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And Farewell Goes Out Sighing - Part Three
He'd intended to take a short walk but he finds himself back at the beach, wading in the shallow
surf.
“Dad's not getting any better, Julia. I don't know how much longer he has or how much time I have
here, so I think I should come as often as I can for a while, if you don't mind.”
Somehow his father's lifeline has become his deadline. When that was decided, he doesn't know,
maybe decades ago, but the thought of it all coming to a close makes him panic a little, although
he's made no promises to anyone.
“Tonight he remembered you. He doesn't always; I guess I jogged his memory. I didn't really know
what I was saying, I just talk to him. But somehow it came out--nothing planned or contrived, but it
was honest.”
I'm afraid I'm still in love with my wife. Of course he was, how else should he feel? He didn't want to
feel any other way.
And when that hour o'erslips me in the day
Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake
May the next hour some foul mischance
Torment me for my love's forgetfullness
“I guess giving up our home was a first step. Or maybe it's the biggest step I've made toward....”
What exactly?
“...something else, I suppose. Or maybe somewhere else, to put a finer point on it. Our Sam, she
wants me to go back East and be near them and the baby when she comes. I'd think that's what
you'd want me to do, Darling, so I'm going to do it.”
She'd asked him three things when she lay dying in his arms in the sickbed they'd put by the front
windows so she could watch the sea. To not ask why. To not blame or punish. And lastly, to not
fear what would come after.
“But, I am afraid, Julia. It's...the letting go that terrifies me. I can't. I won't. Don't ask me to.”
Think of what you would have missed, had you not found a way before.
This time the voice isn't Julia's.
“Mason, do me a favor and ask Sophia to come in, will you?”
He stills, uncertain how to proceed. He searches his father's face for clues. It's been a hard day of
confusion, frustration and misplaced accusations and it seems to promise to be an even more
difficult night.
“Mason, did you hear me?”
“Yes, Dad. I did. But...don't you remember? Sophia's out of town just now.”
“Out of town? Where?”
“Uh, she's visiting her cousin in Salem, remember?”
“Cousin? What cousin? Sophia doesn't have a cousin.”
“No, I believe she does...Karen. Karen's her name. From Salem.”
His father's expression narrows. He's being read every bit as thoroughly as he's reading him.
“Mason. Tell me the truth, Son. Where is she? If she's at her cousin's, which I believe is a handful
of bull, then you could get her on the phone, couldn't you?”
“I would, Dad. But it's late.”
“Then it's more likely she's near a phone, in Salem, or whatever lie she told you to feed me. Get her
on the phone!”
He gets up and places one of his infamous calls to his own answering machine, talking both sides
of the conversation. He lets his father overhear how Sophia's gone out for a sail and can't be
reached. He hangs up and turns to face the music. The tune is not promising.
“You're siding with her again, aren't you? What did she do this time, Mason? Why is she hiding?
Who's she betraying me with? Lionel, again? Answer me, dammit!”
“No, Dad. You're wrong. You're just tired. Calm down.”
“No, I'll not calm down! That woman is treachery! All women are! Heed my words, Mason. Women
are the worst curse that ever befell mankind and disloyal sons run a very close second.”
“I've not betrayed you, Dad, and neither has she. Trust me. Why would I side with the woman who
stole my mother from me? Do you think I'd forgive her, even now? I thought you had less faith in me
than that. I despise the woman.”
His father studies him for a long time. He wonders which is worse, the lies or the truth. But
experience has taught him the truth is far more painful and destructive where his father is
concerned, and for once he feels the need to protect him from it.
Forgive me, Sophia. You did try your damnedest to love us both and all we did was wear you down
for all your trouble...right into the grave.
So lies it is.
“Dad, there's no betrayal. Honestly.”
“Hmf. Maybe you're right. Maybe she is on a boat. She does love the Oregon coast.”
“Trust me, Dad. She's thinking of you. She'll be home soon.”
His father relaxes.
“Sorry, Son. It's just there are times when a man needs to see his wife. You know what I mean. I
don't think I need to make myself any more clear, do I?”
