Life Forever Under the Sun:: The Trial

By Barbara J. Young

In the small town of Santa Crescente, where the surf meets murder, a young boy rises above the waves of despair as he faces life without a mother and watches his father stand trial for her murder. Alberto, almost thirteen, finds a small charm on a walk with nature. His aging grandfather sends him to school while secretly using the charm to reopen his daughters case of hit and run. Tomas frequently reminisces on the past and faces his own coming of age as the search for the truth begins. The diminutive family makes hard times seem like fun in this heartwarming tale of tackling lifes most extreme challenges.

Novelist Barbara Young explores modern literature through her varied use of characters. Placing the tradition up against romantic and modern standards, she blends the genres into a central character, Alberto, and examines the changing principles of writing. She sets her young boy in the midst of tragedy, challenging his insight and his wit to see if he can stand alone amid the great forces who have given him life. But the question still remains. Will he bow to the strict rules of tradition, remain fixated in a tragic romantic stupor, or will he flit away with the fast-paced words of the modern day?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499079678

Barbara J. Young

Barbara Young spent many years living on the Southern Californian coast. After a time, she moved back inland, graduating from Cal State Los Angeles with a degree in English. While at CSULA, she made the dean’s list and remained in the top 15 percent of her class. Her poetry has been published by Statement Magazine, and she has coedited a textbook. She has an associate of science and background in nursing with a fervent passion for psychology. At present, she tutors middle school students in all subjects, helps out with her mother, and teaches art classes while she works on her next project. Admittedly, she has never lost her love for the untamed splendor of the ocean. This is her first novel.

Book preview

1

The Fledgling

Come along. Come down to the shoreline, she said, letting her lustrous brown hair sweep through the waves and melt into the sea foam as she bends down and calls her son. Come along. She motions to him repeatedly until the fat-legged little boy maneuvers his way down to the water’s edge, climbing carefully over the mounds lining his path. His wavy chestnut hair bounces in the sunlight, mimicking her silken locks, but with an air all their own. Drawing nearer to her, his small feet plant themselves deep in the sand. Pointing at the ocean, he smiles.

Mama, look, the boy said. Before she can turn around, a wave knocks her over onto the shore. Splash! he said, laughing.

Ha-ha-ha, she said, echoing his laughter. Never turn your back on the water. Smiling, she spits out the salty sea and climbs to her feet, rinsing the specks of sand off her body in the shallow waves. She runs clumsily and grabs her child. The two step together, creating a spirited dance in the water under the summer sun. Tilting her head back, her broad smile appears as pearls delicately framed by the blue sky.

Before long, the boy wanders down to the water, carrying a piece of driftwood with his right arm to chase the tide back into the sea. He holds the stick up high, mastering the power of Poseidon until an incoming wave nearly knocks him sideways and runs his tiny footprints back up on the dry sand. Staring out over the powerful ocean waves, he dances once again close to his mother’s side.

Up from the shore, a young man wearing a plastic visor and white cotton shorts stands looking on in approval. His arms cross to embrace a bronzed chest. Waves, similar to the child’s yet amber in color, roll carelessly over his shoulders. The visor reflects a green tint off his face, making him appear half-alien as he smiles upon his progeny. At his feet, a tape recording of Wild Thing¹ plays in the wind and into the ears of an older man, who reclines on a quilted blanket. More salt than pepper crowns his semibalding head, which turns slightly away from the music. Eyes, deep as the sea and brown as the earth, glisten across the sand, sparking up around the duo to catch their every move. His hands join together, applauding the makeshift waltz as the gulls, suspended in the azure sky, cry out an ocean song. The woman turns her chin slightly upward and bends her ear to absorb each beautiful scream.

The days turn into weeks and the months, years. Preparations for the boy’s tenth birthday are underway as Elena fills a wicker basket with strawberries and salami sandwiches. She picks it up from a squared wooden table and heads out the door of an upstairs apartment. Down on the street level, she calls up to her son.

Bring the chips, Alby, she said. The young boy comes clamoring along behind her with a large brown bag in his arms and a brightly colored beach towel hanging over his shoulders. Orange, oversized flip-flops decorate his feet; his nose is painted white. He catches up to his mother and hands her a key. She slips it into her pocket and turns her face to her son. Crossing her brows, she looks at him in the eyes. When we get there, I want you to remember the rules. I don’t want you climbing on the rocks and I do want you to wait one hour after eating before going in the ocean.

