Authors: Don Sloan
January, 2014
The view from the bay window was nothing short of spectacular and Nathan Bedford Forrest gazed often at the pounding surf just 80 yards away from him across the boulevard. If he looked out the window much more often than he did at the work he brought from the office during this trip to the shore, he might well be forgiven, for the day was magnificent and the view beyond equal on this Sunday afternoon―the first of his two-week vacation. He had arrived only about an hour earlier and spent the first 30 minutes pulling sheets off furniture and de-winterizing the old house.
“I really should get this work out of the way quickly,” he had thought to himself while dusting and flushing anti-freeze down the drains. He had also fired up the cranky, ancient boiler in the basement to begin blowing heat through the cold vent pipes, keeping his jacket on while he worked in the dining room. He got up now to check the thermostat and raised his eyebrows at the miniscule difference the furnace was making.
“Well, it has been two years since the house was occupied,” he thought. “Maybe she has a right to be a little long in the waking-up process.”
He moved to the mantelpiece to look more closely at the photographs strung across the length of the polished oak board, carefully fitted by a craftsman whose skills were now long beyond recall.
The photos ranged from tintypes in oval frames to much newer ones taken around the turn of this century. They were all his relatives, of course, though he had never been very close to any of them. He picked up one of his older brother’s family from New York. He smiled wanly at the image. His brother and his family were too fond of their own lives and ideas to give a thought to anyone else’s, and cared mostly for their latest SUV (which they only drove on holidays out into the Pennsylvania countryside) and to their Fifth Avenue digs, which looked down on Central Park west.
He had visited them once―on a Thanksgiving Day―but the pretense of acting as though he was enjoying himself had proven to be too great. He had never been back and didn’t want to be invited. Nathan was a loner and had been ever since he could remember.
Now 32 and still unmarried and unattached, he preferred his singledom over just about any conventional “family” life he could imagine. Nothing personal, really. Just the thought of responsibility for anyone but himself gave him cold chills, so he had remained single long past the years when his friends and cousins and other family members had tied their various knots.
His own Bohemian lifestyle was fine with him, living in a carefully refurbished brownstone in the heart of downtown Philadelphia, where he could easily walk to his work as a CPA for a large and respected firm. Some of his more unkind relatives hinted that he must be gay. But Nathan knew he was not.
He got down on hands and knees to feel the lukewarm air exhaling from the vent nearest his chair at the dining table. “So she’s finally warming up a little to me,” he thought, smiling. “Good old girl,” he said out loud. “I know you get lonely between my visits.” He rose and went back to his chair to finish the report he had brought. With one last wistful glance out the bay window, he turned to his task.
In the next block, one of the grandest homes on the boulevard also was being de-winterized, but not with the same skilled finesse that came so easily to Nathan.
“Damn this old house,” said Sarah Claymore, struggling to light yet another match down in the basement. “If I ever get this thing to catch, it will probably blow me up and the house with it.” So, end of problem, she thought to herself, and then tried to focus on the task at hand.
Getting the pilot light to catch had always been Rob’s special talent. Now she missed him once again, feeling the familiar sting of self-pity. This was supposed to be a test for Sarah, this visit to the shore in the dead of winter. And she felt as though she was failing the test miserably.
She checked the fuel oil tank again to make sure it had been filled as she had instructed. Then, with a sigh, she went back to work, striking match after match with no result. Finally, she gave it up and began climbing the cellar stair to build a fire in the fireplace.
“Damn you,” she said again aloud, to no one in particular.
Upstairs in the ground floor parlor, she lit a cigarette and plopped down on the overstuffed sofa that still wore a white sheet. The house was cold and could stay cold for all she cared. She pulled the bottle of Lindeman’s Bin 65 Chardonnay from the bag of groceries on the coffee table and dug in her purse until she found the corkscrew she kept there for emergencies like this. With a ferocity that belied her petite size, she thrust the corkscrew home and twisted it expertly until the cork popped out. Now, this was something she knew about.
To hell with lighting furnaces, she decided. “I’ll just get warm from the inside out,” she said with a sharp laugh, and began to feel better. She poured a wineglass full to the brim, took a long, satisfying swallow, and began building a fire in the drafty old fireplace.
She had slept on the colorful braided rug many times with Rob while the flames warmed their naked and intertwined bodies. “Well, warmth comes in all shapes and sizes,” she said, holding the glass in front of her eyes. She saw the first flames catch and hold on the dry oak branches. “I’ll get the hang of being alone if it kills me.”
A chilling dusk was settling on Beach Avenue as Nathan finished his work. Laying the laptop aside, he rose and cracked his back to get the kinks out. “Looks like a perfect night for a stroll along the shoreline,” he said, pulling on the jacket he had finally taken off hours before when the furnace had equalized the temperature inside the old house.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” he said and pulled the leaded glass front door behind him. Stars were alight in the azure night sky over the Atlantic Ocean as he hurried across the boulevard to the broad sidewalk that ran the length of the town’s beach frontage.
He turned up his collar against the January wind and began walking briskly down the sidewalk. Above him the seagulls turned and soared on the breeze, crying to each other and floating effortlessly. Nathan looked up at them and smiled, remembering how afraid he had been of these bold winged creatures when he had come to the shore as a child.
His father had encouraged him to try feeding them by hand, giving him a sandwich. Dutifully, Nathan had held it up only to find himself being dive-bombed by every seagull within 100 yards. Within seconds they had snatched him empty-handed and it seemed that thousands were demanding more, crying loudly and swooping at his little hands and head, so that his father had finally stopped laughing and pulled him close, swatting at the birds to make them stay a respectful distance away.
“Are you all right?” his father had asked. Nathan had shaken his head and remained buried in his father’s warm coat until the fright subsided.
