1BETH
This time, the road took me to the edge of the Pacific Ocean, to a sprawling Northwest-style Craftsman, all cedar and stone, nestled along a lonesome stretch of Oregon coast called Neacoxie Beach.
It’s not my house. God no. I could barely afford the gas it took to get me here from Portland. The driveway is made of wood pavers—like, real wood, I’m not even joking—and my shitty Toyota is parked on it like a giant turd dropped by some colossal, prehistoric horror. I keep waiting for somebody to call the police, to report a squatter in the house, except there’s nobody else around.
Well, almost nobody.
The beach house is in a very private, very gated community called Strawberry Dunes. I don’t know why—there aren’t strawberries, and the dunes are the same muddy sand color as every other dune on the Oregon coast, blanketed in waist-high, pale-green beach grass I’ve come to learn is actually a non-native, invasive species. The upper crust has to gild everything, I guess. Where’s the prestige in Weedy Lots off the 101 with Ocean View? Strawberry Dunes—whatever.
Most of the places in this development are for sale too. Transplants from Seattle or California or wherever who wanted a little slice of heaven, but aren’t willing to stick around for the hell the winters can bring. Almost everybody who owns here is a strictly seasonal resident. By the time I arrived, they’d all hightailed it off to wherever rich people go at the first sign of bad weather. The couple who hired me are in Vietnam for three weeks. He’s a veteran, wanted to go back and see how it all looks now, or something.
That’s what I’m doing these days. Professional house-sitting. Thirty-three years old and spending my time sampling other people’s lives, like an interloper at a gathering of socialites, stealing tastes of fine cheese and expensive wine from roving silver trays. Better than smashing through their living room windows, I suppose. The money isn’t spectacular, but I like the variety. The constant change of scenery keeps me on the road—literally and metaphorically. Since starting this gig, I haven’t been in one place long enough to get bored, space out, drift. Wreck. So that’s good. It took a while to build up the requisite cred to do much more than water plants and feed cats, but I’ve managed to make it a pretty steady gig. Which is great, because my car was really beginning to voice its complaints about all the miles I was racking up doing take-out deliveries in between, which, in a foodie haven like Portland, was not insubstantial. This is the farthest from the city I’ve been hired. And it’s easily the nicest place I’ve been entrusted to watch over. On a recommendation, no less. Which is a big deal. Like I said, historically I haven’t exactly left people with very nice things to say about me. To have stuck out in somebody’s mind as anything but a cautionary tale is what I call progress.
It’s the first day of October. Friday. I’ve spent most of my time here on the back porch, curled up with a book in an Adirondack chair, like some kind of heiress. From the edge of the impeccably manicured lawn (not my job this time), a wide field of the invasive beach grass stretches to a gentle swell of dunes that just blocks my view of the ocean. It’s visible from the upstairs bedroom, but the weather has been unseasonably warm this week, and I don’t see any sense in wasting a minute of it indoors. The sky this evening doesn’t even seem real. It looks painted by one of the landscape artists whose works fill the windows of half the shops in every tourist stop along the coast, full of soft clouds glowing purple and gold. The air is heavy with mist, the roar of waves, and the smell of a campfire somewhere. I can’t believe I’m being paid to do this—and far better than usual. Mom’s just waiting for me to accidentally set one of these places on fire, a smug “Surprising nobody” already chambered and aimed straight at my heart. I’m not going to give her a reason to pull the trigger. Not this time. Not ever again.
Some evenings I can see shapes roaming around out there in the grass. Elk, looking for a place to bed down for the night. But right now, the dunes are empty. Jake probably scared them all off when we went for our after-dinner walk.
Jake is a dog, by the way. It isn’t just the house I’m sitting. He’s a four-year-old yellow Lab with enough energy to power the entire Pacific Northwest for a year. Seriously. Tear down the dams, hook some transformers up to a treadmill, put Jake on it, and shout, “Bird!”
Me and Jake get along, though I relish the few moments of peace I get after he’s bird-chased himself into a coma.
As if he knows I’m thinking about him, Jake lifts his head and looks at me, his knowing brown eyes studying my hands for signs of Treat. Then his ears perk up, and he shifts his ever-alert gaze to the fence dividing this house from the neighbor’s. A shrill sound builds in his throat.
“No whining, or I’ll lock you inside and you’ll miss out on this beautiful sunset,” I threaten, rubbing his belly with my foot. He cuts his eyes back at my hands, but keeps his ears aimed at the fence, sniffing at the air with his wet nose. The smoke, it turns out, isn’t from some distant campfire at all—it’s coming from next door.
I peel myself from the Adirondack, walk barefoot through the cool grass, and peek over the sun-bleached cedar fence.
It’s him.
He’s sitting by a stone firepit built into his back deck. The fire spits sparks into the air, and by the glow of it, I get my first good look at his face; he’s barely stepped outside since I’ve been here. If he owns a car, he doesn’t drive it. I’ve never seen him at the mailboxes, and the HOA manicures his yard—though all the potted geraniums out back are shriveled and brown.