Okay, Mama, Alberto replied as the pair begins a trek down the one hundred and nine steps leading to the shore. The wind brushes against his face and the ecstasy of climbing over the large boulders overwhelms his senses. He questions his mother’s wisdom. Why, Mama?

Hmm? she answered, busy with judging the boy’s agility on the steep steps. His moves are effortless.

Why can’t I play on the rocks? he asked. She stops for a moment and he mimics her action.

It’s too dangerous, she said. I don’t want you to get hurt, understand? She kisses him lightly on the cheek and the two move on.

Si, he said in an ornery tone, stomping his feet on each step.

Don’t do that, she said. He glares at her, but her enormous eyes, soft and brown, gaze back affectionately and the two continue quietly down to the beach. Today, he will obey and leave the tantalizing boulders for his dreams. But tomorrow, or the next day, he will ignore his mother’s wisdom and stand triumphant over the tremendous stones.

The woman steps onto the shore and waves to a familiar, salty-haired gentleman sitting on a quilted blanket. His muscles sag. She sets down the picnic lunch in the center of the blanket and searches the beach. The handsome younger man is nowhere in sight. The boy comes up from behind her and also waves, looking away only for a moment to search up and down the coast. He turns back and catches the old man’s smile.

Hi, Gramps, he said, tossing his pearly whites back in return.

"Hola. Cumpleanos feliz mi amado nieto²," he said.

Cump… what? Alberto asked. He recognizes the words, but has never before questioned their meaning.

Cumpleanos feliz. Happy birthday, he said.

Thanks, Alberto said embarrassed, dropping the bag of chips and the towel onto the quilted blanket. He is first to run down to the water.

Come on, Mom, he said. Come down to the water. The once chubby legs are slimmed and show signs of muscle. His brown exuberant body splashes through the incoming tide as Gramps leans on one arm and snaps a camera. Sea foam sprays in every direction, but the boy stands firm against the force of the waves. His mother looks on, wading along the shore, her footprints slowly sinking into the sand. Her death in the fall of that same year marked the beginning of an indescribable sadness along the shoreline; one that will not wash away, no matter how many times the tide rolls in.

Three years and more have passed since the fatal accident along the highway, but fresh emotions storm through Alberto’s body every time he remembers her coral lips break into a kiss upon his cheek. He opens his eyes at dawn on Sunday mornings to reminisce with the past down at the shoreline. A dark blue hooded jacket is zipped up underneath a heavy windbreaker to stay warm while bare feet splay out on brown shag carpeting in the front room of a small, upper, Spanish-style duplex. The dark sky peeps through a crack in the front curtain as his mother’s directives for shoes rattle through his brain. They are a necessity for church, social gatherings, school, and any place where your feet might get cut. A slight scar on his left arch marks the beach as one of these latter places. Along the shore, a few sharp rocks sit quietly obscured by an inexhaustible amount of smooth pebbles like sharks awaiting their next victim. He steps into a pair of faded-blue Vans tennis shoes and grabs a checkered knapsack. Noticing some misaligned stitching along one of the edges, his lip curls into an Elvis kind of smirk. Hmph, he said, tossing the bag over his shoulder.

She wasn’t the best seamstress, pricking her fingers on several occasions and going over some of the stitches twice. But his mother sewed many of the simpler items and she sewed them with care. A turquoise prom dress became stunning satin pillowcases for her parents. And, for an anniversary gift, she refurbished an antique lace tablecloth, creating beautiful curtains to hang over their front window, which, when opened, frame the incoming beams of the sun and the moon. Threads of her stitchery can still be found running through and around the town, from Gramp’s apartment, through the homes of friends, and over to the abode where she once lived with her husband and son. An old, heavy skirt became the much beloved blue checkered knapsack.

Droplets of water trickle their way down the panes of glass. The weather lives up to the meteorologist’s forecast and the coastal town soaks up the rain. Alberto drops his bag and grabs a piece of buttered toast as he stares at the dripping sky, contemplating his day. He takes a sip of coffee before setting the mug next to the same old man from the shoreline, who is sitting comfortably in a recliner with a half-read newspaper over his lap. Samuel Garrison Receives Death Penalty in Utah – January 17, 1977. The boy reads the headline and shrugs. He makes his decision and starts to head out the door.

