Surfacing

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Cate Masters on Smashwords

  Surfacing

  Copyright © 2013 by Cate Masters

  First published by Whiskey Creek Press in 2011

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

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  View more books by Cate Masters at

  http://catemasters.blogspot.com

  or select online book retailers.

  To Gary, always my hero. Smooth sailing ahead, babe.

  Chapter One

  AJ stood on the broken concrete step at 217 Shoal Line Boulevard, the salty Gulf air carrying the crash of waves, the piercing cry of a seagull. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Even at six in the evening, the sun beat on him with brutal intensity. He’d forgotten how damn hot Florida could be if you weren’t at a water park, or swimming, or indoors in air conditioning, say, at a movie theater, your fingers working behind a girl’s bra.

  He closed his eyes and inhaled. Get it over with. As he raised his hand to knock, the door burst open.

  The old man glared at him. “What the hell are you smiling about?”

  AJ adjusted the strap of his duffel bag. “Hello, Grandpa.”

  “Don’t stand on the porch looking like an idiot. I’m not cooling the outside.”

  Some things never changed. His grandfather’s expressions, for instance.

  AJ stepped inside the dark bungalow and winced. A pungent smell assaulted his senses, stale air conditioning and mustiness. An old man smell. Though in truth, Grandpa wasn’t so old. Sixty-seven. Dark hair sprinkled with silver with a touch of gray at his short sideburns. Barrel-chested, with a slim waist. Still handsome and virile, according to Mom.

  “Now what?” With his downturned mouth, Grandpa looked like a bulldog. But his bark had always been worse than his bite.

  “Maybe you should air the place out.” Or clean it. Or maybe get away from it once in awhile.

  Grandpa went to the kitchen, separated from the living room by a half-wall. “Put your things in the room at the end of the hall.”

  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, familiar images came into view: the same old couch. The velvet painting of Elvis hanging in the living room over the credenza holding an Elvis figurine, an Elvis music box. On every shelf and tabletop, folk art carvings of mermaids Grandpa had carved since Mom was little.

  Yup, some things never changed. In this house, it was still the 1960s.

  AJ carried his bag and guitar case down the narrow hallway. He shoved open the door—the wood had swelled, making it stick—and blew through his lips. With the shades drawn, the bedroom had no more light than the rest of the house. The bed, bureau and desk were in the same place they had always been. His memories of this room, unlike the stale of the rest of the house, came back fresh.

  From the kitchen, his grandfather yelled, “Don’t mind the mess.”

  “No problem.” Yeah, the boxes were new. Grandpa had retired eight months ago (AJ could imagine the local high school kids’ collective sigh of relief as English class became less daunting), and probably alleviated his boredom by packing up old stuff. A lot of it might have been Grandma’s, though AJ had never known her. Boxes overstuffed with clothes and shoes, old photo albums, letters tied into bundles with ribbons. Boxes on the floor, on the bed.

  At least here, he had a bed. At his cousin Ned’s apartment, he’d had to sleep on the sofa. With two cats. Listening to Ned and his girlfriend bang away. The night she slipped out of Ned’s room wearing nothing but her flimsy robe and let it fall open as she straddled him on the sofa, well, all hell had broken loose. Man, he was only human. Ned would have done the same thing. But Ned didn’t want to hear it.

  AJ pulled up the blinds of the windows, taller than him and as wide as they were tall.

  After he stacked all the boxes in rows along the wall, he sat on the bed beneath the windows. Though they were overdue for a wash, the bed had sheets and a cover. He could do laundry. He wasn’t as useless as his mother had accused him of being when she kicked him out.

  Not a bad room, really. He’d remembered it as larger, but he’d been a kid then. A shrimp, at seven years old.

  Not like he had a choice now.

  He went to the kitchen, where Grandpa scowled at the newspaper as he sat by the sliding glass doors at the same yellow flecked Formica table he and Grandpa and Mom sat around so many years ago. About the only normalcy AJ had ever known.

