At The Edge

         Kate hadn't decided if she liked the ocean yet. It was big and blue and it seemed to go on forever. And it all moved: Waves rolled, wind blew, and birds darted in and out of her line of vision. Beneath the water, she knew sea life was in constant motion. Even the sand washed in and then out of the shoreline. Nothing stood in place, but at the same time, it seemed that there was a similarity about the whole scene. That was her first thought. And it had strange sounds and strange air-- heavy, salty air that was loaded down with the surf and the cry of the seagulls. She had never seen seagulls before. They seemed to be the antithesis of the black crows that patrolled the prairie. Their white wings flashed and flapped against the blue-grey sky.
         Her toes curled in the coarse, wet sand as the tide crawled in. The water nipped at her ankles. Her blue jeans were rolled up to just below her knees. Even though it was the middle of July and it was surely eighty degrees out, Kate shivered when the breeze swelled to a wind and whipped her hair around her face. The salty air stung the dry skin of her face and her nostrils flared at the intense odor of fish, seaweed and the sun-bleached sand.
         The ocean was a different entity to Kate, and she barely gave that a passing thought. It was a matter of deciding if different was good. To someone not from Kansas, that might seem ridiculous. But to Kate being landlocked by the flat land and the endless fields of the Sunflower State kept her from feeling like she was falling off Earth.
         "Well, what do you think?" a deep, soft voice near her inquired eagerly, startling her. She had forgotten she was not alone. The large, warm hand gave hers a squeeze and reminded her that Terry was walking with her. "It's magnificent, isn't it, Kate?"
         "Um, yes," Kate replied, bemused by how she had forgotten that her husband-- her husband! --was with her at the ocean's edge.
At the edge. She was truly at the edge of something different. She knew she wasn’t in Kansas anymore, and Kate felt that she was going to fall. Off what she wasn't sure. Her family was certain she was making a big mistake in leaving home. Her younger sister thought she was off her rocker. Her grandmother had all but disowned her for even thinking of leaving the farm so shortly after her mother's death. What Nana didn't know was that Kate had entertained the thought long before her mother's sudden heart attack. And it was the knowledge that her mother had reluctantly and regrettably abandoned her own desire to leave the heart of America and head for the coast. Nana always seemed so blind to the fact that the ambitions of the women in her family extended beyond the family farm and the tradition of alcoholic, workaholic farmers who hardly came home at night.
         In the days following her mother’s passing Kate struggled to make it through all the things that needed to be done. It wasn’t easy, and there were times when Kate broke down. Like when she and Kelly chose the dress in which her mother would be buried. “Woman’s work,” her father had insisted from the tractor. And Nana had been too distraught and fatigued. While she and her sister clung to each other and sobbed on their parents’ bed, Kate felt alone and empty. Kate decided it was her time to go.
         So now in the pool of her grief there was guiltily this great excitement in Kate's heart; she was like a nervous, juvenile bird taking her first flight. She was flapping her wings and leaving the nest. It felt good, almost natural, like she was supposed to fly. She felt a confidence she had never known before, and the assurance that she could strike out on her own but that she wasn't ever really alone. It was a time that truly tested her faith in herself, in her marriage and in God.
         Funny how she had forgotten Him recently. Kind of like how she had forgotten Terry standing next to her. How could she forget either of Them, for even a second? They were so essential to her existence. Both had saved her from truly losing her grip on life. God had been there, but she was so angry. And she was angry with herself for thinking of leaving now that her mother was gone. Her pastor had said words that brought comfort. Words about resurrection. Words about things that last, like love, family and dreams. And that the answers to all of her questions were in her faith. She only needed to remain true to it. But it was so hard to be true to Someone who seemed so far away. She used to be able to find Him in the early morning while she did her chores, or as she took her late morning run with her lab Missy, or in the gentle breeze with a cool lemonade while sitting on the porch swing. But she didn't find God there anymore. Her heart cried out in pain and He was silent.