“Perfectly clear, Dad. Unfortunately, a day comes when they just can't be seen anymore and we
have to somehow learn how to live with that.”
It's a long quiet day. He's not sure which trials have been worse, the ones with discourse or the
ones without. It's different today and he knows it. He distracts himself by flipping channels on the
TV, welcoming the sound of human speech. The afternoon has grown late. His father lies in the
bed, withdrawn and watchful.
“Turn that damn thing off.”
The remote slips out of his hand and he bends down to pick it up. When the TV is silenced, he
turns to look. The old man who stares back is unknown to him.
“Who the devil are you?”
“It's Mason, Dad.”
“Who?”
“Mason, your son.”
“I don't know what you're talking about. I don't have a son.”
“You have several.”
“Nonsense. I don't remember inviting you in, whoever you say you are. So get out.”
“It's Mason. Your eldest. You've been ill, Dad. You might not remember.”
“I'd remember if I had a son. If I did, I sure wouldn't give him such a ridiculous name. Mason--that's
not a name.”
O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown.
“It's the name my mother gave me. Pamela, you'd remember her.”
“More nonsense. I asked you to leave.”
“I can't.”
“If you were my son, you'd mind me.”
“Well, you're wrong about that.”
“I said get out. I don't like the look of you.”
“We can't all be George Clooney.”
“Out! Before I call the police. Out! Out!”
The shouting brings the nurse to the door.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Capwell?”
“You! Nurse! I've asked this man to leave and he refuses. Summon my father, tell him there's an
intruder in the house. Do it!”
The old man notices the tubes and wires now, binding him to the bed. He begins to pull at them.
“I'll get the sedatives.”
“Please. Hurry. Dad, no! Lie still. Lie down, I said! The nurse is coming.”
“Stop calling me that! Get your hands off me! Do you know who I am? Do you?”
He has to use both arms and a knee to keep his father down. There's still fight in the old man yet.
He receives threats of a dozen punishments at the hands of his deceased grandfather for this
violation, but he holds on until the nurse returns and her syringe finds the IV and his father finds
sleep.
He returns to the beach, but finds he's much too tired to muster the energy to speak. He sits by the
log alone and silent, late into the night, hoping she'll understand.
“What do you want to do tonight? Old movies? Cards? Strippers?”
His father reclines in the bed, staring ahead, an expression of resigned determination holds his
features together. He's failing, the nurses tell him. Any day now. Yet, by some quirk of biology,
tonight the time clock that runs his father's wayward mind is set to the current year, day and hour.
“Nothing, tonight. Just sit with me.”
“I'm here.”
“I tell you, Son, growing old is a terrible thing, but dying is worse.”
“One would assume.”
“No, you don't assume. You can't. Until you've been here, in this bed...waiting...you can't know. All
of your life's promises and dreams, gone. People you've loved, gone. We come into this world alone
and we leave it the same way. It's a terrible shame. Terrible.”
“Twins aren't born alone.”
“Mason, do me one favor and put a lid on the sarcasm. I'm dying, for the love of God.”
“Look, Dad, you don't have to turn this into a Faulkner novel. Let me call Kelly and Brandon and
Ted. Let them come and be a comfort to you.”
The old man shakes his head slowly.
“No. We've been over this. I don't want them here. Not now. It's my last wish that they be spared my
worst. I'm counting on you, Mason, to see that it's so.”
“You don't seem to want to spare me your worst, Dad. I wonder--why give me the honor?”
The old man starts to chuckle, although the effort exhausts him.
“Because, Son, I have seen the very worst of you--more times and in more ways than I care to
recall.”
“Point taken. I just wish I knew how to make this easier for you. I never had much of a bedside
manner. I think they'd have done a much better job.”
His father turns his head to look at him. To his shame he finds he can't return the gaze for long.
There's too much honesty in it.
“Take my hand, Son.”
He leans in and does. Despite his frailty, his father's hand still feels strong.
“Out of all my children, you knew me best.”
“I'm afraid that's likely true.”
