The Summer of Good Intentions by Wendy Francis Read Free Book Online

radiant sky. He didn’t understand how Gloria could abandon such beauty. Hadn’t she looked forward to more mornings like this, discussing the day’s headlines, going for walks on the beach to a breakfast shanty where they could enjoy egg sandwiches still warm in their tinfoil? He sipped his coffee and thought to himself with a hint of bitterness: Apparently not .
    When he replayed it in his mind, though, he couldn’t honestly say why his wife had left. Perhaps he could have been more attentive, but it was strange to think that this had become an issue after forty-some years, the kids grown. No, he thought that Gloria had become a different person in the last year and a half, that she was going through a belated midlife crisis at sixty-five. He’d read about such things in the paper, heard about them at the store or the library when he bumped into friends. Jack Connelly had bought himself a Mercedes convertible and gotten hair plugs. A few years back, Keith Jefferson sold his car dealership and moved his whole family to Arizona. These things happened. He just never expected they would happen to him, by proxy.
    He glanced at the newspaper headlines, then looked out on the water again, where the morning light frolicked on the waves as if in an Impressionist painting, perhaps a Monet or a Renoir. If Gloria were here, he thought with a small smile, they could debate it together. A gull swooped down to grab a fish and sailed off, the thing squirming in its beak, and Arthur felt momentarily sorry for it. The thought ephemeral seized him again. He took a few more sips of coffee, got up, tucked his paper under his elbow, and carried his half-eaten eggs back to the kitchen as he followed a path through the maze of piles lining his living room. It was hell without Gloria to pick up after him. Carefully, he smoothed out his paper atop the large stack that already stood by the front door. Someday one of the stories would make good fodder for his writing, a plot line lurking in the headlines.
    As he turned, he spied his trash gator leaning against the couch. When he’d first seen the contraption online, he’d been struck by its apparent genius. A tool that allowed a person to pick up litter without having to bend over— Imagine! By pressing a slick little handle at the top, he could control the small pincher claws at the bottom. He’d even paid for the expedited two-day delivery. When the new toy arrived, Arthur had traveled all over the house, practicing picking up socks, a stray Kleenex, the TV Guide .
    But its real purpose was to help him rid the beach of its litter on his morning walks. Each day Arthur would set out and find the sand littered with junk. It annoyed him that people felt free to sully such splendor. Most days there were abandoned beer bottles, chip bags, candy bar wrappers, even a spoiled condom. But every so often he stumbled upon a forgotten sweater, a discarded wallet with a few damp bills tucked inside, a necklace with a broken clasp, a left-behind leather sandal. Precious things worth saving. Maybe the owners of the various objects would return one day, he reasoned, and tell him how grateful they were that Arthur had saved what others might consider trash.
    He grabbed his wide-brimmed hat from the closet and ambled down to the beach. Already he could feel the heat on his back. The bitter taste of coffee and eggs lingered in his mouth, and he momentarily regretted not having gargled with mouthwash. He’d stop further down the beach and reward himself with something sweet, maybe a Danish and a cool lemonade, at one of the kiosks. It was just the carrot to entice him along for the distance.
    Arthur dug the gator into the sand, using it as his walking stick for balance, and looked ahead. Always put your eyes on your destination, he used to tell the girls. It will help you remember where you’re going and why. It was sound advice, he thought.
    Then he set off, imagining a