Pelican Beach Christmas

Pelican Beach Christmas

By Tim Brostrom

The elderly brothers walk slowly together along a remarkably barren public section of Pelican Beach, their destination unsure, though there is a holiday festival on the pier ahead. Jonathan, the younger of the two by a few years, is still stout and well formed with a barrel chest, wickedly strong thighs, a proclivity for tapping his fingers one against the other, and a dark black full-cheeked beard with tinges of misty shale gray. He wears a navy-blue nylon windbreaker and wide-brimmed canvas khaki-colored hat that he purchased at REI while on vacation beneath the equatorial sun in Salvador de Bahía, eastern Brazil.

Though from the same Scandinavian stock, Thomas is frail as sun-starved winter wheat, thin across the shoulders, arms and legs wasting with age and malady. He wears a decades-old blue fleece-lined vest, which he believes is green. It has zippered pockets and covers the red woolen lumberjack shirt he inherited in the sixties, Christmas colors.

As they walk, Thomas rests his weight in the crook of Jonathan’s arm, always onward as they say, and simultaneously back in time. Seagulls squawk nearby, attracted here with discarded bits of processed bread left for this purpose by earlier visitors. When approached, they fly in concert into the gentle distant disharmony of city traffic noise, children screaming one to the other, and the infrequent but thunderous howl of commercial jets arriving and departing from the airport three miles to their south.

Trousers rolled into rings at mid-calf, and bare footed, they step together into the edge of lapping surf. It’s calm. The water rises at its highest to just above their ankles, and as they stand there, Jonathan says, “Feel that? Tell me what you see.”

Thomas laughs with an ease unseen in him since childhood, since the days he ran full throttle into and out of their garage, across the back yards of neighboring properties. Unburdened by the things that weaken him, he says, “Your job. It’s better that you tell me what I see.”

Reaching to pass his fingers through water, Jonathan brings droplets to his brother’s cheek, looks to their left and right, and says. “We stand in dark sand packed hard by the light surf. The water is unusually placid for this time of year. Sun flickers in molten magic across the undulating surface, and out there a dingy with its slack white sail moves southward. Farther out, I see a skiff, if that’s what it’s called, sharp bow rising well above the waterline, some kind of motorboat at least, with fishermen. It approaches the brilliant glare of the sun now, four fingers above the sullen hues of the ocean.

“There’s a pier some distance to our left, jutting into the water. A third of its span rides sand and rock from a parking lot to the water’s edge, but the balance of its length, which I estimate to be 200 yards, rests on solid crisscrossed posts anchored in the seabed. The posts form an intricate silhouette against the distance. There’s a festival going. The pier is crowded with awnings, tents, Christmas trees, and jubilance. Between us and the pier, a few families and admiring couples’ repose beneath and nest to brightly colored umbrellas. Their coolers and chairs are scattered like toys, but to our right, the beach narrows. It ends abruptly at a gray concrete wall protected by massive hauled rock. The parking lot where we started our walk, and the shops, restaurants, and other amusements that line the far side of the boulevard, are primarily for tourists, and painted as such in bright colors. By the way, the restaurant where I want to take you later has a deck cantilevered over the water. It’s really an elegant place to dine.

“And, there is one more thing. I see your mind spinning, brother, so what is it? What do you see?”

“Don’t stop! I enjoy this.”

“You’re so obstinate at times. Behind us, the procession of automobiles continues. I’m talking about the boulevard we used to get here. Elevated by yet another concrete wall, the sidewalk on this edge has a green metal railing and the lampposts have celebratory wreaths. I see people up there, a young boy on a bicycle, an old woman, another youth carrying a skateboard—male or female I cannot tell from here, but this is not what I asked. I asked for what you see.”

“Any beautiful women?” Thomas asks through a devious smile.

“As if you care.”

Laughing, Thomas complies. “Okay. I see the sun and sand, the pier, the sidewalk and families with umbrellas you described. I see Christmas, though not here with palm trees and sunshine. I see it in Wisconsin. From your descriptions I see sun on water, dark sand, and seagulls in flight. The sailboat is especially vivid. But I obviously see these objects differently. Is there a place where we can sit?”

“The sand I suppose.”

Sitting now, knees up, arms wrapped around their legs and facing the ocean, Thomas says, “What I see these days is uncoupled, each image clinging loosely to the next, and all together meaningless when viewed in seclusion. I see sunsets and sunrises reflected on lakes and the ocean, glimmering in dew on a Wisconsin meadow, wilderness, the sun warming the muzzles of young calves in a pasture, sunlight casting shadows through a double-pane window onto a kitchen counter. I see it as an old man, but also as a child. What I see is timeless. But I also see the sun metaphorically, as a lonely and isolated speck of light in a boundless dark cosmos.

