FOG (short story)

 by Rebecca Baum *Originally published in Our Magical Pandemic (Anthology), Stone Tiger Books, 2023

~~~

The waves broke from the clouds, boiling whitecaps emerging from thin air. Maxine stumbled in the wet sand, her balance thrown off by the luminous illusion created by the early-spring fog. Her roller bag saved her. Clutching the handle, she turned and fixed her gaze on the dark form advancing through the mist, her husband, Martin.

He was slow, still recovering from the bout of Covid he’d suffered six months ago, or beset with the “long” version. Who knew? The doctor’s convoluted prognosis at last week’s appointment had left them unsure.

When they’d last been on this Fire Island beach, for their honeymoon in 2002, Martin’s physique had drawn glances from men and women alike. Now, his broad shoulders sagged. The barrel chest he’d enjoyed since his college football days had caved. She knew that beneath the murmurs of the ocean, a delicate wheeze sounded with each of his exhales, like a kettle soon to boil.

She regretted the giddy impatience that had prompted her to suggest they “take a stroll” instead of waiting for the next ferry at the pier where they’d prematurely disembarked. A quarter mile in moist sand was more schlep than stroll.

Maxine released the luggage handle, letting the bag plop into the sand. She lowered her small frame onto the soft nylon and waited for Martin to catch up. A little breather and they’d finish the last leg of the journey to the vacation rental.

Hugging herself against the wet chill, she stared at the incoming waves. After each lick of the sand, a silvery film sparkled, then disappeared. In the frothing curl of receding waters, a helmet-shaped object emerged. She pegged it as litter until a spiky tail shot up, as if declaring the existence of life.

 “Horseshoe crab!” she yelled to Martin, who’d almost reached her. She’d seen many of the prehistoric-looking creatures on East Coast beaches over the years, usually overturned carcasses tangled with long tapers of seaweed. But this was her first live sighting.

The thing was a monster, about a foot and a half long, much larger than the dead ones she’d seen. The front section of the wide, glistening shell bore three evenly spaced ridges, front to back. The feet were hidden, creating the effect of an armored Roomba trundling along the beach.

By the time Martin tucked his bag against hers, the sea had drawn the horseshoe crab back into the depths. “What did you say, Max?” he asked. His mask bunched around his neck like a poorly worn cravat.

“A huge horseshoe crab. Freaking bizarre-looking.”

“Sorry I missed it.” Martin brushed long quarterback fingers across the plane of his crew cut, then hiked up his too-loose chinos.

“Why didn’t you wear the new 34s I got you?” she asked.

He shrugged and plopped down next to her. “Superstition? Afraid my body will get the wrong message if I give in and wear the 34s.”

She unzipped her fleece and pushed back the hood. By now, the humidity would have transformed her dark shoulder-length hair from soft curls to an electrified frizz. She covered her husband’s hand with her own, still graceful and strong, but with thickening knuckles. Martin stared ahead. She wondered if his quiet signaled contemplation of the cold Atlantic. Or one of the little lapses he’d been having since the virus. He squeezed her fingers. “Seems like anything could come out of that fog, doesn’t it?”

The last few meters of beach were clean-swept, as if they were the first people in all eternity to mar this pristine stretch. They climbed the stairs to a wooden walkway that led to the small community of beach houses where they’d be staying. The walkway soon branched into a series of crosswalks, each continuing to a conclave of two or three houses. Most of the houses were of a similar style—simple, modern lines built with muted, gray-washed wood that blended into the island’s natural environment.

Martin paused to look at his phone. “It’s a couple of streets over.”

Streets wasn’t quite accurate, Maxine thought. Vehicles were mostly prohibited on the island, and the houses were situated along wide pedestrian pathways of cement or wood planks.

At last they arrived at the beachfront address. A gated partition, the size of a small door, preceded the walkway to the yard. And while the two neighboring structures mirrored the style typical of most of the island’s homes, this two-story house was distinctly different. The wood was dark-stained. The gabled roof was trimmed with fretwork flourishes. A stained-glass nautical window overlooked the screened-in front porch. A shingled turret disappeared into the thick branches of a towering pine tree.

