Tortoise

1

Tres Plátanos Resort overlooked a wide soft Mexican beach with brown sand and a gentle Pacific surf just a few inches high, lapping gently inland. The sky overhead was utterly cloudless that day, so the sunset ahead lacked drama, lacked beauty, lacked truth. Sandra and Bob strolled side by side through humid air out into a warm surf and felt a modest undertow against their bare feet. They looked down and watched foam arch around their ankles, and felt sand move between their toes.

“As the surf goes out it pulls,” Sandra said and wrinkled her nose at the smell of kelp. She had quit smoking a year earlier, before she met Bob, so her sense of smell had finally returned. She shoved her hand into a pocket of her cargo cutoffs, and remembered how she used to pull a pack of smokes out of that same pocket.

“Turn around. The undertow will push,” Bob said with his usual lopsided smile. Then he added, “Like we’re the boulder being rolled up hill. Vultures picking our stomachs clean because we wronged the gods by setting a bird on fire.”

“You’re mixing up myths again,” she said and looked at him. “Why is your mind such a constant muddle?”

Bob hiked up his too-tight swimsuit and his belly flopped back down over it. His skin was still pale despite a week long vacation. Not even a tan-line where he used to wear his watch.

“Happy 30th birthday,” he said again.

“Please don’t make another remark about me being halfway to 60?” She stopped walking and pointed at the sunset, at the small red ball that was forming there, but in layers like a hamburger.

He reached for her hand, but she didn’t take it. “Myths are like puzzle pieces. You can put them together any way you wish.” He waited, then added, “When you die, I’ll myth you.” He placed his hands dramatically against his hairless chest where his heart should beat. A seagull’s shadow passed across him as if it were a sign.

Sandra laughed her fake laugh and continued to point at the horizon. Her wavy hair deflated by humidity now drooped in a way that made her appear poor. Her hand-made cargo cutoffs had cost a bundle in the States but looked cheap when wrinkled and amplified her ungainly height. At least her shirt was pure silk that accented her complexion with its deep rose color, but also made her slightly sunburned face more obvious.

The sun was about to slip below the horizon, and a red blob formed like a molten god’s tear. Then a green dot appeared that glowed just above the sun, a tiny green ball above a larger red ball, as if a distant gateway had formed into another universe. The impression of green remained there briefly and then was gone. “Like a door opened and then closed,” Sandra said. She shivered despite the warmth and a tear ran down her cheek.

Bob looked at her and said, “Nice huh?”

She looked at him as she wiped away her tear. Wonder drained from her eyes as the sky slowly darkened behind him. “You can’t be my myth,” she said. “I don’t see how our two pieces fit together. I don’t see how they could ever fit together.”

He stared at her, his hand hanging dumbly by his sides. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“Yes,” she said. She didn’t smile. “You’re the hare.”

“What do you mean?” He continued to fade as the night became darker, one side of his face a deep red, almost violet from the vanished sun.

“Have you felt your heart lately? It feels like a rabbit’s heart. Ninety miles per hour. Not a stay at home heart. A runner’s heart. A run away heart.”

“But,” he sounded as if he might cry. He stuck his hands in his pockets. He stamped his foot and splashed surf on her legs.

“There are plenty of women at this resort,” she said. “I’ve seen them and how ripe they look for the picking.”

“But I already picked you.”

She put her hand on his shoulder and looked him in the face. His eyes moved this way and that as if afraid to look at her. She waited for his gaze to refocus on her, and when it finally did she held it for a moment, without a smile and said, “I unpick you.”

2

Sandra, a decade earlier at age 20, had lived in Malibu and dated a different he, a taller than she he, a more athletic he. A man named Randolph who had parents that lived in a mansion perched on a hill overlooking Rome. The only problem was that his name was the same as her father’s name. Not that she had known her father all that well because he had perished in a car crash when she had been a mere child. She had been too young to even remember his funeral. She only remembered finding her mom crying secretly for weeks afterward, while doing dishes or while ironing his clothes just before packing his shirts and pants in a cardboard box.

Piano music, played on a real piano, drifted from a beach house somewhere nearby, a slow jazz-like arrangement of show tunes that seemed to be for the private entertainment of her. She had just thrown away a cigarette butt that continued to glow red on the sand like a false sunset. The beach that evening was almost empty. In the far distance a man walked two great danes away from her, one white and one black, casting almost surreal long shadows across houses and up into the hills.

Sandra and Randolph had both been stoned that evening.

Both were young that evening. Both foolish that evening. Her myth was almost born that evening, but by mere chance it escaped and fled.

“Great beach, huh,” he said.

