This Here is Something

          She left before I did, money coming in from selling Dad’s antiques, and sent a postcard of a cliff with dozens of houses up against each other, her own blue ink arrow added in, pointing toward something near the top.

          There’s a convent up here and the nuns light candles at night, and later, just before signing off, that’s a place to toss ashes from.

§

          When I first moved in I said I was in advertising, freelance, and I told them about a time a neighbor wanted to sell hats on eBay and needed help. The first thing I did was name each one. Goldie Hawn was my favorite, a neon pink pillbox hat with a silk liner made of black-and-white polka dots, made me think of that show Laugh-In, always on in the wee hours, always fun. I typed in for the description: you, naked, dancing and painted all over, shaking, shaking, shaking, like joy itself, and it sold, it sold well.

          When they asked what kind of advertising, I leaned back in the armchair and pretended to smoke a cigarette, sip a martini, and said, the Mad Men kind, and they said how much they liked me, how much I would fit in. You were sitting nearby, hadn’t said a word until then, when you smiled and said, never saw the show, but now I want to. My go-to, I thought, you will be my go-to, the one to ask how to turn the shower on, what I do with my garbage, when rent is due.

          I texted my mother the new address and she responded with a thumbs-up, a red-cheeked smiley, and a woman dancing.

§

          It’s all about the location, views of sea and sky you can really breathe into, none of that heavy pine, needles unchanging and able to hold just about everything: thick wet snow, dripping sap, boys, owls, everything. Here, just out my window, a mulberry, stout but loose-feeling, long curvy branches biding time, allowing the chill, and I can see right through it into other people's windows, soft lights and movement, blinds up, down, slates open, closed, and beyond, sky, and beyond, water gently tickling beach.

          Soon the morning walkers will be out with their dogs and coffee. I stand and walk toward the inlet where the ducks gather, a flock of hungry brants, and they are expecting me, they don’t budge, don’t move out into the water like they do with all the others. The water is calm enough for me to get right up against it and I stand there watching them tip over, their backsides in the air, and I laugh as I always do and they play for my attention. I can tell by the way they come closer, the way they look over at me sideways.

          I’ve done this always, watching my father fix something, an old highboy or cane chair, and me sipping lemonade and listening to the wind whip up the trees, and then I would spot it, a mouse or a beetle, and I would go to it and it wouldn't budge or scurry, it would just allow, allow, allow. I get right up against things without them caring.

          Keep that up, my mother said, looking at me looking at the mouse, and then I overheard her say to no one in particular, I’m a mess, and I wondered if the two thoughts were connected in some way, but it didn’t seem polite

to ask.

          The sun beats down now; two boats are anchored out on the water and the fishermen talk to each other, their muffled conversation soft and open. At my feet now, a brant, surly, a hunk of seaweed hanging out of its mouth, looking up at me and sounding a great honk, and I know instantly, and so I bend and scoop it up.

          Its wet heat is against me and it’s shaking, but nothing too urgent, and I calm it down by pressing my palm up against its webbed feet. It couldn’t care less when I stroke its feathers.

          I enter my housemates’ routines, float about their teeth-brushing and trying these shoes with that, float about them like a ghost, until one notices my shirt is wet and I smell like seaweed and then there is a Jesus, really, as one goes out the door. It was the one who said once that I seemed neat since my blouse was buttoned all the way to the top before laughing and saying just jo-choking.

          I find you in the kitchen leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, finger scrolling on your phone, and I say good morning, pull the toaster rack from the cabinet and set to making toast. The bread is limp, being old and out so long on the counter in sea air, and I think it must be used, this bread, used all up and immediately and so I say, you’ll have some, too.

          We sit at the table with the rack between us, smile at each other, take and butter a piece, and it is so real and warm in our mouths; had we waited a second longer, the warmth would have wasted away, I think, and you seem to know that too.

          I tell you about the duck I held, its black head, how it looks to be wearing a white necklace, so refined, so regal, and its webbed feet kicking against my arms, my belly, and I pull my shirt away from my body and notice the spot is drying, that soon it will be gone. I say see, see, and you lean toward me and nod.