  Grandpa peered over his bifocals. “I made a pot of meatballs. Make yourself a sandwich.”

  “OK.” AJ stifled a wince as he lifted the lid. Even the meatballs looked worn out. He wondered how many times his grandfather had reheated them. Except for a pack of crumbled vending machine crackers hastily bought at the station and not so hastily eaten on the bus, AJ hadn’t had any food since last night.

  Though Grandpa turned the page of the newspaper, AJ felt the weight of his attention, his constant assessment, as he said, “Still make my own sauce. Tomatoes grow like weeds down here. Go on, eat. Plates are in the cupboard. Rolls are there on the counter. They’re a bit crusty.”

  Crusty. Another word for old. The roll resisted the knife as AJ cut.

  The old man winked. “It’ll put hair on your chest. Eh?” His raucous laugh bounced off the tan linoleum decorated with seashells. As a boy, AJ pretended he walked on the ocean floor instead of a tiny kitchen. Before the floor had cracked. As far as he could tell, his grandfather hadn’t made any improvements to the place since then. Like an unkempt museum to the past. Maybe now he had retired, Grandpa would see just how faded and worn it all looked.

  He sat opposite his grandfather and shoved the sauce-soaked roll to his mouth.

  His grandfather folded the newspaper and leveled his gaze at him. “Tomorrow morning, we’re going to see my friend Tobias. He has the perfect job for you.”

  “Perfect.” AJ could imagine. At this point, he couldn’t argue. Later, he’d search for a better job. Right now, he had to keep his grandfather happy so he wouldn’t kick him out like everyone else.

  As the roll crunched in his teeth, AJ looked out the doors. Outside, palm trees, hibiscus and ferns rimmed the flagstone patio. They were all taller now, tall enough to act as a hedge. Beyond, a glimmer of white atop cerulean blue: the ocean. The one place that felt like home.

  After he’d turned seven, his mom had moved him across a succession of states, farther north each time. South Carolina. Virginia. New Jersey, starting in Cape May, then Atlantic City, to Long Beach. Always in view of the ocean.

  In his teens, after one of the many bands he’d joined finally found some success, AJ toured with them. They usually traveled farther inland, and AJ didn’t see the ocean for months. It left him unsettled, until he came within a mile of the shore and his skin could absorb the salty breeze, and he could almost feel the wet sand on his feet.

  His grandfather stood and hobbled to the fridge. “Want a beer?”

  AJ choked down the stale roll. “Sure.”

  Grandpa set a can on the table. “First one’s free.” He wheezed a laugh, which became a loud clearing of his throat. He pushed open the sliding glass doors, stepped onto the patio. No sooner had he sat on a metal glider, he began working a knife against a block of wood.

  AJ followed and filled his lungs with the ocean breeze. “You still carving mermaids?”

  Grandpa held it at arm’s length. “Try
ing to. It’s not so easy, with eyes as bad as mine.”

  “Maybe you need new glasses.” AJ sipped his beer. His grandfather would be true to his word. With exactly seventy-two cents in his pocket, AJ wanted to make the beer last. In a few weeks, a paycheck might be coming. If he could stand the job until then.

  Grandpa harrumphed. “A new car, too, while you’re at it.”

  AJ sat next to him. “Let me see.”

  His grandfather held it up as tenderly as if it were glass. The rough outline showed a flipper curving to a tail up to a slim waist, ample breasts concealed by clam shells. The face he always left until last. Then he’d become frustrated, say he could never get it right. And start a new one.

  “Beautiful as ever.” AJ stifled a grin. “For once, though, I wish you’d leave the shells off.”

  “Pah. You’re still a kid. You don’t know anything.”

  AJ twisted the ring off the can. “Oh, I know a few things. I’m not so little anymore.”

  His grandfather chuckled. “Twenty one is still a baby. A baby. You live to be my age, then you’ll know something.”

  “Like what?” AJ liked this game. One of the few family traditions they had.

  “Like everything.” He stared out through the ferns to where people still wandered the beach, playing Frisbee, flying a kite, walking. “Like life.”

