The Sea Taketh (Alex Singer) Read online

  For

  the Nerdettes

  May you have the courage to love,

  the wisdom to see your own beauty,

  and the determination to change the world.

  Preface

  Waves break across the shore, scoffing at me. As though they know my innermost thoughts, they taunt me; Coward, coward! I want to join them. I want to run and immerse myself in the salty water, allowing it to cleanse my body and soul, but I can’t move. The rhythmic siege continues to mock me, but I simply stare at the breaker, powerless to do anything. It is my deepest, darkest sorrow. I love – and hate the sea. It is my greatest passion and greatest fear. I know what all children of fishermen know; the sea giveth and it taketh away.

  1

  Storm

  Yearly Scientific Deductions:

  Hypothesis #1 – Puberty is unfair.

  I groan from my spot in front of the mirror. Not again! I tug on my bra straps and, with an extreme amount of exertion, am finally able to catch the hooks. When they talk about late bloomers, I’m definitely the latest bloomer. I turned seventeen in June and have increased two cup sizes over the summer. I groan again at the injustice; while other girls want boob jobs, I would give anything for small, minuscule-sized breasts. I don’t want the hassle or attention that comes with my increasingly massive ones. Besides, they always seem to get in my way. Blasted genetics! I quickly pull on a baggy t-shirt, hiding them the best I can before leaving my room.

  The old hallway creaks as I walk to the kitchen, turning on lights as I go. The sun won’t be up for an hour, but there’s work to be done. I make a pot of oatmeal and start the coffee. I sit at the table, put on my glasses, and begin reading a scientific journal.

  “What time’s swim practice?” Gramps asks. His small stature is misleading; years of working on a fishing boat has not only tanned his skin and lightened his graying hair, it keeps his body toned and strong. He goes straight to the coffee and pours himself a cup.

  “In half an hour,” I say, changing the subject. “Is Joe going out with you?”

  “Yeah, he’s meeting me at the wharf. It’s just going to be a short trip.” He passes me a bowl of oatmeal and the milk. “Are you going to the beach after practice?”

  “I was going to look for some drift wood for Bill. I need some money.”

  “Did you look in the pickle jar?”

  “I cleaned it out paying for my swim uniform.” I put a spoonful of oatmeal in my mouth.

  “I thought you got all your school shopping done at Peggy’s?” He sips his coffee. “What do you need?”

  I feel my face redden as I swallow my oatmeal. As it is just the two of us, Gramps and I are really close. “My bra’s too small,” I say as nonchalantly as I can muster.

  He nods, completely unembarrassed. That’s the great thing about Gramps, not much ruffles his feathers. “Wait until the catch comes in and I’ll give you some money.”

  I shake my head. “No, we need new windows before winter. I’m sure I can find some driftwood.”

  He frowns but agrees, “You’ll have to be quick. I don’t want you on the beach after lunch. My legs were aching all night. A storm’s coming.”

  “I’ll be here to eat lunch with you,” I say, knowing Gramps is never wrong about these things. He always senses when a storm is on its way. In fact, it’s his sixth sense, and everyone knows it. His fishing boat is the gauge for the younger fishermen; when he comes in, they follow.

  After breakfast, Gramps drives me to the high school in his old, Ford truck. The blue paint is peeling; but, due to Gramps’ careful maintenance, the engine purrs like a kitten. It was a gift from my grandma, and his most prized possession. It is also our only form of transportation – besides the fishing boat.

  It isn’t even dawn, but the village is bustling with activity. Fishermen repair boats or bring in their catches. Small shops are opening, and teens are on their way to the final days of their summer jobs.

  For four generations, my family has lived in the tiny fishing village of Seaside. With a population of under five-hundred, everyone knows everyone else, and all their business. Gossip is the most popular form of recreation, right next to supporting Seaside High’s swim team. The whole town shows up to the competitions, and then everyone gossips about the results.

  “Did you hear that Fred has shingles?” Gramps asks as he shifts into third gear.

  “Peggy told me. Is he going to be all right?” I ask.