          It was a goose, you say, on to your next piece of toast, people think brants are ducks, but they’re geese, the difference is in the neck, geese have more bones there, anyway, you picked up a goose. A goose.

          You check the time on your phone, finish your toast in two quick bites. Just then a flock of geese above, all that honking coming in louder and louder, until the sound fades and we pick up our things, take them to the sink, wipe the table of crumbs.

          Did it follow you home?

          Follow me home? What a thought and with that I watch him get on with his day.

§

          There is such pleasure in this house. Several rooms have two doors, two ways to go in and out, and it’s strange to me to block them but that’s what they do, with a vanity, a dresser, a stack of books. One of them, the tall woman, has a stool with a lace shawl covering and on it a bowl of makeup samples, small packets of creams and lip balms and face masks, some open and folded over, and I notice how the lace is stained in places where she was careless, or maybe she used it to dab her fingers, bits of red and mascara-black, and I think this is the one that always has a pen in her hand, is always twirling it, biting it, always ready.

          I poke my way through the perfume samples, Essence, Mademoiselle, Night Lotus, Nomade, open and close them, try to separate smells—orange, jasmine, lavender, rose—but they all smell the same, so heady, so sweet. I pocket one, walk back out into the hallway and into my room and stare at the door, her door, the one blocked by the stool and the lace, and I see all kinds of cracks I haven’t noticed before, dents too, smudge marks, right where somebody might have kicked it, and this keeps me going just enough before I fall asleep. ­­

          Knocking wakes me, first from the blocked door, yelling, and then out in the hallway at my other door, knocking and yelling and me letting the tall woman in, and she comes at me sniffing. I back myself all the way up, and then I feel it, the small bottle popped open and my pocket wet with it. I pull it out and the smell, heady, sweet, the smell and it seems it ruined her night, that she had it all figured out, that dress, those heels, this scent, and now it was all over me, and I had no plans whatsoever. 

§

          You ask me to cool it. It wasn’t the perfume thing, I don’t think, and I wasn’t prone to eating their foods, labeled, placed on designated shelves, and when I shower, linger in there a long while, get my skin red as a beet, feeling so good, so healthy, I stop the moment the knocking starts, the moment I hear Jesus Christ already.

          Instead, you say you keep odd hours.

          Odd hours?

          I like it.

          That I keep odd hours?

          But they don’t.

          There is a diner with an all-you-can-eat buffet and I invite them, offer to pay, and we all go and I fill my plate with roast beef, soft buttered carrots, pineapple chunks with maraschino cherries, salad with tangy dressing, the kind with bits of relish, and I tell them to save room for cake, but nobody does.

§

          From the beach, the distance is dark, rain moving in, heaviness and behind it a cooling, but I don’t mind, I’ll sit through it if it comes. Babies should be taught there is no good or bad weather, babies should be held up to a cold window that frames skeletal trees and pressing gray and hear that this is like citrus. I sit and dig my hands into the sand and think of this, of the power of painting a picture, of lemonade.

          Earlier I sat with toast and coffee and listened, finally the first alarm clock, the first footfalls and I knew it was the one with the bright socks under the dark suit, hot pink even, or the ones with baseballs and footballs, or Where’s Waldo, or the donut with its arms raised in the air, speech bubble saying Donut Give Up! He came down and poured himself coffee and I leaned in and over, I said, which ones?

          Which what?

          Socks, and I saw then they had G.I. Joes on them, little green men standing with their hands on hips, kneeling with guns. Do you collect them?

          He took his time, moved about, sipped his coffee and then, turning toward me, sort of, he said, yeah, I guess, and I said that’s nice, and he sucked air through his teeth, nodded, exited through the back door.

§

          Not far from me is a washed-up balloon, red, gently ticking back and forth in the water. I go to it, pull it out, poke my finger through its skin, force it to dwindle. No garbage cans in the off-season so I ball it up, force it into my jeans pocket.

          Here late on a warm morning and so many others are out, all around me shoe prints and dog tracks. I walk and walk, then stand at the edge and watch a horseshoe crab in shallow water slowly scrape forward until it turns to go deeper.

