taken. Or maybe there were no pictures those years, it’s hard to say.

I opened the box that said “Paxton” in black swirly script, her handwriting, from years back, when she still liked writing my name. Inside there were a bunch of family pictures: pictures of me and Dad right before he died, pictures of me at prom, even a picture of Mom and me basting a thanksgiving turkey, I must’ve been thirteen, it was right before she’d left him. Her hair long and braided, she wore jeans and a puffy sleeved, powder blue shirt. When I think of her I remember her in that puffy shirt, but I’m not sure if that’s just because of the photo. I pulled out the newspaper from the bottom of the box, folded to the article about my dad. About when they found him.

***

I should have known something was wrong when I came home from school and saw the whole fridge packed with food. He’d been drinking more than eating and rarely cooked anything at home.

I could hear him banging around upstairs. “Dad!” I yelled throwing my backpack in the corner, “Where’d you get all this food?” I ran up the stairs, skipping every odd step.

He was in the bedroom, his arms reaching out, hands feeling the air in front of him, “Dad?” His eyes had a softness to them, “Are you okay?” There was a bottle near him, half-finished.

“I fuckin’ blind. I think I’ve gone fucking blind!” He looked in my direction, a panic look past me, over my shoulder, to the wall behind me.

“What happened?” I held his shoulders and we both sat down on the floor.

“I got up this morning and threw out the last of your mother’s stuff. Then I was hungry, really fuckin’ hungry, so I went to the grocery store and bought tons of food and stopped at the liqueur store on the way home, a drink to celebrate, you know?” His eyes flitted around, I tried to catch them with my eyes, tried to focus in. “I put all the groceries away and then came up here to relax. I drank and everything started to go blurry, then more and more blurry.” His voice panicked in a way I’d never heard it.

“Can you see at all?” I strained.

He shook his head, “Just splotches of color, like them goddamned paintings, a watercolor that’s been rained on.”

“We have to get you to a doctor!” I stumbled to the phone.

“NO! I AINT GOIN’ NO WHERE!” I looked at him on the floor, his angry eyes drifting past my direction, like he was talking to someone off in the distance.

I talked him into laying down and got him a cold cloth to rest on his eyes.

“I’m going to the drug store,” I sighed, “see if they have anything for you.”

When I came home he’d left. I looked all over the beach for him that night, I don’t know how I could’ve missed him.

***

At first they thought he’d drown, washed up on the rocks near the beach. But the autopsy showed alcohol and amphetamines to be the cause of death. Keep ‘em at a distance, about mom, women, but I think he meant to keep everyone far enough away. I was eighteen when he died, two years later I met Katie.

I took a swig from the bottle and threw all the pictures back into their boxes. I looked around for a marker, but only found a knife. I carved KATIE on every box and fell asleep on the cold cement floor, figuring it’d be more comfortable then the bed.

“Hey, wake up. Wake up.”I could feel sand below me, like I was still passed out on the beach from yesterday morning.

I opened my eyes to Katie. Her blonde hair tied back in a bun, a couple strands dangling as she looked down at me. She looked so adult, all dressed for work, a grey suit, white collared shirt.

“Hey baby. Want a drink?” I held up the bottle, my whole arm shaking.

“Paxton, you really need to get help.” She said with half a sneer.

“Maybe I should set up an appointment with your secretary.”

“Jesus – ” she looked away.

“Except I don’t know if I’d like to go to a shrink who can’t even keep her own marriage together.”

“Actually, I think I became a shrink in the hopes it would save our marriage.”

“Was it that, baby, or was it because you wanted to surround yourself with people more fucked up than you?”

“Shit, Paxton. I already had that at home.” A smirk spread across her face, the same look as a muddy, satisfied toad. She glanced at the boxes, “Are you giving me all of these? You don’t want to keep any?”

“Naw.” I looked away, I wanted to say something else, but nothing was coming out.

“Alright,” she sighed, “I think there’s a box of just your pictures in there, though.”

“Yeah, I know. I don’t want those either. You can take ‘em, or throw them out. Whatever, it doesn’t matter.”

She looked at me for a while. Her eyes concentrating, trying to read me. She did this before she became a shrink, before we married, even. She crossed her arms, “You have the papers? I need those papers.”

“Nope.”

“What? I gave those to you weeks ago. And you haven’t signed them?”

I shook my head.

