Month: September 2024

A woman fired from her university teaching position struggles to find her way forward. An unlikely encounter reveals a note of hope.

I don’t often write in first-person POV, but this story seemed to need it. Please enjoy!

A Light After Sunset

Bob Gillen

As the setting sun slides below the day’s cloud cover, I turn away from the view. I feel the dying warmth on my back as I plod through the sand. My own footprints are lost among the thousands of footprints pockmarking the beach. Pretty much how I feel today. Lost. Down near the water’s edge a man sets up a tripod to capture photos of the sunset. This puzzles me. These images can be beautiful. But photographing something that is dying? I yearn for the glory of an open beach in full sun, its golden sand shining brightly, kissed over and over by sparkling waves. 

I take in one long breath of the salt air as I leave the beach. Someone has decorated the path over the dunes with strips of driftwood, even a few worn lobster trap buoys. The colors on the buoys seem to match my appearance this evening. Denim shorts, an old red tee, a floppy white hat atop my head. A black shoulder bag sits against my side. Like the buoys I feel worn. Faded. Tired.

 The path takes me to a near-empty parking lot, where I brush sand from my feet and slip on my flip-flops. Labor Day passed last week. Tourists are gone. Locals have regained their home ground. I walk the road that takes me to town. The smell of hot asphalt assaults my nose. 

This is a town I am unfamiliar with. I am like a leftover tourist. A coffee shop displays an OPEN sign in the window. I step in, purchase a hot tea and an almond croissant, and carry my snack through the town.

At the marina on the bay side two gulls startle me with their screeching as they fight over an empty bag of chips. I find the cabin cruiser I rented for several weeks. The New Dawn. A lovely, 35-foot boat, well maintained but rarely out of its slip. I balance the tea as I step aboard. Many of the other boats have already moved on to their home ports. I sit in a folding beach chair on the deck, setting my tea and croissant on the rail. 

My phone is in my hand before I realize I’m holding it. A habit I hope to break while I’m here. My messages are few. No job offers. An email from a former student who has found a new MFA program online. He seems happy with the move.

I sip my tea, a delightful drink with a hint of cinnamon. The croissant is surprisingly tasty. I stare at my phone. I had expected to be busy teaching my ninth year of creative writing in an MFA program. The university shut the program down unexpectedly. My students found placement in other programs. I was fired. Budget cuts, they claimed. Not enough interest in a program that did not lead to a lucrative career for its grads.

I am here now, sitting alone on a rented boat as semesters begin across the country.  Sitting here, on a boat that doesn’t go to sea any more. A teacher who won’t step into a class this year. Maybe never.

This boat is comfortable enough. In the cabin two narrow bunks, a tiny toilet, a galley that can accommodate a kettle and a burner for a small fry pan. A shelf with a row of old books lining one side. Space for me to stow clothes and my own books. The cabin smells faintly of varnish and burnt coffee.

The sun is down now and night edges in. Lights flicker on all around the marina and the town. I hear the sound of a conversation drifting over from a boat five slips farther away. The scent of aromatic cherry tobacco drifts on the breeze. Ice cubes tinkle on glass. An older couple enjoys drinks, talking about where they want to eat dinner. A majestic sport boat motors by, in from a day of fishing, its gentle wake slurping under my boat.

I finish my tea and swallow the last of the croissant. In spite of the hot tea the cool evening air makes me shiver. I step into the cabin to retrieve a sweatshirt. When I return to the deck, a woman is standing dockside, looking across at my boat.

I nod to the woman, sit in my chair. Without looking up I can feel the woman continuing to stare at the boat. At me. I glance at my phone again, turn an eye to see the woman still standing there. The woman looks sunburned, her graying hair tousled. She wears patched jeans, a tattered Christmas sweater with a red pompom, two different sneakers. She holds a plastic bag stuffed full of what looks like clothes.

The intrusion makes me squirm. I don’t need this. Not tonight. Not ever.

The woman shuffles her feet, turns away. I call out, surprised by the sound of my own voice. “Can I help you?”

The woman turns back. She shakes her head. Turns away again. Remains standing in place.

“Would you like to sit for a bit?”

I point to a folded beach chair on the deck.

The woman turns to face me. Without a sound she steps aboard, sets her bag down, unfolds the chair. She sits.