          A dog is running toward me now, full speed, and behind it a person yelling, starting to hurry up their walk, already apologizing. I don’t budge, just watch, its golden fur, its wet paws, its directness, and the person is saying, no, no, no, that’s not her, that’s not her.

          That’s not Luna, and the person catches up with me and the dog, who stops short, who gets just close enough to understand. He thinks you’re Luna.

          I nod and smile, not Luna, no I’m not Luna, and the dog’s face is twisted, is fooled, is so very sad.

§

          I text my mother that I’m looking for a job, no hurry though, I got this.

          She responds crack this baby open.

§

          You, my go-to, join me on the floor, blanket spread out and in the center, a treasure, an air popcorn-popper, like when we were kids, I say, and you nod, take the small measuring cup of kernels, pour them into its body and they clink, clink, clink, heat, and moments later, popcorn falls into our palms and I feel happy about seeing this through.

          In the box are other things, a mixing bowl, a snow globe with a mountain, a very tiny skier swooshing, red lettering that reads Apres-Ski!, a mug with a drooping old man smoking a cigarette and holding a steaming cup of coffee; all across its surface, gray veins, cracks just below the top layer, like a living thing, and my favorite, a water-stained style guide, things underlined and starred, mistakes somebody didn’t want to make.

          Yours? you ask and help me take the things out, place them about, no rhyme or reason.

          Yes, I say and feel good, my room filling out with bits and pieces.

          I like you, you say out of nowhere, you bring in all the right things.

          I want to say I like you too, but instead, you are so kind, so very,

very kind.

          You smile, pick dropped kernels from the blanket, eat them and

move on.

§

          In this house there are corners always dusty; I come at them time and time again, and minutes later, dust bunnies, tiny spiders. But I try. I line up their shoes, rub baking soda into the carpet, get out all the smells, and add things here and there.

          Just this morning I found a poster in a bin at the Dollar Store, the famous one with the men sitting on the steel girder, high above Manhattan, all of them eating lunch and as happy as clams, and I couldn’t help it, I got it, and taped it to the wall in the dining room. It’s really something, their ease, and I want so much to see the men moving, biting into their sandwiches, swinging their legs, lighting each other’s cigarettes.

          The door opens, closes, and before long she, the tall one, is in the kitchen, sees me and then looks past me, up at the poster and there is a moment, a short one, and then she laughs, really, really laughs and it’s so loud and catchy, I find myself smiling, I find myself wanting to join her.

          Jesus, she says, this isn’t a dorm room, and then she walks away.

          Phone sounds. My mother texts met a woman who skins pheasants with her fingernails. Imagine that, she texts, what more do you need, and follows that with a laughing crying face.

          I run my thumb across my nails and it’s satisfying for sure, just thinking of it.

§

          All along the beach, jellyfish brought in with the tide and left there, and there is some life in them, I think, but not for long. I walk carefully, eyes down, stepping in between them. A young boy pokes and rolls them with a stick, pushes them in and out of a small red bucket, and part of me wants to too, to get just a bit closer, to have some sense of their bodies’ give and take.

          I feel myself creeping, creeping down the beach, not wanting to step on one, and somehow everything is louder than normal, the crunch of pebbles beneath my shoes, the way the sand sounds pulling away from my heel as I lift and set, lift and set, gulls calling out. The sun is blinding but plays well with the water, hits it just right to color it deeply in places, to light it up in others.

          It brings up familiar things, the tall pines, the tall pines with their bushy needles, me underneath, where it was cool, so cool, despite the warmer, longer days, and me chilled, but no matter, because there I was on to something, tiny pockets of leftover snow losing itself slowly, and me there to witness, a something slowly dissolving. 

          This is growing, I think, finding something in something else, having enough stories to make sense of things.

          Happens every year, an older man says as he passes. Some years it’s so thick you’d think the beach was jelly, jelly or snot, and he laughs all loud and rolling, and I see years on him, but no fear, walking barefoot, looking up and around, and I think maybe he has been stung before,

pain buzzing up from his toes, again and once more, until it no longer matters, it’s just another thing, something that happens in this place,

every spring.