“I enjoyed your descriptions, by the way. You have a gift. Thank you! It’s just what I wanted. Think back to when we planted those McIntosh apple trees. Do you remember? You were quite young.”

“I remember something like that. I may not recall planting, but I know the small orchard.”

“I’ve reinvented the scene thousands of times—a spade or shovel, grubs in the soil, roots wrapped in burlap, grandpa placing the ball of roots in a hole and slitting the sides. I see bark wrapped in paper or something, and I recall the same tree years later, picking apples and even the taste of grandma’s apple crisp. The point is, I can still see it all, but not really. I also see celestial beings when I want, a diva visiting the Buddha, angels and archangels on seraphim thrones, Loki in the Norse woods. I see these things, including the sailboat on the ocean, because images arrive from words, are accompanied by words, are the source of words. In any meaningful sense, images cannot be fully trusted without meaning of some type, and we know meaning through words.

“Feelings and sensations, on the other hand, are more immediate and demanding of my attention, especially given my condition. I feel the sand beneath us, the warmth of the sun, the breeze, and I can feel our friendship envelop me. I feel the difficulty of getting out of bed every morning and know when I am strong enough to walk down the street, or not. Sensation tells me when I need rest.”

“I should have asked. If you’re tired we can go.”

“I am always tired, the living embodiment of fatigue, but no. Not yet. Do you hear them? There’s some kind of disturbance.”

“The kids? No. They’re just playing, pretending to be Ninjas I believe. Kung Fu antics.”

“They’re okay then? Good. Children are my vitamins, you know. I hear them through the open window.”

“The schoolyard across the street?”

“Yes. I hear them laughing and full of energy at 7:30 in the morning. It’s my alarm clock, then again at 10:30, and when they go home. The sound brings images of a jungle gym, the swing we used to have under that oak, and my mind wanders to the treehouse, to Debbie Townsend, Dan, and the others—back in time, to the roots of my life. Do you remember the treehouse?”

“Of course. My first kiss.”

“What was her name, the one with black pigtails?”

“Marsha.”

“Marsha. Can you still see her face? Describe her.”

“Trying…Not really. I was so taken.”

“Then you know what I’m saying. I remember the sun and ocean, the look of light on water, the texture of sand when dry or wet, but I’m not sure my memory works properly. It’s a troubling situation not to have all that in front of me, to rely upon knowing the universe exclusively through memory.”

“I understand. It’s been a while. You started losing your site, when? Late ‘80s, early ‘90s?”

“Probably before then, but I failed the eye test for my driver’s license in ’91. Denial upon denial for years after that, but by 2000 I was reduced to shapes, light and dark, learning enough braille to take elevators, switching to audio books, and carrying a cane. Toward the end, I was probably imagining light and dark, my mind creating those illusions in a desperate attempt to remain relevant.”

Jonathan studies his brother for a long moment. “So now it’s dark all the time? I’m so sorry, Tom. You don’t deserve any of this.”

“Not dark. Always light, unless I am unconscious.”

“Really! I didn’t know. And what about the other, the …”

“Parkinson? 2006. I didn’t tell anyone for years, but the tremors became obvious. Blind, shaking, and fatigued, my secrets were out.”

“We talked about that transition. I remember worrying that you’d take your own life.”

“It’s still a possibility, but I’ll at least call or text,” Thomas says, laughing. “I don’t want to talk about disease, blindness, suicide, anything dark right now. It’s Christmas. I’ll end all that with saying I still moving forward on good days and bad. I’m not sure what I’ll do when all my days are bad, but that’s not here yet. I can’t live in the future and there is no disturbance in my universe yet troubling enough to end things. Everything in its place, right? Everything in its season. Somewhere up north I see it’s snowing. I can see the trees you described on the pier. Life is reasonably good. I can still dress myself, okay. That last part requires undisclosed contortions, but I’m capable. You don’t have to worry about me, Jon, I’m okay.”

“Sure.”

“I can only sit for so long before everything tightens up, but before we go, describe the women on the beach. There’s a nurse that comes on Wednesdays. She’s Hispanic and a beautiful soul, un alma hermosa. Do you know that no one touches me over there, not out of kindness alone, except for Margoria? She’s the only one. Everyone else just pinches and prods to move me here or there. Now please describe the women on the beach.”

Jonathan looks left and right. Except for families near the pier, no one else is available to ogle. He studies Thomas’s clasped but trembling hands, the constant readjustments he makes when driven by discomfort, and the unexpected moistening in his dead eyes.

“It’s all going away, isn’t it—the beauty of flowers, pine on the ridges, what skyrise buildings look like today as the sun moves across them. I feel bad for you, but here we go.” Placing his hand on Thomas’s shoulder, gently massaging his neck as one might touch a slumbering child, Jonathan fabricates from memory. “You’ve been blind for a long while brother, and until this year you lived in the Midwest. Do you know what a thong is?”