His father shuts his eyes. From outside, the scent of magnolia blows gentle through the blinds.
“You were a good son, Mason.”
“I know, Dad.”
There's an impressive turn-out at the funeral. Aside from the dutiful siblings and extended family,
there's a plethora of business associates from bygone days, fellow country club members, Santa
Barbara patriarchs of name....and Gina. She caught up with him after the graveside service as he
was walking back to the car.
“I'm sorry about C.C., Mason.”
“Don't be. He lived a good long life.”
“I suppose. Maybe I'm just more worried about you.”
“I'm fine.”
“I know you are. You always are. But I can't help but care.”
“I know.”
“You know, this place has changed a lot over the years. But you haven't. Not really. You're still a
fine-looking man, Mason.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“I mean that purely complimentary. I didn't come to your father's funeral to hit on you.”
“I'm crushed.”
“No you're not.”
“You're right, I'm not.”
“Do you have to be cruel? Today of all days?”
“Sorry, old habits...”
“I mean it. I wanted to be here for you and the family. You all said such wonderful things about him.
Especially you, Mason. You brought tears to my eyes...everyone's eyes. You always had such a
gift for words.”
He doesn't answer her. The words he chose were borrowed, after all. She trots over grave markers
to keep step with him.
“No, you and I haven't changed much at all. We're still both here in Santa Barbara, aren't we? Even
if our paths haven't crossed often lately. We should have dinner soon; talk over old times. I think we
might both find we still have a lot in common.”
“Love to, Gina, but I'm leaving town soon.”
“You are? Where?”
“New York. I've been thinking about setting up a satellite office in Manhattan.”
“Sure, but you're not going to stay there forever, are you?”
“I just might.”
“Well, I guess that's wonderful. You, a New Yorker...I can't quite picture that. You know it gets cold
there.”
“Apparently.”
“Who's going to keep you warm at night, Mason?”
“I'm thinking about getting a dog.”
“You're funny. But, I suppose you'll feel better being close to Samantha.”
“I will. And if you haven't heard, my granddaughter, in about four months or so.”
“Ah, congratulations! You're going to be a grandfather!”
“Yes, I am. Don't be too happy for me. I'm still getting used to the title.”
“Well, I love being a grandma. You'll jump all over the chance to be called granddad soon enough.”
“I'm sure I will.”
She took his hand when they reached his car.
“Mason, I've been meaning to tell you...I'm really sorry about Julia.”
“Are you, Gina? So am I...I guess you're right, we do still have something in common.”
It's late and the ocean breeze blows cool tonight. He's brought a blanket that flaps around him as
he sits staring at the rolling waves. He's not going home tonight.
“I buried my father today, Julia. Never thought I'd live to see it. Somehow, I believed he'd outlast us
all.”
He looks down at his hands. He's holding the half-filled Louis XIV flask. He fingers the silver filigree
as he speaks.
“Think Kelly tried to be brave for all of us. Brandon was miserable and Ted--well, he still has a lot of
resentment toward Dad and me. I think he blames me for keeping them all in the fog during Dad's
last days. They all do—though some hide it better than others. It's not like they didn't know. They
didn't want to know. And I think they all expected me to protect them, while somehow also living up
to my own worst expectations. They'd counted on it, for their own uneasy souls. And maybe I did.
Maybe I failed them all.”
Far off over the waves the lights of the fishing trawlers pass each other in the night—green and
red, merge and separate.
“I wish you were here with me. I think you're the only one who could understand what I'm feeling. It's
like I've been tethered to the ground by this invisible chain all my life and now...it feels like I'm
floating away and the world keeps getting smaller and smaller each breath I take.”
His fingers slip up to the neck of the flask and unscrew the cap. It falls off and hangs by its own
fragile chain.
“Can you see me, Julia? Are you watching? Are you? I wish I knew.”
He lifts the flask to his nose and gives it a sniff. The aged brandy smells of dust and forgetfullness.
Welcome ever smiles / And farewell goes out sighing.