He’s got a very North Coast vibe. Weathered and rough, looks like he hasn’t shaved in a week, combed his hair in a month, or slept in a year. His scruffy beard is speckled with gray, matching the salty streaks in his otherwise dark hair. I think he might be in his early forties, but it’s tough to tell at this distance.
I grab my Nikon camera from beneath the Adirondack and zoom in until I can see the fire reflected in his eyes. They’re red and glassy, like he’s been crying, or sitting in the smoke too long. He lifts a blue plastic Solo cup to his lips, takes a long drink, and refills it from a bottle of white wine. Wait, no—that’s champagne. Who drinks champagne by themselves? The kind of person who sits outside on a picturesque coastal evening with their back to the sunset, apparently. He stares deeply into the cup, as if all the mysteries of the universe are swirling around down there, little beads of champagne sparkling gold in the hairs above his upper lip. The alcohol and warmth of the fire have brought a blush to his sun-starved pale skin.
The shutter clicks like a gunshot, and I duck back out of sight. Jake scrambles to his feet, eager to come to my defense, and I have to snap my fingers at him before he starts barking and gives me away. I toss him one of the little peanut butter–flavored squares I keep in the pocket of my hoodie.
I wait a moment, crouched at the fence, listening for approaching footsteps over the sound of Jake’s tail whomping the ground. I don’t think I’ve been made. I lift the camera to spy again. Nope, he hasn’t moved. I probably could have shot an actual gun, and he wouldn’t have looked up from the fire.
That fire sure does look nice, speaking of which. The champagne looks pretty decent too. The first thing I learned upon arrival was that the owners of the house keep it bone dry. Which isn’t a bad thing, given how my past adventures with alcohol have ended. The last thing I need on my best gig yet is some nanny cam sending high-resolution video halfway around the world of me passed out and drooling all over the sofa while the dog eats peanut butter treats right from my pocket.
But one drink won’t hurt, right? And a little company sounds nice. You can hold only so many conversations with a dog. It’s not as if we have to be prisoners on these gigs.
Jake whines again, knowing what I’m about to do in that prescient dog way and doing his best to dissuade me. Before I can stop myself, before I can tighten my grip on the wheel and put my eyes back on the road, I open my mouth, take a deep breath of smoky, damp air, and say:
“Hey, neighbor.”
* * *
He looks at me with what appears to be great effort. Like he was about to nod off into a heavy, much-needed nap when I interrupted. He doesn’t look too bothered. Not like he might were I a car smashing through his fence. See that, Mom?
I take my hand off the Nikon’s focus ring and give him a friendly wave. Hopefully he doesn’t find it creepy that I’m peering over his fence with a camera in hand. Why am I still holding the camera, anyway?
“Hi?” he says as if he isn’t sure I’m even real.
“I thought I was all alone out here.” I gesture vaguely at the world around us. Told you I’m a liar. “Seems like everybody else on the street already jumped ship for the season. Winter is coming.”
“Call it a slack tide,” he says with a somber nod. “We’re between holidays, the kids are back in school, the weather’s just starting to turn, but the storm watchers won’t start arriving for another month. There aren’t many year-rounders here.” He pokes at the logs with an old hot dog skewer that’s coated in rust. The sight of those warm embers sends a ripple of gooseflesh down my legs. Shorts and a hoodie are fine during the day, but the evening chill arrives fast and sharp as a switchblade in a dark alley.
“I’ve been here for a week,” I say, hugging myself to keep from shivering. “This is the first time I’ve seen you. Just get in?”
“No, I’ve been here. I don’t go out much.”
“On vacation? Taking advantage of the quiet?”
“Something like that.” The man is a wellspring of information.
“Well, now that you know I’m here, and we both know that we’re alone, I suppose I have to wonder if you’re going to try to murder me.” I say it with a smile and a well-practiced, awkward half wink. He doesn’t return them. Jake paces behind me, nails clicking on the composite decking. He clearly disapproves of my choice to engage this man, whose name I don’t even know, and definitely disagrees with my pointing out that we’re alone and murderable.
“I’m not going to murder you,” the man deadpans. It’s not particularly reassuring. Maybe Jake is right. After all, he’s lived here longer than me. And dogs know things.
But my eyes are drawn back to that Solo cup, and the bottle he filled it from.
“I know you’re not going to,” I say. “I’d kick your ass from here to Sunday. What I said was ‘if you try.’”
Finally he smiles. I feel like a thief who just found the family vault behind an old tapestry. Now it’s time to crack it.
“I’m not going to try either,” he says.
“Okay, then. How about you prove it and invite me over for a drink like a proper gentleman?” I’m putting on the act now. Slipping into character as easily as a comfortable pair of pajamas. It’s a familiar performance that always gets me where I want to go, and never where I need to be.
“Isn’t that exactly what I’d do if I were intending to murder you, though?” he asks, eyes narrowed quizzically. He’s having fun with it now. I’m in. I can almost see Mom shaking her head in disappointment.