  “With Ethel still recovering from her broken hip, poor Fred wore himself out. Luckily, Marjory’s been checking up on them. I’ll stop to see how they’re doing before I go out.”

  Gramps pulls up to the high school. It’s a small building constructed at the turn of the century. It looks the same as it did when my grandmother attended high school with the only addition being the swimming pool, which was added when my mother was freshman.

  “Show them how Singers swim,” Gramps says. He smiles at me. “I’ll see you at lunch, and you can tell me all about all the races you’ve won.”

  “Sure, Gramps,” I reply as I kiss his wrinkled, tan forehead.

  I wave goodbye as he drives away, not taking my eyes off the old truck. There is always that fear in the back of my mind that Gramps will never return when he goes fishing. I try to push it away, but it will be my constant companion while he’s gone.

  Fact #1 – Being a fisherman is dangerous.

  Proof –Life jackets, life boats, the Coast Guard.

  “Alex, you’re late!” My best friend, Jen, appears out of nowhere. She grabs my hand and pulls me into the school. I run to keep up with her long strides.

  “Sorry,” I say moving my legs as fast as they’ll go. “Gramps wanted to give me a ride.”

  “Coach is taking roll! He’s threatened to give your spot on the relay to Vanessa if you’re not there before he gets to your name, and that can never happen!” Jen opens the door to the trophy room and pushes me in.

  “Singer, Alexandra,” calls Coach Jones.

  “Here,” I answer.

  “About time,” he puts down the roll and adjusts the whistle on his portly belly. “Go get changed, and you can lead the laps.”

  A lot of different thoughts swirl through my head as I lead the laps: I worry about Gramps, I try to think of a way to bring in some extra money to buy the storm windows we need, and I worry about the upcoming school year. My classes don’t worry me but applying to college does. My brain is so consumed with these thoughts I don’t realize my teammates are lagging behind until I start lapping them. I stop at the wall.

  “It’s about time!” Jen climbs out of the water and holds her side. “Girl, somebody took their vitamins this morning!”

  “Sorry, I have a lot on my mind.” I pull off my swim cap. My dark, black hair cascades down my back, tickling my waist.

  I sit next to Jen. Being the only daughter in a family with six boys, Jen is a tomboy through and through. She is tall and very thin from all the sports she plays. She is everything I wish I could be: strong, outgoing, confident, and flat-chested.

  “Don’t look now, but here comes Vanessa,” Jen whispers, nastily.

  I turn to find an angry blonde in my face. Vanessa Powers is a spoiled brat, and that’s the nice way of putting it. Her father’s substantial bank account is wrapped around her little finger, and pretty much everyone kisses her butt because of it. Unfortunately for her, I’m not impressed with money or spoiled rich girls.

  Vanessa’s nose wrinkles like she smells something putrid. She sticks a finger in my face. “Would you quit trying to show off?” she demands.

  “Alex, do you hear that?” Jen asks. “That’s the whining of a swimmer who didn’t practice during th
e break.”

  “I was in the pool all summer!” Vanessa says defensively.

  “Yeah, sunning in your bikini,” adds Jackson, Vanessa’s older brother. The senior sits on my other side. “Alex, why didn’t you ever take me up on my offer to train at our pool? It’s a shame to have you training at the Rec. Center.”

  “I train at odd times.” I wring my hair out, uncomfortable with the attention from Jackson. He’s ignored me since kindergarten… until the summer of the growing breasts. I liked him the way he was before, when I wore an A cup, the only time he talked to me was when he needed help with his homework.

  Hypothesis #2 – Boys are insane.

  “Know that you’re always welcome,” Jackson leans in too close for comfort and moves a strand of hair out of my face. “We’re having a little back-to-school party on Saturday. I’d really like it if you came. Of course you can bring Jen.”

  “We’ll have to check our schedules,” Jen says.

  Jackson jumps in the water. “The party starts at six,” he says before swimming over to the boys’ team.

  “My brother can say whatever he wants, but you’re not friends of mine I won’t even pretend to be nice!” Vanessa snaps.

