The Beach Scene Read online

h Scene

  Copyright 2010 Albert Berg

  April 1, 2006

  Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact.

  But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect “foul play” as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide?

  Something is wrong here. Very wrong.

  April 2, 2006

  I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, “Gotcha!” But it is no joke. I know he is dead.

  (Later)

  Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen.

  It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find.

  April 3, 2006

  Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me.

  One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?

  (Later)

  Finally worked up the courage to pop open the end of the tube and slide out the painting Walter sent before he died. I feel silly now, thinking how I feared to look at it. The painting shows two wooden chairs on a beach facing the surf with a murky sun hanging in the sky. Something in the perspective seems off, but it's hard to put my finger on. At least I can tell what the painting's supposed to be. Some of the modern art Walter used to love so much always seemed like random scribbling to me. Perhaps this is evidence of my complete lack of culture.

  Still, as benign as painting is, there's something I don't like about it. Something creepy. Maybe, it's the simple fact that it was last touched by the hand of a man who took his own life, but I think it is something more. I found the words “The Beach Scene” written on the back of the canvas. I assume this is the title.

  Ominous. That's the feeling I get from it. The whole thing. Maybe I should just get rid of it.

  April 4, 2006

  Mowed the yard today, first time since winter. Had some trouble starting the mower, but problem solved with new spark plug. Felt good to get out in the fresh air after sitting under the fluorescent all day at work. I haven't felt this good since the funeral.

  The only fly in the ointment is the painting. It's still sitting in my study spread out on my desk. I haven't gone in there since I opened it. It's not that I'm afraid...but then maybe I am.

  Why?

  April 5

  Horrible day at work today. I keep thinking I'll look across the hall and see Walter sitting at his desk in between classes. No one has come to clear his stuff out of there yet. I wish they would.

  I sat and ate my lunch on one of the benches outside, but it just made the rest of the day seem that much longer. I may call in sick tomorrow. Unethical I know, but I haven't had a real sick day in over a year.

  (Later)

  When I got home Sylvia had hung the painting in the living room, told me she went out and bought a frame for it today.

  April 6 (Early)

  Had a dream, a nightmare. Some of it I remember, but the rest... I shouldn't write it down. Words give things power somehow. I believe that. Silly really but...that dream so frightening, like fingers of fear reaching into my soul (I do wax too poetic, but that is how I feel). But the feeling is fading now. Try to get some sleep.

  (Lunch)

  Read over my account of the dream last night. If I did not recognize my own handwriting I might have doubted its authenticity. But thinking on it I do seem to remember some sort of troubling dream. Certainly not on the scale I wrote about in the early hours of the morning though. What was it I was unwilling to write? That troubles me most of all. Why do we forget our dreams? So many things science cannot answer.

  April 7

  Got our tax refund check in the mail today. Sylvia says we would have had it two weeks ago if I would let them do direct deposit. Maybe I'm getting set in my ways at the ripe old age of 42. Sylvia has seemed morose of late, though the arrival of the check did put her in a better mood. We went out to a nice restaurant in town to celebrate.

  April 8, 2006

  Sylvia moved the painting into our bedroom for some reason. I meant to ask her about it, but she seems to be asleep now. It can wait till morning. I don't like it though. It seems ominous somehow. The sky seems too gray, though the light on the beach itself is full and strong. Some of the light seems to be coming beneath the waves as they crash on the beach. Also, the perspective is slightly wrong (mentioned this before). What is it about perspective? If the perspective is wrong the picture doesn't look real. But it's more than that. This picture isn't just poorly done. Its unsettling. Uncanny (now there's a word for it). As if it has embedded itself in my thoughts like a mind worm (what's a mind worm?).

  I'm making less and less sense even to myself. Must be past my bed time.

  April 9, 2006

  (Early)

  Another nightmare. Sylvia! She is still here, still breathing. I am slightly calmer in knowing this, but my heart still pounds in my chest. The horror of that moment when I wake and everything seems so real. Real, yes, but still some things escape me. They hover on the edge of my consciousness like a fly buzzing just beyond my range of sight, and yet, no matter how I try I cannot recall. I am not sure I want to.

  (Lunch)

  Planned to finally make good on my promise to call in today, but contrary to every forecast it's pouring down buckets outside. Asked Sylvia about the painting, but she says she didn't move it. Thought I did. I didn't press the subject. She must have forgotten. But I wonder...

  We're having Tom And Mary Selwick over for dinner tonight. Friends of Sylvia's. Don't know them that well, but Tom is a pleasant enough fellow if I recall correctly.

  (Before bed)

  Dinner went well. Sylvia made lasagna with garlic bread. She is, I think, especially proud of her home made lasagna, and I must admit it tastes ever so much better than the store bought stuff.

  After dinner we sat in the living room and talked for a while. Mary commented on the painting of the beach scene, and I asked Sylvia when she had moved it back. She gave me the strangest look and said that she hadn't moved it, that it had been in the living room the whole time. I didn't argue with her since there were guests present, but it gave me a funny feeling the way she said it.

  April 13, 2006

  Today finally seemed like the right day to call in sick. Gave a big test in my Calculus II class yesterday, and nothing else coming down the pike for a while yet. Looking forward to a beautiful three day weekend.

&n
bsp; (Later)

  Sylvia's gone out shopping and left me home alone. I got a gentle scolding from her for lying about being sick, but I can tell she's not really angry. I had planned to catch up on some reading in the study, but then I saw that Sylvia moved that ghastly painting in there on the wall over my desk. I wonder why. I mentioned my dislike of the thing to her yesterday. She asked me why I was so bothered by it, but I couldn't answer her because I don't know. I only know that every time I look at it seems more and more repulsive. And yet the painting does not change. It remains now as it always has been a picture of two wooden beach chairs sitting on the sand and facing an ocean with mild surf frozen in the act of breaking on the shore.

  The chairs are empty. Why are they empty? Where are the denizens of the beach, the bikini clad teenage girls, the children with their sandcastles, the middle aged men with their beer bellies hanging over the elastic of their swim trunks? Is there no one left in the world to rest their back against the wooden slats of those chairs and bask in the weak glow of the cloud shrouded sun?

  I almost move the painting myself, but something stops me. I must speak with Sylvia about it. I don't care so much what she does in the rest of the house, but she should know better than to mess with my study.

  (Before bed)

  The talk with Sylvia about the painting turned into a nasty fight. Again she