Four unexpected mutts, dragging leashes, ran loose across the beach, passed them from behind and left snake-like trails in the sand. They barked as they ran and frightened two sea gulls. A soft breeze came up and stirred the sand into shapeless patterns. Sandra wiped blown-sand off her face. She noticed sand still stuck to Randolph’s face that he didn’t brush off. “Are you too stoned to care?” she asked him.

He looked at her. “Hungry.”

“My apartment is that way,” she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “I have lots of food there. You know. Cookies and chips and a pan of fresh made brownies. Oh, and peanut butter and marshmallows, but no more chocolate. I ate that yesterday.”

“Look at the sun,” Randolph said and pointed.

They both saw the green flash that day. Sandra shivered that day too but this time she was still too young to weep.

Randolph was so awestruck by the green flash that he turned to her and grabbed her in a full body embrace and began kissing her all over with his sandy face.

Sandra pushed him away. “Not here,” she said. “Let’s go to my place. You can shower first and then eat. In that order.”

As they walked back arm in arm, she glanced at Randolph. “Do you believe in myths? Good myths I mean.”

“The tortoise and the hare? Or Moses on top of the mall? Or that Jesus resurrected as the Easter Bunny?”

“I had no idea you were so irreverent.”

“My grandfather and father were both atheists. My grandmother was Jewish and my mother was Catholic. I guess I followed Dad’s lead.”

Sandra stopped and looked at him framed by the purple light of fading day. She placed a hand on his face, felt his soft whiskers, and said, “You look like a hero right out of the movies. Sometimes, like now, I could swear you could scoop me up and fly me away.”

“Yeah,” he said with a perfect smile. “Good weed.”

3

Her mother had seen the green flash too, on the night Sandra had first been a twinkle of an imagined future in her mother’s mind. On a catamaran off the coast of Key West. Champagne instead of dope back then. A teak deck instead of a sandy beach. Porpoises off the bow instead of dogs running loose dragging leashes.

Her mother had been a tall woman too. Rosalyn had red hair almost auburn back then, but a skin that tanned. She had taken a sunset tour out of Key West on a catamaran that advertised free champagne. She met Sandra’s father on that cruise. He sat next to her on deck. He appeared too well attired to be woman’s man, so she had assumed he was a man who preferred men, but she was puzzled by his hint of Old Spice aftershave.

“Not enough men on this cruise,” she said.

He looked at her and his eyes were an amazing green. “Not enough real men,” he said and smiled with perfect teeth that seemed a little too white.

A crewman in a khaki uniform but wearing shorts walked over and refilled their champagne glasses. Rosalyn admired the hint of blond hairs on the crewman’s strong legs. The cruise was so quiet that the sound of the bottle on their glasses seemed sharply real.

“Randolph,” he said. “In case you are interested.” He sipped his champagne and watched her.

Rosalyn liked the way his eyes held steady. She held out her glass as if making a toast and said, “Rosalyn.”

He tapped her glass with his and she felt that tap resonate down her arm.

“To the two R’s,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. She liked the sound of his low well-modulated voice.

The huge sail overhead flapped as an offshore breeze came up. The metal halyard against the mast played a pleasant tune.

“In case you’re interested, I only like women.” he said and nodded his head as though he were letting her in on a secret.

“Two R’s is bad, three R’s will be worse.” she said and sipped her mimosa. “My son or daughter will have to be an S name. But more than that, the name would have to be one that would work equally well for a man or a woman.”

He smiled and then drank down the whole glass of champagne. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, a perfect hand. “I like that, but its a little early to talk of kid’s names or marching up the alphabet isn’t it?”

The captain announced in a loud voice, “The sun is just setting and the conditions are right for a mirage tonight. If you watch and you’re lucky, you just might see a green flash.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Randolph said and stood.

She noticed that his pants were cotton and sharply pleated, the sign of a man who cared.

He held out his hand offering to help her stand, and added, “I travelled here to see the green flash. You see, I live in Wyoming and can never see the green flash there. I was surrounded by mountains that become a trap when it snows. Lived on my dad’s ranch until he died. Then I sold the ranch and the few remaining cattle and horses. With money and freedom I decided to explore the rest of this country. From sea to shining sea.”

Rosalyn took his hand and stood. His hand was manly and firm and held a promise unlike any she had considered before. She looked at him but saw he was watching the sunset so she turned to look too.

For a mere moment, a greenish-blue dot seemed to float just above the sun. It looked odd and left afterimage spots in her eyes. She heard herself mutter, “Wow.”

Randolph squeezed her hand and she realized she was still holding his hand. She looked at him and tried to blink away spots.

She asked, “Are you the tortoise or the hare?”

“Please hold on, everyone,” the captain said. “I am going to turn the boat and head back in now.”

