Absence
by Gwen MastersIt had been two weeks since the wailing wind blew through the tiny island town, slamming the shutters against the worn brick and rattling the floorboards of the rickety porch. Two weeks since that night he went out to the sea in that little fishing boat that was too big for his inexperience. Two weeks since the women said novenas and looked to the skies and shed a tear or two but refused to look at Georgia, refused entirely to see in her eyes what they all feared, even in the wash of yellow sunshine in the middle of an ordinary day.
Why did he not tell her? Why did she have to learn from the kindly old village doctor who pulled her aside on the shore while the boats went out with searchlights that sliced the darkness like a surgeon's scalpel? Surely she had earned enough of him. Surely years of friendship and devotion and loyalty and love had earned her at least that much of him. If not the years, then surely the wedding band, the delicious new weight on her hand, had earned her that much of him, but no.
Victor didn't tell her. Georgia felt strangely cheated that between the cancer and the sea it had been him that made the choice, not her. As if his life was hers for the taking or giving or refusal of either.
They had made love in the big bedroom of the boarding house. The clawfoot tub was ancient, and the shutters opened over a window that held no glass. They crawled into their white cave, and when he joined her there on those stained sheets the netting had come down over their heads by the strength of her hands, for she had to hold onto something, and he was too wet, too slippery, sliding away from her even then.
Maybe that was why he had laughed instead of frowned and pushed the netting between them, looking down at her through the haze of white, kissing her lips through the veil. And then he said she would look good as his bride, and why not. Why not?
He never asked and she never said yes. But two days later they were on the shore and the moon was smiling at the sun, an odd paradox of sorts that she would always remember as being star of her wedding day.
They made love that night on the beach. Consecration of their wedding spot, he had said; others have a wedding chapel or a church or a backyard, but we have a spot of shifting sand. It wasn't as romantic as they had seen in the old black-and-white movies. The water was a soft lick yet left a strangely sticky film on their bodies, and there was seaweed and a few hard things that must have been shells. But it was their chosen spot and so they embraced the inconveniences. They were newlyweds.
Two days later he was gone and she was left wandering the shore with a swiftly growing panic, her world tilting with every crash of waves. She stood in their spot and the moon wasn't there and the sun was nowhere in sight and she knew he was gone. She knew it and the wail that tore from her was a long thin screeching wire, louder than the wind. The women had come from their huts and bungalows, and even the rich ones had come running out of their villas in nighttime silk. They had lifted her to feet that would not hold her and she cried that he was gone, and the only words they knew were, "Hush, girl. Hush, now." They had no idea who she was, but they were women too and they heard in her voice the echo of all they prayed they would never be.
That same wire pulled long and then coiled with a snap, over and over. She sat on the bed and pulled down the netting and bit down hard on it, stifling the scream that bubbled up deep inside her. The scream was as silent as the space between the waves. It was the same scream that would well up when she saw the empty casket. The sunken boat washed upon a shore of shifting sand. The moon that met the sun and the x-rays that were more black than white and the disconnection of the sound of his voice on the answering machine and his blue jeans on the floor of the bathroom and two hairs from his head caught in her brush...every one of them would erupt inside her with the a force of grief so unimaginable that she wondered how the mundane would ever again be manageable.
It had taken him, and so he had taken his own life, but he had left something behind.
Two years after the wind rattled the floorboards and slammed the shutters and a boat tossed on the waves, she stood watching a chubby fist close on shifting sand. The women came from their dwellings and brought gifts of papaya and smiles and clucked in low tones at the innocence of deep brown eyes.
They did not look full into Georgia's face. But as the last one left she reached out and clasped Georgia's hand, and the touch was long and hard and relentless.
©Gwen Masters
Gwen Masters is a professional writer, editor, publisher and songwriter. Her several hundred pieces have appeared in dozens of venues over the last twelve years. To find more of her work, visit her website at www.gwenmasters.net.