“What was the host’s name?” Martin asked, pausing before the gate.

“Julius.” She wrestled her tongue into submission so that she would not add “Remember?” Who was she to raise the alarm about forgetfulness? Names, book titles, the reason she stood before an open refrigerator—she’d struggled with such things lately. Whether this was caused by menopause, early dementia, stress, her own bout with Covid, or some evil combination of all of the above, she could not say. Nor was she especially interested to find out.

She’d once read that even as the aging brain dulled, it developed new capabilities, including resourcing other brains to fill in the blanks. Maybe between her and Martin, they’d be lucky enough to limp through the final phase of life with the equivalent of one functioning brain.

Martin nudged the gate open, then consulted his phone. “It says here the key is hidden within Kali’s crown.” Sure enough, a small statue of the deity sat on the first of the porch steps. Six arms flared from the voluptuous torso. A long red tongue unfurled between sharp teeth. Maxine dipped her fingers inside the ceramic hollow. “Got it.”

The interior was more typical of a beach house. A worn, comfy couch took up one end of the living room, a rocking chair and big-screen TV the other. A braided oval rug was centered on the wood floor. A faint, sweet odor filled the air, at odds with the damp, piney environment. Maxine circumnavigated the room, chasing the scent. A memory of Howie Deckler, her first kiss beside the pool of the country club to which their families belonged, flashed through her mind. The scent grew fainter, then disappeared.

“Oh!” Martin said, stopping at the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor. A rope was slung waist-high between the newel posts, with a hand-painted sign: Ahoy Matey! Please enjoy the downstairs only.

“Hmm. I thought the house looked bigger than a two-bedroom,” Maxine remarked.

“Max,” Martin said, a gentle shot across the bow. “We’re here. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

“What? I’m not complaining. We have all the room we need. It’s just weird that it wasn’t mentioned in the listing.”

Maxine felt a pebble of resentment growing. The scathing review already started to compose itself in her mind. She resisted the urge, well aware that she was a chronic grudge holder, prone to mistrust and a compulsive pettiness that had plagued her since childhood.

She’d thrown lots of expensive therapy at it, but finally decided to relate to it as a manageable lifelong condition. She’d never be rid of it, but she could choose not to act on it. And the surprising forms her pettiness took were often a source of amusement for her and Martin.

 Maxine slid her arms around her husband’s waist and pressed her face against his broad back. The steady lope of his heart soothed her. “The place is awesome, honey. I’m glad to be here.” And she meant it.

Her good cheer even withstood the disappointment of the downstairs bathroom. She’d planned to chase the chill from her bones with a hot bath once they’d settled in. But there was only a tiny shower. The washing of nether parts would be a yogic endeavor.

“No big deal,” she remarked, after investigating the deck overlooking the ocean. “There’s an awesome outdoor shower.”

They put away the luggage, then prepared cold steak sandwiches from the small reserve of groceries they’d packed. Later, they’d stock up at the island’s lone, overpriced market. They lunched at a small teak table on the deck while reviewing meals for the next week.

“Think we should shop now?” she called to Martin. He’d disappeared into the house with the remains of their sandwiches. A moist breeze wended across the deck and crept beneath her clothes. She shivered, and called again, “Martin?”

When there was no answer, she rose from the table and went inside. Martin was on the couch, his phone clutched in one hand, head thrown back, snoring softly. Through the kitchen doorway, their sandwich plates were visible, freshly washed and drying on the rack.

Unexpectedly, grief knotted her throat. A desolate loneliness swept through her. She felt the urge to shake Martin awake or run up the wooden walkway knocking on the doors of the empty houses. Instead, she undressed, wrapped herself in a towel, grabbed soap and shampoo. She hung the towels inside the outdoor shower and latched the splintery door behind her. A slip of soap moldered on the toiletry shelf. She flicked the bar to the ground, replacing it with her own fragrant square.