Now, much older and wiser to the ways of seagulls, he admired these unscrupulous birds for their predatory instinct and for their wonderful ability to survive for thousands of years.
“We should all be so lucky,” Nathan thought, and understood that while there would always be predators and prey, he was just happy to be a few links higher on the food chain than these birds.
He continued walking, glancing out to sea now and again at the tumbling crash of breakers, and wondered at the fact that the ocean never stopped doing what it did. Endless and relentless, it did the same thing to every shoreline that it touched around the world, eroding each one inch by inch. But, unlike the swift and eager birds, the water was patient and knew that even the hard bedrock underlying the soft sand would eventually give way. There was no hurry.
He turned his eyes toward the line of houses across the boulevard. All were dark, but he noticed that one had a glow coming from within. “That doesn’t look like an electric light,” he said, and jogged across the street to the sidewalk in front of the marvelous Victorian house from which the light emanated.
It was definitely firelight, he thought, seeing the way it danced and flickered on the panes of window glass inset in the massive front door. Could it be that he was not alone on the boulevard at this time he had so carefully chosen for its delicious serenity? Or was this something worse? Could there be a fire inside, started perhaps by a short-circuit? He decided to knock.
“Go away,” came the muffled response. It sounded like a woman’s voice. He knocked again.
“Are you all right?” Nathan said loudly. “I mean, is there a fire?”
A series of light footsteps ended with the hall light being flipped on and the door being pulled open suddenly. A petite young woman with a pixie-style haircut stood framed in the massive front doorway. She was dressed in jeans and wore a light blue down jacket. “Are you a fireman?” she asked.
He smiled. “No, I’m a CPA. If you need a fireman, I’ll have to make a phone call.”
“A CPA?” she said. “I don’t think I need any tax work done right now. But how are you at fixing furnaces?” Sarah held the glass of wine up to her lips.
Nathan raised an eyebrow and said nothing. Small talk was not his expertise and now that he had discovered that no one was in danger, he wanted to be off again. The young woman put her hand out suddenly and gave his hand a quick shake.
“Sarah Claymore,” she said, and sensing his uneasiness she smiled. “Sorry―I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just a little cold and tired.”
“That’s okay,” Nathan said. “So you can’t get your furnace started? I don’t mind taking a quick look.”
“Would you? I’d appreciate it more than you know. Since it’s Sunday I can’t get anyone on the phone to come out and get the pilot light lit for me. Please come in. Would you like a glass of wine or something?”
Nathan stepped into the hallway, which, much like his house, was wide and long, running the length of the structure. Sheets were still on every stick of furniture, and the place was cold. “No, thanks. Which way to the basement?”
“Around this corner,” Sarah said and stepped quickly to open a door and turn the light switch on. “I just got in from Philadelphia. Do you live around here?”
Nathan started down the creaky stairs. “No―Philadelphia, also. I’m down here on vacation. Did you check the fuel oil tank?”
“Yes,” Sarah said, following him down. “I called and had it filled before I came. Philly?”
Nathan reached the furnace and saw the screwdriver and screws, marking the place where Sarah had been at work. “Did you say you were trying to light the pilot light?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t get it to catch.”
Nathan looked around for a flashlight, found the one Sarah had been using, and looked inside the furnace opening, a two-inch hole with a flip-up cover. “Well, I think I found the problem. There’s no pilot light on this furnace. It has an igniter switch. Did you turn the thermostat up?”
“No. Is that important?” Sarah asked, sipping a little wine.
“Yeah, kind of. Go and turn the thermostat up to about 80 and let’s see what happens.” As Sarah headed up the stairs, Nathan stood far back from the furnace opening and waited. In less than five seconds, fire and sooty smoke leaped from the small opening, accompanied by the strong odor of fuel oil. The fire turned blue, then white and subsided back into the furnace. Nathan stepped back to the small opening, flipped the cover back down and screwed it shut.
“Is anything happening?” came a voice from the top of the stairs.
“I think it will be fine now,” he said. “I’m coming back up.”
Sarah was in the kitchen near the top of the stairs. She had brought the groceries in from the parlor and begun emptying the plastic bags. Nathan stood at the doorway.
“You should start feeling a difference pretty soon,” he said. “Someone installed a new furnace down there―one that doesn’t have a pilot light. That was your problem. How long has it been since you were here?”
“Too long,” she said. “Five years―maybe six. I forget. You sure you don’t want some wine?” She had finished the glass and poured herself a refill.
“No, I’m sure. Thanks. I think I’ll finish my walk and then head back to my house. Make sure to leave the thermostat at around 65 or so. That should keep you pretty comfortable without using all your oil” He began making his way toward the front door and she fell in step beside him.
“Where in Philadelphia?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” Nathan said.
“Philadelphia. I grew up there. South Philly.”
“I live just about downtown, off Broad Street.”
“Oh,” Sarah said and stuck out her hand again. “Well, thanks for fixing the furnace.”
“You’re welcome. Hope your stay here is pleasant.”
She laughed. “At least I’ll be warm now.” They were at the front door, which she held open for him. “Thanks again.”
“No problem. Take care.” He walked down the front steps quickly and jogged across to the wide walkway that fronted the beach. When he had gone about 50 yards he looked back.
The front hall light had been turned off, so the firelight from the living room still played on the door windowpanes. He supposed she had gone back into the kitchen. He was just trying to remember her name when he stopped suddenly.
Up on the third floor, just under the eaves, was a small dormer window. He thought for a second he had seen some movement up there―a shadow of some kind―but now, as the January wind whipped around him and the stars shone out bright above the old house, he decided he must have been mistaken. Besides, he thought, she was too pretty to be there alone. There was probably some guy upstairs unpacking.