Pigs. Johanna Stoberock

just a kind of shimmering in the late afternoon air.

      Smoke. He saw smoke. As soon as he recognized what it was, the wind shifted and he could smell it. It reminded him of something—an apple orchard in the fall? Waking up inside a tent? A fire in the living room on a snowy morning with a room full of presents still unwrapped? He wasn’t sure, but the smell reminded him of something just at the edges of what he knew.

      A fire was burning on the beach, and beyond the fire stood what looked like a pile of driftwood, which, once stared at, became a messy lean-to. Was that a mat woven out of rushes? Was that rock supposed to resemble a table? It was a campsite—what else could it be? Andrew stared and stared, expecting it all to disappear, but the campsite stayed, and when he looked away and slowly turned his head back, it was still there.

      He crouched behind that boulder, the wind off the sea pushing through him, watching the lean-to for signs of life.

      He didn’t see anything for a long time. Or it might have been a short time—time might have stopped, the way it often seemed to on the island. Sometimes on the island there were whole days that repeated themselves, sometimes whole weeks: the same old food, the same old garbage, the same old bickering between the kids. Right now the sun seemed to stay in the same position in the sky, so that would be evidence for a short time. But the boat on the horizon moved to the center point of what he could see, so that would be evidence for a long time. And then it moved past the center and off the far edge and disappeared. It was so hard to know anything without distinct points of reference. His legs began to cramp from sitting.

      And then, just when he thought he’d have to scramble his way down to the water if he was going to find anything out, he saw a foot move. A large gray foot poking its way out into the sun. Andrew knew it must be attached to a leg, but from where he was, he could only see toes wriggling. And then, as soon as he’d become certain that it was a foot, the leg actually did follow, and then hands, with arms, and then a head. A man’s head, covered with tangled gray hair and no hat to keep it from getting roasted by the sun.

      The man pulled himself out of the hut, stood up, stretched his arms long beside him, and turned to face the sea. He stood facing straight out to the water, and then he lifted one of those arms still higher and waved desperately at nothing.

      Andrew watched him and tried to figure out, given his height, how they could possibly shove him over the fence to the pigs.

      Otis opened his locket and stared at its hollow center. What had he done with the pictures? He scrambled on the ground, looking for them for the fifty millionth time, but there was nothing. Just sand and shadows and twigs to feed the fire. How could he have let them slip away?

      It was so lonely here. The sea murmured and grumbled and even screamed but he couldn’t understand anything it said. He caught crabs and let them go and tried to laugh while they scrambled away but they didn’t even look at him, their odd eyes pivoting around, searching for a hole to hide in. He caught them again and ripped their legs off and held them over the fire and sucked the meat out of their shells and shook his head, wondering how they’d ever seemed anything more than food.

      Now that he thought about it, he’d been lonely his entire life. How was that possible? He’d had a wife. He remembered Alice’s eyes looking into his in bed in the early morning when they’d forgotten to shut the curtains the night before and the dawn came spreading over them like a rose-colored blanket. He’d lain there as the dark turned to light and watched her waking up, the flutter of lashes, the unfocused gaze, the smile, that moment when the eyes first take in light. He’d smiled back. Her eyes were endless. He’d reached out for her. And then the baby cried.

      He’d had a son.

      How could he have been lonely with a wife and a child?

      He reached out and grabbed another crab. It wriggled in his hand and then he broke it and it stopped.

      There was a strange shadow at the edge of the beach, but he couldn’t tell what it attached to. He looked back down and brushed a handful of sand out of the way, searching for the edge of a photo, torn paper, a color from something other than nature. Nothing. Just more sand under the sand he moved away. His whole body ached. His stomach growled. Crab legs weren’t enough to keep him going. The shadow moved again, just at the outside edge of his vision. He shook his head. Shadows weren’t worth pursuing. Find the pictures now—that’s what he cared about. But there it was again. He turned his head quickly. Whatever had caused it was gone. It could have been anything. That dove hadn’t stopped cooing, and the gulls set out for sea every so often, and who knew what other creatures lived on the island. There were probably some goats around. He should make a spear. The thought of a goat roasting over his tiny fire was pitiful, but it made his mouth water just the same. He was hungry. He was tired of scavenging. He wanted to go home.

      The log against his back was rough. His skin was rough. His lips were peeling. His joints ached. His body didn’t smell the way his body should.

      He thought about the other women. He couldn’t help it. It made him cringe to think about them, but they had been so beautiful. Why did he care so much about beauty? It was better than food, better even than water. But what was it? The first time he’d left Alice, it had been for a short weekend with a woman he’d met at the grocery store. Her hair was blonde and it fell straight down to her ankles so that when she walked across the room toward him, naked, it was like she was surrounded by a curtain of gold. Who wouldn’t leave for that? The second time he’d left her, he’d gone to a cabin in the mountains for two weeks. The woman who’d brought him there had eyes so brown they looked like deer’s eyes, and fingers so thin they looked like blades of grass. When she moved she looked like a willow tree. But sexy. A sexy tree. It made him laugh even now to think of her. What had he done?

      Alice was beautiful, too, with her gray, endless eyes. Why wasn’t a single woman’s beauty enough? What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he stick with one choice and be happy?

      There had been others. He could deal them all out in his memory like a deck of cards. But there was always Alice crying at the end. Or worse, Alice not caring anymore. She’d barely waved goodbye when he shipped out the last time.

      He pulled his scabby knees to his chest. He brushed the sand off his shins. He dealt out his life and wished he’d made other choices or any choices at all and that the choices he’d made or hadn’t made hadn’t led to this deserted beach on this deserted island with a deserted life back home. He wished that his natural condition was not to lose things.

      That shadow—there was definitely something there. He threw another stick on the fire and stood up. He shaded his eyes and looked in all directions. No ships on the horizon. No smoke from the interior of the island. No twine to make a raft. The dolphins he could see playing just at the edge of the horizon were definitely not thinking about him. His body ached and the dead crab in his hand was nothing but food and he thought he knew what it would be like to die. He stood up, his body creaking, and waved and waved at nothing.