[FICTION] — The Saltwater Cradle, part 2

continued from Part 1

“Are you just gonna vacuum it all up?” Cheyenne demanded. Daryl — according to the embroidered patch on his blue collared shirt — just blinked at her for a moment before responding.

“Uh, I mean yeah, that’s basically the procedure,” he faltered.

“Ok, but see, that’s what we did yesterday,” she pressed.

“Uh, I…” He turned and looked down at the pool as if to make sure it was still there. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it was full yesterday, we sucked out all the water with a shop-vac, and now it’s full again.”

“You mean it refilled?” Poor Daryl.

“Yup. So I dunno if sucking it up is gonna fix it.”

“Well, ok.” He paused, strategizing. “We usually come in for, you know, a standing water situation, but it sounds like you might have an ongoing leak in this case. Maybe a broken irrigation line.”

“You ever seen an irrigation line spit out a starfish?”

Poor, poor Daryl.

“I mean, no, but — ”

“Listen babe, he’s right,” I interjected. “That’s not his job.”

Cheyenne glanced at me and then gazed at the pool, which was right back to how it had been twenty-four hours before. Except this time there were multiple small crabs running around in it — three, maybe four, I couldn’t be sure.

“Well, who do you suggest we call instead?” she asked. It wasn’t clear whether the question was directed at me or Daryl. I looked at him expectantly.

“Um… there’s a landscaping firm in Kennewick you could try. Terra Vista; they got irrigation technicians who might… I dunno…”

“Ok, we’ll try giving them a call,” I said. “Thanks for coming out; sorry if we wasted your time.”

“Not a problem,” he said, taking my cue and circling back around toward the driveway. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

“No worries.” I politely followed him a few steps then stopped at the edge of the lawn to see him off. As his van chugged away, it revealed a seagull — the seagull? — sitting on the opposite curb. It watched the van’s progress for a moment, then looked at me — at me, I was sure of it.

I bent and grabbed a pebble without thinking, a sudden bubble of rage forming in my gut. The creature looked so nonchalant, almost insolent in its trashiness.

“Bite me, dirtbag,” I muttered, and cocked back with the rock.

“Mark!” Cheyenne yelled from behind me. “Don’t do that!”

I looked back, confused at her outburst. “It’s just a bird.”

“Exactly! It’s just a bird! Leave it alone.”

I raised an eyebrow and walked back toward the tide pool, still holding the pebble. I gave the seagull a sidelong glare as I did so, just in time to see a second one alight next to it.

“Didn’t know you cared,” I said to Cheyenne.

“What, about beating up on animals?”

Jesus Christ, this woman sometimes.

“I wasn’t beating up on anything! Just trying to scare it off.”

“Ah,” she said, cocking an eyebrow back at me. An irritable spark danced beneath her teasing expression — she wasn’t convinced.

We found ourselves standing and quietly regarding the pool for what felt like the umpteenth time.

“What if we… just left it?” she asked after a moment.

Interesting. I found that I didn’t hate the idea. But I didn’t entirely like it either.

“I mean, it doesn’t seem to be hurting anything,” she continued. “It’s weird, but…”

“Yeah,” I breathed.

“It could just be our unique gardening feature.”

I scoffed. Then hmmed.

“Guess that would be the most affordable option,” I acknowledged.

“There you go,” she said, giving me a teasing pat on the shoulder. “Big-brain time.”

“You know it. We could even charge admission for people to come see.”

Something still bothered me, however. I turned the pebble over and around in my fingers, remembering Pug’s episode yesterday. What if I stepped outside tomorrow morning to find that the pool had gotten bigger? Doubled in size? Consumed the entire front yard? I pictured the whole lawn suddenly giving way to saltwater and boulders.

I held my breath and tossed the pebble at the pool. As it arced toward the mirror surface I heard, or felt, Cheyenne gasp next to me.

The pebble broke the mirror in the center with an artful plunk, sending ripples outward and water upward. I could almost hear the individual droplets fall back at the end of the splash, and then it was just ripples going out, out toward the edge of the pool.

