By Jeff Hampton
CHAPTER 1
Sam stumbled out of the trailer into the heavy predawn air. The only sounds that penetrated his otherwise empty head were a car speeding down the highway toward Corpus Christi and a couple of gulls fighting over whatever gulls fight over at six in the morning. With a big gap-jawed yawn, he started the short walk to the beach, the pavement rough and hard against his feet until he reached the place where the Gulf breeze blows sand onto the roadway. There, his arched soles relaxed into the powdery sand that was still warm from the late July heat.
A dozen yards farther, the morning quiet gave way to the eternal rhythm of the surf. Sam glanced left and right and was relieved to see few people out this morning. He yielded the beach to tourists from mid-morning until late evening, but he claimed the sunrise and sunset for himself. Except for a lone jogger, a couple sitting in plastic chairs and a few strollers, the coast was clear.
It was a world away from the crowded streets of Oak Cliff, across the Trinity River from downtown Dallas. A year earlier he’d headed south on the interstate to Waco, where, tired of the traffic, he dropped down through the belly of Texas on Highway 77. Cameron, LaGrange, Halletsville – all the way to McFadden, where the name Rockport on a green sign got his attention and he veered eastward toward the coast. He drove as far as he could, and when he ran out of road, he let the ferry take him the rest of the way.
Crossing the beachfront road imprinted with tire tracks, Sam picked his way across the hard-packed band of beach strewn with broken shells and seaweed and then onto the damp sand firm enough that you could write a name with your toes.
From across Port Aransas at the northern tip of Mustang Island, Sam heard the horns of the ferries crossing Aransas Bay with their morning cargo. He remembered the queasiness in his stomach that morning he first arrived as the solid ground suddenly became buoyant. He’d had the feeling once before – as a kid on a summer horseback trip when his mount dashed into the river and the bone-jarring trot gave way to the smooth synchronized pulse of four legs pulling through the water. It was exhilarating and frightening, and both times he wondered how the machine beneath him could stay afloat.
Sam crossed the bay just that once and traded his car for the lease on the rusty trailer in the little park between the condos and gift shops. It wasn’t much, but a roof over his head and the sand beneath his feet was all he wanted. Eventually he scavenged a bicycle, but there was no longer any rush to get anywhere.
Sam waded calf-deep into the brown slurry and closed his eyes. Years ago, on a business trip to Florida, he walked on a bright white beach and cursed aloud when a wave flooded his tasseled loafers. He always regretted not pulling off his shoes and socks, rolling up his pant legs and letting his tired feet and weary spirit take a swim. Perhaps he would have gone back into the meeting more civil, more compassionate. Instead, he badgered a weak man into giving away all he had – losing a part of himself in the process.
A gust of wind off the Gulf blew Sam’s fading yellow locks around the top of his skull and rustled the gray hair on his bare chest. He’d been on the island long enough to earn the leathery hide of a native beachcomber while his heart grew soft inside. “Live and let live” had taken the place of “winner take all.”
As Sam walked and his eyes sharpened, a dark rock became a greasy oil filter and a glint of light revealed a tangle of gold and purple Mardi Gras beads carried down the coast from Galveston after Ike.
Sam had never weathered a hurricane but he knew the pain and destruction of living on the edge. He’d been a high roller in a high-stakes business until one night when the celebration got out of hand and he wrecked his car. Word got around town and none of his sales spin could stop the crash that followed. He lost his job, his home, his marriage. The people he mistook for friends turned their backs. He retreated to an apartment to plan a comeback that never materialized. Then came that day when he realized it was over and he packed the car.
Nowadays, the only “comeback” Sam had was to return to whatever job he was holding if it fit the wanderings of his spirit. Once a creator of trendy restaurant fads, he was content now to clean tables and sweep floors in exchange for meals and a minimum wage. Now, “branching out” meant leaving a restaurant gig to work on a shrimp trawler and from there joining a beach cleanup crew and then retiring to press slogans on T-shirts.
Sam came upon a long ridge of sand built up into a castle wall with finely carved battlements that had somehow survived the overnight tide. Back in his glory days he made an offer on a turreted mansion, but there was always someone with more money and better credit. He dreamed of being a king but he’d always just been a jester.