Hey, Gramps, I’m going, said the boy.

Where? Out in the rain? asked Gramps. No. No way.

Sure. I like the rain. Besides, it never lasts long and I have my windbreaker, he replied.

"Ridiculo. Estas loco³," Gramps said, looking up at the boy and then over out the window.

No, it’s not crazy, said Alberto. Kids were playing out in it yesterday and I have on two jackets and a scarf. Please, can I go abuelito? His brows pucker in the center and droop down the sides of his face. His hazel green eyes peer out from between them, begging for freedom. Gramps looks out again. It’s been raining since yesterday afternoon, but it isn’t the largest storm the city has ever seen. No thunder or lighting, or pellets strong enough to break any boulders, just light steady drops coming down from the sky. The sky moves from black to gray.

Be careful. Don’t stay out in the cold too long, Gramps said. I mean it. I want you back within an hour, comprende? He narrows his eyes and shakes his head, checking the boy over.

What? asked Alberto.

Nothing. I just wonder what makes you tick. Now go. Have fun. Be back…, he said.

Within the hour, the boy said. He smiles at his grandfather, who he lives with in the duplex with cracked stucco walls and a large pink bougainvillea hanging over the front window. He looks up at the clock. It reads 6:15.

Good-bye, Gramps, he said.

"Cuidado, nieto, cuidado⁴." The door shuts and Alberto pulls his jacket tight, smiling at the falling rain. He is free.

2

Rain

Alberto takes a few steps along the sidewalk before turning back briefly to look over the two adjoining apartments. The small, upstairs abode is upheld by a typical, overstuffed garage, opened only in the spring when the two make another attempt at organizing the mess within. Inside, the living quarters are small, yet airy, not unlike a woven nest tucked within the crevice of a cliff, hanging over the sandy beach. Beige stucco, eroded and chipped in some areas, reveals the age of the building.

If we painted, the place would look new, insisted Alberto one day as the two climbed the steps. But the old man adamantly claimed the color had a few years left despite the crackling around the sides and under the bougainvillea.

We’ll get together with the Andersons and talk about painting one day, but not yet. The place looks fine, he said. Besides, you never want to get too close with your direct neighbors. You get close and then there’s trouble and then there’s constant arguing. The boy’s youth prevented him from creating an argument for that.

He continues to survey the complex. The driveway remains intact on both sides and the neighbors keep a tidy balcony next door. He likes the Andersons. They give him double Halloween candy if he puts time and effort into his costume. Last year he went as a pirate and was allowed to grab as much loot as one hand could hold; he was thrilled. Other than holidays, however, they rarely speak. They smile and wave a lot, but few words reach the air between them. He decides to approach his grandfather about the paint again this summer. He likes the idea of pale blue.

The rain comes down, lightly, but steadily. The street is empty except for the ghosts of yesterday’s children stomping in the puddles, splashing each other in play. Alberto steps toward the shore, finding a few puddles of his own to slosh through along the way.

He gazes at the majestic cliffs looming over the coastline, watching them grip onto the coast and cradle the small Californian homes in their powerful embrace. The drenching drops drizzle down the long sides of the jagged edges that suspend the small town of Santa Crescente and the weathered stones, enveloped in a misty haze, crumble slowly and carelessly down onto the pebbly beach below. The undeclared monuments testify to ages long gone and prophesy generations to come, each day in between offering a welcoming haven for wildlife and beach lovers. The boy moves closer to the coast.

Down by the water’s edge, a few sandpipers scatter across the shore, keeping time with the tide in hopes of grabbing a few small crabs before the water pulls the delicacies back into the deep. Flings of birds huddle together, either watching the ocean, or tucking a leg or beak inside the warm downy feathers. A lone Pelican scans the surface of the choppy sea in hopes of spotting a shoal of fish skimming near the surface. Soaring over the waves, he suddenly nosedives into the water. In an instant, he resurfaces with an early morning snack and swallows the fish whole. Hungry gulls watch on, weathering the falling drops in the odd chance of a head or a tail being snapped off by the winged pescator.