They lapped up, licked the spare blades of grass that hung over the edge. Cheyenne grabbed my arm.

And nothing happened. One mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi…

And still nothing. We both exhaled. The ripples slowed, lowered, and after about a minute the surface was still again.

“Well,” I began. “I guess if you’re okay with it, I’m okay with it.”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “I think I’m okay with it, for now.”

“Okay then.” We shrugged, laughed and went back inside.

That was about six weeks ago. Our hope that the pool would turn out to be just a harmless oddity was largely fulfilled, though we took pains to keep Pug from getting within dunking distance of it again.

It neither grew nor shrank, and the water level remained constant. But there were a few instances when I’d hear a gurgling rush from outside while sitting in the living room, the sound not unlike a toilet flushing. When I stepped out to investigate, I found the surface of the pool see-sawing back and forth with miniature waves. But the water eventually settled each time, the dirty koi and crabs reemerged, and stasis was apparently restored.

In fact, the stasis of life in general was more or less restored. And then one morning I heard Cheyenne groan from the bathroom -

“Oh Gaaaaaaaaaawwd…”

Her voice needled into my drowsy brain and I poked my head up above the duvet.

“Babe?”

No response. I tried again, the image of tentacles coming out of the toilet suddenly vivid in my mind’s eye.

“Shay? Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just…”

Then the sound of vomiting. I bounded out of bed and to the bathroom door.

Finding it unlocked, I poked my head in and there was Cheyenne kneeling over the toilet, eyes closed and shuddering. Her back arched and she heaved again. Crouching next to her, I hesitantly wrapped an arm around her, unsure if she wanted the contact. After a moment she exhaled, swallowed and wiped her mouth with the back of her arm.

“God. Sorry.” She slumped to the floor, leaning against the tub.

“Hey… it’s okay.” I rubbed her bent knee. “You all done?”

She nodded slowly, eyes still closed. A rod of white plastic was cradled limply in her left hand. For an instant I was confused, thinking it was her toothbrush.

Then I realized what it was, and felt all the sleep-muddled thoughts drain out of my mind. I don’t know how long I was staring at it, but eventually I realized that her eyes were open again and looking at me. I tore my eyes from the pregnancy test and focused them on her face.

“So, yeah… it’s positive, in case you were wondering,” she muttered with a dry chuckle.

“Oh…” My brain whirred, trying to see if this added up. It didn’t.

“But how…? You’ve stayed on the pill, right?”

“Of course I have,” she snapped, then immediately softened. “Sorry.”

I just kept absently running my hand over her red knee.

“It’s okay,” I said again from miles away. I closed my eyes, and saw dapples of sunlight on the inside of my eyelids, as if from the surface of gently rippling water.

Cheyenne reached up awkwardly for the toilet handle and flushed. She looked at me, eyes tired. There was a weakness, an uncertainty in her face that I wasn’t accustomed to. The whirring in my mind slowed, then stilled. My thoughts flattened.

“Listen, we don’t need to figure this out now,” I said. She nodded slowly in response. “Do you want to try and sleep?”

Another slow, weary nod. I stood, taking her hand, and helped her up.

We crawled back into bed. She curled up against me, and after a few minutes I felt her breathing mercifully draw down into a slow rhythm. The grey morning light settled over us like another blanket, and I soon drifted off myself.

Two mornings later, I was at the bar in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal when Cheyenne’s phone started rattling excitedly against the granite. I picked it up.

“Cheyenne’s phone.”

“Hi, this is Gabbi at Richland Lifestyles Clinic,” a cheery feminine voice announced. “I’m calling to confirm an 11:30 appointment for Cheyenne Escalera?”

“Ah, yeah, thank you. She’s in the shower at the moment, but she’ll be there.”

“Ok, great! We’ll see you guys in a little bit then.”

“Sounds good; thank you.”

I hung up, bemused at Gabbi’s use of “you guys.” Did Lifestyles Clinic brief their staff on identifying the boyfriends involved based solely on voice? How many women visited the clinic unaccompanied on a given day? Had Cheyenne ever had to go to Lifestyles or a similar place before? Alone, perhaps?