         Then Terry had come. He had shown up on their doorstep on the day after her mother's funeral. It had been so long since Kate had seen him she almost didn't recognize him! But then he folded her into his loving arms and she knew that God had heard her. Terry had come back to rescue her. He knew she was in pain the moment he’d heard of her mother's death. In the days that followed he helped Kate rediscover the joy of life. And she began to happily think beyond the day and the farm. She envisioned a place other than the prairie. It didn't seem so scary with Terry beside her. And she reminded herself that she had been at scary places before, places where she had come close to falling off the edge. This was so different. What a difference this joy made in her life. It turned it all around. It colored the feeling of being independent in such a glorious light. And it amazed Kate how much the two feelings were similar, this jittery, nervous feeling and the one that only two weeks ago was filled with despair. Both of them were at-the-edge feelings. But this one was thrilling; like a roller coaster, it had that essential element of fun. She smiled, and then that smile turned into a giggle that started to well up in her.
         Terry glanced at her briefly and then did a double take. A smile touched his lips and he squeezed her hand.
         "You just remembered, didn't you?" he accused softly, with an amused laugh at the end.
         She blushed, but still replied, "I don't know what you mean?"
         Her blush charmed Terry, and his smile conveyed that his wife's telltale blush was something he never wanted her to conquer.
"You just remembered that I'm here as your husband," he supplied without malice or pain.
Kate didn’t respond with word or action, in an attempt to deny the truth of his words. After a moment Terry reassuringly squeezed her hand again and drew her to him. He gathered her in for a quick hug and placed an affectionate kiss on the top of her head.
         “I’m going to head down the beach, climb up those rocks there and get some shots of the lighthouse and the waves breaking below before we lose this fantastic light,” he said, lifting the heavy camera hanging around his neck. “I’ll meet you back at the cottage, if you don’t want to wait, Sweetheart.”
         Kate watched him make his way down the beach to the lighthouse and then headed back to the cottage. She wondered if Terry understood any of this. She thought so, but then he wasn't a woman. He might know what was going on in her head. After all he had come to her as soon as he’d heard of her mother’s passing, knowing that Kate would feel conflicted about losing her. He knew Kate wanted out of Kansas. He knew she had a strange sense of duty to what he considered her abusive family. He knew that she would eventually marry him. He knew her better than anyone. And he seemed to know himself. Ever since he was eleven years old and had declared at Old Mr. Johnson’s watering hole that he would marry her and only her, he had pursued Kate. At first his persistence was annoying. Then it turned geekily embarrassing with him tailing her around the schoolyard. But eventually she had come to depend on him being around and her heart had turned. In high school she had secretly found his devotion to walking her home and asking her to the football games sweet and even romantic. It wasn’t like they had never dated others, especially when Terry hit his later teen years, his acne cleared and he’d gone away for college. After all, she had turned down his first proposal on the night of their high school graduation. She could still remember his heartbreaking reaction to her somewhat cold, negative response-- a controlled “Okay,” and a long pause. His gaze never wavered, almost as if he had steeled himself for that answer. It was like he knew she couldn’t leave her family yet. Then, “We should probably wait and see how the summer and next year at State go, anyway. We can keep going like we have.“ It was like a pep talk to himself, like he was digging in with patience, more bound and determined to see their relationship through. And so in the next few years they dated on again and off again, almost in a casual way and Kate was sure that he would find her tedious eventually. But he didn’t. He was the most stubborn, persistent, and faithful person she knew. Still she knew he found her a frustrating mystery of dreams and fears, and she scarcely understood why he loved her so. For some reason that she still failed to fathom, he was more than ever committed to tying his life to hers for all time. She smiled at that thought, and her heart swelled.
         There were big, thick, purple clouds that dominated the canopy above the ocean. In the west, nearing the horizon line, the sun fought to let its shafts of radiant light through to earth below, but the sky was too thick. Elsewhere, lightning flashed across the sky. The effect was a symphony of muted colors outlined in a silvery lining in one small patch of sky. Kate was reminded of the "starving artist" paintings she had seen advertised on television. They were made up of generous portions of paint, large sweeps of the brush, moodiness, and danger; yet they always had a ray of sunshine. And Terry would capture it and own it.