  The sun dipped its edge into the water, sending a flotilla of rays toward them.

  “Like mermaids?” AJ tipped the can to his lips and watched his grandfather’s reaction.

  Grandpa gripped the glider’s arm. “Someday you’ll know–you don’t know as much as you think you know.”

  “I know.” He made his face as innocent-looking as the day he and Mom moved out.

  Grandpa did a double-take, then waved away his remark.

  AJ chuckled.

  Pushing himself up, Grandpa stood, looking out toward the waves. “I’m going to watch the news, then go to bed. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow will be a long day at work.” He looked at AJ pointedly. “Work–remember what work is?”

  His grandfather never acknowledged the grueling schedule of his band as work.

  Three years ago, he’d left home, sure his indie band would hit MTV’s Top 10 play list. They played for hours, till his fingers were numb from the guitar strings. Crashed into bed at four or five, then got up to work at the convenience store, then perform at another gig.

  At first, the band had had few bookings. After the lead singer left, AJ stepped to the mike in his place. Girls loved him. More gigs followed. When the drummer’s girlfriend came on to him, AJ knew it was a bad move, but he’d had too much to drink, and she looked hotter than any girl he’d seen in months. The drummer was a good guy. He didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve her either, though. She could make her own decisions, couldn’t she? Still, AJ didn’t blame him for leaving, but AJ’s indiscretion ended their band. A year ago, the band bottomed out, unable to find another good drummer.

  So much for dreams.

  His mom put up with him for eight months as he lie on the sofa, remote in hand, complaining no good shows ever played on TV. He hated TV. Mostly because his band would never be on it. Not now.

  AJ rocked the glider back. He knew about work, all right. Grueling work. “If I don’t remember, you’ll remind me.”

  “Damn right.” Grandpa opened the door, then paused. “Welcome home, boy.”

  He wanted to say thanks, good to be home, but his throat tightened, and he didn’t trust himself to say anything for fear of blubbering. Doing so would spawn relentless reminders from the old man.

  With a nod, he bit his lip.

  He finished his beer as the sun disappeared into the sea, an orange-gold ball of flame he’d be cursing tomorrow.

  Chapter Two

  Since AJ was born, all he’d heard about were the Weeki Wachee mermaids. He knew the history of the place as if Grandpa had lived it. Since 1947, Weeki Wachee Springs boasted the country’s only mermaid show. Nineteen women trained for months to perform acrobatics and theatrics, from the Underwater Follies to Pocahontas to the Little Mermaid. Holding their breath for up to two and a half minutes, the costumed mermaids glided and twirled through the crystal clear spring water, did choreographed moves and their most impossible feat–drinking cola and eating underwater.

  The way his grandfather talked about Weeki Wachee, the Olympics were remiss in not having a mermaid competition.

  Grandpa pulled into the parking lot. “Here we are. Tobias is waiting.”

  AJ shut the door of the old Caprice. “Sweet.”

  When he rounded the back of the car, he noticed the bumper sticker: Have you hugged a mermaid today?

  “Grandpa.”

  His grandfather’s bulldog face peered over the car roof. “What?”

  He winced. “Nice bumper sticker.”

  “It’s the town’s livelihood. You expect me not to support it? And soon it’ll be supporting you. Now come on.” As he turned, Grandpa muttered, “Even the mayor performed as a mermaid, but is that good enough for my grandson?”

  AJ suspected the bumper sticker to be more than a show of support for the locals.

  In a showdown with his will, AJ walked like Brando across the blacktop, already sizzling with waves of rising heat.

  Grandpa led him through the gate. Tobias stood outside, supervising the landscapers’ work.

  When his grandfather announced AJ, Tobias’ face fell as his gaze skipped from AJ’s near-shoulder-length, layered hair to his faded T-shirt to his worn jeans, but he forced a smile and shook hands. “Good to see you again, AJ. Go speak with Harry. He’ll get you set up.”