I pictured her sitting by herself in a cool blue waiting room, thumbing through a back issue of People or Time and trying not to think about the fact that she was about to go under the knife, at least in a sense. I felt strangely grateful that, this time at least, it didn’t have to be that way. I’ve been a dumb prick to her in many respects, but I was here at this moment.

Hopefully it made a difference. I couldn’t be sure.

I got up from the bar and walked my empty bowl over to the sink. I heard the distant gurgles coming from the front yard again and discovered that the sound didn’t alarm or anger me. It was becoming familiar, like a stray cat that keeps appearing at the back door. At first its yowling is an intrusion, but after a time it becomes somehow companionable.

The gurgling sounds faded, replaced by the gurgle of the drain as I rinsed away the soggy remains of cereal. The stairs creaked, and I looked over to see Cheyenne coming down, head cocked to one side as she massaged her damp hair. I searched her face for any sign of nerves or uncertainty, but found nothing.

A knot in my chest loosened a bit, one that I had only been dimly aware of before. If she’s okay then I’m okay, I realized.

“Hey you.”

“Hey yourself.” She sauntered over to the cabinets and pulled out a glass.

“Donnie gave you the rest of the week off?” I asked.

“Yeah. We’ll see if I need it,” she said, filling the glass from the filter pitcher.

“I mean, if I were you, I’d just take it whether I need it or not.”

“Well, I’m not you,” she ribbed, leaning on the countertop next to me. “Not a pansy.”

I staged a glare. “Well, I’m not you either. Not a slave to the corporate machine.”

“Ah.” Her eyebrows went up and she grinned halfway. “Not a… dedicated and conscientious worker, you mean.” She darted a hand out to whack my ass; I narrowly dodged with a whoop.

“Jeez, point taken.” I made for the door and took Pug’s leash down from the coat hooks; upon hearing the familiar clink, the dog lunged up from her snooze by the couch and trotted over to me. As I knelt to clasp the leash to her collar, I looked up and searched Cheyenne’s face again. She caught me.

“What?”

“Sorry. Just…” I trailed off. “You sure you’re okay with doing this?”

She rolled her eyes theatrically. “Yes! I’ll be fine.”

I pursed my lips. It bothered me that she was so averse to me caring about her. And it bothered me that I was bothered by that.

“Mark, listen.” She came up next to me and planted a kiss on my cheek. “I appreciate your concern. It’s sweet.”

“Just… doing my bit,” I dodged. “Least I can do for knocking you up.”

She chortled. “What a gentleman.” She looked down at Pug, who was excitedly panting through her ever-present dopey dog grin.

“Be sure to leave her in the back afterward. We’ll probably have to take off right when you get back.”

“Will do.” I opened the door, ferried Pug out ahead of me, then headed across the driveway for the next-to-last time.

In the backyard later, I found myself staring anxiously toward a spot near the back fence. A pile of turf lay there that I had torn up a couple days previous, clearing out a patch of lawn for what I hoped would be a small vegetable garden. Pug gamboled about, whipping her favorite rope chewie back and forth. The dog’s obliviousness prompted a twist of worry in my gut.

As I had opened the back fence upon returning from our walk, I could have sworn I heard the gurgling sound again ,but coming from the wrong side of the fence. Coming from that back corner, behind the pile of turf. I took two steps toward it — and then Cheyenne’s voice drifted around from the front of the house.

“Babe! C’mon or I’m leaving without you.”

I squinted one last time at the pile of turf, looking for — what? A burst of saltwater spray coming from behind it? A seagull taking flight? A crab claw lazily stretching for the sun?

“Alright, alright, coming!” I called back, and turned around, closing the gate behind me.

“Pug’s in the back?” Cheyenne asked as I ducked into the car.

“Yup. Thrashing her chewie around like a small animal she’s trying to kill.”

“Aww. That’s my baby.”

“Soon she’ll be all grown up and eviscerating racoons on the lawn,” I deadpanned, backing into the street.

