To Sea

  Jon pushed his glasses to his eyes as he began to urinate. The toilet hissed as the yellow liquid kissed the white porcelain’s edge. He thought of the sea. Crashing. Wave after wave. Tumbling. All to the beat of his water filling the bowl. Jon then turned his head to look for the sea through the small window in the back corner of the bathroom. But he could only see the tips of white capped pines and the icy branches of brittle oaks.

  When he finished urinating, he moved to the window where the sea flooded his view—the white waves running over the rocks high on the shore.

  He flipped the locked latch open, pushing the window up. A rush of gull cries crashed to his face. “It sounds like a thousand of them,” he thought. “It has to be full.” Jon smiled. Fifty or so gulls flew west with the push of the current. “Dry from Orient Point to here. Good luck fellas going west if there ain’t nothing east.” Jon laughed. Then he caught his tongue. His stomach ached. He remembered that fishless seas could force him to head west for work. He pressed his head against the screen, gaining a last glimpse of the gulls. “Sorry fellas. Best of luck. You’re going to need it,” he quietly moaned. The hush of the waves soon displaced the whine of the gulls and Jon watched the water shimmer a lustrous shine, rolling rays of yellow into the silver of sea. He closed his eyes ‘til his chin dropped to the sill. Then he turned and he flushed the toilet.

  “The sea,” he whispered to the sound of the swirling water. “It is everywhere. Its sounds. They haunt me. I hear you. I feel you. Oh, sea. I am you.” He switched over the hot water knob, leaned his elbows on the gray sink, waving his fingers through the slow flow of water ‘til it warmed. He took off his glasses, placing them atop a folded towel. Then he tossed his face into his cupped wet hands—the water splashing against his high cheekbones, filtering down through his beard. He hovered over the sink, gasping for air with his hands holding the water for a time before he regained a steady breath and he brought his hands to his face once more. He pushed the water tight to his face this time, matting his beard against his cheeks and chin and neck.

  The water whistled as it ran from the faucet. The metal sink plug tossed between the drain, creating a rhythmic patter Jon found himself blowing water droplets off his upper lip to. He looked up from the sink and he peered into the mirror spotted with dried drops of water. His vision blurred without his glasses. His eyes burned to a bright pinkish hue, quickly turning a deep red. He gazed into his fuzzy reflection, dripping with water. His beard pressed to his face. The lines under his eyes erased. He thought of what disappearing might feel like and he thought that this would be it. “Jon,” he said, competing with the rush of water. “You are destined to fail. I see the sea in your eyes. Deep. Never ending.” He blinked. “You will be held captive by the sea. You will lose everything to the sea. It is only your fate.” He paused, mesmerized by his blurry eyes staring into him. “I see myself in you. I see myself in your reflection. I shall return soon. To sea. One day. Soon.” He placed his glasses back over his eyes. He settled his breath and he steadied his tone. “And who am I to think otherwise?” He threw the towel into the sink. He waited for the rag to soak up the water where he then rung it out over his head—his hair falling into his eyes. “Who am I to think I can escape the fate of a Brand? The fate of the sea.”

  “Jon,” Elea said with a knock at the door. “Who are you talking to?” She jiggled the locked door handle, waiting for a response. When none was given, she shouted a bit louder to contend with the sound of the sink. “Jon. Come on out. What are you doing in there? I need to start getting ready. I’m going to brunch with Margie. I need to get a move on. Hon?”

  Jon ran his fingers up through his beard, spreading the hairs out awkwardly. He stared wide-eyed at himself in the mirror for a moment before he turned the knobs off, silencing the sink—allowing the roar of waves to flood the bathroom uncontested. Jon placed his left hand around the doorknob, still staring in a dazed gaze past the silver backing of the mirror, and in onto himself. “God save me. My God. Save me.”

  “Jon. C’mon already. What’s going on in there?”

  He turned the handle slow, pulling the door into his body. He stood in the doorway, stilled—the sounds of sea quickly swallowed by the drone of the television. Water on his face trickled to the ends of his beard where droplets collected, hanging heavy ‘til they fell to the carpet.

  “Where are your clothes?” Elea questioned. “And who were you talking to?” Elea looked at her husband who stared blankly at the floor where the water settled. Then she pushed him out of the doorway and she closed herself into the bathroom. “Get some clothes on, you pig,” she said as she clicked the door locked.

  “I’m fine dear. Don’t worry,” he said. He reached over the bed, grabbing the pajama pants he wore in his in sleep. He slipped his legs through them and he tucked his wet face into a bleach-stained blue tee-shirt. His soaked beard creating a wet ring around the neckline as he pushed his head through.

  Elea opened the door silently, standing in the doorway to watch the television while she brushed her teeth. But in her line of view, Jon stood to the side of the bed with his back to her. His head to the heavens. His eyes closed. His hands fumbling in the fronts of his pants. “Jon, you are dripping,” she said. And he turned around. “And are you playing with yourself? What has gotten into you? Dry yourself off and knock that off. You are disgusting. Go get a job and then you can do whatever you want in this house. But as for now, you need to grow up and stop fucking around.” Her eyelids closed long and hard.

  Jon stood motionless. He slowly removed his hands from his pants. He petted his beard, folding the ends under his chin and then he started for the kitchen. “I’m going to get the coffee going,” he said. “Did you want a cup?”

  “Sure. But wash your hands first, you pig.”

  Elea finished getting reading. She watched the rest of her story while Jon fixed the coffee in the kitchen.

  He scratched his neck under his beard, twisting a chunk of hair into a knotted mess before smoothing the whiskers back out. “We haven’t much time left,” he thought, pouring grinds into the coffee machine. “We haven’t much time before the sea swallows us all and spits us back out. It happened to my father. And it is now happening to me. We haven’t much time. I haven’t much time.

 

  CHAPTER 5