To Sea

  The boom of waves echoed off the clouds of smoke. Blistering flames reflected off the rippling tide. Jon looked out to the sea. He could feel warm tears sliding down his cheeks. He watched the yellow and white lights of two fire engines sparkle off the red sea. He could see the trucks dropping anchor atop the rocky shore beside them. Men then jumped from the truck, running hoses into the shallow sound—pumping the salty sea over the house. Three men with clean yellow fire-coats stood nearby. They pointed at the house as another section of the roof caved in. Jon could see the men’s mouths move, but the fisherman could only hear the roar of waves that the rising tide brought to his feet.

  Elea took Jon’s hand, shaking it with her nerves. His eyes blinked for the first time in a long while. Then, all at once, Jon heard the engines growl and the house hiss as the sea smothered the flames. He caught himself as rocks tumbled beneath his feet. His head jerked from the hose in the water to the burning house. Then he heard Elea whimper next to him. Her head hunched over. Her long black hair hanging over her swollen eyes. Her fingers standing out on their ends, casting jagged shadows lit by the fire out onto the red sea. Jon stood over Elea. He watched her shiver ‘til her eyes collapsed into his and then he bent over and he hugged her tight as they watched the salty water extinguish their house.

  Police officers sat in a nearby car filing paperwork. They then gave their questions to Jon and Elea, followed by their condolences and the number to the local motel down the road.

  The flames had turned to smoldering embers. The engines had receded back to the firehouse. The tide moved back out to sea.

  Elea hung her head on Jon’s chest as they sat on the rocks, watching the smoke lift off the burnt frame. He could see the iron oven—the white paint smeared with black soot. He could see the blue shingles—the few left—peeling back their paint, exposing their woody, smoke stained grains. And he could see two chains dangling a phantom swing on the back porch.

  “You think it was him?” Jon asked, raising Elea up off his chest.

  “Who else could it have been?”

  “No lightning in the sky, that’s for sure.” Jon licked his lips. He could taste the fresh fire on his tongue. “And I smelt the gasoline from way down the road,” he said, pointing to the street leading to the highway.

  Elea sat up. She dried her face with her hands and she looked deep into Jon’s red eyes.

  “Well. Where is he?” he asked.

  “The last I saw him, he was with you.” Elea eyed the black sound. “When you two went for that walk after we got home from the hike. I thought you two had run off.”

  “Where to, El? Where to?”

  “I haven’t the slightest…” Elea fought off tears, but she lost the battle. “I haven’t the slightest…” her words cut off into sobs.

  Jon got up off the rocks. He walked to the sound rippling a string of moonlight out to the horizon. He kicked sand into the cascading waves—watching the image of the still moon held high in the sky distort over the moving ocean. Elea laid her head on the cool rocks. She took shallow, sob-ridden breathes as she watched the black image of her husband in the backlight of the moon.

  “Quit it with that damned sea,” Elea said with fervor. But she did not lift her head from the rocks. “It has been nothing but trouble. It has done nothing other than plant the seeds to your downfall.” Elea took a deep, steady breath, and she sat herself up. “You have a family, Jon. You need to provide for them. You need to provide for me. The house is gone, Jon. You need to step up.”

  Jon stilled. The luminous white extinguished on the sound. His silhouette darkened, and a gust of wind threw the sand into the air.

  “Are you even listening to me, Jon? Are you listening to any of these words?” Jon hid behind the sound of the waves and the intermittent gusts of wind. Elea tried to find her husband on the shoreline, but she was blinded by dense clouds sweeping up over the moon. She wiped stray tears from her cheeks and she collapsed back to the stones. “My T.V. What if they call me today? What if today is the day? Fuck, Jon. What if today was my day?”

  Jon heard the rocks grind as Elea fell back down to them. He heard her cry less and less the more he walked farther away from her. “He set fire to my temple to create a new one. A temple of his own,” Jon whispered to the sea. “My Isaac, you will succeed.” Jon bent over and he cupped water from a passing wave into his hands, throwing the sea over his face. “I am your Abraham. I am ready. Tell me when I shall be yours.”

  The moon shined through the clouds and the shore lit up with white light. Jon cleaned his glasses swiftly on his shirt, placing them back on his nose. He looked up at the church—the bell glistening the moon’s light—the stained glass Jesus reflecting a dim glow. And on the steps, the radiance of life. A small lad. Knees tucked into his cheeks.

  “Barry?” Jon called. “Barry? Is that you, son?”

  The shadow on the steps elongated.

  “Barry? Barry?” Jon ran towards the church.

  “Jon, you found him? Did you find Barry?” Elea yelled out in the distance.

  But when Jon reached the steps, there was nobody there. No Barry. Just a mangled black plastic garbage bag wrapped around the banister.

  “Jon, you find him? Tell me. How is he? Jon, how is he?” Elea’s voice was not far behind now. Jon turned around and he felt Elea’s hand on his back. “Where is Barry?”

  Jon leaned over the banister, ripping the plastic bag off of the steps. He threw it hard at Elea. But the bag caught the wind, and the plastic drifted back into Jon’s hands before tumbling down the coast. “There is no Barry here.” Jon looked into Elea’s eyes until she brought hers into his, and then he shifted his stare back to sea. “But he is here, somewhere. His hands are green with guilt and red with blood.” Jon sat down on the steps. He took Elea’s hand and he brought her down to his side. “He is hiding in the dunes.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  “He is my son.”

  “He’s mine, too, yanno.”

  Jon rubbed Elea’s head with his own. He petted her hair over her ear ‘til she fell into his lap. “Ah, but he is my son. A Brand.” Jon paused. Then he whispered—“My Isaac.”

  Jon emptied sand from his pocket, throwing it into the wind.

  Elea’s eyes fluttered a bit, but then they closed and she slipped into sleep.

  Jon remained awake. Steadfast. He listened to the waves through the night until the morning sun hushed gentle violets, crimsons and oranges off of the horizon—over the morning sea. He yawned, wiping the sleeplessness from his eyes. He watched the sea paint a mirage with the soft spring colors of the sky.

  He could see the image of a person casting a black shadow tailing across the vibrant sea.

  Jon thought it to be the old man and his dog that sometimes passed each morning. But Jon could see no mutt at the man’s side. Jon looked over at his burnt house. Black jagged sticks shot up from the earth. The microwave and the television melted into a single mass on the countertop. And all the other household things that were now the once was.

  Jon looked back at the oncoming traveler. The thing’s shadow bobbing over the sheen of the sea.

  “My Isaac.”