“Well,” she looked around, “Where are they? Let’s just get this over with.”

“They’re not here.” I said

“What do you mean? Where are they?”

“I smoked them.”

She stared at me, “You smoked them?”

I nodded. My head pulsed hard and I smelled horrible – sour whiskey and fish guts secreting from my pours.

“Jesus, Paxton.” She made a frustrated frown, the anger building in her eyes, “I have a really busy day today.” Her hand was on her forehead, “Shit!” she yelled, shaking her head. She looked at me, “I’ll get those papers today. Drop them off under the door, for you to sign today. You hear me?”

“Aye, aye ‘capin.” I laid back on the cement, my back turned from her.

“Jesus – ” She huffed, slamming the door behind her.

A few hours later, after a shower and some alca-seltzer, I packed myself a lunch of beer and some tackle, found the nightcrawlers from the fridge and walked towards the docks. Last year Katie and I bought a little tin boat together, so far, that’s about the only thing she hasn’t asked for. Fishing hasn’t been all that great lately, but it’s still relaxing.

I unlocked the boat and pushed it off from the sand. Recently I’d bought a little crappy motor, it doesn’t go more than 5 MPH, but it’s perfect for trolling. I cracked a beer, baited my line and trolled for a while, trying to find where they’re biting. The motor hummed as it pushed through the choppy waves. A barge bellowed in the distance. It was afternoon, probably around 1pm, and no other boats in sight. I trolled for hours, a mile from the shore and nothing biting, before I saw someone fishing off in the distance, near the tide pools. I reeled in and put the motor to high.

“Hey! Anything biting over there?” I yelled as I got closer. His boat was brown, more like a canoe really, it drifted without an anchor, and, come to think of it, without ores or motor. The man had his back to me, but I could tell he was an old man, probably hard of hearing.

“Is anything biting over there? It’s been dead all day.” This time I was sure he could hear me. Probably just wants to be left alone, I thought, and decided to anchor there, far enough so I wouldn’t be getting in his way.

I stuck the hook through the belly of the nightcrawler, it wriggled slightly, curling up in a C. I threw out a cast with a bobber and leaned back against the edge of the boat, slurping beer, staring off at a seal sitting on a rock. Soon the seal wiggled its way into the water, the head poking out, shiny dark eyes. Starring right at me.

Over my shoulder I saw the red and white flash of my bobber and raised my eyes to the tide pools, to see how the other guy was doing. But no one was there. I whipped my head around, searching the ocean but couldn’t see any boat, nothing, no one, just a seal, way far off.

Suddenly, there was a tug at my line. The reel screeched as the string unraveled, I pulled back fast, standing for balance, holding the reel as it dug hard into my palm, nothing fighting except the shear weight of the thing, arm spasmed with each rotation of the reel, I leaned back on my feet, leaned hard. The line broke. I fell down into the boat, rocking with the waves. I lay there for a second, just for a second and then gripped the sides, the wet tin against my burning palm pulling myself up slowly.

It was the first thing I saw after lifting my head.

There, in the water, was a body, floating face down, hands puckered and bloated blue, his funeral shirt tattered ... it was him ... my father ... floating there right next to me ... right there next to me. I squirmed backwards like a crab, into the corner of the boat. My heart pounded in my palms as I felt the weight of his body bumping, bumping, bumping against the boat, his blue, brushing the side, shwish, shwish, shwish.

“Help, please, someone help!” I screamed from the base of the boat, I could hear my voice, like I was in a cave, like I was already drowning. The boat started to quiver, an unnatural jolting shake that I felt in my bones. I stumbled to the motor, my fingers fumbling over the dial until it turned to high. I kneeled, moving the handle, directing it toward land.

“Move, move!” I cried, pushing the dial as far as it would go.

Thwump. I heard from behind. Thwump.

His hand, his hand, grasping the side, his body trailing the boat, cutting through the waves.

“Let go! Let go!” I threw whatever I could find, my tackle box, beer cans, whatever was around me.