         Kate was awakened by the pounding of sheets of rain on the siding of the cottage. She didn't like storms. Since she was a child she had been afraid of the power of thunderstorms. She knew it was irrational; but, even at twenty-five, the loud boom of thunder caused her to shudder. Of course it was the lightning that one had to fear, and thunder was only its precursor. Still, Kate feared the thunder. For several minutes she stood naked by the window and watched the storm. The grey light from the window touched her body. Her pale skin took on a translucent quality turning her lines and curves into sharp edges and deep valleys. There was something very freeing about being able to stand by a window without a stitch of clothing on. She crossed her arms loosely over her breasts and watched the rain course down the window. She dreamily imagined it sluicing down her body.
         Suddenly there was another clap of thunder. Almost simultaneously a flash lit up the sky directly above the shore a few hundred yards down the beach. Kate jumped, startled out of her reverie. She saw the jagged finger of light shoot down from the heavens and sting the earth below. It was an electric moment, and Kate believed that she could hear the air crackling for several seconds after the light had dissipated. She wondered where that spot on the sand was. It couldn't be too far down the beach. She imagined the sand spraying everywhere, and wondered what kind of scar was made by such a sting.
         Goose pimples broke out all over Kate's arms and thighs, and her nipples jutted forward like little arrows. A glance at the large bed in the middle of the humid room told her that Terry was still asleep. A mild case of envy replaced her earlier sense of freedom as she felt herself wishing she were still in a deep sleep next to his warm body. Pushing that aside, she hurriedly dressed herself in the pair of comfortable jeans and baggy sweatshirt that were lying on the chair in the bedroom. Outside, the storm appeared to be losing its ferocity. The rain was slowing down and the clouds seemed to be heading east. By the time she had found her sneakers and pulled them on her bare feet, the rain had stopped.
         She quietly pulled the door closed when she left the cottage. There still hung in the air the after-mist of the hard rain. It left a scent in the air that was a refreshing mixture of salt and sand and water. On the distant horizon muted lightning flashes still marked the sky. On the point to the southeast the shoreline's only lighthouse could be seen. It stood there like a small needle in a pincushion, its beacon sweeping across the gray sky: an eye glinting in the sun. There was something hypnotic and peaceful about the sweep of light as it passed over the restless waters and illuminated the rocks below. It occurred to Kate how rare it probably was that the light was actually needed. Terry had said that the number of fishing and commercial boats using the area had decreased in the past decade. Still, she found comfort in its steadiness and sentinel quality.
         Kate picked her way gently down to the beach, being careful to find sure footing among the washed up clumps of seaweed and driftwood. When she got to the hard, wet sand she bent down and turned up the legs of her loose fitting jeans. From her new vantage point, she was able to note the polka-dot effect left by the rain in the sand. Yes, it had been a hard rain; but it had ended with large, sporadic raindrops, not the slashing sheets of rain. She didn't remember when the rain had actually started, she realized with a smile. After all, she and Terry had been preoccupied.
         Her thoughts strayed back to Terry. He was sleeping deeply, sprawled naked beneath a gentle ceiling fan. She could still see the evening shadows playing on the lines and curves of his body. He looked like an Italian sculpture fashioned out of ivory, muscle, sinew and sweat. The memory sent a warm thrill through her body. She felt the familiar but recently acquired tug on her heart from the lifeline connecting him to her. It was like an invisible umbilical cord that covered the physical distance between them. Kate briefly wondered if he felt it, too. How could he not? They were one, joined together by more than words and paper and rings and even sex. It was such a deep connection, one that oddly had been built during their years apart. It was a connection far different than the one she felt between herself and her sister, even though they sometimes finished each other's thoughts. It was a bond that couldn't exist between people who were related by blood. It was bigger than blood. Kate marveled at its breadth and width. She could only call it love, though that word seemed inadequate and trite. And her heart quivered at the thought.
