What makes this encounter go, in my mind at least, is the visual track of the scene from his black Dodge truck to the end of the last wooden pier in the city. When Hector Corrales first pulled into a parking space across the street from the pier, he let the motor idle for a few moments. The sun was deep into the western sky and few people were in the lot or on the beach. With the windows down, even above the engine’s thrum, he could hear the ocean’s winter rollers tumbling into the shore.
He shut down the motor and folded his hands on top of the steering wheel. The look on his face registered both surprise in a moment and then apprehension in the next. Surprise, that he would ever be sitting there. Apprehension, that he would drive more than 400 miles to make it so on the word Yes in reply to his text message. He opened his door, but he did not step out. Several gulls paraded past him, perhaps looking for a handout of popcorn or bread. Still, he sat. Two years had passed. He was eager to see her, but he was in no hurry. If she were there.
From her vantage point, under the pavilion roof at the head of the pier, Maria Adams could not see the ocean-front street behind the dunes. She could scan the balconies and windows of the tall hotel across the street on one side and she could take in the Ferris wheel shut down for the winter on the other. She checked her phone. Five more minutes. Five more minutes after two years of weeks, of hours. Two years of minutes. She pulled up her leggings and smoothed her skirt. With one hand, she pushed back the hair from her face.
Hector let himself out of the truck. He looked down the street that had accumulated some sand blown in by the storm last week. The sun was perhaps a little more than half an hour from setting. He checked his phone. Four minutes. He turned and surveyed the pier. He guessed two minutes or maybe three to get out to the end where Maria would be waiting. If she showed up. He could remember vaguely running the length of the pier ahead of his mother and father, scattering gulls and startling fishermen, when he was four or five years old.
He reached back into the truck and grabbed his straw cowboy hat. At first he set it back on his head. Four minutes. He pulled the brim forward, a little lower over his eyes than he normally would and then he walked around the rear of the truck. His stride was measured, with purpose, but easy in its pace. This time there would not be a sprint, no fun-for-the-hell-of-it dash.
Hector climbed the steps up to the foot of the pier. In the slant of the low January light, he could not see into the shadows of the pavilion at the far end. He breathed in the heavy salt air. He squinted. He checked again. Three minutes.
Not another person was on the pier that he could see. Being the only one walking out made him feel lonely, lonely enough to snap shut two buttons of his jacket to ward off a chill that was not there. But, he was glad in some way, too, that if she were not there no one else in the world would know that he came. He walked past half a dozen gulls ruffling their feathers on the top railing. The area beneath the mostly enclosed space was still too dark to see into.
Maria, of course, could see him. She saw his tall frame and the hat pulled down in front. Three minutes. Should she wait for him to come in under the roof? Should she call out to him? Should she go to him? Hotel room lights switched on and off above and behind his left shoulder. She saw that he was walking down the center of the pier as if an arrow shot straight at her heart. Two years.
The heel of Hector’s right boot caught on an uneven plank and he stumbled. Sharp pain bolted up from both knees, and the fleshy part of his hands burned and he felt splinters break off under his skin. Maria brought a hand to her mouth, but she did not cry out. He rose slowly, rubbing the front of his knees, but he chose to ignore the splinters. He walked forward again, resuming his steady pace.
Then Hector stopped. He could see that someone waited in the shadows. He took off his hat. A few gulls screeched and circled overhead. He began walking, maybe a little more quickly than before. He was no more than fifty feet away when she dashed out into the last of the day’s light. Both of them stopped moving. Then, as if pushed forward by some unseen hand, they both started toward one another and when they were face to face, neither spoke right away.
Maria looked up at him, looked at his mouth, looked into his eyes. He matched her gaze with his own. She touched his right cheek with the back of her right hand. “I waited for you, Hector.” He took her up into his arms so that her feet were lifted off the deck. She let her tears come, and as he hugged her, he began to laugh. He squeezed her tighter and laughed even louder. “You waited for me!” Ladson 2013
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