Little White Boats on the Blue Sea by Soren Peterson

From where Will was standing, he could see the mountains. The peaks were black against the red sky, beams of light were cast across the city. The orange glow illuminated the cramped confines of the parking booth, blinding Will. He sat in the orange heat, light glinting off of the fan raging behind him.

It was only a minute walk to the corner. Will could see it from his place in the parking lot. He rose from his position in the booth, opened the sliding glass door and entered the desert heat. The warmth radiated from the concrete, released into the purple twilight above. Will savored the feeling of the hot pavement through his shoes. He had once told Marta that the feeling was as if someone had latched radiators to each of his feet. She had laughed at the image.

Will strolled on the sidewalk past the service door to the hotel. Neon lights illuminated the roadway. Traffic was thick now. He looked at his watch. The locals were leaving work and tourists were coming in for the weekend. The red flashing words, “ Good Times Casino and Inn” were reflected on the windshield of the passing cars. Through the glare, Will could see the faces of the passengers, eyes raised to the hotels above, mouths open, faces filled with anticipation.

Irene picked him up right on time, the Buick Lasabre coasting to a stop in the crosswalk. He climbed into the car, barely pausing to look at her. Her eyes darted from one side of the road to the other, looking for openings in the evening traffic.

“Good day?” she said. A cigarette hung from the lower corner of her mouth. Will now noticed pieces of ash cascading from her lip to her creased blue jeans. Three cigarettes of ash littered her pants. Like little white boats on the blue sea, he thought.

“Good as any, no complaints.” He continued to look at the waterfall of ash as he spoke. Will turned to the window. They were now in the midst of traffic. The bright lights of the casinos had blocked out the stars.

Irene's glare continued to remain on the tail lights of the car in front of her. Will could make out the smooth surface of the caked powder on her sagging cheeks. Even when they were married, he had not found her pretty.

“I shouldn't get rides from you anymore, Irene,” he mumbled. He studied the pattern of the wrinkles on her cheeks.

“Doesn't make any difference to me. You're on the way home.”

Will thought there was no point in bringing up the divorce now, her adultery, the five years it took him to see. Marta had revealed it to Will nearly fifteen years ago now, calmly sitting him down on the couch and explaining how another man had picked her up from school on Wednesdays and Thursdays. He had smiled, unsure of how to react. He had not seen Marta for five years now. She had escaped to the naval yards of San Diego, piloting boats across the bay. He had visited once; the sea air poisoned his lungs and sight of water made him long for the mesquite plains of desert.

Will stared back out the window. The casinos were far behind them now, deep behind the rows of ranch houses and gray soundwalls. They continued in silence into the darkness of the desert.

***

An envelope was taped to Will’s door when he arrived. His name was written across the face in sharp block letters. He did not know the handwriting. Will placed the note in his pocket and took the key from his pocket. He unlatched the door and entered the tired trailer. Worn magazines and newspapers littered the living room floor. The light on the street illuminated pictures of celebrities and presidents. He sat down at the cloth chair in the corner of the room and carefully opened the envelope, using the nail of his forefinger to remove the adhesive seal. Inside, there was a folded piece of paper on Navy letterhead. A squat paragraph lay on the page, typed in thin black letters, as if by typewriter. Will quickly skimmed the text. It began:

Dear Mr. Darian,

This letter is to inform you that your daughter, Marta Darian, Chief Petty Officer US Navy, was hit by a speedboat during a training exercise in North San Diego Bay on June 23. We were unable to contact you directly after the accident due to difficulty in obtaining your address. She is in critical care at Naval Medical Center San Diego…

He looked up from the letter and stared blankly at the empty television screen across the room. The house was still dark, the only light provided by the shafts of light cast from the street. Will turned the chair to the window. Two coyotes ran across the middle of the cul-de-sac, disappearing into the dry streambed bordering the house next to the streetlight. Howls materialized out of the warm desert night.

Will rose and hobbled to the front door of the house, still open. He entered the street and walked away from the cul-de-sac towards the restaurant at the end of the street. Bright lights exploded onto the night sky a quarter mile away. The street was empty.