“One drink, Dad. That's all you asked of me. And I refused. But didn't you guess? I was ever your
most humble and obedient son...”
He rolls the flask back and lets a mouthful of stale brandy spread over his tongue. It's tastes of
death and lies but he wants it like nothing before. He swallows.
What do you want, Son?
He wants to not be cursed anymore with the voices of those he's loved who have deserted him;
each taking another piece of his soul along with them, leaving him a broken frame of bittersweet
memories and regrets.
“What do I want, Dad? Is that all you want to know? It's simple. I want to be left alone. I should have
stayed alone. I was better then. Safe. An island unto myself. Mason Isle--great place to vacation,
though there's not much of a view. I want to go back. This is my ticket, right here.”
He lifts the flask.
You promised me.
Her voice, the only living voice he knows, floods his heart and stills his hand.
“I know, sweetheart. But you're so far, far away. Can I ever reach you? Or will I just disappoint you
like I've disappointed everyone else? I let you down so many times when you were little. Maybe you
don't remember, but I do.”
He grips the flask tightly in his hand. “And this was how I did it, too.”
The waves sigh and crash, changing the shape of the shoreline. Someday, even the beach he sits
on will be gone.
He gets up and walks to the tideline. He gets down on his hands and knees and digs a hole into the
wet sand, and without preamble, tips the contents of the flask into it and watches it bubble away,
every last amber drop. He affixes the cap and presses the flask into the sand like a tombstone.
“There, Dad. Now you can't say we never had that drink. But I'll not weep. I have full cause of
weeping; but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, or ere I'll weep.”
He sits on the stone bench, enjoying the last few days of summer before fall sets in over Central
Park. The sun is high and children are rowing boats across the lake, dazzling the water with their
splashing. Something about this time of year reminds him of his old home. The air holds a similar
quality--full of light and expectant of change. It's been a long while since he last saw California—
almost two years have passed since the night he buried a priceless Louis XIV flask in the Pacific
Ocean and made a decision to take the road less traveled. He really didn't get fair market value for
that house.
His companion sits beside him, enjoying the afternoon herself. She likes it when he can get away
from the office for a few hours mid-day. He studies her expression--soft brown eyes, tinged with
hunger.
“Portia...now don't look at me that way.”
His companion sighs and moves closer, resting her snout lovingly on his knee.
“You're not getting the last bite of my Polish dog.”
The spaniel raises her furry brow as if to say, You wanna bet, mister?
He's smitten.
“Okay, I relent. But you owe me—slippers at my bedside for a week.”
He finishes off the bun and tosses the tip of the sausage in the air where it does a half-gainer and
is summarily swallowed mid-flight.
“That's my girl.”
The dog licks her chops and turns her head and sniffs. One bark. It's time to head down to the
fountain.
He takes her leash and her lead as they walk, remembering his last days back home and how it
came clear to him after the will reading that there really was no longer any reason to stay. In his
heart he knew Julia could hear him no matter what coast he addressed her from and still did,
though less frequently now.
He was mildly surprised to hear his name called out in the will. Some habits die harder than others,
but his father left him a fair and generous portion of his fortune as he did to all his children and
grandchildren. His slice of the inheritance went into a new wing of the Santa Barbara Children's
Hospital as well as a substantial donation to the Julia Capwell Memorial Women's Defense Fund.
The rest, he reserved for the new little woman in his life.
“Dad! Over here!”
Sam waves to them from the path at the base of the hill. Portia won't be contained so he drops the
leash and watches her bound down the slope to his daughter who he still swears grows more
beautiful every year—the most beautiful woman in the world, he'd stake his life on it...save one. He
catches up to her and gives his daughter a kiss before turning his attention to the pint-sized usurper
in the stroller.
“She's been asking about Pa-Da all day.”
“That so? Not quite two and already a great orator. Up we go, munchkin. Pa-Da's got you.”
The little girl smiles in his arms and grabs at his beard. She has David's nose and mouth, just like
her mother has his own--but the eyes, those sweet brown eyes, are those of the one he loves;
then, now, and forever.
Can you see us, Julia? Yes, I do believe you can.