We were only ten feet from land, the waves pushing us in faster. His hand gripped tight, long black claws puncturing holes in the side. The boat slowed, his feet dragging in the sand. I jumped into the water, pulling myself through the waves, pants heavy and waterlogged. Something grabbed hold of my ankle and suddenly my face was in the sand, struggling, kicking my foot, but the hold was too tight, squirming, I flipped over, pain shot through my ankle and leg ... and then I saw his face, his white, barnacled face with shiny black eyes staring back at me with such anger, such hatred, it was not the face of my father but of the desperate dark thing that lived in him, I knew he’d never let me go. I scrambled trying to kick him off, my hands pulling at his slimy fingers. I let out a cough and sucked in salty water. My larynx contracted and my chest started to convulse. I remembered something Kelley once told me, that for a drowning victim it takes eight minutes to go into cardiac arrest. Eight minutes. I fumbled around in my jacket pocket, where is it? where is it? and felt the wooden handle of my oyster knife. Immediately, I stuck the knife under one tentacle-like finger and started prying, until one, two, three, all five of them came loose. I swam to the surface and didn’t look back.

I pulled myself up onto dry land and vomited sea water. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, in my boat, floating off by the tide pools. I pushed myself out of the sand and limped the entire way to Katie’s office.

It took me about a half hour to stumble there on my fucked-up ankle. I tripped into her office seaweed and sand and clothes dripping with ocean water.

“Do you know when Katie, Mrs. Withers, will be available?” I pleaded with the secretary, a new girl who, I’m sure, only knows me as ‘the ex’.”

“She’s with a client, but she should be out shortly.” The young woman said as if I were another one of Katie’s crazies.

“That’s fine. I’ll wait.” I grumbled and sat down in one of the chairs. I rubbed my cold hands together and tried to compose myself. Hippie ocean and piano music played and every time the secretary picked up the phone she’d whisper and look at me, trying to be sure not to break confidentiality.

I saw an elderly, well dressed and smiling gentleman leave Katie’s office, composed and well-mannered, not the talking-to-themselves-shaky-mess of a person I always pictured Katie’s clients to be.

“You can go back now, sir.” The secretary said.

As I walked down the hall to her office it occurred to me that I wasn’t her husband anymore. Why would she listen to me? She hates me. I thought of turning back, going to the bar, trying to forget all of what happened. I was crazy, after all, who’d ever believe me. I thought of turning back, but she opened her door too soon.

“Paxton? Jesus, are you okay?” She looked at my soaked clothes, my few wet strands over my balding head.

“I need to talk to someone. I don’t know who else to talk to.” I expected her to say, ‘fuck off Paxton,’ I expected her to say, ‘sure I’ll help, but I charge $100/hr’ I expected her to slam the door in my face, but she didn’t.

“Of course,” She said, “Let me just cancel my appointments.” She invited me in to sit down.
I collapsed on the couch. She sat in a chair near me, “What’s wrong? Why are you all wet?”
I looked around in her office, I hadn’t been there in years. She never had pictures of us up, but she always had items that I’d given her – the nice ink-well pen I’d bought her, driftwood, books, black rocks from the beach. All of that was gone, now. She did have one picture up, a picture of her with her counseling degree in hand. She wore a black robe with a blue sash and a smile I hadn’t seen in years. I never did understand why she wanted to be a counselor, why she even decided to go back to school in the first place.

“I don’t think I can do this.” There were pangs in my chest – why am I here? who am I? The crazy patient? The husband? An ex-lover, friend?

She moved from her chair to the couch and put her hands on mine, “I know this is a strange place for us to meet. Would you like to go somewhere else to talk?” she squinted at me, like she was looking at me from a distance.

I shook my head and relaxed, starting first with the wedding dress and went from there telling her everything I’d seen, everything that happened to me. I talked a little about the divorce, about how torn up I’d been, she listened and then began asking me about my dad.

“Why do you think your father would want to drown you?” She asked her hands sliding from my broken fingers, the scratches on my hand.

I didn’t even need to think about it, “Because he’s afraid. Afraid of being alone.”

Katie sat back, her hand over her mouth, tears quivered in the corners of her eyes.

“Do you believe me?” I asked.

“Yes.” She looked at me, “Of course. I know you too well, I know this isn’t something you’d make up.”

“What do you think I should do?”

She was quiet for a while. I hoped for an answer. But she didn’t say anything, just slid her hand to me, warm on my leg.

Finally, she smiled softly and said, “I don’t know, Paxton.” And then she said something I would’ve never expected her, as a professional and as my wife, to say, “Maybe you should ask Veve, that girl from work. She seems to know more about the subject.”

