“I want to show you something.”
I looked up from just-finished steak into the white bearded face of my dad’s friend. There was a smile there, a mix of genuine kindness and a kind of amusement my adolescent self had seen only on the faces of people about to play some kind of practical joke. It was knowing, amused, and expectant. But it lacked maliciousness. So did the voice, accented in a way that I had previously only heard in caricature. He looked part of the caricature, too, but even back then, I knew not to apply that kind of thinking too directly to different people. Still, the thought remained. It stuck with me as a rose from the table, nodded to my parents, and followed the man from the table.
We were in the dining room of a Massachusetts yacht club of which my father was not a member. He wasn’t even on the waiting list. The kind of experience we were having was borrowed, not owned. We didn’t have the money to live like this every day, as much as we wanted to. What money existed in a place like this made itself known only in the small details. It was wealth without overt ostentation, but present enough that I knew we were at least somewhat out of place. But we enjoyed ourselves. For my father, it was what he called a “Cinderella Moment.” The one time a year his friend, now guiding me up the stairs and out of the dining room, invited our family to dine there.
If my father was Cinderella, then the magic that helped transform our world into theirs was money. A man from this world wanting to show me something might help me grasp more the reality of attaining the status my father lacked and wanted without envy. That’s not to imply that I envied it, but I felt more of a drive to achieve it than he did. Money was only part of the equation, though. Experiences could be as magical as the tool used to acquire them. I wondered, then, what experience I was in for as the man guided me from the landing out to a deck overlooking the yacht club’s bay.
I was lying about the lack of overt ostentation. The sight before me confirmed that.
Sitting in the waters of that small bay was a dazzling array of boats and yachts, even now I’m not sure of the distinction, all facing the same direction as the tides slowly lowered. Beyond them lay a low island, set with trees in their full verdant dress, and a small, bleached beach where a few small figures could be seen walking. The retreating waters created waves that gently licked against the hulls of the pristine white vessels and reflected diamondlike shards of fading sunlight up at the two of us. The sky was in that pristine painted space between blue and all the colors of sunset, just before it fades to twilight. A promise of something more to come, something even better, brought on by the setting sun.
That sunlight, fading as the sun drifted lower behind us, still warmed everything around us. The back of my neck prickled with its memory. The breeze, gentle but present, was a duel between the cool air coming from the water and the natural warmth of late summer. Refreshment, and appreciate for how fleeting moments like this were compared to the nigh perpetual doldrums of winter only a few months away. Something to savor and appreciate.
The wind shifted, and the boats drifted with it. it carried all the warm scents of summer on the New England Seacoast. Saltwater and sand, equal parts saline and sweet in their aromas. The food from the kitchen below, from the savory smokiness of grilling meet to the pervasive aroma of frying seafood. There was even that faint medicinal tang of the man’s cologne, a reminder of his presence.
“Is this…” I started to ask.
He held up a finger in response, smiling that piercing, kind, knowing smile back at me. The finger that stopped my question turned to point at the boats. I followed its line, and waited. As beautiful the scene before me, curiosity still boiled in my brain and anxiety soured my stomach. It was pleasant, but there was something more coming. He promised it. The setting sun promised it. the changing tides and march of time all promised more, whether I was ready for it or not. An experience, to be sure, but one that I would be unsure of before and, if I will admit it, even after.
When the sun hits a particular angle during its evening decline, its light strikes the waters of the bay just so. It bounces off the water and onto the hulls of the boats and yachts. The combined effect of the natural beauty of setting sunlight and its reflection in the water means that the boats and yachts, all a pristine shade of white, glow momentarily. Some pink, some orange, some purple. All beautiful, immaculate gemstones set into the water that reflects the sky that likewise glows in the palate of just-before-evening. I was sure, then, that this is what that man wanted to show me. What else could so inspire him to drag a teenager to the roof of the club when there was still food and drink to be had?
The smile on his face, at first, seemed to confirm my suspicion as it eeked back into me. The glow from the boats was momentary, stunning but temporary. It had already begun to fade when I looked back at him and caught the grin. Then his lips moved, and I was struck that there was still more to come. The statement also gave me pause.
“I want to give you some advice.”
He still wasn’t looking at me. His eyes stayed out, over the water. There was wisdom in it, and some barely disguised cynicism. Something about the angle of his face, that I was forced to look up into, added to it. he looked the part of the sage, setting sun and gentle breeze and everything.
I swallowed.
“Alright.”
“I want to give you some advice about marriage.”
“Okay. Sure.”
“Your dad says you’ve got a girlfriend.”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to marry her?”
“I uh… I don’t know.”
“No?”
“No.”
He nodded.
“Well, good.” His eyes turned to me. “Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t get married.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Look, here’s what you do: You find a woman you hate, you buy her a house, and you’re there. That’s all there is to it.”
“Oh,” I said.
If his eye contact weren’t as fixed as it was, I would have been sure it he was joking. There was a steadiness there, in spite of the smile, that told me he felt there was some truth to it. Maybe there was. If there wasn’t, he certainly was plying the joke very straight-faced. Or, maybe, it was more a kind of cynicism born of an age or an experience that I, as a teenager, couldn’t yet understand. Whatever his words really were, he seemed satisfied them, and expectant of some kind of response.
I looked back out over the water, trying to give the impression that his words had a strong effect on me. That I’d had some kind of experience there with him. I suppose I had. The sun had set. The boats weren’t glowing anymore.