Shiloh and Other Stories - Bobbie Ann Mason [73]
“Bet he lives in a mansion,” said Bill, who was pacing the floor. “How does he explain that?”
Mike Landon said it didn’t depend on the number of rooms, as long as you can communicate. His kids don’t watch TV during the week, he said, except for Little House on the Prairie. “Or I give them a beating!” He laughed.
Bill grew more and more restless as they drove down into Florida. He kept an eye on the left side of the horizon so that he could catch that first glimpse of the ocean. He was afraid it might appear any second and he might miss it. He hardly noticed the changing terrain and the tourist signs.
“I thought I saw orange trees,” Imogene said.
Imogene had stopped flinching every time a car passed, and she seemed to be in a better mood, Bill thought.
“I can’t wait to show you the ocean,” he said for the tenth time.
“Some folks is happy just to stay home,” she said. “But that farmer on television—he had money. He could retire to Florida and still have something to show for all his years.”
After bypassing Jacksonville, Bill headed for a campground. He still could not see the ocean.
“Whoa!” cried Imogene suddenly. “What’s the matter with you? You scared the wadding out of me. You nearly run into that truck.”
“That truck was half a mile down the road! Keep your britches on. We’re almost there.”
As they drove into the campground, which had a swimming pool but no trees, Imogene said, “You can tell this is Florida. Old folks everywhere.”
Bill liked it better at the other places, with the dogs and the younger people. He didn’t see any dogs here. They passed a man struggling along on a metal walker.
“I hope we don’t get like that,” said Imogene.
After selecting and paying for their parking place, they drove to the ocean, a couple of miles away. Bill’s first sight of it was like something seen through a keyhole. Then it grew larger and larger.
“Is this what you brought me here to see?” said Imogene, as they examined the Atlantic from their high perches in the camper. “It all looks the same.”
Bill was silent as they got out and locked the van. He dropped his keys in the sand, he was so nervous. They walked down a narrow pathway to the beach, and Bill kept wanting to break into a run, but Imogene was too slow. They walked down the beach together, now and then stopping while Bill faced the ocean. He kept his arm around Imogene’s waist, in case she stumbled in the sand. She had on her straw wedgies.
Bill stopped her then and they stood still for a long while. Bill’s eyes roved over the rolling sea. It was the same water, carried around by time, that he had sailed, but it was bluer than he remembered. He remembered the feeling of looking out over that expanse, fearing the sound of the Japanese planes, taking comfort at the sight of the big battleship and its family of destroyers. He had seen a kamikaze dive into a destroyer. The explosion was like a silent movie that played in his head endlessly, like reruns of McHale’s Navy.
“How long will you be?” asked Imogene. “I need to find me some shade.”
“I’ll be along directly,” said Bill, gazing out at battleships and destroyers riding on the horizon. He could not tell if they were coming or going, or whose they were.
GRAVEYARD DAY
Waldeen’s daughter Holly, swinging her legs from the kitchen stool, lectures her mother on natural foods. Holly is ten and too skinny.
Waldeen says, “I’ll have to give your teacher a talking-to. She’s put notions in your head. You’ve got to have meat to grow.”
Waldeen is tenderizing liver, beating it with the edge of a saucer. Her daughter insists that she is a vegetarian. If Holly had said Rosicrucian, it would have sounded just as strange to Waldeen. Holly wants to eat peanuts, soyburgers, and yogurt. Waldeen is sure this new fixation has something to do with Holly’s father, Joe Murdock, although Holly rarely mentions him. After Waldeen and Joe were divorced last September,