          Turning around, the boy is gone, but I see the red bucket in the sand and so I go to it, look in and see a jellyfish, pulsating, in just enough water, gently pushing up against the sides. I watch it for quite some time, and it makes me smile, how it collects itself, how it tries, and I wonder if it thinks it’s somewhere new, each time it hits the same side, over and over and

over again.

§

          Home now and rain takes over, soft drops at first, then a sudden breaking-out and downpour and everything pounds and sounds. I fill the tub and soak, look around at their things, his toothbrush, her soap, a damp towel, a box of Band-Aids on the back of the sink, her glass frame with pressed flowers, hanging tilted on the wall. I step out of the tub but don’t unplug it to drain, instead I pick up the red bucket and gently tilt the jellyfish into the water and watch it for some time, open and close, open and close, wider than before, with hope.

          I dress, go to the kitchen and wait for their return, wonder how wet they will be, how exhausted, how hungry. I wait with buttered toast, leftover coffee warmed up, and I feel good straight through and all settled in. I read the newspaper, browse Parade Magazine, dogear pages of ceramic angels and porcelain cats.

          They stream in soon enough and I smile and nod, ask about their days, and soon you are home too, and you sit down beside me, damp from rain, you sigh, you brush back your hair and it sticks up all wet, and you seem to be the happiest and you just look me over and I tell you about the jellyfish, I say things like a stretch of sky, a line of stars, jelly or snot.

          Happens every year, you say, and you pull your phone from your pocket, check your messages. They are talking about dinner and you agree to go in on pizza. I take my plate to the sink, rinse off the crumbs, and as I turn the faucet off, there is a scream, a calling-out from upstairs and so we rush toward it, me and you, and the man with the funny socks, one behind the other up the stairs, and there she is, the tall one with all the perfumes, what is this, what is going on, and so I pass by her to look at it, but it is not there, the soft body expanding and contracting. It had seemed at home, but not now, just bits and pieces of it moving about the water.

          You come into the room, kneel by the tub, pause and take it in. It burst, you say. I hear them say what, I hear them say fuck this, and Jesus Christ, and I’ve had it. You take the red bucket and slowly scoop each piece up, quickly pull the plug, calm the others down, it needed salt water, you say and then add, it’s like some kind of horror film.

§

          I want to go to them and explain I have the collector’s habit,

          I’m drawn to bits and pieces

          I keep odd hours

          There’s something brewing

          I love it here

          and the house, it, I’m sure of it, it loves me.

          I say this to you, my go-to, as we walk to the beach.

          You say you have to go, it’s a majority thing, and then we sit together and you say, soon, nothing but sailboats, waving your hand along the horizon, and it’s the first cruel thing you’ve done.

§

          Happy?

          I text a thumbs-up.

          Good, followed by prayer hands and a selfie, my mother’s eyes and forehead, and behind her, a valley swept with fog.

          I extend my phone upward, take my picture, catch my forehead, my eyes, behind me nothing special, just a corner with a plant, large and extending. I hit send, consider things, when to pack, what to take, to leave, it all seems, after sitting with it a bit, just another get-up-and-go. There are rooms to rent around here, but also there, and there, and there.

          House sounds from the outside in, a robin, a loud angry blue jay, tending going on, lawn mower and calling back and forth a few houses over, cars passing of course, and dogs, always dogs.

          Toast pops and I hurry to it, place each slice into the rack, grab butter, a knife. At the table, I butter each bite before I eat it, I take my time, look at their left things, a note about a plumber, cold coffee, some receipts, a cough drop, and I gather their crumbs with the side of my hand, gather and push into a neat, little pile, and then let them all drop to the floor.

          Phone sounds with her reply. Two peas in a pod, she writes.

          I text back a heart.

          No hot buzz to the dining room just now, no bodies all over and this and that, just the refrigerator kicking up and on, the house shifting, and just across from me, on the wall, the poster with the men lined up and happy, and I can imagine myself there with them, off to the side, high up and feet dangling, thinking how silly everyone looks below, how much like ants.

          I would sit there forever if I could, but I should get up, get up and go.