 She moaned with pleasure as the shower rained blessed hot water onto her chilled skin. Soon the little space filled with steam. She cranked the knob farther, to near-scalding, and lathered her body, still trim and strong after fifty-one years of life. Though she’d been markedly less active during the pandemic—online workouts just didn’t do it for her.

 “I’ll get back to biking,” she sputtered into the warm torrent. Perhaps even persuade Martin to try pickleball. After a final rinse, she wrapped herself in a towel and unlatched the door. As she stepped out, her gaze drifted toward the far side of the deck and the ocean beyond. She let out a shriek.

A tall, thin man with copper-hued skin had materialized before her. Dark eyes smoldered above a KN95 mask that covered the rest of his long face. The mask bore a strange resemblance, in size and shape, to his white bikini briefs.

“Fuck off!” Maxine shouted. She hurled her shampoo bottle and jerked backward.

“Wait!” The man splayed his slender fingers in self-defense. “I’m Julius!”

The screen door flew open and Martin stormed out. His teeth were bared, his face flushed. He positioned himself in front of Maxine’s towel-clad body and lowered his shoulders, ready to bodycheck the defense.

“Please! I’m a Premium Host!” Julius said, tugging his mask up the narrow bridge of his nose. “You must be Martin.”

Maxine stepped from behind Martin, whose wheeze had escalated to a whistle. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice quivering with fear and anger.

Julius raised his thin arm and pointed to the second story. “I live here.”

Maxine snorted. “We didn’t pay this exorbitant rate to share a house.”

“I apologize for the misunderstanding. But the living configuration is precisely described in the listing. Precisely.”

Maxine whipped her head around to stare at Martin. She was piqued that the red flush was already receding from his face. His thick, silvering eyebrows were regaining their usual gentle set, like a dog, briefly disturbed, that returns happily to the hearth rug.

“Yep,” Martin said after a minute of staring at his phone. “That’s what it says.”

“Did you not read the listing thoroughly? Hon?” Maxine felt her nose bunch. The muscles of her mouth gathered, poised to launch her deep irritation at Martin. Instead she widened her eyes, trying to pack volumes of ire and disappointment into her gaze.

Martin cupped his fist to his chin and pulled at the beard he once had. “Could have sworn the listing said ‘entire residence.’ But maybe I’m confusing it with the Prudence Island cottage. Or the bungalow in Cape Cod.”

“Or maybe the listing was ‘updated’ after you booked.”

“No, ma’am. No, ma’am, it was not,” Julius said softly. “My family has hosted guests for generations in our beach home. Never have we faced such an accusation.” He bowed his head and folded his arms into his narrow chest. “And generally guests never see me. I use a separate entrance. But I thought you might need this.” He brandished a small rectangle of plastic, the long nail of his index finger covering the awful photo she’d taken after squabbling with the surly DMV representative. “I found your driver’s license next to Kali.”

She moved to take the license, but paused, gesturing to her unmasked face. “Apologies. Wasn’t expecting visitors.” He nodded and she stepped forward, plucking the ID from his fingers. The sweet odor she’d detected earlier enveloped her, now clearly identifiable as old-school suntan oil, the kind used to fry skin to a crisp. “And sorry for my reaction. I was scared.”

“Let’s just hit the reset button. I’m going to bid you a wonderful stay. It’s unlikely we’ll see each other again. Unless you need something. In that case, just message me on the app.” He unhinged a section of the railing and disappeared around the side of the house. After a few seconds, a door creaked open and slammed shut, followed by the hiss of a bolt sliding into place.

Maxine felt her shoulders encircled. Martin’s warm breath tickled her ear. “I’m sorry, Max. I should have been more diligent with my research.”

“No,” she said, brightly. “This was last-minute. We were moving fast. You booked a place and seven hours later we’re here. It’s a win, Martin.”

“You are lying through your beautiful teeth,” he replied.

And of course, she was. Her whole body was stiffening, her awareness expanding to penetrate the walls and ceilings of the house, tracking the unwanted life-form that lurked upstairs.

She dropped her head to Martin’s chest, perturbed by the loss of what she’d imagined would be a few days of freedom from the shuttered claustrophobia of their lives in the city. From the months-long intrusion of her work life into their home. From her own catastrophic thoughts.