Up high, Alberto fuses with nature, leaning into the wet, sandy morning and welcoming the salty air that sticks to his face and hair. His solitary figure, allows the winds to wrap around him and claim their prize. He turns and shows a boyish face of twelve, with fierce, bright eyes that glisten above the reddish-brown skin on his cheeks. His teeth protrude slightly from under his upper lip. The wind howls and the droplets falls as Dawn leads the wanderer⁵ down a steep path that meets the shoreline, quietly cloaking the boy in an array of mist and rain.

Halfway down, he turns and looks back up the steps. His green eyes flash. Get away, boy, go home, the young boy yells to a small, golden Chihuahua. "Andale⁶, andale, shoo. The dog barks and starts down the long slippery staircase. Shoo." He flings his old tennis shoe at the spirited pup, which flies four miniature legs back up to the street. The shoe dangles off the top step and the little mongrel looks back down at the boy, confused. Alberto feels bad, but he doesn’t want it to get hurt climbing over the slippery rocks below. He throws out a fierce glance before running up to nab his shoe, tucking it back on his foot, and then skimming all the way down the slick steps to the shore.

Ignoring his mother’s warnings, he maneuvers his way over the rocks to reach the beach nearer the pier. The tide is still out, but midway a strong wave comes up and beats upon the boulders. He crouches down and waits for the waters to calm before moving on. Testing each step first to make sure he doesn’t slip before climbing carefully over the wet rocks, forgetting about class bullies and the indignation of homework. As though falling down a rabbit hole, from the moment he steps out the front door, good-bye Gramps means good-bye everyone and everything. His only companions emerge through the rhythm of the waves and the sounds in the harmonies of nature as he carries his checkered knapsack on his Sunday morning excursion.

Once on the sand, the boy’s eyes scan his surroundings like radar. The first thing he spots is a fishing lure. He picks it up, checking it over before tossing it into his bag. The cold rain numbs his feet and he digs his toes deep into the sandy beach, leaving tiny bits of tar stuck to his soles. A gust of wind raps gently against his shoulder and his mother’s outline flashes on the shore. He moves toward her, but the illusion dissolves within the crest of the waves. Her long brown hair melts back into the sea, yet the vision lingers on to haunt his heart. Staring out at the ocean for a moment, he reminisces about his first days of visiting the shoreline alone.

At nine, he stood at an average height and weight, but his stature grew in his understanding of nature’s unpredictable behaviors. His footsteps along the water’s edge were intricately planned. He knew the ebbing of the tide and the waxing of the moon. He knew by heart the safety procedures his parents had taught him. He listened intently to the instructions and still obeys most of them, except the warning to stay off the boulders. He climbs over them now with ease. A few of his mother’s words echo through the gentle beads of rain, Don’t forget a jacket, she would say as she sewed the knapsack, the checkers crumpling up before neatly being patted out with each succession of stitches. Remember to check when the tide comes up and…, her voice softly flutters away like a gull in flight, piercing his mind and scattering the images into a multitude of cerebral harmonies.

The ocean breeze replicates her laughter and he listens to their thunder roll about his ears. But when her smile stretches across his mind, his feet stop for a moment while drops of memories thread their way from his dark green orbs onto his cheeks. He heads for the pier. The waves encircle his ankles, engulfing his feet in the sand while the tears of the heavens mingle with the tears of man, splaying across his face and joining him to nature. Under the pier, cold air fills his lungs. He breathes it out and moves on. Here at the edge of the earth, spirit, and mortal meet unobserved by the structured world of the city. Here the wild are free and the unreal becomes real.

Aaagghhh, he cried to the sky at the same time a few sea gulls fly overhead, masking his howl with their screams. The salty drops mix with the rain, staining his cheeks as he moves along the shore. A sudden blast of wind sweeps in pellets of rain and the boy runs back toward the pier for shelter. Lightning flashes across the sky and thunder follows. The air rises, whipping around the pillars, yet, just as abruptly as it started, the thundershower stops, leaving behind a wild serenity. He stands firm, staring out over the ocean. The two meet face to face, not in war, nor in anger, but in a turbulent unity, each with intense emotions ready to surge. The gray clouds part the dark sky and light sprinkles replace the heavy downpour. He moves back out to the shore, melancholic, but ready to play.