He'd intended to take a short walk but he finds himself back at the beach, wading in the shallow
surf.
“Dad's not getting any better, Julia. I don't know how much longer he has or how much time I have
here, so I think I should come as often as I can for a while, if you don't mind.”
Somehow his father's lifeline has become his deadline. When that was decided, he doesn't know,
maybe decades ago, but the thought of it all coming to a close makes him panic a little, although
he's made no promises to anyone.
“Tonight he remembered you. He doesn't always; I guess I jogged his memory. I didn't really know
what I was saying, I just talk to him. But somehow it came out--nothing planned or contrived, but it
was honest.”
I'm afraid I'm still in love with my wife. Of course he was, how else should he feel? He didn't want to
feel any other way.
And when that hour o'erslips me in the day
Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake
May the next hour some foul mischance
Torment me for my love's forgetfullness
“I guess giving up our home was a first step. Or maybe it's the biggest step I've made toward....”
What exactly?
“...something else, I suppose. Or maybe somewhere else, to put a finer point on it. Our Sam, she
wants me to go back East and be near them and the baby when she comes. I'd think that's what
you'd want me to do, Darling, so I'm going to do it.”
She'd asked him three things when she lay dying in his arms in the sickbed they'd put by the front
windows so she could watch the sea. To not ask why. To not blame or punish. And lastly, to not
fear what would come after.
“But, I am afraid, Julia. It's...the letting go that terrifies me. I can't. I won't. Don't ask me to.”
Think of what you would have missed, had you not found a way before.
This time the voice isn't Julia's.
“Mason, do me a favor and ask Sophia to come in, will you?”
He stills, uncertain how to proceed. He searches his father's face for clues. It's been a hard day of
confusion, frustration and misplaced accusations and it seems to promise to be an even more
difficult night.
“Mason, did you hear me?”
“Yes, Dad. I did. But...don't you remember? Sophia's out of town just now.”
“Out of town? Where?”
“Uh, she's visiting her cousin in Salem, remember?”
“Cousin? What cousin? Sophia doesn't have a cousin.”
“No, I believe she does...Karen. Karen's her name. From Salem.”
His father's expression narrows. He's being read every bit as thoroughly as he's reading him.
“Mason. Tell me the truth, Son. Where is she? If she's at her cousin's, which I believe is a handful
of bull, then you could get her on the phone, couldn't you?”
“I would, Dad. But it's late.”
“Then it's more likely she's near a phone, in Salem, or whatever lie she told you to feed me. Get her
on the phone!”
He gets up and places one of his infamous calls to his own answering machine, talking both sides
of the conversation. He lets his father overhear how Sophia's gone out for a sail and can't be
reached. He hangs up and turns to face the music. The tune is not promising.
“You're siding with her again, aren't you? What did she do this time, Mason? Why is she hiding?
Who's she betraying me with? Lionel, again? Answer me, dammit!”
“No, Dad. You're wrong. You're just tired. Calm down.”
“No, I'll not calm down! That woman is treachery! All women are! Heed my words, Mason. Women
are the worst curse that ever befell mankind and disloyal sons run a very close second.”
“I've not betrayed you, Dad, and neither has she. Trust me. Why would I side with the woman who
stole my mother from me? Do you think I'd forgive her, even now? I thought you had less faith in me
than that. I despise the woman.”
His father studies him for a long time. He wonders which is worse, the lies or the truth. But
experience has taught him the truth is far more painful and destructive where his father is
concerned, and for once he feels the need to protect him from it.
Forgive me, Sophia. You did try your damnedest to love us both and all we did was wear you down
for all your trouble...right into the grave.
So lies it is.
“Dad, there's no betrayal. Honestly.”
“Hmf. Maybe you're right. Maybe she is on a boat. She does love the Oregon coast.”
“Trust me, Dad. She's thinking of you. She'll be home soon.”
His father relaxes.
“Sorry, Son. It's just there are times when a man needs to see his wife. You know what I mean. I
don't think I need to make myself any more clear, do I?”