Her conscience clamored, chiding her—what about the health care workers, the disadvantaged, the sick, the dying, the dead . . . 

Yes. Yes. Yes.

And still, her underserving spirit ached and roiled.

 ***

Outside the bedroom window, the pine trees wept with condensation, a ceaseless patter that egged on Maxine’s insomnia. She spent hours tossing and turning, her ears attuned, batlike, to the floor above. The lightest footfall, the faintest gurgle of plumbing, caused her to relive the day’s unpleasant surprise. Several times she was convinced she caught the faint scent of suntan oil. Martin’s ragged snoring from his side of the overly firm queen-size bed did not help.

Finally, she abandoned the effort to sleep. Slipping from the bedroom, she padded to the kitchen in search of a snack. As she passed the roped-off staircase, she indulged the petty impulse to assert her presence, stomping heavily across the wood floor, tongue thrust out to a degree worthy of Kali.

She flicked on the kitchen light and searched the fridge. True to form, Martin had squirreled away the remaining fragment of steak sandwich. She popped the bite into her mouth, then ventured into the freezer. “Lord,” she intoned. A thick layer of frost coated the perimeter, leaving barely enough room for the pint of chocolate gelato that some other guest had probably left behind. She withdrew the container and was pleased to discover an unbroken seal. Inside, the hard, dark sludge was free of crystals.

Grabbing a spoon, she settled at the kitchen table with her laptop. She Googled “horseshoe crab,” curious about the strange creature she’d sighted. As chill coco flowed across her tongue, she watched video after video, learning the species had hardly changed for hundreds of millions of years. She grinned at the sight of a broad female cruising through wet sand with two males latched to her backside. The males were much smaller, with an arch at the front of their shells, the better to dock onto their moving paramour.

As the female dropped clutches of eggs in the sand, the first hitchhiking male drizzled his sperm across the deposit. A second and sometimes a third male splashed his offering over that of his predecessor, hoping to get lucky with any remaining unfertilized eggs.

She paused to study a close-up photo of a horseshoe crab in profile, a white frill of foaming ocean nearby. Its primitive features were rugged and spare. One funny little eye shone from the glistening carapace, seeming to radiate an ancient, amused knowing.

What was it about these weird beasties that charmed her so? Perhaps their dogged persistence, staving off the pressures of evolution for an unfathomable amount of time, staying true to their goofy morphology as a whole planet transformed around them.

And the idea of such unchanging endurance, over millions of years, comforted her, especially now, when the seismic disruptions of the pandemic had rattled her to the core. She’d never felt more vulnerable, more mortal, or more inadequate.

Her spoon hit bottom and she was shocked to realize she’d polished off the whole pint. She was about to close her laptop when another photo caught her eye, thumbnail to a 2020 article in a scientific journal: “Horseshoe Crabs Critical to the Fight Against Covid.”

She clicked.

White-coated attendants beneath fluorescent lights peered at a long row of horseshoe crabs bolted to a metal frame. The animals canted downward, spiked tails frozen at attention, a thick band of rubber securing them to the rack. A hollow needle was jammed into each crab. Blue liquid drained from the animals through the needles and into glass bottles.

Incredibly, the horseshoe crab was the source of the only FDA-approved substance for detecting bacterial and fungal contaminants for medical devices and injectables. The entire US medical industry relied upon the blue blood of the squirming bit of prehistory she’d spotted earlier—to ensure something that was meant to heal didn’t inadvertently harm or even kill. This included a vaccine for Covid-19.

After bleeding, the horseshoe crabs were returned to the ocean. As many as thirty percent died from the process. Since first being tapped for this special role, their numbers had decreased drastically.

Maxine slammed the laptop shut, her cozy curiosity replaced by the familiar taut anxiety that had haunted her for much of the pandemic.

She fled to the bedroom and curled against Martin’s slumbering form. As she hovered in and out of sleep, ghoulish images paraded through her consciousness: rows and rows of horseshoe crabs, racked and bleeding, each gazing at her with that knowing expression.

