Ocean's Offering (Part One)
expect part two sometime soon.
-zebra
The rain came down in torrents the night Jobe found the washed up body. He was standing in his balcony, cigarette in mouth, the smoke twirling up. The wind was rough and the rain fell haphazardly, slapping against the roof. With the sudden blue flashes of the lightning he could spot the dark outline of the shore below. Rain. He liked it better than the sun. The way it was dark, and concealed everything, and just sort of droned on. He found it soothing.
He waves were just as troubled as the sky, crashing into the shore, the water seemed to boil and spill, swaying back and forth viciously. He let out a ring of smoke and leaned forward, closing his eyes and letting the rain drops pierce his face. When he opened his eyes the lighting flashed and everything around him lit up dark blue, outlines and shapes came into focus. He was staring right at it. It could have been a small dinghy, a large fish, a log even, but at that moment his first instinct was that it was a body. A dead body. Jobe wasn't much for mysteries and murders and this horrified him. It was dark around him again so he couldn't see the lump of the shore, but he couldn't get it out his mind. He brought his cigarette to his lips again, contemplating on what to do. What if it was just a log and seaweed? He'd only seen it for a few seconds, there was no knowing it was a body. He'd wait for lightning to flash again he'd get another glimpse at the thing. Jobe waited for five minutes, but the lightening didn't flash again. What if the body was alive? I couldn't be alive, not in this storm. Probably drowned. Jobe's cigarette was now reduced to a small butt, and he dropped it off the balcony, watching it as it disappeared in the dark wind an rain. What if it was alive?
He was at the beach, the sand black and muddy, and the rain unrelentingly drilling on him. Wind blew in great tufts, slapping his face. His hands were raw with cold. Now where was it? He glanced around the beach, tugging at the strings of his hood. He slushed onwards remembering that the body at being right in front of his view fom the balcony. He couldn't see properly at all, and peered intently at the ground each time he took a step. Why hadn't he brought a flash light? He cursed himself. This is it. It should be here somewhere. He softly kicked the sand around him with his foot, probing for the body. His foot hit something soft and he tripped, falling on top it. Terrified he scampered forward on all fours, cursing outrageously. He paused and took a deep breath looking back toward the body. The rain continued pouring just as unrelentingly. He was covered in mud, and this time the rain piercing his face and hands didn't bother him. He leaned forward toward the body, staring at its face. It was a boy. Probably somewhere between the age of twelve to fourteen. With a shaking hand, Jobe felt the boy's pulse. He was alive! Bringing both his hands forward Jobe preformed CPR and the boy's body shook with coughs as water water poured out from his mouth and nose. His eyes flickered, but he didn't wake up.
..
“You want some more coffee?” Jobe asked as he poured himself another cup. Coffee and cigarettes, his biggest weakness. He lit another cigarette. Together they made the perfect combination for him. He puffed at his cigarette after each sip of coffee.
“Smoking's bad for your lungs,” the boy said, looking up from his cereal bowl.
“So's drowning.”
The boy looked back into his bowl and mumbled, “I didn't drown.”
“You almost did.” Jobe sighed and pulled his chair forward toward the boy, “Now it's time you tell me the full story. And the truth.”
“I told you I don't remember. I just remember swimming like mad, and then reaching the shore here, and then I think I passed out.”
“And before that?”
“I don't remember!”
Jobe narrowed his eyes, “You swam to shore in that storm. Kid no one can swim in that water. Now you tell me who you are and where you're from and we can get you home.”
“I told you I'm Rudy Walkins.”
“How do I know you're not making that name up?”
The boy shrugged, taking a spoonful of his cereal. “I'm going to have to take you the police if you don't help me out.We've got to get you identified and sent home.Your folks must be looking for you. ”
“I'm an orphan.”
“Right.”
“I am!”
Jobe rubbed the back of his neck and leaned back in his chair, tapping the cigarette in a saucer. The kid continued eating his cereal. Dark blond hair, brown eyes, an abundance of freckles dotted his hands and face.
“How old are you kid?”
“Sixteen.” Jobe didn't believe him.
“Where do you live?”
“I don't know.”
“You mean you don't remember?”
“Yea.”
“But you remember you're an orphan.”
“Stop with the questions old man. I'll leave and you don't have to worry about this shit.”
“Fine with me. But where are you going to go?”
“That's my business.”
“Listen kid it wasn't any of my business hauling you up from the beach and taking care of you. So maybe you should be a little more grateful.”
“You should have left me there then.”
“You would have died.”