As the rising sun highlighted the clouds and foaming breakers with pink and orange, Sam came upon a man staring out across the water. Circling slowly, he saw the man’s face painted with sadness yet anticipation. Sam edged up and leaned into the man’s peripheral vision.
“Uh . . . hello . . . I was wondering . . . when you look out at the water, what do you see?” he asked.
“The love of God.”
Sam nodded and started to walk away, but the man continued: “My wife . . . she died a year ago this morning. I drove all night to be here.”
Sam stood still, letting the words drift past his brain and settle on his heart. “I lost my girl too,” he said softly. “I lost everything.”
Sam turned to walk away when the man spoke again.
“Wait . . . uh . . . excuse me, do you know if there’s a coffee shop open anywhere this time of morning?”
Sam stopped a moment to think. “Just Shelly’s.”
“What’s that?”
“Shelly’s Dream Bean. It’s back through town. I don’t know the address.”
“Tell you what, maybe you could show me and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
Sam looked down at his bare feet. “I don’t know, I’m not really . . .”
“Come on, this is Port Aransas, nobody dresses up here. I’m not too dressed up myself,” he said, pointing to his shorts, flip flops, and wrinkled t-shirt. “We can sit outside if you like, or I’ll bring you back here. Let’s go,” he said, motioning for his new acquaintance to follow him.
Silently they walked off the beach and back to the blacktop. Sam didn’t risk a glance as their path brought them alongside the trailer park.
“I’m right here,” said the stranger, pointing to the modest but clean hotel next to the highway. Digging into his pocket he pulled out his car keys and pressed the button. Thirty yards ahead of them a car chirped and the headlights flashed. Regretting his decision to come, Sam followed from a distance and hesitated at the back of the car as the stranger opened the driver’s side door and said, “It’s open.”
Sam slowly opened the passenger door and paused to brush the sand off his feet and legs before getting in. When the door was shut, the stranger put the car into reverse and began backing out of the parking space. Turning sideways to check his blind spot, his glance caught Sam’s and he stopped.
“I’m Dave,” he said, and stuck out a hand.
“Sam,” came the reply as he hesitated and then accepted the gesture.
“Good to know you, Sam.”
With Sam mostly gesturing and saying “turn here” at the appropriate moments, they drove the short distance back into the heart of the town that was beginning to come to life with the rising sun.
“Can’t get a good start without a cup of coffee,” Dave said as they got out of the car and walked up the wood steps leading to Shelly’s Dream Bean. A wad of bells jangled as he pulled open the door.
“What’ll you have?” Dave asked Sam as he stepped up to the counter. Sam was standing back out of view and when he answered, “black coffee,” the young woman behind the counter leaned out toward him.
“Well hey there, Sam, how are you this morning?”
“Fine,” he said quietly and turned to stare out the window.
“That’ll be two black coffees,” said Dave, glancing from the girl to Sam and back again.
A minute later they had their coffee, and, after looking around the room, Dave motioned that they go outside. Sitting at a metal table on the plank porch that looked out toward a pier with a line of boats and the harbor beyond, they watched the sun continue its rise, glinting off the masts and rigging that swayed in the morning breeze.
“So, you know the girl behind the counter?” Dave asked.
“Yes.”
“You come here often?”
“No.”
“But enough to know her?”
“We worked together for a while out on the highway.”
“Oh really, where was that?”
“A restaurant, the Crab Cake.”
“You waited tables together?”
“She waited tables. I cleaned up.”
There was silence again and Sam hoped the conversation was over, but Dave had more questions.
“So now she’s working here?’
“She owns the place. She’s Shelly.”
“Oh really. Well, good for her.”
The conversation waned and Dave sensed it was time to take Sam back to where he found him.
“Well . . . ,” he said, standing up and fumbling in his pocket for his keys. Sam understood the cue and stood up too. They rode in silence back to the hotel.
“It was good to meet you, Sam. I don’t know when I’ll be back down here, but when I am I might look for you on the beach.”
Sam said nothing, so Dave stuck out his hand again and Sam shook it, lifted his cup a little in his left hand and said, “Thanks.”
Sam started walking back toward the beach while Dave walked in the opposite direction to the hotel. Reaching for the side door, Dave looked back over his shoulder just in time to see Sam divert off the blacktop, turn into the trailer park and disappear inside the wood fence.