“Perfectly clear, Dad. Unfortunately, a day comes when they just can't be seen anymore and we
have to somehow learn how to live with that.”
It's a long quiet day. He's not sure which trials have been worse, the ones with discourse or the
ones without. It's different today and he knows it. He distracts himself by flipping channels on the
TV, welcoming the sound of human speech. The afternoon has grown late. His father lies in the
bed, withdrawn and watchful.
“Turn that damn thing off.”
The remote slips out of his hand and he bends down to pick it up. When the TV is silenced, he
turns to look. The old man who stares back is unknown to him.
“Who the devil are you?”
“It's Mason, Dad.”
“Who?”
“Mason, your son.”
“I don't know what you're talking about. I don't have a son.”
“You have several.”
“Nonsense. I don't remember inviting you in, whoever you say you are. So get out.”
“It's Mason. Your eldest. You've been ill, Dad. You might not remember.”
“I'd remember if I had a son. If I did, I sure wouldn't give him such a ridiculous name. Mason--that's
not a name.”
O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown.
“It's the name my mother gave me. Pamela, you'd remember her.”
“More nonsense. I asked you to leave.”
“I can't.”
“If you were my son, you'd mind me.”
“Well, you're wrong about that.”
“I said get out. I don't like the look of you.”
“We can't all be George Clooney.”
“Out! Before I call the police. Out! Out!”
The shouting brings the nurse to the door.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Capwell?”
“You! Nurse! I've asked this man to leave and he refuses. Summon my father, tell him there's an
intruder in the house. Do it!”
The old man notices the tubes and wires now, binding him to the bed. He begins to pull at them.
“I'll get the sedatives.”
“Please. Hurry. Dad, no! Lie still. Lie down, I said! The nurse is coming.”
“Stop calling me that! Get your hands off me! Do you know who I am? Do you?”
He has to use both arms and a knee to keep his father down. There's still fight in the old man yet.
He receives threats of a dozen punishments at the hands of his deceased grandfather for this
violation, but he holds on until the nurse returns and her syringe finds the IV and his father finds
sleep.
He returns to the beach, but finds he's much too tired to muster the energy to speak. He sits by the
log alone and silent, late into the night, hoping she'll understand.
“What do you want to do tonight? Old movies? Cards? Strippers?”
His father reclines in the bed, staring ahead, an expression of resigned determination holds his
features together. He's failing, the nurses tell him. Any day now. Yet, by some quirk of biology,
tonight the time clock that runs his father's wayward mind is set to the current year, day and hour.
“Nothing, tonight. Just sit with me.”
“I'm here.”
“I tell you, Son, growing old is a terrible thing, but dying is worse.”
“One would assume.”
“No, you don't assume. You can't. Until you've been here, in this bed...waiting...you can't know. All
of your life's promises and dreams, gone. People you've loved, gone. We come into this world alone
and we leave it the same way. It's a terrible shame. Terrible.”
“Twins aren't born alone.”
“Mason, do me one favor and put a lid on the sarcasm. I'm dying, for the love of God.”
“Look, Dad, you don't have to turn this into a Faulkner novel. Let me call Kelly and Brandon and
Ted. Let them come and be a comfort to you.”
The old man shakes his head slowly.
“No. We've been over this. I don't want them here. Not now. It's my last wish that they be spared my
worst. I'm counting on you, Mason, to see that it's so.”
“You don't seem to want to spare me your worst, Dad. I wonder--why give me the honor?”
The old man starts to chuckle, although the effort exhausts him.
“Because, Son, I have seen the very worst of you--more times and in more ways than I care to
recall.”
“Point taken. I just wish I knew how to make this easier for you. I never had much of a bedside
manner. I think they'd have done a much better job.”
His father turns his head to look at him. To his shame he finds he can't return the gaze for long.
There's too much honesty in it.
“Take my hand, Son.”
He leans in and does. Despite his frailty, his father's hand still feels strong.
“Out of all my children, you knew me best.”
“I'm afraid that's likely true.”