I spent my two days off trying to sort things out. I didn’t drink, didn’t even smoke and got a shit-ton of work done. I even cleaned the whole fucking galley, top to bottom. I moved everything around, trying to invent a new home, trying my best to say my goodbyes to our life, that life, with eyes open. I didn’t want to harbor any grudges. Every once and a while I’d peak out the window, thinking he might’ve left, but there he was, floating in the boat, watching my every move. In life he was never there for me and now he’s afraid to let go. I’ve seen a lot of hell in my life, but nothin’s worse than grief. Except maybe the guilt of knowing you could’ve done something.

By the time I went to work, I already knew what I was going to do, but I decided to talk to Veve anyway. She’d just got on, folding napkins into cranes at the bar and wearing a white dress, with long, see-through sleeves.

“Hey.” I said, and pulled up a stool next to her.

“Hey.” The bar fan blowing through sleeves, like little waves.

“About what we talked about the other night. About the finfolk? Well, I just want to say, that I believe you.”

She smiled quietly.

“And I just wanted to ask you, I just wanted to ask, is there any escape from them?”
She gazed at me, concerned. Her hands kept folding napkin cranes, one after the other, while she studied me, “There’s no escape. Once a finman finds you, you are bound to him, as they are to you. You become kin.” Her lips gleamed.

I slipped off the bar stool and backed away cautiously, “Alright, Veve, thanks.” I said and turned from her gripping eyes.

Kelley was frying sea bass in a pan, “Hey man.” He took one look at me, “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m a little fucked up. I don’t know what. Lots of weird shit going on, lots of weird shit, you know?”

He slid the bass onto a plate, hit the bell and grabbed me by the arm, dragging me out back.
“Paxton what the hell’s going on with you? One day I find you passed out on the beach, about dead, the next you’re acting all creepy an’ shit. You gotta pull yoself together, son.”

“I know. I know. It’s just all this shit with Katie, this town, this town I grew up in, man. It’s tearing me apart. I go fishing and I see my dead dad, I go home and I’m haunted by Katie, our old life, man. I feel all bound up, ropes and everything.”

“I don’t see no ropes.” He holds out his hands like Houdini, “Hell, Pax. You’re free to row where you’d like, anchor where you feel. Aint no ropes, man. You’re free. No wife, no family, all you got is this dead-end job and me, trying to pull your face outta the whiskey.”

Free. I never would’ve used that word.

After packing all the boxes, I went to meet Katie by the beach, under a willow tree where we used to get high and talk about how our lives would be – how we’d look at age 89 and 93 walking hand in arthritic hand, in love, wrinkles on our toes. But that was never going to happen. She was leaving me or maybe I’d left her long ago. I sat under the tree and watched Dad floating quietly near the tide pool, but it wasn’t really him, just a pale reflection of him, or maybe the future me, a reminder of what I might’ve become.

When she arrived she was in her jeans and her favorite red hoodie. “How you doing, Pax?” She hugged me and I inhaled deeply, coughing the last of the seawater from my lungs.

“I can’t stay. I’ve got a bus to catch.” I handed her the papers.

“Thank you.” She said staring down at the papers in her hand.

“Here’s my address,” I gave her a piece of paper, “Gallway.” I said with a little chuckle, “shucking oysters with the best of them.”

She gave me a look that I’m sure she reserves only for her craziest of clients, but she held her tongue, struggling just a little.

“I was going to tell you,” She looked out at the finman in his boat, “that I did some research on finfolk...”

“And?”

“Finfolk have horrible vision. Isn’t that funny? Finfolk are near blind, but you have eyes like a hawk. You can see off in the distance as clear as if it’s right in front of you. Understand? He can’t bind himself to what he can’t see.”

I nodded, smiling to myself.

She leaned in, kissed my cheek and hugged me for a long time before she gripped tight to those papers. In her eyes I saw a reflection of a gull flying. I watched my love walk away, a slow steady walk through the sand, and I wished her, my old enemy, I wished her well. My first step to recovery.

The bus drove by the tide pools on the way out. I could see him clearly in the distance, his drunk black eyes, his sallow skin, his boat drifting without an anchor, drifting, drifting without ores. The rain started in fat drops, thick streaks down the windows. The sky grew dark and then down poured, it said, “Goodbye, son. It might not be easier, but damned if it won’t be better.”

Alissa Nielsen

Monday, April 30, 2007

Introductions

The Drowning of Paxton Withers (draft)

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