CHAPTER 2
Lying on his back on the small, lumpy bed, Sam cursed himself for being so foolish. He’d put himself in an awkward position because he stopped to ask a stranger a stupid question. He’d been on the beach for a year, and he’d never spoken to a soul, except maybe if someone asked directions. He’d surely never been the one doing the asking, and he promised himself he’d never do it again because look what it got him: a ride up the highway with a man he didn’t know to get a cup of coffee he didn’t need from a girl he didn’t want to see.
“The love of God.” Sam let Dave’s words roll around in his head for a moment. He’d said it so easily – too easily.
“My ass,” Sam said aloud. “What love? What God?”
Sam had grown up in the church. He knew the basics of faith, he knew the signature stories, including the one about Job who was beaten down by God but who kept on trusting and believing anyway. What kind of love was that, and what kind of faith did it take to love a God who would drive you into the ground?
“Insanity,” he said. “That’s what it takes.”
He reasoned that this man Dave’s veneer of serenity was coming out of a grief that was still fresh. Even a year out, grief has a way of holding you close to what you once had as if the act of grieving will bring someone back. But Sam knew differently. In time grief is replaced by loneliness and that leads to anger and doubt. And then . . . nothing at all.
Sam rolled over on his side. Through the cheap curtains on the little window he could see that the sun was rising high toward the noonday sky. By now the tourists had taken the beach, so Sam closed his eyes and drifted away.
Back in town, Shelly stacked coffee mugs next to the carafes. She’d had a good morning rush and now she took advantage of the mid-day slump to restock and replenish. The morning had started in its usual way with Bo coming in off his boat to fill his metal travel mug and pay for it with a handful of spare change and a mouthful of aggravation.
“Hope you’ve made it strong. You know I can’t stand that weak stuff you push off on the tourists,” he blustered. “I won’t be having none of that.”
Shelly looked blankly at him as he clanked the mug onto the counter.
“And better give me one of those cookies too,” he said. “Don’t have time for nothing else this morning.” And then, under his breath, “Besides, you don’t have nothing else worth having.”
“You’re lucky I let you come in here at all,” Shelly replied. “If there was anyone else here right now I’d have to serve you in back by the dumpster where the other varmints feed.”
“Naw, you’d be too afraid to leave the counter unattended,” Bo volleyed. “Hey, when are you gonna let a man come in here and get this place going the way it oughta go?”
Shelly didn’t answer. She’d known Bo long enough to know when it didn’t do any good to answer back. She also knew that while he harbored some old-school chauvinism that came with his age, there was also a touch of fatherly affection in his words, so she cut him some slack.
Bo’s early visit kicked off the daily parade of shopkeepers, bankers, real estate brokers, and tourists. And in the middle of it all was the unexpected visit by Sam and the stranger. It was curious just in the fact that Sam had come in at all. Shelly hadn’t seen him in about four months, certainly not since early spring; she remembered because it was still cool outside and Sam was wearing his tattered blue windbreaker. She had seen him at the market and told him to come visit her at the Dream Bean when she got it opened, and she opened it on the second day of April. What he had been doing since that time she didn’t know, but evidently he had found a way to get by because he didn’t look destitute. He just looked like Sam had always looked: windblown, tired, withdrawn.
But then he had this unfamiliar young man with him, or was it the other way around? She couldn’t tell for sure. The stranger was buying, and the two sat outside together and seemed to be talking about something. And they came and went in the stranger’s car. They were clearly there together, but that’s all she could deduce. She wasn’t really worried about it, but it was all very curious just the same.
And then for a moment she allowed herself to think about the young man aside from his being with Sam. He seemed kind and amiable, perhaps too much to be running with a sad sack like Sam, which added to the curiosity of them being together. And as she went through their visit again she thought that perhaps the young man wasn’t as young as he had seemed. Certainly he was younger than Sam, by a good ten years at least, but he wasn’t a fresh-faced college grad like the ones that pestered her during spring break. In his early thirties, perhaps. Maybe late thirties. Forty, tops, and that would put him in her league . . . but then she shut down that thought because she knew it was a dead end. She knew nothing about this man, young or not, and she might never see him again, and on top of that she had a business to run and there wasn’t time for any of that.
The rattle of the bells on the door shook Shelly loose from her daydreams. She slid her slim figure back around the counter and wiped her hands on a rag before looking up to greet the next customer.
Copyright © Jeff Hampton 2017