A House by the Sea

A crackle of a needle as it meets the black ridges of vinyl swells outwards to fill the darker chasms of what one wouldn’t imagine feeling like a lonely space. In one determined glance you could see it all: sofa, beloved chair, bed, chess set, flowers dried and crusted to a stunning reddish hue, family photos, bar cabinet. Bar cabinet. Let’s start there.

Freshly moisturized fingers still smelling of eucalyptus brush the wanting caps of each bottle. Bourbon commands the father, gin summons the mother, wine is more reflective of the daughter, and the son doesn’t know what he likes so he leaves it to chance; better to be in a bar to evoke that complexity. A fragrant finger pirouettes around the Bombay before plucking it from the mirrored glass home. The mother it is. I always feel more at home with her these days.

Two ice cubes. A perfect number in my book. Gin, splash of lime, douse with tonic. I can already feel her whispering in my ear the things that she yearns to tell. I try to persuade her to wait! I have no pen, no paper, no laptop, your words are getting lost in the crackle of Julie London, I tell her. I sigh as I take a sip and it’s as if suddenly my thoughts begin to merge with hers. My posture stiffens, more regal. I sit with her for a moment and let her ramble on in my ear and hope that something sticks that’s worth embellishing on paper. Two sips and I’m already flushed with the gin. She’s the same way.

A siren blares outside the window. Sparse rays of sun come in and drown my bed in its warmth. Too much warmth to take a nap in without breaking out in a sweat. The ivy that tangles intimately with the wall sconce roils gladly in this warmth. We’ll have it for an hour or so. Evelyn would never live in an apartment like this, underground practically, and one room to share with one’s self. I would like to think she wouldn’t mind visiting. I mean, obviously not. She’s here now. I am her and she is me and we are chatting it out over g&t’s.

A few more sips before the transformation is complete. My world slips slowly away from me now. It’s no longer studio apartments and budgeting to afford it and calculating how many times I had ordered takeout that week. No, no more of that. My hand begins to twirl a wedding set that sparkles in the sun on a warm stone bannister now. The bannister of a countryside home of the same stone, and the smell of the sea is baked into each pore of the structure that looms over the dunes.

There is laughter somewhere now in the distance. A great splash into a pool. The laughter is one that I know that makes my heart swell. It is the laughter of the son. My son, now that the transformation has taken hold. My hand goes to my heart at the sound of it. There is a voice that is low and rumbles like thunder in the chest of a man who also makes my heart swell, though the wedding set on my hand no longer matches his. The father. He paces and speaks softly but harshly under his breath as he twirls that bourbon around in a rocks glass. I whisper his name pleadingly and he flings my own back at me. There is a glint in the deep blue of those eyes that I know. The pain in them twists my chest.

The transformation is complete. The banter is about to flow now. The father has stood his ground. They pull the strings of their puppet that sits in a beloved chair in a studio in Brooklyn, and he scrambles for his laptop. Hovering above the keys as the mother and the father stand a comfortable distance from each other on their terrace in East Hampton.

I move to the bed; I crane my neck to the slivers of sunlight that streak through wrought iron gates above. I close my eyes tightly and I can hear it. The way that the waves lap the shore some mere football field’s length from the terrace. I set up my phone to record should the banter flow too quickly for this puppet to keep pace. She consumes me, and again I am her and there are tears now puddling behind my lashes. My heart is hers and her heart is his and another’s. Her scandal is mine.

I move closer to him, my hand outstretched. I go to start our duel, but it is cut short. Gin. It is delivered to me on a silver tray by a familiar face and my eyes flutter behind designer shades before taking it softly with gratitude. We wait for the maid to leave. We look in different directions now. I, at the sea and he, into the labyrinth of hallways and parlors of the home we had once shared. He fires the first shot and I reciprocate with fire as I am wont to do. Back and forth we go with one another the way that only two people who have been in love for so long could. Here on this sunbathed terrace it is merely moments. Banter and banter and gestures and exasperated sighs and passionate twirls of hands. We have too much wealth to be in such despair.

It’s merely a moment of our day. A tiff while our children swim, home from college, and our dog sunbathes, and our staff moves around softly with the breeze. A moment where the sun shines down on East Hampton and our wealth and our despair and the sea takes this in with greedy eyes, taking our secrets in hand with the retreat of the tide. The moment passes and he storms off. It has been merely moments on a terrace in the South Fork, and we stop to catch our breath.

Yet the puppet is released and falls back onto a bed that is now cool and void of sunlight. She takes her leave, brushing her skirt, and I can hear the click of her shoes that cost as much as my rent retreat until they are gone. When had I commandeered the bottle? My fingers no longer smell of eucalyptus, but my keyboard does. I sigh and I feel her heartbreak drain from my own. I think she’s satisfied. The crackle of the record still thumps though the album has long finished.

I crack my knuckles and stretch languidly before the pages of type that now cast a soft glow on my face. Time eludes me in this underground studio. I smile at the pages and tap my toes on the cool stone of the floor. I light candles. Carefully curated beeswax and fragrances that lull one into a sense of bliss. I stopper the gin, I stopper the mother, and return her to her mirrored glass home. I thank her for joining me.

I take the record and flip it once, often picking a piece of lint from the diamond tip of the turntable. The only diamond to be found here in this apartment. I pour a glass of water. I put on a pot of coffee. I could probably still enjoy some of the day if I escape from underground. I check my watch and assuredly I can. I wait for the coffee to brew and I return to the sofa to curl up and watch as the pixelated fireplace crackles on the television. I can still feel her with me, although she is no longer speaking. This is my favorite time. I can close my eyes and I’m in that house by the sea. No longer the mother or the father or the brother or the sister. A welcomed guest. Lottie has handed me this coffee. The salt breeze floats in from the double doors along the great room. I feel them nearby. They whisper things I want to hear but they let me rest. Away from the sirens and bustle and the stagnant heat of the city. I’ve served them well today. I listen only to the sea and the crackle of a fire, content.

They will come again soon. The father will take me to his office where he stares at the photos he can’t bear to remove from his desk. The son will ignore me as he paces the floors of his home with his boyfriend, running his hands through his hair as they contemplate a life of their own. The daughter will sit me at the foot of the bed while she twirls a strand of her hair as tears drip from her radiant eyes into a large pour of wine. Her heart is miles away from her in the hands of one who fumbles it. I listen, I take note, and I take my leave, back to this place with the sea and the crackle of a fire, content.