  “Really?” says Jen sarcastically. “Because this whole time I thought we were best friends forever.”

  “Don’t worry,” I add. “I’d never think of attending one of the Powers’ soirees.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Vanessa asks.

  “Nothing, I just have better things to do.”

  The truth is, people are a mystery to me. Dealing with scientific hypotheses, theories, and facts is so much easier than trying to figure out people. Gravity is predictable, people aren’t, especially the Powers siblings. I would rather read a book about nuclear fusion than try to mingle with a bunch of highly combustible teenagers. Invite me over to dissect a worm and I’m there; invite me to a party, and I’ll find a good excuse to hide in my room.

  Practice goes long. We are preparing for our first meet, and Coach Jones wants to finalize positions in the relays. Because we are a small team, Jen and I are put on all the female relays with a couple of the juniors. After positions are assigned, we are finally excused.

  “Do you want to go to a movie tonight? My treat,” Jen says as we walk through the village. She has a job at the Rec. Center as a lifeguard and always has a little extra money. “We have to get as much partying done as we can in the last four days before school starts.”

  “Sure, I’ll call you this afternoon.” I look at my watch and find it is almost eleven. “I’ve got to go. I’m supposed to eat lunch with Gramps.”

  I run through the town, hoping my bra can handle the strain. I wave to friends and neighbors as I pass. Turning onto the beach, I disappear in the rugged shoreline. This is my domain. I know it better than anyone. I spend all my free time at the seashore, walking the coast, listening the breathing of the waves. Like Gramps, the sea is in my blood.

  I make my rounds, checking the beaches and tide pools. Finding only a few sticks of driftwood, I sigh. I am going to have to break into my cache. Over the years, I have accumulated a substantial pile of driftwood which I keep very well hidden. It is my rainy day fund for the things I need.

  Making sure no one is watching, I roll a large rock and crawl into the hole behind it. Slithering like a snake, I work my way to the back of the small cave. I found it by accident on one of my many trips to the beach. I climbed a small hill and fell through the sand into the cave. I spent the next few months securing the ceiling and walls to make it my cache.

  Once there is enough headroom, I stand and go to my pile of wood. I pick several nice pieces, and grab a few shells from my stack of shells. On the outside, I return the cover to the entrance and carefully smooth the sand to hide my activities. This is when I realize that the wind is blowing fiercely. Gramps’ storm has arrived right on time.

  Holding tightly to my treasures, I run toward the village. I am on the final stretch when the wind surges. I trip on a jagged rock. One of my shells slips and slices my hand. I recoil and drop the shells into a tide pool. Using words I learned from my grandfather, I wrap my hand with a clean sock from my swim bag. With my uninjured hand, I reach deep into the pool, retrieving the shells. I am just about to stand up when something catches my eye. There is a strange shell in the bottom of the tide pool. Curious, I pick it up, but I don’t have time to inspect it. The winds are picking up, and I still have to go see Bill. I stuff it deep into my jeans’ pocket.

  The sock is saturated with blood, but I hide it behind my back as I push my way into Bill’s shop. Behind the counter is a big burly man with a full beard, and tacky Hawaiian shirt. Bill smiles when he sees me.

  “Alex, you don’t know how happy I am to see you! I just sold the last of the drift wood and there are a few days left before the season officially ends.”

  “Hey, Bill. How much for the wood and shells?” I say, getting straight to business.

  He continues to smile as he pulls out his calculator. He quickly adds a bunch of numbers. “I’ll give you twenty bucks for everything, but only because you bring me the best stuff. Don’t tell anyone else, or I’ll have an uprising on my hands.”

  With the twenty in my pocket, I run for home. It is pouring, and by the time I push open the door, I am drenched. “Gramps, I’m home!” I call out of breath.

  “You’re late.” He meets me in the hallway. There was a look of relief on his face… until I lift my wrapped hand. “Damn it, Alex!” he swears, unwrapping the sock, and inspecting the wound. “What did you do?”

  “I tripped and sliced it on a shell.”

  “It’s pretty deep. You’ll need stitches. I’ll go get the truck to take you to the hospital.”