The woman seems to melt into the chair, sighing with comfort. 

“It’s only a flimsy beach chair,” I say.

The woman nods, avoiding eye contact. 

A long scar on the woman’s neck catches my eye. 

I point. “Have you had surgery?”

The woman touches her neck, nods slowly. Her eyes fall to the floor of the deck.

“I can’t offer any food,” I say. “I plan to shop tomorrow.”

The woman shrugs. She reaches into her bag, pulls out a candy bar. She unwraps it and takes a bite.

“I like your sweater.”

The woman looks down, seems surprised at the Christmas display, a reindeer with a huge red nose.. She cracks a tiny smile.

I glance at my phone again. Old  habit. No one will reach out. I shove it in my pocket.

A gentle night breeze brushes my face. Light from a nearby lamppost falls on the woman. She chews slowly on her candy bar. Almost oblivious to my presence. I think, Now what? She can’t stay here all night.

My curiosity grows. Who is she? Where is she from?

A marina security guard strolls by. He nods to me. Calls out to the woman, “Hi, Dasha.” He walks on as she gives him a brief wave. 

“Your name is Dasha?”

She nods as she pushes the empty candy wrapper into her bag.

“I’m Letitia,” I say.

Another silent nod. Still no eye contact.

The darkness is complete now. Full quiet has fallen on the marina. It’s me and Dasha. Sitting here. Not speaking.

Dasha reaches into her bag, pulls out a small spiral-bound notebook and a pen. She turns her chair so the light from the lamppost falls on her lap. She starts to write. Print, actually. In large letters. She holds it up for me to read.

I have no voice. Surgery and chemo stole my voice.

I reply, “Is that permanent?”

She nods yes. Then shrugs. Her eyes reflect the dark of the water alongside the boat.

“I’m sorry. That must make life difficult for you.”

Dasha once again lifts her shoulders in a shrug, the reindeer on her holiday sweater rising and falling with the movement.

“Do you live around here?” I ask.

She nods once. With her hand she makes a circling motion.

“Here in the town?”

A shrug.

I find myself talking. “I’m renting this boat for a few weeks. I was fired from my job last month. I came here to find a few days of peace. To decide what to do.”

Her eyes lift to meet mine. She smiles. I sense that she understands.

“I don’t know the town. Maybe one day you could walk me around…show me what’s here.”

I see a brightness rise in her eyes. 

Dasha stands. She picks up her bag, pushes the notebook and pen inside.

“Do you have a place to sleep tonight?”

She again makes the circling movement with her arm.

“You’re homeless, right?”

I see her shoulders sag. She starts to climb off the deck.

“Do you want to share my cabin tonight? It’s not much, but it beats sleeping outside.”

Dasha turns, smiles. A tear runs down her cheek. She nods, a firmness in her jaw.

“Let me make tea for us. Then we can turn in for the night. Tomorrow we can figure something out.”

Dasha reaches into her bag, pulls out a zipped bag with several tea bags. She offers one to me. A chamomile bag. I hesitate. Where had this bag been? But I put out my hand and take it. I step down into the galley and set my kettle on the tiny stove. 

Dasha follows me down into the cabin. She points to the bunks. “This one is mine,” I say. “You can have the other.”

She sets her bag on the bunk. Rubs her hand to smooth the blanket covering the bunk. She stretches out, forming a pillow with her bag. 

When I pour the hot water into two mugs, I turn to see that Dasha is sound asleep. I grab an extra blanket stowed under the bunk and drape it over her. 

A weariness washes over me. Ignoring the tea, I lie down on the bunk, still dressed. The smell of chamomile lingers in the cabin. 

A smile breaks across my face. No clue why. I am lying in a rented boat’s cabin. I am jobless. Sleeping in the bunk next to me is a homeless woman named Dasha. A woman who stepped into my life only moments ago. I have no idea why she’s here, or what tomorrow will bring. 

Only hours ago I stood on the beach with my back turned to the sunset. No mind for dying light, I told myself. Now, outside, total darkness has dropped. Yet when I close my eyes a light flickers.  A light rising up from my heart. What comes to mind is standing in wet sand at the edge of the beach as a wave softly washes over my feet. The wave pulls back, sucking sand with it, leaving my feet a bit deeper in the sand. Deeper in the beauty of a sunlit beach.

I smile.

***