A Distance

The old woman guides him past the wooden blue-coated porch. Past the tall grass and the gravel path driven beneath it. They travel toward the edge of the black incline, facing the ocean and drawing to the wooden bridge linking two separate paths. Their feet graze over raw stone and soil, around daisies and daffodils, white petals broaching and brushing between their ankles. The ground beneath them crumbles, fine rocks slipping into their sandals. Alondra shifts and cowers with her cane, her hand trembling for balance and resisting the rich, cold wind of the sea. Her bones jerk and shudder, and the skin beneath her arms wrinkle and sag. She wears a blue nightgown, sewn and finished with white lace, to secure her body from the nearing autumn foliage. The weather is hushed and gray. Oliver trails beside her. He walks at her lingering pace.
They meet with the sea roaring and bloated and stirring endlessly. Tides pull forward and back, and waves fall over themselves until they reach the shore. They stand above the dense wood of the bridge. Beneath them, the edges are burnished in algae and barnacles, glazed with salt from the sea. Oliver stands with the eyes of a heron. He sees the pattern of the ocean, where the grass yellows, and where stone lies tall. He finds his eyes drawn back to that girl, now through the outlook of this woman. The girl carries the weight of the sun on her back and reflects the burrowing sea. She stings his chest and depresses the control over his body.

“This is one of my favorite places, young man.”

“It’s beautiful, ma’am.”

“Do you know why?”

Oliver shakes his head.

She points down and below the bridge’s arm. “I watched a young couple walk on this beach now and then—the same one I said before.” Alondra draws her focus back from the shore. “And I have lived here many years, young man, but I had never seen a love so content and dear as theirs. The boy reminded me of you a bit. He had brown hair and skin like yours, and he seemed a little quiet. He was always wandering behind the girl.”

“What did she look like?”

“Well, I know she was beautiful just from a distance. She had, eh, dark blonde hair and fair skin. She was always dancing in the water. Sometimes the boy would join her.”

Oliver follows the waves as they collide with the shore. He folds his arms over the banister of the bridge, sitting his head down and stretching his calves outward and behind him. He reflects on the old woman’s words. He recalls the midnights spent at this shore. The early mornings and the afternoons. Those sunless evenings. The corners of his lips crease down and he narrows his eyes. His joints tremor like plates in the earth.

“They remind me of me and my husband. Before he passed away, of course. When we were young and naïve.”

Oliver apologizes to her for that.

“Time passes, people die. That’s all that happens in this world. He’s in a better place now. Come on now, let’s get you back inside. The wind is picking up.”

She trails down the path to her home with her cane, leading Oliver behind her. She walks at his pace.

“My grandson should be back soon. You would get along with him. He is not the talking kind, either.”

“Grandson?”

The woman lifts her brow. “I apologize, I should have told you earlier. My grandson Jason has been living with me for the past year. He is about your age, I would say. He is going off to college in less than a month, my baby. The last of my grandchildren. They grow up quickly, don’t you think?”

“Jason.”

“Yes, that is his name. I just told you that.”

They find their way back to the woman’s porch. She takes the brass key from her pocket and twists open the door. The cool air of her home casts to the outdoors as they step inside. Alondra guides Oliver to her sofa, planted in the middle of the room. Its fabric is colored navy blue and its cushion is rather stiff. He sits on an end corner of it, Alondra left alone in the kitchen. She opens the wooden pantry by the knob, painted mauve and decorated with violet floral patterns. She handles a large china plate and sets it on the counter. She turns to the pan behind her and sets each dessert on the dish. Oliver exhales, bearing his stomach in his arms. Really, ma’am, I’m not that hungry.

Alondra carries the pastries with her hands and brings them to the coffee table in front of the sofa. You have to be. You look like you have not eaten in months, young man.

He feels his arms with his palms, facing the desserts before him. Alondra sets the pastry down on an empty corner of the china. Well, we will want to save some for my grandson, you know. Goodness, don’t eat them all.

Glancing at the woman, Oliver furrows his brow. She jokes. Yeah. Um. No, thank you. I’m sorry. Alondra burrows her laughter, bringing her hand to her lip. She brings her mug to her tongue and swallows. Warm chamomile and vanilla. Vague honey and ginger. The old woman shuts her eyes. Oliver cleaves to the sofa’s arm. He curls his hands together. The wind outside is picking up and it hurls against the windows. There are footsteps by the porch and the sound of a car’s door shutting. The house bell begins to chime a little tune.