His father shuts his eyes. From outside, the scent of magnolia blows gentle through the blinds.
“You were a good son, Mason.”
“I know, Dad.”
There's an impressive turn-out at the funeral. Aside from the dutiful siblings and extended family,
there's a plethora of business associates from bygone days, fellow country club members, Santa
Barbara patriarchs of name....and Gina. She caught up with him after the graveside service as he
was walking back to the car.
“I'm sorry about C.C., Mason.”
“Don't be. He lived a good long life.”
“I suppose. Maybe I'm just more worried about you.”
“I'm fine.”
“I know you are. You always are. But I can't help but care.”
“I know.”
“You know, this place has changed a lot over the years. But you haven't. Not really. You're still a
fine-looking man, Mason.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“I mean that purely complimentary. I didn't come to your father's funeral to hit on you.”
“I'm crushed.”
“No you're not.”
“You're right, I'm not.”
“Do you have to be cruel? Today of all days?”
“Sorry, old habits...”
“I mean it. I wanted to be here for you and the family. You all said such wonderful things about him.
Especially you, Mason. You brought tears to my eyes...everyone's eyes. You always had such a
gift for words.”
He doesn't answer her. The words he chose were borrowed, after all. She trots over grave markers
to keep step with him.
“No, you and I haven't changed much at all. We're still both here in Santa Barbara, aren't we? Even
if our paths haven't crossed often lately. We should have dinner soon; talk over old times. I think we
might both find we still have a lot in common.”
“Love to, Gina, but I'm leaving town soon.”
“You are? Where?”
“New York. I've been thinking about setting up a satellite office in Manhattan.”
“Sure, but you're not going to stay there forever, are you?”
“I just might.”
“Well, I guess that's wonderful. You, a New Yorker...I can't quite picture that. You know it gets cold
there.”
“Apparently.”
“Who's going to keep you warm at night, Mason?”
“I'm thinking about getting a dog.”
“You're funny. But, I suppose you'll feel better being close to Samantha.”
“I will. And if you haven't heard, my granddaughter, in about four months or so.”
“Ah, congratulations! You're going to be a grandfather!”
“Yes, I am. Don't be too happy for me. I'm still getting used to the title.”
“Well, I love being a grandma. You'll jump all over the chance to be called granddad soon enough.”
“I'm sure I will.”
She took his hand when they reached his car.
“Mason, I've been meaning to tell you...I'm really sorry about Julia.”
“Are you, Gina? So am I...I guess you're right, we do still have something in common.”
It's late and the ocean breeze blows cool tonight. He's brought a blanket that flaps around him as
he sits staring at the rolling waves. He's not going home tonight.
“I buried my father today, Julia. Never thought I'd live to see it. Somehow, I believed he'd outlast us
all.”
He looks down at his hands. He's holding the half-filled Louis XIV flask. He fingers the silver filigree
as he speaks.
“Think Kelly tried to be brave for all of us. Brandon was miserable and Ted--well, he still has a lot of
resentment toward Dad and me. I think he blames me for keeping them all in the fog during Dad's
last days. They all do—though some hide it better than others. It's not like they didn't know. They
didn't want to know. And I think they all expected me to protect them, while somehow also living up
to my own worst expectations. They'd counted on it, for their own uneasy souls. And maybe I did.
Maybe I failed them all.”
Far off over the waves the lights of the fishing trawlers pass each other in the night—green and
red, merge and separate.
“I wish you were here with me. I think you're the only one who could understand what I'm feeling. It's
like I've been tethered to the ground by this invisible chain all my life and now...it feels like I'm
floating away and the world keeps getting smaller and smaller each breath I take.”
His fingers slip up to the neck of the flask and unscrew the cap. It falls off and hangs by its own
fragile chain.
“Can you see me, Julia? Are you watching? Are you? I wish I knew.”
He lifts the flask to his nose and gives it a sniff. The aged brandy smells of dust and forgetfullness.
Welcome ever smiles / And farewell goes out sighing.
“One drink, Dad. That's all you asked of me. And I refused. But didn't you guess? I was ever your
most humble and obedient son...”