         Still, there was a niggle in her mind that pushed its way to the surface again as she walked in the direction of the lightning strike. She wasn't sure what caused her feelings of uneasiness, restlessness. In fact, the feeling was so primitive that she could not begin to put words to it. So she concentrated on picking a sure-footed path along the beach. It felt good to stretch her being beyond the beach house. Soon the rhythm of her gentle stroll gave her a chance to think and wonder again. The ocean tumbled into the shore alongside her, one wave on top of the other. Soon her body fell in line with the rhythm, and Kate felt a oneness with the sea. It was as if the layers of her life were coming to her one at a time, on top of each other like a folded stack of laundry. The farm, her chores, her struggle through school, her father’s strict operation of the farm and the family, Grandmother’s traditional values, and her mother’s constant depression and sacrifice. It all came in as if it were visiting to say hello, settled at her feet and then sunk into the sand. All of it except her life with Terry, which never seemed to really be connected to any of that. It seemed to Kate that it was burying itself from view, freeing her from the past and drawing her out into her future. It was a strange, new feeling for the young woman from Kansas. The ebb and flow stirred her. In and out. In and out. Back and forth. Give and take. She noticed her pulse had accelerated and her breathing deepened. She recognized it as the rhythm of life. It had always been a part of her and she a part of it. She just hadn't known it until Terry had taught her the meaning of womanhood.
         Kate frowned. She had been walking in the direction of the lightning strike watching her feet make footprints in the sand while she mused, until something new caught her attention. Her eyes landed upon a stranded horseshoe crab. Way too far from the water’s edge, it had found itself upside down in a precarious position with no way to turn over. It must have been there for a while, since Kate could only see an occasional twitch from its appendages. The horseshoe crab bothered her. Not just that it was stranded, left to fend for itself in the dangerous, loose sand where there was virtually no hope of returning to the sea. It’s predicament seemed too much like her own. She didn't like how all of a sudden it seemed as if the past twenty-five years of her life didn't count, that she'd only just begun to live. It bothered her to admit that Terry had been responsible for teaching her about womanhood. It didn't bother her that he'd taken her virginity. It was the fact that learning about womanhood had come by way of sex at all. She didn't want it to be connected to his or anyone's invasion. She wanted to be "Woman: Kathrine Jennifer Sutrice Wilson" on her own. Not because someone had made love to her. What if she became the horseshoe crab? What if she lived for millions of years stranded on some hot sandy beach unable to swim out to the world on her own? What if she became immobile? What if she was only "Woman: Kathrine Jennifer Sutrice Wilson" when the lifeline tugged her to Terry, when he made love to her and sank himself deep into her body and her life? What happened to her?
         Kate couldn't stand to look at the helpless horseshoe crab any longer. She cautiously picked it up and carried it to the ocean's edge. The water curled around her pink painted toes and buried her feet in the sand it carried back in. She sighed at its caress. Then she turned the crab facing out to sea and gave it a little shove in the right direction. Slowly it headed out. And Kate watched it. But long before it disappeared, she saw a curious thing. The horseshoe crab turned around and seemed to look at where she’d been.
Kate instinctively raised her hand in half farewell- half encouragement. It was a silly action, she realized after the crab was beyond her vision. She shook her head and mumbled to herself about her silliness. Still, she had waved. She couldn't help admiring the horseshoe crab. It was a survivor.
         When she could no longer see the horseshoe crab beneath ocean’s surface, Kate continued her journey down the beach, her mind a jumble of thoughts about Terry, the crab, Kansas and her life as a woman. Soon she discovered someone else was on the beach. A lone figure was carefully traveling a zigzagged pattern from the water’s edge up to the boardwalk and back. As Kate drew closer she could see that it was an older woman, dressed in a loose, purple housedress, a long, brown, trench coat and Birkenstocks. Her wispy, silvery hair was swept up underneath a man’s aged Stetson that was anchored beneath her chin. She was a small-boned woman, but there was no sense of frailness in her body as she stooped occasionally to pick up a find on the beach and put it in the canvas bag hanging from her shoulder. At the moment she was so absorbed in examining a piece of driftwood that Kate was almost on top of her before she noticed.
         “Hello,” Kate politely interrupted the beachcomber.
         “Oh, hello. Not the best time for a stroll, I imagine, but then I’m not out for a stroll.” After a pause she explained, “You can always find the best treasures after the ocean gets stirred up in a storm.”
         “Are the storms around here always like that?” Kate asked.
         “Like what, dear? Violent?”
         “Oh, no, that’s not a violent storm! Back in Kansas a violent storm is a tornado. No, this was almost poetic, with the ocean and the sky blending. It was colorful and the rain came in so many ways, sometimes softly, then hard, then mist and then those big splashes. It was kind of like a symphony, maybe,” Kate blushed at her own enthusiasm, thinking that the older woman would surely think it odd that someone could give such meaning to the weather.