I shrug and look off toward the ocean, feigning second thoughts. I hear the foamy surf crash, roll up the sand, then recede. It’s hypnotizing, that eternal, narcotic rhythm. For a moment, I forget what I’m doing. What I want. Another second or two, and the window of opportunity will close. He’ll say look at the time, it was nice to meet you, and have a good night, and I’ll go run a bath and fall asleep in front of the TV. We’ll probably never talk again.
Would that be so bad? I know what will happen if he invites me to the other side of this fence. I know every line, like a show I’ve watched too many times.
“I suppose you’re not wrong,” I say, shooting him a mischievous side-eye. “But what the hell? I could use a little excitement in my life.”
He laughs this time. Then darkens, as quickly as that surf retreats into the depths. He stares down into his cup as if reading the sediment. Determining his fate. I feel my tires slipping. Engine surging. He looks back at me, having caught a glimpse of headlights as I slide off the road and careen straight at him. This is his last chance. To save himself. To save us both.
“Why don’t you come over?” he asks. “Have a drink with me?”
* * *
He fills me a Solo cup of my own as I admire the champagne label. It’s a vintage Dom Pérignon. I think that’s a good brand. I sniff at it as if I know what I’m doing. It smells like champagne, and that’s good enough for me. I take a dainty sip and smack my lips appreciatively. I don’t know who I’m trying to impress, as he’s been slugging the stuff like it’s Rocky Mountain Kool-Aid.
“Goddamn, that’s really good.” I’m not lying this time. My only experience with champagne is the headache-in-a-bottle variety you pick up at the corner store for a New Year’s Eve party nobody has any intention of remembering.
“It’s pretty all right, isn’t it?” Mike says. (That’s right, I got his name first, so wipe that look off your face, Mom.) He watches as I take another—longer—drink. It warms me in a way the fire can’t, through my veins and to the center of my bones, softening my edges and loosening all the various moving parts. “I’ll send a couple bottles home with you,” he adds.
“You have more?” I can’t hide my surprise, which only further illuminates what an interloper I am. I always thought champagne this nice was something you treasured, kept in the basement for that one, truly special occasion. Of course he has a trove of it. He’s probably saving the corks to pave his driveway. “What is this, like two, three hundred dollars a bottle?”
“I don’t remember.”
I fish a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of my hoodie. Smoking in the house is strictly forbidden. I haven’t even dared to smoke outside, unless I’m down on the beach, lest some errant ember makes its way inside on the breeze and fulfills Mom’s prophecy. But I’m on the other side of the fence now. There aren’t rules over here. At least as far as I know. I tuck a cigarette between my lips and light it. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead,” he says with a wave. I take a long drag and exhale into the chilly evening air.
“You want one?”
“No, thanks.”
I lean back and enjoy another drink of Dom, swirling it around in my mouth, trying to appreciate it. Then I give up and swallow so it can get to its good work.
“So,” I say, noticing Mike’s eyes have found my bare legs. “You have a cellar full of expensive champagne. What did you do, rob a wedding reception?”
“No.”
“You think anybody’s ever done that? Robbed a wedding?” My thoughts are taking on that lazy, liquid quality, and I feel as if standing up might just send me floating off into those clouds with the smoke and sparks.
“That would be lower than worm shit,” Mike observes, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
“But you could come away with some serious swag, right? Jewelry, heirloom silverware, a KitchenAid mixer—I’m sure those have street value, especially around here.” I unzip my hoodie and pull it open, glancing left and right suspiciously, whispering: “Hey, Sharon. Whaddya need? Copper pots? I gotcha covered, sis. New Dyson? I’ll hook you up.”
Mike laughs harder than he should.
“And nobody’s expecting it to happen, right?” I go on. “So nobody’s packing heat. Well, probably not. Do your research. If it’s Jimbo and Honeybear tying the knot at the county fairground, stay the fuck away.”
We both laugh too hard this time. I fill the weird silence that follows with another drink, sucking champagne mist down my windpipe and erupting into coughs. Sexy, I know. Don’t try this at home, kids. I’m a professional.
“For real, though,” I sputter. “What’s with the stockpile of primo bubbly?”
He blinks, my question bringing him back from some unknowable reverie. “It’s for…” he begins, then stops to think about his answer. “Well, it’s kind of a ritual—”
“I knew it. Here comes murder time after all.”
“Not like that. It’s just a way to unwind after wrapping on a project. Come up here to escape the hustle and the bullshit and the traffic for a few weeks. Then start the next thing and go back to L.A. renewed, hit the ground running. But that first night, it was all about popping a cork and watching the sun set.…” He trails off.
I wait for him to finish, to tell me what else the first night is about, but he doesn’t. Off-limits, that topic. Fine. We all have those. I don’t point out that he doesn’t seem particularly interested in the sunset, or the fact that he’s been here for at least a week. Maybe he’s also a liar; maybe his champagne ritual isn’t exclusive to just the one night. I don’t really care, so I refill my cup.
“So what are you, a film director or something?” I ask.
“Producer. I directed a thing years ago. I think it’s a rule that we all have to do that at least once. Avant-garde tripe that made the festival circuit and died a slow death in so many direct-to-DVD bargain bins.”
Copyright © 2022 by Kevin C. Jones