Cheyenne grimaced. “Can’t wait.”

“Hey listen, a fur baby is a big responsibil– ”

Then many things happened at once. I was cut off by a thunderous cracking sound. The car vibrated and see-sawed as if it had gone over a massive speed bump, lurching upward and crashing down with axle-twisting force. The back of my head banged against the roof; my vision swam and I felt like I had swallowed my tongue. Cheyenne wailed and choked.

As I refocused to look out the windshield, I saw the roof of the carport buckle, its struts jagging downward like broken teeth. One of them chopped into the sun roof of Cheyenne’s little Sentra with a crinkling thunk. My face felt hot, my head throbbed, and I became aware of Cheyenne sobbing next to me -

“Oh God oh my God holy God…”

Then a rushing sound, a wall of white noise punctuated by heavy crashes and thuds. A plane; a bomb? An earthquake? What the flying fuck?

I looked past the carport to the house, to the front yard — and my insides melted. The lawn was disintegrating into a crater, full of a tumbled mess of reddish-brown boulders. Turf sloughed away in lumps from the jagged and pocked basalt surfaces, tumbling through chalky spiked clusters of barnacles. Water pounded and surged from some unseen source, lashing furiously at what was now the lip of the crater no more than ten feet from us. Thick fronds of kelp as long as my arm wobbled gleefully through the chaos, and I realized that I was babbling -

“Holy shit holy shit Jesus Christ holy motherfucking shit!”

A horrible metallic screeching began to pulse from under the hood, and that snapped me out of it. I twisted and grabbed Cheyenne by the arm, and she did the same to me at the exact same moment.

“Shay, baby, out of the car!”

She was screaming something herself.

“Pug! Pug’s still back there!”

I felt as if the screeching was right inside my brain. Pug — what? The dog??

Suddenly Cheyenne had lunged out of the car and was sprinting for the driveway, which was somehow still intact even as water and briny detritus washed over it in sheets inches thick. The carport’s 4x6 supports leaned drunkenly to one side, the braces at their bases wrenched out of the concrete like mouths all at once awake and screaming. And the woman I loved was running full-tilt into that clusterfuck.

I shoved the car door open and tumbled out, nearly skinning my knees on the asphalt and dimly aware that the car was listing at a weird angle toward the front driver’s side tire. I watched in a haze of horror as Cheyenne sloshed across the driveway, and then sprinted after her.

“Cheyenne! Cheyenne!! LEAVE THE GODDAMN DOG!!”

She leapt onto the porch, wrenched the door open and disappeared inside. I roared in terror and bewildered rage — how long before the house itself began to sag and shatter? But I followed nonetheless, doing an awkward flat-footed dance across the swirling concrete. Another THUD burst beneath my feet and nearly knocked me over, and the puddle covering the driveway began to suck away toward some unseen drain. From the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the Sentra’s nose suddenly bob upward.

I was nearly to the steps, and then WHUMP! A wave plowed into the edge of the crater next to the carport, kicking up a wall of spray that doused me in an instant. Something spined and rubbery seemed to crawl through my hair and down over my shoulders; I grimaced and pointlessly threw my arms in front of my face, still pressing for the door. My feet landed on the porch at last but immediately flew out from under me, eliciting a bark of pain from my hip and elbow as I fell.

Shuffling to my hands and knees with a splutter, I backed up to the brick frontispiece and looked around, my momentum checked for a second. A thrill of terror shot through my chest as I watched thudding cracks split the concrete plane of the driveway into two, three, six chunks — kknk! kknk! kknk! The intersection of cracks in the middle buckled upward where I had been seconds before, issuing spray in all directions. First one then another of the fragments upended like the Titanic and dove into the sloshing wreckage.

The Sentra began to follow suit, sliding backward until metal ground against rock and it stopped, half in and half out of the water, its undercarriage apparently hooked on the lip of a concrete tecton. The carport roof seemed to be exploding in slow motion, spikes of split wood flailing and dangling like the branches of a murderous tree. One of the 4x6 pillars gave way with a rending shriek, bashed the Sentra’s rear windshield on the way down and rolled into the water where it bobbed like a log.