Randolph indicated their seats so she sat again next to him again. He let go of her hand and picked up the two glasses, his empty and hers half full. With a smile he caught the eye of the crewman who poured the champagne. As their glasses were being refilled he said, “The tortoise.”

Rosalyn nudged him gently in the ribs with her elbow. “Good answer.”

4

Tres Plátanos Resort later that evening. Two dogs lay in the darkness under a table, too hot from the day, their wet tongues still panting. Birds chirped in nearby trees lost in the darkness. The aroma of garlic fish frying from the kitchen and an argument in Spanish somewhere far down the beach, a woman yelling at children and the children yelling back and then crying.

Sandra sat with coffee for energy ahead, for dancing or whatever was to happen. She didn’t lean because the table was sticky.

She didn’t look at Bob who sat across from her at that wide round table. After all this was her life, this was her myth in the making. “The hare,” she said.

“The Phoenix,” Bob said and tapped the table with one finger. Then he looked at the tip of his finger and wiped it on his pants with a distasteful frown.

“The city?” she asked and blew on her coffee. A grey cat wandered out of the kitchen, fell on its side and stretched.

“The burning bird,” he said. “Like me,” and looked up as a waitress approached.

The waitress set a bottle of Dos Equis beer in front of Bob. She leaned over to open the bottle with a church key. Bob eyes wandered up to her full bosom as he reached for the bottle.

Sandra thought about the Phoenix bird in Harry Potter but instead said, “We burned a turkey once.”

“Ham,” he said. “Better for Thanksgiving and Xmas.”

“Jesus,” she said.

He stared at her, “You disagree?”

“Christmas,” she said. “Not Xmas.” But she still didn’t look at him. She sipped her coffee and smelled again the acrid smoke from that Christmas just six months ago. The memory made her eyes water.

5

She had walked into the kitchen and seen the oven belching smoke. She heard Bob flap up behind her in his ratty old running shoes. Somehow he always found time to run just before dinner no matter what. Maybe that was his way of leaving the dinner preparation to her, even though he had no real job. Or maybe he didn’t run at all. Maybe he walked to the corner store and bought doughnuts with her money.

“Fog rolling in from the kitchen,” he had said standing there. He was dressed in white sweatpants for his evening run. Capacious sweats that fit him comfortably with a logo for Rogers Hardware Store emblazoned across his chest.

“All this smoke’s going to stain the walls,” she said and coughed. “The turkey’s burning. I have to put it out.” She rubbed her eye with the back of hands, then used her apron with a picture of a cartoon turkey to dry them. She switched on the kitchen light which turned the black smoke into white, and wondered why the smoke alarm hadn’t sounded. “The last time you took the battery out of the smoke alarm did you remember to put it back?”

“A myth,” he said. His eyes were wide in wonder as if he were trying to remember this moment. His eyes didn’t seem bothered by the smoke.

“This is a disaster,” she said as she walked into the kitchen and snatched the small fire extinguisher from the kitchen counter. It felt full and the pull-tab was intact. “You never seem to recognize a disaster when it happens.” She coughed again, twice.

The fog of the fire extinguisher mixed with the smoke from the turkey. The sound of sizzling and the smell of burned meat. Once the fire was out, the smoke became more acrid and irritated her throat.

Bob opened the back door and stood there waving a dish-towel to move air.

She opened the window over the sink. A cross-breeze began to clear the smoke so she looked back and found the back door empty and the towel on the floor.

“Run,” she said. “Run hare run.”

Trying to not breathe too much smoke, she leaned near the window and thought back to their early days living together, to their first turning point.

6

Feeling the fog of sex that evening, she had looked up at his face in the light from her bedside reading lamp. He hadn’t shaved in days, and his face was puffy and red from exertion.

“That was great,” she said but didn’t mean it.

“Sorry I came too fast,” Bob said.

She touched the only two hairs on his chest. She felt his heart beating fast, maybe too fast. It reminded her of a heart she once felt while holding a frightened rabbit. “You’re good enough,” she said. “Why would I want more?”

“I have to pee,” he said and rolled off of her. She felt his belly leave last. She felt exposed and cold as he stood, so she pulled the sheet up and thought about doing laundry.

He left the door open so she rolled to watch him and felt herself lay on a wet spot. He stood upright peeing an odd arch into the toilet. He noticed her watching, so he smiled as he finished and leaned to flush the toilet.

“Oops,” he said and looked down. “Do you have a plunger?”

She watched the toilet overflow but didn’t want to get up.

“A flood,” he said.

“A disaster. Just say it, it’s a disaster.”

“Animals two by two,” he said.

“Just turn off the damned valve,” she said.

