Poor little Goldie. She’d been so desperate to join her friends and family. The sea beckoned to her. She could hear it in the sound of waves. It echoed in the abalone shells and coral pink caverns of conches, calling her by a different, secret name. She’d heard its song so often that she sang herself to sleep with the tune.
Come back to me. Come back into the sea. Ondalune, Ondalune, Ondalune.
Eventually, her parents forbade her from even visiting the shoreline at all. She might get splashed by a rogue wave, or someone might accidentally shake off some seawater on her as they dropped to the seat beside her. The rash would plague her for days afterward. It just wasn’t safe.
Goldie turned left as she reached the sleepy harbor. It was quiet and nearly empty. She walked along the scrap of beach, eyes trained on the horizon. She could see the distant silhouette of the morning ferry from the mainland making its way in. The pelicans had moved on. Goldie had the entire seafront to herself. Not a single other soul was present on the short pier with its homey green hut. This wasn’t surprising. It was still too early in the spring. But in just a couple more weeks, the ferries would bring many more tourists to the island.
The off-season kept most waterfront businesses shuttered. They only opened up for holidays and selected weekends during the colder months. Several of the storefronts were empty or stripped bare, undergoing renovations during the downtime. You never knew when a gift shop would be reborn as a cafe or vice versa.
Farther out in the half-moon shaped harbor, a small fleet of water taxis slumbered lazily, rocking gently at the end of their tethers. They wouldn’t resume their assignment as tenders until spring when the cruise ships came back to port. And then everything would change.
For three or four days a week, the town would spring to life and everything would transform from black and white to vivid technicolor. Hordes of tourists would pour into the tiny port and the shops, cafes, and sidewalks would be bustling. Sticky-fingered toddlers with melted ice cream on their faces and trailing in rivulets down their arms would spar with wooden swords. The smell of freshly fried fish and chips would linger on the breeze. Pirate flags would fly and seashell trinkets would be piled in carts along the sidewalk. Couples would stand in line for a turn to take photos in front of the tiled fountain.
It reminded her so much of Brighton Beach, which she supposed was part of what made the island feel like home.
Of course, Goldie had other reasons to love Catalina Island. She strode past the yacht club and continued along the seafront, headed toward the Casino. In 1929, workers erected the iconic round structure, which included a massive theater on the bottom half and a grand ballroom at the top. The lack of gambling surprised most visitors to the island. A wide spiral pathway, inspired by the Roman Colosseum, provided access to the ballroom. Top-notch acoustics and its distance from the mainland made the venue a favorite among Hollywood celebrities during Prohibition.
So many happy memories. On clear and starry nights, she could almost swear she heard the sounds of Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” wafting out the windows of the round ballroom on the top floor. The music mingled with the sound of crashing waves and filled her with nostalgia and a belief in ghosts.
She watched a pair of bright orange Garibaldi fish darting in and out of submerged rocks. The water below was crystal clear, full of swaying emerald green kelp and colorful fish. It mesmerized her, so familiar and inviting, even on a cold winter day. It was like getting a glimpse into a beautiful, exotic hotel through a revolving door. A whole other world on the other side.
But that world was not for her. Goldie didn’t even dare to walk along the waterfront on stormy days in case of sea spray. But more and more often, she longed to throw caution to the wind. She was just so old. So wretchedly, inexplicably old andalone.Her parents, her uncle Bernie, and all her friends. Everyone that she’d ever loved was long gone. So little of the world that was left was still familiar to her. She clung to crumbs of the past for comfort. Little things that still had the power to make her feel at home in an increasingly alien world. But it wasn’t substance. A whiff of waffle cone could hardly nourish her entire soul.
This wasn't real life.
Sometimes Goldie felt like she was living in a museum, where she was one of the exhibits. The most mysterious exhibit. The one whose presence could not be logically explained. Though that never stopped a curator from making things up, she realized.
She’d visited herself in a wax museum once. How young and pretty she’d been–and still was in the museum, preserved forever. The mysterious silent film actress, Ondalune, with humble beginnings in Brooklyn. The gilded placard had gotten a few things right about her:
“Perhaps the most iconic film star of her generation, Ondalune was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York by immigrant parents. Her given name was Goldie. Her father was a projectionist in the Oceana Theater in Brighton Beach. He often brought his young daughter to work with him after her mother passed, which is where young Ondalune developed her love of the pictures.”
The gilded placard had gotten so much wrong as well.
“It is unknown what became of the actress, though it is widely believed that she met her fate in France after being captured by enemy forces while on tour with a theatrical company as part of the war relief effort.”
She had met her fate, indeed. But not in the way the placard implied. While abroad, she had seized the chance to start over. It had seemed necessary, as she was in her forties but still looked like she was eighteen. It wouldn’t be the last time Goldie Pearlmutter assumed a new identity.
She looked so perfect in the museum, decked out in a flapper costume, smiling coquettishly at something or someone. Goldie didn’t recall the dress, but she was sure she’d worn it because there was a faded photo of her wearing it in the glass case, along with the original matching feathered headpiece. The headpiece she had recalled. It had been just the thing to conceal an ugly bruise on her temple–compliments of a director who believed in taking liberties with his cast. She’d fought back, earning herself the nickname “The Brooklyn Bruiser” and a place on that director’s blacklist. Goldie was more careful with her contracts after that. And she’d let the nickname linger. Best to be known as a force to be reckoned with when men could get away with claiming she’d stunned them senseless.
One good thing her father had done for her was teach how to defend herself, albeit instead of doing the job himself.
It was a shame about that headpiece. The feathery crown hadn’t been cared for properly, she’d thought. She would have liked to have had it in her own collection.The costumes in her care were meticulously preserved, kept in a climate controlled closet in her home. Much like her, they appeared to have defied the worst effects of time.
But what did all of it matter anymore? Hours, days, months, years. Time streamed by in a relentless flood, sweeping away nearly everything in its path, except her and the random crumbs she clung to. A hairstyle that came back into fashion. A nostalgic name that became exotic once more. A proper cup of tea and ironed cotton sheets. Chips served hot and piping in a paper cone. A stranger with the familiar smile of a relative long gone.
The past revealed itself in unpredictable and brief glimmers. And the present was a life lived in the shadows, waiting for the sun to emerge from behind the clouds, however briefly.
She ought to sell the costumes and donate the money, if she even made any, to a charity. Who was she saving those things for? These mementos were now as pointlessly preserved as she was.
At some point, she would have to check out of this life, wouldn’t she? She was mortal, after all. She bled, and on rare occasions, she’d caught a cold or suffered through a stomach bug. But she couldn’t picture dying in a hospital bed. Instead, she imagined herself walking into the water and slipping through those swaying seaweed doors, into the lobby of somewhere else. Somewhere new and magnificent. She could almost hear the clink of champagne toasts and the refrains of a saxophone solo drifting out in ripples.
Goldie sighed and performed a small series of stretches before getting on with the rest of her walk. She had a somewhat busy day today. She was running the projectors for the upcoming film festival and needed to attend a meeting to make sure everything was in order for the screenings.
It wasn’t until she reached the colorfully tiled entrance to the Casino theater, where the box office was guarded by watchful mosaic mermaids, that Goldie realized something was wrong.
The door was ajar.
She peeked inside and was shocked to see what looked, at first, like a flock of flapping birds filling the cavernous space. But as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she realized it was not a living thing that flew through the lobby. It was paper. Brochures, to be specific. Hundreds of them.
