‘I can’t walk on sand anymore, Jack. You know that.’ Lips pressed together.
‘Of course you can. You just don’t want to limp in public. You’re too vain.’
He got out, walked round to her side and opened her door. This was so out of character for Jack, it was almost as funny as their daughter praying. But Milly did not laugh, or even smile. She sombrely took his hand, and let him lever her out of the car and down to the sand. One step, then another.
‘Your mom.’
‘Yeah?’ he asked.
‘She’s all right, you know.’ More slow steps. Step, stop. Step, stop.
‘Is she? She never bought me Levis when I was a kid. Always the JCPenney jeans.’
‘Levis, Schmevis. That was a hundred years ago. I like her. I can’t walk any further.’
He had one hand clasped under her elbow, the other arm cradling her back.
‘Want to sit down for a while? Watch the surfers?’
She made a scoffing noise. ‘I can’t sit. I’d never get up.’
Saying this aloud brought a large lump to her throat. The forbidden self-pity. They never talked about her increasing disability. Easier for everyone. Then without warning, Jack scooped up his wife in both arms and carried her to the smooth rock near the high-tide mark.
‘Stop giggling, for Christ’s sake, you think this is easy? Stop it, Milly.’
But she couldn’t stop. Unanticipated joy. She had no defence against this. He plonked her down on the rock, embarrassed. Stood with hands on hips, looking out to sea.
‘Go!’ she commanded, swallowing her laughter. ‘Have a walk. I am fine here.’
‘Really?’
‘Go!’
He took his shoes and socks off, rolled up his pants to his knees and set off at a brisk pace, letting the waves wash over his feet and rush up his legs. Every footfall proclaiming he was not fifty-fucking-nine. Strange to be beach-walking without Truman wanting a stick to be thrown over and over, then running off with other dogs and peeing on people’s picnics. It was great not having a dog. How had she tricked him into getting a puppy again?
‘Thank you, honey,’ she called after him, but he pretended he didn’t hear.
He felt young now, far younger than he’d felt this morning in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t glance back at his crippled wife perched on the rock, but he had a clear mental picture of her and his heart swelled thinking of it. Out of sight, he always fell for her. Goddammit, if she was still a honey, then so was he. So was he! The beach was almost empty, just some surfers and a few dog walkers. Not a sunbathing picnic kind of day. He decided that when he got home, he’d phone Ernie. Ernie had been a grandfather for years now, and lost both his folks. So had Bernice; they were a pair of orphans. This was immensely cheering. Ernie had paved the damn road. Milly had no parents anymore either, but somehow that didn’t help in the same way.
Watching her husband, Milly felt a swift series of familiar emotions. Attraction (ancient, careworn, hardly recognisable), romantic (in a black comedy way), melancholy (because his posture was slightly stooped and his cowlicks were beginning to grey and thin), and last of all, a raging jealousy. How she yearned to be walking in the surf, just like that. Jack didn’t know how lucky he was. She suffered an attack of deep nostalgia for her own fitness. Ten, no, twelve years ago. To just walk on the beach without effort. To dance, to run, to skip. Oh heavens, it would be bliss to simply take her husband’s hand by the sea. Squeeze it, as an equal. To be a fellow walker.
They’d had wonderfulness and not even known it, and now here they were. Him striding down the beach, and her bottom freezing on a damp rock. But had the imbalance really started with the accident?
Jack looked back from the curve of the bay and waved, and she waved brightly back as if they were an ordinary couple. She knew just how they appeared – a confident husband protecting his demure contented wife – and she willed herself to believe it. They were normal and happy. Good heavens to Betsy! He disappeared around the headland and her heart sank. The truth was, she had always been trying to catch up with Jack. The phrase wait up, wait for me! was never far from her lips, yet rarely uttered. An unwritten rule. What wife in her right mind admitted to wanting what a man had? Competitiveness was not feminine, unless it was sisterly rivalry, like Louise and herself, the way they used to argue and shadow each other through life. But there was no denying, there had also been competition between Jack and Milly from the very first day. When he’d asked her out, she’d rejected him, and he strode away pretending that he cared less than two figs. Darn him! It was so complicated. She was jealous of him, of course, while knowing at the same time he must at least have the appearance of superiority – of being the richer, smarter, taller, older, faster, funnier, best-loved spouse – in order for the whole shebang not to come cascading down around their heads. Bless his little boy heart. Bless all their little boy hearts – Sam, Billy, Danny, Donald, August.
It was all about being a winner, and she wanted to be a winner too. But if she was, she’d lose him. It had been touch and go when her mother died and she inherited a surprisingly large sum – even after she’d sent some to disinherited Louise. A tetchy few months, till she’d planted the idea of a small publishing house. Just a few casual remarks dropped into conversation, not pursued. Oh, honey, that boss of yours is just crazy. You know tons more than him about writers.
‘I have a brilliant idea, Milly.’ One morning over coffee, still in their robes. Their teenagers milling around.
‘Yeah?’
‘I’ve been thinking and thinking. You know how City Lights Books is small but still a huge success? And look at Ten Speed Press – just a couple long-haired kids with an idea and the right timing.’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘Well, here’s an idea. We use your mother’s money and I quit my job.’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘We could start our own business. A better publishing house. I’m sure I could take some of our best writers with me. Everyone’s fed up with the new regime. Golden Gate Freight is too big for its boots now. So high and mighty.’
Pause. Best to act surprised. Not agree too quickly. ‘What would we call it?’
‘I’m calling it Dulcinea Press.’
‘Dulcinea?’
‘Dulcinea. The homely woman Don Quixote thinks is beautiful. I’ve always loved that. Beauty is in the eye.’
‘Hm. Where would it be?’
‘The city. Some cheap offices going around Columbus Street.’
‘Goodness, you have been thinking about it.’
‘I’m going to buy a big old oak desk, and have it right by the window. I need a decent view. And everyone in my office is going to be happy because I know exactly what kind of boss to be. And how to treat writers.’ Then he’d leaned forward and whispered urgently:
‘Taking care of writers is my specialty, Milly.’ She’d noted the shift from our to my, and smiled.