         The older woman’s eyes narrowed as she took in not only Kate’s words, but also her blush. Then she turned to look out over the ocean. She stood still there long enough that Kate was just deciding that she should move on when the woman spoke again.
         “You’re absolutely right. A symphony. . . hmmm. Yep. That’s it. I’ve always said that wisdom has nothing to do with age and age has everything to do with liverspots. That and ‘You never know what the ocean will drag in.’” She giggled at her own turn of the popular proverb.
         The older woman smiled out from under her hat and offered Kate the piece of wood to look at.
         “It’s a beautiful piece. What will you do with it?” Kate asked.
         “See how smooth and twisted this is? There’s a lot of passion here. It reminds me of my late husband.” The older woman caressed the wood with tender hands and it seemed to Kate she was invading the personal memories of the woman, so she handed the piece back to with the intent to move on. But the older woman took her hand and included her in the caress.
         “Feel how its journey has worn it down to the very essence of it. So raw and soaked to the center. Exactly as he was, not flashy, false or apologetic. It took years for his rough exterior to soften. Sam wasn’t charming, just real to the bone. He used to ask me all the time, ‘Edna, why’d you settle for a cad like me? You should have gone off with one of those classy business guys.’ And I’d kiss him and reassure him that there wasn’t any other man who could make it all real for me . . . He lit me up from the inside.”
         “You got yourself a man of your own yet?” the older woman pried as she pulled herself out of her own love story and continued walking with Kate down the beach.
         Kate blushed. “My husband and I were just married. This is our honeymoon.”
         Kate’s glance over her shoulder and up the beach drew the older woman’s attention to the cottage. “So what you doing out here?” Edna queried with innuendo, as she put the driftwood in her bag.
         Kate looked back down the beach and remembered her reason for being outside after the thunderstorm. “I’m looking for something. Did you see that last flash of lightning? The bright finger that came down and touched the beach? I saw it from the window and I wondered what that spot must look like. I mean, it had to leave a mark of some kind in the sand.”
         “No, I didn’t see it, but I’ve seen that phenomenon happen a few times before. You’re right. It does leave a mark. We should find it down around here.” With that Edna led Kate a few yards down the beach, directly to the spot and bent over it.
         “Now, be careful, dear. It may even be warm still. I wouldn’t touch it yet.”
         Sure enough, there was a distinct, molten pattern on the surface of the sand. Like ripples on the water, the irregular pattern began in the center and radiated to the edges. A subtle rainbow of color danced on the surface, like it did on the pieces of glass that washed up on the shore that she and Terry had collected. Unlike water, it was an odd-shaped mass, an amalgam of heat, light, earth and color. Kate thought that the heat and energy of the lightning must have melted the sand together and rippled through the surrounding sand. It lost power as it reached the perimeter of the image so that the grainiest parts were the edges.
         “It’s beautiful,” Kate whispered in awe. “I didn’t quite imagine it would do this. But I really like it. “
         Kate bent down and gently found the edge resting in the sand. It was warm to the touch but she could pick it up. She scooped both hands underneath and cradled the treasure in her hands.
         “That’s a really good find for a day like today,” the older woman complimented. “Look at it as a souvenir of your time here. Take it with you. I’ll take the driftwood any day, but this suits you, my dear.” And she took her bag, touched the rim of her hat, an action that must have been a remnant of her life with Sam, and turned to continue in her original direction up the beach.
         “You are right; it is exactly what I need. Thank you, ma’am,” Kate politely said good-bye, more out of habit than sincerity. Her mind and hands were already turning over the glass lava-like treasure in her hands. She wandered on down the beach, while her fingers explored the unpredictable ripples and turns the surface of the glass. It was a perfect find for her. It was almost as if God had sealed the sum total of her life within the passionate twists and turns of the glass. Freshly born out of the heat of passion it gleamed with promise.
         Kate looked up from her thoughts and the glass nugget to take in the seascape ahead of her. The sky and the ocean imitated the colors trapped in the novel glass, colors that Terry was sure to have captured with his camera. The drying beach stretched out ahead, and Kate headed back home to the cottage and Terry.