fiction
Jacksonville Beach , 1972
by John King , photo by Christopher Bolton
Aaron and Sheila had moved south , so far south that they went past the south until their vista was the Atlantic , from atop the fl at peninsula , jutting from the edge of America . Their fortunes were supposed to change in Jacksonville Beach , where her parents had relocated for the sort of retirement that , for puritanical elderly folks , counted as decadence . Shuffl eboard . The landscape looked like it had licked itself into existence off of a color brochure . Pastel architecture pushing itself into an impossibly blue sky . The ocean sighed . It was beautiful , but alien , somehow . The sand didn ’ t feel natural or pleasant to
Sheila ’ s feet . It felt dirty . The air was humid , making her lungs tire out with breathing , the sun this spigot from outer space . She glazed herself with coconut oil at the beach , and her skin began to tan and freckle . Without cold winters , Aaron could fi nd work all the year round painting houses . They could become middle class . Sheila loved him , almost as much as when they were fi rst married . He had changed . For a while , he had changed .
They made friends with another couple , Tom and Francine , who they would go square-dancing with . And friends from Boston would come down every few months to visit . But in between times , Sheila started to get a case of nerves . She was young , lithe , and beautiful , just a few miles from the beach . But she felt not right , somehow . Even though her parents lived three blocks away in a duplex , Sheila didn ’ t like to spend too much time with them . Their company made her feel like a married spinster . The game shows and the soap operas on the fl oor console Magnavox bored her , until General Hospital came on late in the afternoon . She would thaw out the dinner ’ s meat before the show , and start cooking when the end credits rolled . Or
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