He rolls the flask back and lets a mouthful of stale brandy spread over his tongue. It's tastes of
death and lies but he wants it like nothing before. He swallows.
What do you want, Son?
He wants to not be cursed anymore with the voices of those he's loved who have deserted him;
each taking another piece of his soul along with them, leaving him a broken frame of bittersweet
memories and regrets.
“What do I want, Dad? Is that all you want to know? It's simple. I want to be left alone. I should have
stayed alone. I was better then. Safe. An island unto myself. Mason Isle--great place to vacation,
though there's not much of a view. I want to go back. This is my ticket, right here.”
He lifts the flask.
You promised me.
Her voice, the only living voice he knows, floods his heart and stills his hand.
“I know, sweetheart. But you're so far, far away. Can I ever reach you? Or will I just disappoint you
like I've disappointed everyone else? I let you down so many times when you were little. Maybe you
don't remember, but I do.”
He grips the flask tightly in his hand. “And this was how I did it, too.”
The waves sigh and crash, changing the shape of the shoreline. Someday, even the beach he sits
on will be gone.
He gets up and walks to the tideline. He gets down on his hands and knees and digs a hole into the
wet sand, and without preamble, tips the contents of the flask into it and watches it bubble away,
every last amber drop. He affixes the cap and presses the flask into the sand like a tombstone.
“There, Dad. Now you can't say we never had that drink. But I'll not weep. I have full cause of
weeping; but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, or ere I'll weep.”
He sits on the stone bench, enjoying the last few days of summer before fall sets in over Central
Park. The sun is high and children are rowing boats across the lake, dazzling the water with their
splashing. Something about this time of year reminds him of his old home. The air holds a similar
quality--full of light and expectant of change. It's been a long while since he last saw California—
almost two years have passed since the night he buried a priceless Louis XIV flask in the Pacific
Ocean and made a decision to take the road less traveled. He really didn't get fair market value for
that house.
His companion sits beside him, enjoying the afternoon herself. She likes it when he can get away
from the office for a few hours mid-day. He studies her expression--soft brown eyes, tinged with
hunger.
“Portia...now don't look at me that way.”
His companion sighs and moves closer, resting her snout lovingly on his knee.
“You're not getting the last bite of my Polish dog.”
The spaniel raises her furry brow as if to say, You wanna bet, mister?
He's smitten.
“Okay, I relent. But you owe me—slippers at my bedside for a week.”
He finishes off the bun and tosses the tip of the sausage in the air where it does a half-gainer and
is summarily swallowed mid-flight.
“That's my girl.”
The dog licks her chops and turns her head and sniffs. One bark. It's time to head down to the
fountain.
He takes her leash and her lead as they walk, remembering his last days back home and how it
came clear to him after the will reading that there really was no longer any reason to stay. In his
heart he knew Julia could hear him no matter what coast he addressed her from and still did,
though less frequently now.
He was mildly surprised to hear his name called out in the will. Some habits die harder than others,
but his father left him a fair and generous portion of his fortune as he did to all his children and
grandchildren. His slice of the inheritance went into a new wing of the Santa Barbara Children's
Hospital as well as a substantial donation to the Julia Capwell Memorial Women's Defense Fund.
The rest, he reserved for the new little woman in his life.
“Dad! Over here!”
Sam waves to them from the path at the base of the hill. Portia won't be contained so he drops the
leash and watches her bound down the slope to his daughter who he still swears grows more
beautiful every year—the most beautiful woman in the world, he'd stake his life on it...save one. He
catches up to her and gives his daughter a kiss before turning his attention to the pint-sized usurper
in the stroller.
“She's been asking about Pa-Da all day.”
“That so? Not quite two and already a great orator. Up we go, munchkin. Pa-Da's got you.”
The little girl smiles in his arms and grabs at his beard. She has David's nose and mouth, just like
her mother has his own--but the eyes, those sweet brown eyes, are those of the one he loves;
then, now, and forever.
Can you see us, Julia? Yes, I do believe you can.
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