 ***

The next day, the island was again shrouded in fog. After an early-morning grocery run, Maxine and Martin settled on the deck loungers, a pile of books and magazines between them. The fog had shrunk their beach vista to a seventy-yard stretch and enclosed the ocean in a cottony dome.

After twenty minutes, Martin stood and stretched, ribs surfacing through the soft gray fur of his chest and belly. “Want anything from the house? I need the loo.”

She patted his rump affectionately. “Have you been doing your Kegels?”

“Of course. I’ve done five as I stand here speaking to you.” His face softened. “You look tired.”

“Not appreciated,” she said, pressing her fingertips against her eyelids. Her head bobbed gently as Martin kneaded her shoulders. “I’ll nap in a bit,” she said breathily and patted his hands before shrugging them off. From upstairs, the sound of an industrial-grade blender roared to life. She scowled, then muttered, “Provided Orange Julius doesn’t joyride that Vitamix all morning.”

Martin’s eyes swelled with mirth and alarm. Finger against his lips, he cocked his head, then disappeared into the house.

 Maxine rose from the lounger, smoothed her yellow sarong across her abdomen, and strode to the deck railing. She gazed at the incoming waves, hoping for another visitation from the horseshoe crab, as if the sight would reassure her. Or lift the uneasiness that seemed to have settled in her bones. She wasn’t sure why the Covid article had upset her so. She liked animals, but she also happily consumed meat. Philosophically, she felt that some animal testing was a necessary evil to sustain human health and control disease. At least until a more humane option was discovered.

But she’d been so taken with the sight of the odd little animal and then amazed by the details she’d learned online, especially its extraordinary endurance as a species. For a moment, she’d felt lifted above the mess of Covid and these uncertain times. The article had slammed her right back down.

She turned her back to the ocean just as Martin emerged from the sliding door, seltzer in hand. Snatching a tattered magazine from the pile of reading material, she plopped back down on the lounger as he brandished the can. At the tip of his thumb, a bright drop of red swirled, expanded, then cascaded down the front of the aluminum cylinder.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, tracing the rivulet across the soft connective webbing of his thumb, across his hand, to the source of the flow, a deep gash on the pale underside of his forearm. “Jesus! What happened?”

“Huh. I have no idea how I did that. Didn’t feel anything.” He rotated his forearm to study the wound. Blood spurted across Maxine’s yellow sarong.

“Martin! You need stitches.”

“Naw. But I should head to the grocery for peroxide. And Band-Aids.”

Her husband’s habitual calm was normally a welcome counter to her reactivity. But now, as she registered his bemused expression, his equanimity felt somehow threatening. She wanted to shake him into an appropriate state of alarm, to rattle him into an awareness of his fragility. And her own.

Suddenly, she was shouting, “How can you not know the origins of a giant fucking cut, Martin? How is that possible?”

Concern shaded her husband’s blue eyes. “Honey, I’m okay. Really.” Again, he surveyed the underside of his arm, as if to reassure her. A thin stream rushed from the wound to his elbow and flowed in a single long drip to the ground. Martin blanched, then swayed on his feet.

Maxine cursed and leaped up, guiding Martin to take her place on the lounger. “Julius!” she yelled up to the window. She ripped the sarong from her waist and bound the gushing wound.

A minute passed with no sign of their Premium Host. Again Maxine roared, “Julius! Come down to the deck! Please!”

Her husband cracked open one eye and muttered, “Honey, you might need to message him through the app.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?" she barked. Continuing to grip Martin’s forearm, she plucked his phone from his pocket.

“But you really shouldn’t bother him,” Martin said. “It’s just the sight of blood. I’m getting wimpy in my old age.”

Maxine opened the app and typed, Emergency. Please come down to the deck. Within seconds, a rapid clomping resounded from upstairs, then the slamming of the side door. Julius appeared, sinewy and sheened with oil, his white bikini briefs exchanged for sky-blue. He clutched a small bag marked with a red cross. As he hurried across the deck, his slender fingers affixed the KN95 in place. “Oh, my,” he said, catching sight of Martin’s arm and the blossoming crimson on the yellow wrap.