“Whatever,” the boy mumbled, clearly upset.
“Did you run away kid?” Jobe pressed on.
“No!”
“Look kid I'm going to rat on you. I understand if you got mean folks back home--”
“I don't have a home.”
“Or at the orphanage, or streets or wherever you're from. I won't send you back if you tell me what happened or what's wrong. Did you commit a crime? Just tell me so I can help you.” The boy looked up at Jobe, his face expressionless. He stared at him for a while, as if contemplating. The boy puzzled Jobe. At first Jobe thought he'd fallen over board from a ship and luckily washed up on shore while he was still alive. But it didn't all add up. The boy wouldn't tell him exactly what had happened, and seemed especially secretive about his family. Jobe wasn't nosey, he wouldn't have cared if the boy had run away, but the way he'd washed up during the storm was eerie. It just didn't seem right. He half wanted to go the police and get him identified, or see if there was any missing posters of him. But he felt just as uncomfortable going to the police. Jobe ran his eyes over the boy, who stared back at him coolly. The boy put an assured air, a tough, uncooperative demeanour, impenetrable, but Jobe knew what it mean when people shielded themselves like this. He knew just how vulnerable this kid was. Don't get too involved in him, Jobe, he warned himself, better not stick your nose where it doesn't belong.
“I'm leaving today so you don't have to worry about it,” the boy said quietly, looking down at his cereal again.
The sun poured from the kitchen windows, on the arms and hands of the boy and the man. The room was spacious, a bright white with blue-grey borders. The sun illuminated the fine grains of the wooden furniture. The kitchen table, a dark oak table, upon which the boy was having his cereal, and the man his cigarette and coffee was a small table located to the east of the room, under a small window. The sea was not visible from this window, but the sound of it could be heard from all corners of the house. The house was not neat, but casually messy, the furniture and décor simple; it was evident the man lived by himself.
“I once ran away too you know.”
“What happened?” The boy said, trying not to show any interest. He didn't look up, but scraped his spoon against the insides of the bowl. He waited for Jobe to speak.
“I think all kids run away sometime in their lives. At least they try to. Most of them come back, some don't,” he shrugged, “I was one of those kids who went back. My parents didn't even realize I'd run away. It was all in the middle of the night.” He traced the rim of the coffee mug with his fingers. “My mother and father—there was all this fighting and yelling, and I just had to get away from it all. And I guess I kind of wanted them to notice me gone. I didn't exactly want to run away and never see them again. I just wanted them to feel bad. Kind of punish them, you know?” He nodded to himself, “I just wanted them to come find me, and maybe make them realize how selfish they were being.” He laughed. “That was boyhood, kid. I understand if you ran away. I hope you'll come to your senses and go home when you're ready.”
“I told you I'm an orphan.”
“Somehow I don't believe that.”
“How come?”
“You seem well brought up. You have neat manners, clean habits. Even if you're an orphan, you have a home. You're not from the streets, kid,” he lowered his voice, “What is it? Foster family not nice?”
“Why the hell do you care?”
“You're living in my house. What if you're a criminal. I deserve to know if I'm sheltering a criminal.”
“What—you're going to tun me in to the police?”
“What if I did?”
“I'm not a criminal, alright!”
“I thought you didn't remember your past,” Jobe smirked.
“Screw you, Jobe.”
“Listen kid, you can't leave tonight. Fever might come back again. Go back to bed and get some sleep.”
“Why do you care?”
“Rudy,” Jobe stretched his hand out, but Rudy flinched and jumped back.
“Don't touch me, you perv!”
Jobe threw up his hand, backing down. “Alright, I won't. Sorry.” Neither said anything for a while. They could hear the sound of people on the beach. The sounds were like echoes, shadows of people. Muffled laughs and shouts as tourists and beach goers took to the waves were usually a cheerful sound, but sometimes they made Jobe feel empty and hollow inside. As if they echoed what was missing. But the screeching of gulls, and the sound of the waves crashing was soothing. They were like him. Alone in their world, quiet and resilient.
Jobe go up and put his coffee mug in the sink. As he washed the mug, he wondered what he was going to do about the kid. His moody and defiant nature irked Jobe. He was a headache, but Jobe didn't feel right turning him out just yet. Maybe when he's better he thought to himself.
“When you're feeling better, you're welcome to join me a the corner store down the road. I could use some help.”
Rudy nodded, passing his bowl to him. “I'm going to sleep for a while,” he said, then disappeared toward the guest room.
Jobe decided he'd order pizza that night. Kids liked pizza.
