She first spotted Patrick straddling a log at Sugar Beach beating a coconut against a rock. Clear waves lapped and a light breeze moved palm fronds. Patrick’s beach bum affectation first attracted her. Later, a boyish charm that could roll over into deep thoughtfulness. A penchant for possession gave her pause, but mostly, Patrick seemed a fitting candidate to rescue her from the decade long cycle she could not escape.

***

To celebrate their six-week anniversary, they dined on cornmeal, okra and salt fish on the terrace at The Inn on Mt. Eagle. They toasted rum. Dusk spread orange and lavender streaks like icing across the sky. Sugar Beach was visible a thousand feet below. The white dots of sailboats retreated to shore as a thunderstorm, its entire area visible from above, moved in from the sea. Whitecaps slammed against black rocks, rain steamed as it hit the water, yet where they sat, the sky remained clear.

***

Happy for the first time in years she invited her oldest and most enabling friend, Blake to visit. She met Blake, a philandering lawyer, in New Orleans helping to rebuild after the storm. The half-abandoned city proved a worthy canvas for their exploits. Vodka was their vice, and they drank it any way.

Her second stint resulted.

During Blake’s visit, Patrick created strange tension. One afternoon they visited the lagoons and Patrick pulled an air soft pistol on a tourist before returning his wallet and claiming it a joke. Patrick was convinced they shared a past they would not admit.

***

The night things disintegrated Blake drank a Cuba Libre on the veranda. The sun slid across the sea and sank below the treetops. Hearing screams, he tiptoed to the window. Patrick clutched a wrench and dodged flying objects. As she pleaded, he landed a crippling blow. Blake called the police and hid behind a Calabash tree on the property’s edge until cruisers arrived with sirens wailing.

Patrick flew to Dallas and checked himself into an institution. She awoke hospitalized, tubes coursing wrist to nose. She tugged bandages and cried out for Patrick. A nurse popped in to tell her there was no Patrick there.

***

As she healed, listening to her vitals beep, her mind soared back in time. There she was, born wealthy in Philadelphia. Bundled in pink, riding a bicycle on an icy street. Her father’s dark beard and smile of pride. His outstretched arms when she graduated Temple. Her mom’s uncharacteristic dinner toast. The handshake when she graduated Villanova law, her dad’s beard salted gray. The tears sliding down her mother’s cheeks.

The early years at the firm. Living in Rittenhouse. Bounding toward a golden future. Until the alcohol claws. Before one became three. Three, six. Before counting became impossible.

Seeking a new start, she found a job online at a resort. She purchased a plane ticket and disappeared to St. Croix.

Wilson Koewing is a writer from South Carolina. His work is forthcoming in Wigleaf, Hobart, Gargoyle and The Harpy Hybrid Review.

by Wilson Koewing

I took a job delivering pizzas in Longmont after moving to Colorado. I hated it but refused to do anything else. The shop sat in a strip mall of dying businesses. The owner lady operated on shoestring margins and ruled with an iron fist. The other employees were teens. When deliveries were dead, we made stacks and stacks of boxes.

On deliveries, I witnessed strange things.

A blind man at a senior facility who would invite me in.

“Now where’d I put that money?” he’d say, shuffling across the carpet to retrieve bills from a cigar box.

An aquarium ran but housed no fish. Screensaver photos shuffled on the TV. Car pictures covered

the walls: stock cars, classics.

“What do you drive?” he’d ask, shuffling back.

I named cars I thought he’d like to imagine driving around that sleepy town.

There were many others. Drunks. Stoners. Two middle-aged white guys who lived at the end of a cul-de-sac and always burnt cardboard in their yard. Check out my new gun folks. Elated children. Snarling dogs. Housewives in towels. Creepy loners with strange hobbies. Small-scale model building. A high-powered telescope purchased.

Then there was funeral home guy.

He ordered large pepperoni and mushroom. The first time he opened the heavy funeral home door, a chilly air released.

“Sorry,” he said, like trying to talk over a lawnmower. “Sometimes down there so long I forget the time of day!”

He had droopy brown/black eyes. His irises reflected TV fuzz back. Had a strange way of examining you, like it fascinated him that behind your eyes a spark remained.

I watched the seasons change delivering him pizza.

Winter. I could smell the fresh snow, but the clouds were gone, and the sky was clear. An actual funeral. I delivered to the side door.

“Amazing turnout,” he said, admiring the mourners outside.

Spring. He wore headphones and watched a show on a tablet.

“Small town, nobody dies in the Spring,” he smiled.

Summer. He donned a Hawaiian shirt, shades pushed up on his forehead.

“Can’t do another summer down there,” he said. “Getting out of town.”

“Where to?”

“Not sure,” he said. “Possibly the islands.”

Fall. I’d given the owner lady notice. I was moving away. He grabbed the box without a word, seeming to sense the ending. I watched the soles of his bare feet walk away as the door closed.

I didn’t feel like returning to the shop, so I drove along the outskirts. Outside town, beautiful mountain views materialized. Insulated in neighborhoods, you forget what exists beyond the limits. I kept driving and gained elevation until the town took on the shape of a box in the rearview. Compacted. Suburban sprawl seeping from its edges.

I pulled over to the shoulder and turned off the car. Had I really never noticed before, that funeral home guy never wore shoes?

About The Author

Wilson Koewing is a writer from South Carolina. His work can be found in Pembroke Magazine, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Five on the Fifth, Ghose Parachute and Ellipsis Zine.

Photo Credit:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/garethrobertsmorticianreferences/4004809565/