Martin’s eyes fluttered open. “Max. Masks.”

Panicked, she looked down at her own hand, cupped around her husband’s injury, for all she knew staunching some crucial artery or vein. She glanced at the sliding doors, imagining their masks buried in the unpacked luggage or lost in some nook of the unfamiliar space.

“Allow me,” Julius said. He reached into the first-aid bag, withdrew latex gloves, and snapped them into place. “And you’ll want to grab shoes. And your purse.”

She glanced uncertainly from her husband’s pale face to Julius’s, dimly noting the man’s thick eyelashes, a detail unmarked by her before. Her skin erupted in icy pinpricks. She stared at her own red-tinged fingers, which refused to budge. She would not relinquish her husband’s safety to the care of this eccentric, last (she imagined) of the slender, solemn ancestors who rented out the property.

“Maxine!” Julius boomed.

Martin’s body shifted slightly. He’d fainted.

 ***

A water taxi sped them to the island’s walk-in clinic, where the sole physician pronounced Martin’s wound deep, but within the clinic’s scope of care. Martin had revived from his faint by then, but the doctor insisted on treating him for dehydration. Julius offered to stay, but Maxine would not hear of it—though she did gratefully accept his offer to reserve a water taxi for their return to the rental.

The boat arrived two hours later, as scheduled. As they glided through the mild chop, Maxine slumped against the metal bench, overcome by a peaceful exhaustion. Next to her, flush with IV fluids, Martin surveyed the early-evening sky. His forearm bore fifteen stitches and was neatly bandaged in a waterproof sheath. Maxine planned to retrace his steps from the deck to the refrigerator in search of the edge or shard that had mutilated him. Grateful though she was, Julius might incur her wrath yet. Or at least a measured dressing-down.

Martin’s breath warmed her neck. “No more fog,” he said, voice raised above the drone of the water taxi’s motor. She lifted her eyes. The change had escaped her. In the wake of the pervasive, cloying mist, the sky seemed blown wide open, empty save for a low, gossamer full moon.

As the water taxi docked alongside the pier, the captain glanced toward the beach and whistled in amazement. Maxine followed his gaze. Her breath caught.

An undulating ribbon of horseshoe crabs stretched the length of two football fields along the frothing water’s edge.

“Mating season,” the captain said. “If you follow that path behind the dune, you’ll walk right up to ’em.”

Minutes later, husband and wife were barefoot in the chill sand, struck dumb and delighted by the writhing, glistening tumult of thousands of horseshoe crabs on the beach, hellbent on procreation. The animals plowed through, over, and under each other with an intensity that seemed at odds with their quirky anatomy: the shallow helmet of a body; the clumsy spiked tail; the compound eyes, two bits of coal engineered by a child. Maxine could not help but laugh.

In places, the gray and khaki shells of the teeming aggregation bloomed with pale pink or green moss. Clusters of barnacles and tiny mollusks adorned the carapaces of others, corsages and boutonnieres for the arthropods’ ball.

Huge female crabs crashed through a wall of males with the relentlessness of tanks, drawing themselves up the beach beyond the tide to deposit their eggs in safety. The males pursued, latching on to the shells of their beloveds and forming ungainly rafts of two, three, or even four creatures.

The incoming tide sluiced through and over the shining creatures, intensifying the melee. When a wave toppled a big female headlong into the sand, Maxine gingerly gripped the edges of the shell and flipped the animal upright. Her triumphant squeal caused Martin to guffaw.

It was sheer, joyful madness, an unfathomably ancient process unfolding toward who knew what end. Maxine lowered herself onto the sand, then offered Martin a hand as he did the same. Once he was settled, she lightly kissed the bandaged site of his injury. Her eyes welled as she ticked off the various medical supplies involved in his healing: needle, stitches, tetanus shot, all blessedly sterile because of the horseshoe crabs.

As darkness gathered, and stars confettied the sky, she thunked her head softly against her husband’s, brain to brain. She sensed something intimate and enduring, wise and strong. Something that would carry them through.

~~~