  AJ walked in the direction Tobias had jerked his head. On the walls inside the entrance were photos of celebrities who’d visited Weeki Wachee over the years, including a young Elvis with several smiling blondes. He’d have to ask his grandfather about it.

  A man who looked to be fiftyish stood speaking to a trim young woman with blonde hair flowing down her back. The girl smiled at AJ as she left. The man’s name tag read Harry.

  “Hi, I’m AJ Dillon. Tobias sent me.” He held out his hand.

  Harry shook it. “Good, you’re early. Come with me.”

  As if he had a choice, on either count.

  AJ followed him down a hall, where Harry unlocked the door marked Storage and switched on the light. “What size shirt are you?”

  “Large.” At five eleven, he gave up hope as ever qualifying for the Tall size.

  From a box on the shelf, Harry pulled a polo shirt with the Weeki Wachee logo and handed it to AJ. “Put this on.”

  AJ pulled off his T-shirt, put on the polo, then followed Harry to the Employees Only door.

  “Here are the lockers to stow your personal effects. Can you drive a boat?”

  AJ threw his T-shirt into an empty locker. “Yeah, sure.” His total experience encompassed a few midnight excursions with high school buddies, liberating a vessel or two from its dock, but the Weeki Wachee pontoons weren’t exactly speed boats requiring any real expertise.

  “Good. We’ll put you on as cruise pilot this afternoon. Marge is sick, so you’ll man the ticket booth this morning until Bob comes in. Then come to the Wilderness River Cruise and I’ll get you started there.”

  Before leaving the booth, Harry glared at him. “Make sure the cash box has the right amount at the end of your shift.”

  AJ shrugged. “Sure.”

  “First show’s at ten.” Harry nodded toward the parking lot. “Here come your first customers.”

  Sure enough, a man and woman with two young girls walked toward the booth. What began as a trickle of people became a steady stream carrying the morning away.

  Before AJ knew it, Bob showed up to take his place, smiling. His gold chains drew attention from his dull teeth and slicked-back hair, too black for his wrinkled face. AJ wondered if everyone in Weeki Wachee belonged to AARP.

  The booth be
came two sizes too small as Bob stepped in. “How’s your first day so far? Pretty good?”

  If pretty good excluded being so bored he wanted to crash his skull against the baked pavement rather than spend another split second in the booth selling tickets, then yes, AJ’s day so far had been pretty good. The intermittent show times left no down time, but the work numbed his brain.

  Except for the mermaids. The only thing bearable about the job. Three had stopped on their way inside to say hello. AJ spent the rest of the morning imagining them in and out of their costumes.

  “Yeah. Pretty good.” AJ hoped he’d added the correct inflection to feign enthusiasm. He went to find Harry.

  The noon show drew him to the immense glass wall of the Underwater Theater. Though at least half the audience hadn’t reached puberty, all watched in rapt admiration as three mermaids swirled and spun while they swam.

  Their long hair fanned from their heads in the clear spring waters. Like a spotlight from heaven, shafts of sunlight illuminated the mermaids. If he hadn’t seen them walking into the building in their T-shirts and shorts this morning, heard one complain about her husband, it would be easy to believe they were the real thing. Especially with the stingray gliding past them as if they’d been lifelong neighbors. They swam with such graceful movements, seemingly unburdened by their cumbersome tails. His grandfather said the things weighed a ton. But then the mermaids reached for the air hoses and broke the illusion.

  “Pretty hot for fish, huh?” said a man beside him.

  His name tag said Chaz. He wore wrinkled blue overalls and the shifty look of a street corner hawker. His goatee looked unnervingly even, as if he took pains to ensure every hair followed a straight line. Something about his intense grey eyes made AJ want to make sure his wallet still resided in his pocket. The fact he stood a few inches shorter than AJ added to his ratlike appearance.

  “They’re mammals,” AJ deadpanned.

  “What?” Befuddled, the guy clutched his broom, then broke out in a grin. “Oh, yeah, smart guy. They’re still hot. I’d like to catch one in my net.”