An old bottle cap from the sand nabs his eye. He flicks it into his bag and another pirate ship begins its formation. Using Gramps’s metal pliers, he clamps the caps together to form the panels. Fishing wire and other catches from the shore help to manipulate the forms into various shapes. So far, only one ship sits over his desk, but soon, with enough luck, he will fill the shelf, using the scraps and knick-knacks he finds to make the metal crafts come alive.

A sudden surge of waves wrap around his legs, splashing him up past his knees. The icy water puts his feet in gear and he heads out of the surf. He looks down. His pants are wet and sandy, but a few sooty-gray feathers stick out of the sand like arrows, ready to blow away and he forgets about his cold, stiff denims. His mood lightens. These will be great, he thought, tucking them away in the outer pocket of his sack. Further down, he finds a few coins and a worn-down old army dog tag. He begins to daydream about soldiers in foreign lands when he notices that the rain has seeped under his windbreaker and begun to weigh heavily on his jacket. It is time to return to the living or begin living among the dead. He heads back across the rocks toward the stairwell and fantasizes about showing Gramps the dark gray feathers.

"He will see I have been listening," he whispers on the wind, donning the charisma of an old mystic as his mind tries to piece together the tales he has heard of the legendary black-footed albatross.

Are you paying attention, son? Gramps asks in the middle of each story.

Yes, Alberto answers, but usually followed by mmrhmm, suggesting only a half-attentive ear. The epic tales combined with a flickering street light lull him into a restful slumber.

The bird is not the only character to come alive in the darkened hours of the evening. Long narratives about the ancient tribes fill the hallowed space of the front room where his grandfather lies in his brown recliner with even browner checkered cushions. The streets below are quiet as the stories unfold in the shadows of the night. Many times the boy is barely awake, yet whispers of the adventures still saturate his memory, especially those about the California natives and the albatross.

Depictions of intricately woven baskets, beautifully crafted and capable of holding water, flood his imagination. His ears bend to the descriptive illustrations about necklaces made from shells that outweigh the value of precious stones as a mythical sized bird soars overhead from within his eyes. The portrayals seem all but real to the boy, who absorbs every word from his grandfather’s mouth.

The colonists pushed the tribes off of their land through empty promises and cruel trickeries, he explains, and the people slowly disappeared. Alberto allows the nightmarish accounts to echo through his mind, creating dreams and fantasies about the past. The words become images and the images become a part of him, beating rhythmically through his blood until the moment when Gramps attempts a turn at philosophy. The breath of man joins, not with clay, but with dirt in a new creation of violence…, he begins. Wise words, but unfortunately they send the boy into a deep sleep. Light snores replace the attentive eyes and ears and it is not until he traipses down the steep cliffs on Sunday mornings that Alberto remembers the dark tales of the past.

A gust of wind grasps his attention, awakening him from his reverie. The burst of air lifts his hair and his face appears godlike, sculpted from the sand. Leaning into the thick spray, he begins to realize the dawn has become early morning and quickens his pace. Eiyow, he mutters, stepping on a sharp stone. He stops to put on his shoes while the waves rumble their good-byes.

Once on the roadway, he stands for a moment. He looks up the street leading home, but instead pulls his jacket tighter around his waist and walks up the coast. His pace slows and his eyes search desperately for the last steps of his mother’s life. The sea gulls cry overhead. He listens to their melody while wondering if his feet step in the same position as hers as she walked to her death.

Here? He steps. Here? He steps again like a water witch, dowsing for a well. Here? Alberto crunches the earth beneath his feet on the sandy dirt path along the highway, wondering why she had to die. The sagebrush lining the side of the road blows sorrowfully in the wind. Their leaves splash against each other sounding like a trickling stream as he is reminded of the pitiful graveyard where her spirit took in a last breath.

Crouching along the side of the highway, he tucks himself away behind one of the sand dunes in a weeded area spotted with sagebrush and cacti. As usual, he squats a few feet away from the memorial. Today, however, he rises, and takes a few steps forward. He kneels down, staring with his soul instead of his eyes, searching with his heart for the exact location.

Wiping away some brush, hundreds of tiny bunches of dead flowers appear, one piled on top of the other, hidden under the dried weeds, not wanting to be seen by passersby. Bending down, he sweeps them aside, viewing them closely. The flowers appear to create a blanket of delicately woven straw. He becomes motionless, just now realizing the pain of his grandfather in all those miniature bouquets. Alberto breathes in the aroma of