As for my car, it was still askew in the middle of the street and getting repeatedly lashed by spray. Steam boiled from under the hood, and a rock dropped in my gut as I realized I’d left the thing running. But judging from how the body sagged toward the front driver’s side wheel, the suspension and probably axel were fucked anyway.

As I scanned from that pitiful sight to the opposite end of the yard, I realized that the house was now completely hemmed in by a rocky moat some fifteen feet across, roiling and thrashing as if the Pacific tide itself had burst up from underneath the house. Perhaps the backyard was still intact and would allow us an escape that way — but I remembered that gurgling minutes ago from behind the pile of turf, and the hope died in my throat.

The only thing was to join Cheyenne and the baby (wait no the dog that fucking dog!) inside and hope for the best. The only way out was in.

I scrabbled to my feet with my back against the brickwork, not sure if the porch was actually tilting away from me or if it was just vertigo. I closed my eyes for an instant, sucked in a breath and saw glimmering on the inside of my eyelids like the ceiling of a poolhouse. Then I turned, tore the door open and lunged inside.

I didn’t see her. The kitchen was empty, the back door closed. I bolted to it in what felt like three steps and wrenched it open. Sure enough, the backyard was also a tempestuous mess, rocks and barnacles and surging seawater right up to the concrete patio. A deck chair was clinging for dear life by its back legs, but there was no sign of either Cheyenne or Pug.

“Oh Jesus, oh my God…”

Whirling back inside, I raced along the dining room table and around the kitchen island, calling for her.

“Cheyenne?! Shay?? Baby, where are you?!!” I was almost bawling.

Swear to God, if she’d gone and gotten herself killed or even broken a leg for the sake of that stupid dog, I was going to -

I swung around into the bedroom hallway, took two charging steps and suddenly ate the carpet as I tripped over a misshapen dark lump. A whine and a yelp. Bewildered, I rolled around and was smacked back to the floor as Cheyenne fell on top of me.

“Babe! Oh thank God, Mark, babe I’m sorry!”

My chest melted with relief and I threw one arm around her back, the other one pinned down by her. I felt warm wetness and a snuffling in my ear and quickly turned away from Pug, who whined and lapped at my face with hysterical enthusiasm.

“Why — Shay. Why? That fucking dog.”

“Hey stop!” She smacked my chest, sniffling and laughing with relief. “She was my mom’s, remember? I’m not losing her.”

I cradled the back of Cheyenne’s head, rocking back and forth on the floor and dodging Pug’s tongue, when I suddenly realized how quiet it was. Although I’d probably left the front door open, the maelstrom outside seemed far more muted than it should have been. In fact -

I stopped moving and strained my ears, trying to hear past Pug’s whines. I pawed her nose and shushed her.

“What is it?” Cheyenne asked, looking up with fear in her face.

“I don’t know, just…”

Outside I could hear rhythmic splashes, watery thuds and creaking. Something heavy slushed into the water in the backyard — perhaps that Adirondack chair that had been in the process of falling off the patio. But it seemed that the tumult had stopped. I listened intently for any sounds of distress coming from the house, but as far as I could tell, inside all was quiet.

“I think…”

“It’s stopped,” Cheyenne finished, breathless.

“Yeah.” There were splashes and distant creaks, as if we were in the lower decks of a boat at port. But no more of the wall-rending chaos. The sound of the water was now surprisingly gentle where a minute before it had been thunderous. I thought I could make out the keening squawk of a seagull.

Cheyenne sighed and dropped her head on my chest.

“Is the yard toast?” she asked after a moment.

I snorted with laughter, surprising myself.

“Completely fucked. The back too. We’re basically marooned.”

“Well…” She idly traced curlicues on my shirt with a fingertip, then sighed again.

“Guess I better call the clinic and cancel.”

A laugh burst out of me like a bubble breaking the surface. I don’t know where from. I just turned and kissed her hair.

“Yeah, guess you better.”