***

The Desert Pizza Palace was empty at this time of night. A lone truck sat in the parking lot; its driver huddled over his plate. Will pushed the glass doors open, leaving the comfortable heat of the night behind. Cold air enveloped him immediately. He approached the counter. A tall bony man, perhaps 60 years of age, stood in front of the gleaming pizza ovens. In the brightness of the store, his complexion appeared red and muddied. His face was wrinkled, contorted in the sharp light. A plastic nametag was affixed to his apron, the name Rob scrawled in tiny writing on its face.

“The slots have been hot tonight, Will. It’s your lucky day,” Rob’s voice crackled through the dry cold air.

“Rob, my little girl was hit by a boat last month down in California,” Will paused, his eyes catching Rob’s. “How’s about you let me use your car this weekend. I’ve got to see Marta.”

Rob stared at Will, his fingers rapping on the metal counter in a regular rhythm. He answered after a short pause.

“I’ll let you use it for a hundred dollars. That’s a deal you know, specially after what havoc you caused last time. My old Honda was a good little car back before you hit that house in January,”

“That wasn't my fault. Anyway, you know I can’t afford that sort of money. I’m broke more or less the entire time now.”

“Well, that’s my offer. We’ll see,” Rob motioned towards the bank of slots at the rear of the restaurant, now empty, unoccupied.

Will scowled to himself and walked to the rear of the restaurant. The slot machines sparkled against the plate glass windows, screens glowing white and red, playing cards flashing. Everything beyond the windows was dark. The stool next to the slots was cold and hard. The weathered legs shook when Will supported himself on it. He took a folded twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and brought it to the counter, exchanging it for a bag of quarters. Rob smiled faintly when he opened the cash register.

Will returned to his station at the machine, the first quarter already gripped in his hand. The cards began to come on the screen. Jacks. Queens. Fives. Will continued to play. All he needed was a small win, something towards the hundred. Within forty-five minutes, the first twenty dollars was gone. Will sighed and rose from his seat. He walked past the bright pizza counter to the restaurant’s glass door and entered the dark heat of the desert. In the distance, he thought he could see the outline of the mountains against the purple night. The city light had illuminated the dark, leaving a blue glow throughout the desert plain. Beyond the mountains and the desert, his daughter was lying in a hospital bed, he was sure of that.

Will wiped his hands on his pants and entered the restaurant once again. He took another folded twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and carefully stretched it, pressing the folds against his pant leg to erase the creases. Rob was sitting in a low wooden chair, his head buried in a newspaper, his right hand tapping the chair to the rhythm of the radio. Will walked through the maze of tables towards the counter and carefully placed the twenty in front of Rob. Rob looked up at Will, hand still rapping the chair and smiled faintly.

***

At ten o’clock that night, the parking lot was empty. With every passing truck, gusts of dry air were expelled into the parking lot, burning Will’s face. The road to California was barren, devoid of cars. Only large trucks, sides emblazoned with the names of supermarkets and moving services, were present, moving toward the city. Will began to walk along the road. Gnarled mesquite squeezed through the cracks on the shoulder. California was distant, beyond the towns disappearing into the desert - Borax, Roach, Calada. He began to sweat in the evening heat, water dripping from his tired forehead to the pavement below.

Will looked up. A van sped past, leaving behind it a burst of air. He staggered in the wind, suddenly unable to go on. The heat was too much, making his legs feel soft and unsteady. He looked at the black desert horizon, his daughter’s body impossibly far beyond. The lights of the Pizza Palace were white behind him, casting his shadow across the mesquite fields. Suddenly he stopped and turned, facing the restaurant once again.

***

Will moved from the counter towards the slots, his hand heavy with a cup of coins. The white cards on the screens flashed. Straight, Full House, Flush. Card combinations that Will saw only once or twice a week. The white cards moved on the screens. Behind the flashing machines, the blue night lay beyond the plate glass windows. Like little white boats moving on a blue California sea, he thought. His eyes began to tear, sending small rivulets down his cheek. He placed his first quarter into the slot on the slot and began to play.