8

On her 40th birthday, Sandra treated herself to a dirigible ride. She would have preferred a ride in space but that was much too expensive. A party of thirty-six above the fog watching the sun set on the ocean far out on the clear Pacific ocean. The cabin was quiet, no engine sounds, just low conversation and a smooth glide through placid air. She had worn a formal gown but not too revealing and was glad the interior lamps were dim and indirect.

A full bar offered only the best. She decided on a mimosa, so she could have a little fruit with her champagne.

“Reminds me of the Sausalito Art Festival,” a male voice spoke next to her. “The mimosa, I mean and the shape of the glass.”

She turned and looked at him. A pale pink suit with a thin black bow tie. A noticeable adams apple as he swallowed, thinning brown hair and wire-rim glasses.

“Are you gay?” she asked.

He smiled and showed off good but uneven teeth. “Nope. Straight as an arrow.” He used the finger of his right hand to cross his heart. He held his drink in his left hand.

No wedding band and no tan-line from one. “Are you left handed?”

“The name’s Samson,” he said and held out his right hand to shake hers.

She shook his hand and noticed he continued to hold her hand lightly but politely. She smiled pleasantly at him, looking him over with her eyes. “You don’t have enough hair for a Samson.”

“No,” he said. “I’m not the myth,” He grinned.

“Sandra,” she said. “But you can call me Sandy.”

“Like the first super storm?”

It was her turn to smile. “I’m not that myth.”

A soft but throaty woman’s voice announced over unseen speakers, “The sun is about to set.”

“Twice before this, I saw a green flash,” Sandra said.

“Let’s both watch for it,” Samson said. “Maybe we’ll be lucky.”

Sandra felt her hand fall free. They walked together up to one of the tall windows facing the ocean. She could feel the cold from the glass, but nothing beyond the glass. No wind, no moisture, no movement. Far below fog was lit orange by the sunset. In the distance a small red ball of sun was turning into a tiny half ball. And then a small bright-green ball appeared atop the sun. “Another green flash,” she said. “Ah.”

“My third,” he said.

“My third too,” she said. “First two were at beaches.”

“Mine too, sort of,” he said. “First was in Monterey just after Christmas and on the small beach that really faces north, but near the tip of land as I looked west I saw a green flash above the sun. I remember I was listening to the Carol Of The Bells on my Sony Walkman, the version by Manheim Steamroller. The music seemed to make the event more important, even though I stood alone, fresh from a divorce, and had no one to share the moment with me.”

“Yes,” she said. “Malibu and someone was playing show tunes on a piano. No kids?”

“None,” he said, as if he meant much more. “My second,” he said and turned to face her. “Was in Costa Rica, Manuel Antonio. A hurricane had moved close in the Atlantic but the weather cleared quickly on the Pacific side. I wasn’t exactly at a beach, instead I stood on the wharf in Quepos next to a small beach and watched the sunset from there. Alone again.”

“No woman with you?”

“Nothing to create a decent plot.”

Sandra sipped her mimosa and waited. Then she said, “My second was at a Mexican beach with a man I lived with for a while. Impulsive, I suppose, when I turned thirty I grabbed the first willing man I could. But he could never control his weight, never tried to. I heard he tried to run in a marathon and died of a heart attack the year after we broke up.”

“A refill?”

They walked together back to the bar. She noticed his drink, a dark liquid in a tumbler, neat without ice. “What’s that in your—half-full glass?”

Samson looked down. “Bourbon. I’m drinking it, so doesn’t that mean it’s half empty?”

She smiled and considered that. “I’m 40. I’ve used up half my life already. So does that mean my life is half empty?”

He gestured to the bartender for two refills. Then he drank the last of his drink. “There,” he said with a smile as he set the empty glass with a solid thump on the counter, “Now my glass is empty.”

“S S,” she said.

“A snake? The section symbol? The Nazi Schutzstaffel?”

She laughed. “No. Us. Sandy and Samson.”

“You think there might be an us?”

She looked at his face. The cut of his chin. The furrows in his brow. Yes, he had a face that might look good with a beard. She touched his stomach and it felt flat and firm.

“I swim laps,” he said. He picked up his now full drink.

Sandra picked up her full mimosa and it felt a refreshingly cool in her hand. “I need a myth,” she said. “A good one. A solid one. A myth that will last and never fade.”

“Are you the tortoise or the hare?” he asked. He sipped his drink and watched her over the top of his glass.

She remembered that question coming up before but she couldn’t remember where. “The tortoise,” she said with a nod and for some reason she thought about ironing.

Samson stepped forward and turned to stand next to her. Now they were both facing front and watching as the dirigible silently descended into fog. He gently nudged her in the ribs with his left elbow. “Good answer,” he said, without looking at her.