“Every beach sounds a little different,” Christine said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Lots of variables. Sandbars, the steepness of the upslope just offshore. Then the bottom might be any combination of sand, rock, coral, or loose pebbles.”
“Now that’s one thing I’ve never tried to deduce scientifically.”
“But you are a scientist, Dr. Palmer.”
“Maybe, but some things are better left a mystery.”
He dropped their belongings to the sand and set out toward the waterline. Christine followed suit.
“It was part of some training I took many years ago, waterborne as-sault. The water might be an ocean, a lake, a swamp, or a ditch full of sewage. Whatever it was, you had to know the line where water met earth like the back of your hand. A moonless night or zero visibility in the water was no excuse. Use the compass and watch, feel your way if necessary.” His voice grew detached as he went on, “The water was your way in, your way to get close, the sanctuary you owned. But sooner or later the time would come to get out. And you’d better be in the right place. Not too far from your partner or too close to the guard shack where …” his voice trailed off. “Sorry, here you are trying to show some heartfelt appreciation of nature, and I give you a short course on covert amphibious assault techniques. You’re right. Some things are better left a mystery.”
She gave no reply.
“I guess I’ve learned a lot of peculiar things over the years.”
Christine remembered, “When I found you in the ocean there were shoe laces tied around the bottom of your pants legs. Was that one?”
“Yeah. It’s a cold-water survival trick, on the same concept as a wet suit. If you can’t keep cold water out, at least contain a narrow warm layer next to your skin. It buys a little time. I don’t remember where I picked that one up. Probably on a beach at three in the morning with some big guy behind me screaming it would save my life someday.” He stopped and shifted his gaze to sea. “Maybe it did.”
“Then I’m glad you learned it.” Christine watched for a reaction, but like always, there was none. He simply stood staring at the frigid ocean.
They sat down together facing the water. Neither spoke as the bitterly cold ocean rose and fell to meet the shore. An occasional cry from a seagull punctuated the surf’s rhythmic chaos. Evening was fast approaching and the overcast skies accelerated the loss of light. Christine looked to their right up the coastline. It was straight and featureless as far as she could see. In the other direction the beach made a gradual curve out to sea, then turned back in, disappearing from view four or five miles away. There, at the point, she could barely discern a pair of faint, yellow lights. The only other sign of civilization was an old fishing dory overturned on the beach behind them. It was parked above the high water line, probably for the season. The isolation seemed almost complete.
“It feels good to be out here, away from everything,” she said. “It’s as though I’m back on Windsom.”
“But you’re not alone here.”
“I don’t need to be alone to feel relaxed,” she paused and then added, “do you?” Christine suddenly realized the question might seem barbed. “I’m sorry,” she fumbled, “I didn’t mean to imply anything.”
He looked at her squarely, his eyes holding more feeling than she ever thought he might possess. But Christine couldn’t tell what that feeling was. His reply caught her completely offguard.
“I saw a child born once. My daughter. I was there in the delivery room, and you’re absolutely right — there were doctors, nurses, lots of blood. But all I can remember is the moment my tiny daughter came into the world. It has to be the most magnificent, awe-inspiring event on earth.”
Christine was stunned. She had weighed this complex man in so many ways, from so many angles, yet it had never crossed her mind that he might have a family.
“You have a daughter!” she exclaimed. “That’s wonderful!”
He turned back to the ocean and shook his head. “She’s dead.”
The weight of the earth came crashing down. Christine felt helpless as she grasped for something to say, something beyond the standard, pointless, “I’m so sorry.” Nothing came to mind.
He pulled out his wallet, delicately removed a photograph and handed it to her. The picture was of a small girl, probably two years old. She was laughing as a woman pushed her on a swing. The young woman had beautiful, dark features, and a vivacious sparkle in her eyes, a characteristic unmistakably reiterated in the little girl.
“She’s beautiful,” Christine said, trying to recover. “This is her mother?”
“My wife. She’s dead as well.”
“My God! What happened?”
“Katya, my wife, and little Elise were riding a bus home from the library and …” he struggled to find words and Christine noticed his hand digging into the beach, a fistful of sand squeezed remorselessly.
“Was there an accident?”
“No. It was no accident. It was three men with AK-47s and grenades. They got on the bus and wiped out twenty-two people, three of them children.” His hand kept clenching, faster and harder. His voice rose, “My daughter survived for a few hours. But I couldn’t get there in time to be with her. Do you know what a fragmentation grenade does to a two-year-old body, doctor? Do you?”
Slaton closed his eyes and Christine put her hand over his. She held it until the grasping stopped, then kept holding. Neither said a word.
Gradually, the light faded, and an occasional drop of rain gave promise of more to come. Neither seemed to care as they sat watching the open sea, both mesmerized by their own private thoughts.
It was Slaton who finally broke the silence. “You know, I thought about becoming a doctor myself. A long time ago, back when I was at university. There must be a tremendous sense of satisfaction, working to save lives.”
“You make it sound like we’re all saints. I know a lot of people who went to medical school just because they wanted to make good money, or satisfy their egos.”
“Maybe. But even those types can justify what they do. It’s a noble calling.”
Christine handed back the photograph and he slid it carefully into his wallet. She shivered as a gust of wind swept by.
“It’s getting cold.” he said.
“A little.”
“Let’s get a fire started, then we can eat.”
They both went foraging at the high tide line and easily scavenged enough driftwood and dry grass for a small fire. Slaton set up camp next to the old wooden dory, using it as a windbreak. The boat, about fifteen feet in length, had probably not been used since the summer. Only a few flakes of red bottom paint remained on its weather-beaten hull. Behind the boat was a rusty old fifty-five gallon drum. Slaton gave it a kick and the hollow rapport confirmed that it was empty. He started building a fire right next to the boat.
“The weather’s about to take a turn for the worse,” she said, pointing out at the water. The dark clouds that had hung over the sea now seemed to reach down and touch it. A heavy, moisture-laden blanket was enveloping the horizon to the east and north.
“I think you’re right.”
“I’d hate to head back to the car,” Christine lamented. “I like it here. The rest of the world seems so far away.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
A light drizzle started to fall. The fire caught and began to burn steadily, notwithstanding the occasional hiss of a raindrop. Slaton threw on a few more sticks and looked at the boat.
“I’ve got an idea.”
He went to the boat and lifted one side slightly to test its weight.
“What is it?”
He rolled the empty metal drum right up to the boat. “I’ll lift this side up, you roll the drum underneath.”