  “No,” I say pulling my hand away. “Marjory can sew it up. She only charges a portion of what the emergency room would cost.”

  “But I thought that Marjory scares you?” He raises one of his bushy eyebrows.

  “She doesn’t scare me. She’s just a little creepy. But she’s willing to barter. I’d rather have her stitch up my hand and save our money for windows.”

  Fact # 2 – Marjory Rockwell is creepy.

  Proof – She talks to herself and refers to herself as “we” instead of “I,” wears clothes left behind by tourists, and eats more fish than a shark.

  Gramps nods. He rewraps my hand and puts a raincoat over my shoulders before grabbing his own. With an arm around me, he leads me back into the storm. We cross the street to a large, gloomy, Victorian house on a cliff. The shutters are closed, but a faint flickering of light can be seen behind them. I turn into the wind as Gramps knocks. The wind whistles across the decaying porch. The door flies open.

  “He’s angry tonight!” An old woman screeches under a black shawl. “Someone’s been very naughty!”

  “Hello, Marjory,” says Gramps as he tries to shield me from the wind. “Can we come in? Alex hurt her hand.”

  “The beauty?” she asks as she tears her gaze from the sea. She looks at me and gently takes my hurt hand. “We can’t have this! No, we can’t! The Singer beauty can’t be damaged!”

  Fact #3 – Marjory Rockwell is creepy but she’s also a good and loyal neighbor.

  Proof – She never refuses help to those in need, rescues stray animals and finds them homes, visits and assists elderly people who are nearly twenty years younger than her, and babysat me for free when I was younger.

  She pulls me into her house behind her. Gramps follows and shuts the door to keep the wind out. Marjory directs me to a seat next to the blazing fireplace in her parlor.

  Marjory has always called me the “Singer Beauty,” but not because I’m beautiful. She calls me that because my grandmother and mother were great beauties. The way Gramps tells it, boys would throw punches just for the chance to sit next to them on buses. Unlike most girls, I’m grateful I didn’t inherit that particular…um…quality. I want to be known for my mind, not my bra size. I’m a nerd
through and through and proud of it.

  Looking around Marjory’s old Victorian house, I think it must have been lovely, years ago. Once elegant chandeliers and paintings of long-since-gone Victorians still hang on the walls, but all the furniture is covered with dusty sheets. For as long as I can remember, Marjory’s home has been like this. I once asked Gramps about it, and he told me that Marjory doesn’t own the home. Her family has been the caretakers there for over a hundred years. He couldn’t tell me about the owners because it was before he married Grandma.

  Marjory goes to a closest to get her equipment. Dried plants hang from a corner. The shelves are lined with the oddest assortment of supplies. Bottles of revolting salves and remedies are labeled in Marjory’s scribbled handwriting. In many ways, Marjory lives up to her reputation as a witch: she talks to herself, rummages for the most disgusting ingredients along the shore, and is at least half crazy. But the reason the old timers go to her for medical care, instead of Dr. Powers, is her cures and remedies work. There has been more than one instance when one of the doctor’s treatments hasn’t worked but Marjory’s has.

  Shuffling back from the closet, Marjory carries a wooden tray with some simple pieces of medical equipment. She places the tray on a small table and takes the seat across from me. Very carefully, her wrinkled fingers unwind the bloody sock. She shakes her head when she sees the deep cut.

  “This won’t do.” She clicks her tongue. “We must stitch it. This will hurt the Singer beauty but just for a moment.”

  She opens a jar and sprinkles a green powder into the cut. My eyes fill with tears as the wound burns. Before I can blink them away, the pain stops. Working nimbly, Marjory sews up the cut in perfect, even stitches. I watch the procedure with great scientific interest. I wrinkle my brow as foul smelling balm is generously applied to the wound before it’s wrapped in gauze.

  “The Singer beauty must not swim for five days,” Marjory gently pats my cheek.

  “Thank you, Marjory,” Gramps says. “What do I owe you?”

  “Thomas owes us nothing,” the old woman smiles as she stands. “We are grateful for the fish.”