Sounds of the Sea

I went inside and picked up the phone.

"Hello," I said.

"Sara, is that you?" a voice demanded.

I recognized Clare’s shrill voice immediately.

"Clare," I said slowly. "Why hello dear. What on earth are you doing up at this hour of the morning?"

"Now don’t you dear me Sara. I can’t believe you’re still there. I want you to pack a bag and drive over here this instant!"

I carried the phone to the door, smiling as I listened to her tirade. "Why Clare, whatever do you mean? The sun is shining, it is a glorious September morning. As a matter of fact I was putting on my suit when you called, I thought I’d take a little dip. Do you remember how we loved swimming in September? A summer bonus we called it, when Labor Day came late and we could enjoy these warm days before we --"

She interrupted me. "Sara. ‘Iris’ is coming whether you believe it or not. They’re already planning an evacuation, you know. Are you going to be stubborn and get dragged out in your underwear at midnight by the National Guard? Is that what you want? That would be a fine sight on the morning news!"

I leaned against the door frame, laughing. It was a funny picture. I could imagine the scandal, they’d lock me up for sure. I let her continue talking, no use trying to stop her. She had to get it out of her system.

"----and you are too old for toughing out these storms any more, Sara. Why if I had a car I’d----." I tuned her out. I didn’t mind Clare calling me old because she had a couple years on me.

Clare Jordan had been my friend as long as I could remember. Her family had a bungalow near mine in Sandy Point. She endured three financially successful but emotionally disastrous marriages, that took her from Texas to Vermont, and back again. Now she wintered each year in Florida and summered inland in an exclusive retirement village where she played bridge every afternoon, and went to dances every Friday night with all the other silly old fools who lived there. She was forever inviting me to come along but I would have no part of it.

She was still lecturing, "and selfish too I might add. Why when John called me this morning to find out what was going on, I----.."

"John!" She had my attention then. I straightened up and gripped the reciever tightly, my body bristling. "Why in heaven’s name, did John call you?" I shouted. "If he wants to know what’s going on, why doesn’t he call me? I am so tired of this nonsense. You listen to me Clare Jordan Busybody Monroe Jackson Anderson, because I’ll tell you exactly what is going on and then you can tell my son. I am staying right here in my home where I belong. Where I have been one hundred percent OK for the past ten years and where I intend to be one hundred percent OK for the next ten, God willing. And no hurricane, or flood watch, or interfering friend or relative is going to stop me!"

I slammed the receiver in her ear, then slammed the phone down on the table so hard the receiver bounced off and fell on the floor with a thud. I left it where it landed. My whole body was shaking, but I was proud of myself. I had told Clare all right, my voice was clear and steady. But I knew Clare wouldn’t be telling John that. I could hear the conversation: Clare would say, "I just don’t know what she could be thinking John." And he would sigh and say, "Well, we’ve seen it coming, Clare. She’s alienated herself a little more each year."

Yes. That was just the word he would use. Alienated. I would say ignored, cast off, left to die, and he would call it voluntary alienation.

The phone buzzed obnoxiously on the floor where I left it. I replaced the receiver and the minute I did, it rang.

I picked it up and held my nose, saying, "Good morning. I’m sorry but this number, 555-1357 has been permanently disconnected at the request of the demented old lady who lives here. Thank you for calling, please don’t try again." And I slammed it down again with all my might. I groped behind the table for the plug and yanked it out of the wall grinning like a naughty child. I went out to the porch and Henry looked up, startled by my quick movements. I dragged my chair to the top of the steps and threw myself into it rocking so fiercely my feet lifted right off the floor with each angry push.

I felt like I might explode, burst into the sky in a million fragments and float over the ocean like fireworks on the fourth of July. I had to do something. I stood up so fast I nearly tumbled headfirst down the steps. My chair continued rocking wildly behind me. I walked onto the beach and stopped halfway between the house and the water, looked down at my fisted hand and opened it slowly. I was still holding the shell, it’s form imprinted like a fossil in the palm of my hand. I stared at it for a second. Then I held out my left arm to brace myself and with the other arm hurled the shell with all my strength and watched it sail across the clear blue sky to the sea.