Shark, Female

Elasmobranch mating can be quite violent.

In many cases, males bite the females to secure a hold, inflicting injury and leaving scars.

—Chase Martin, Scripps Institution of Oceanography          

            As a teenager, Suzanne’s spot on the beach was the dry sand away from joggers, dog-walkers, her menacing brothers. Leaning her back against the sandstone cliffs, hoodie covering her red hair, she’d sketch people, shells, sharks. The way her brothers talked about girls, she almost didn’t want to be one.

            After graduation, Suzanne joined the Marines for freedom from her family and for a GI bill to art school once she was free from the Marines. The men she encountered, like sharks, surrounded a single female to mate in a manic frenzy, leaving the female (say, a quiet weapons repair specialist who’d rather be drawing) with permanent scars.

            She pursued graphic design after art school--hard work, but she could do it from her small house in Cayucos, a few blocks from the pier.

            Nearing 40, Suzanne still had no need for a mate, but she wanted a child.

After dating some cold fish, she chose insemination.

            Among multiples, one survived, and Suzanne named her Darwin. Each year for Winnie’s birthday, Suzanne created a picture book. She spent months drawing sea-horse fairies or anthropomorphic Monarchs.

            Suzanne met Lance at the shooting range. He worked at the gun shop, but his passion was restoring antique weapons. Ignoring her instinct, Suzanne chose to trust this man. Winnie’s twelfth birthday book introduced Lance; and, although Lance was a sea lion, Winnie understood he was joining their family.

            Lance’s daughter, Gwen, stationed just 5 hours south in Camp Pendleton, chose not to take leave for her father’s wedding.

            The house was tight for three, so while Suzanne worked, Lance and Winnie waded in the tidepools, fished from the shore. Lance promised Winnie they’d soon have a bigger house, and she could have a horse.

            On a drive through hillsides with waving yellow grass, Winnie saw three colts racing out of the ravine. “Mama!” she cried.

            They bought a small ranch just inland that backed up to a steep hill. Suzanne missed the ocean, but from the very top of the hill, she could still watch the winter whales.

            Months before her thirteenth birthday, Winnie started slipping drawings of horses onto her mother’s drafting table. True to his word, Lance presented Winnie with a pinto she named Piglet. Overjoyed, Winnie jumped onto his lap and threw her arms around Lance’s neck. Suzanne gently pulled Winnie back to her side.

            Each day when the bus dropped her off, Winnie switched into boots and tapped on her mother’s window. Suzanne tapped back at the chore list. Winnie rolled her eyes but did as she was asked.

            Eventually, Suzanne would take a break and head out to watch Winnie ride in the arena Lance had built, her red hair reined into braids.

            Lance also constructed a firing range behind the barn, and the three of them shot at targets propped against the sandy hill. When Gwen finally came to visit, she outshot them all. Gwen glanced triumphantly at her father and strode into the shade of the barn to light a cigarette.

            Suzanne’s publisher set her up to present at a book convention in Austin. Suzanne wanted to bring Winnie, but the publisher discouraged it.

            Winnie argued vaguely against staying with Lance, but she had school and a qualifying track meet. They compromised: Winnie could spend the weekend at Amy’s, but on school nights she had to be home.

            And Suzanne would be back Wednesday for Winnie’s 14th birthday. Book number 14, featuring a horse and a girl with red braids, would launch in Austin. Pre-sales were already impressive.

            A Tuesday meeting was moved up to Sunday afternoon. At dinner alone, missing Winnie and Lance, she switched her flight to the next morning.

            It still took her all day to fly from Austin to LAX and drive up the coast. It was raining, but not hard. She thought about calling home but didn’t have cell service. She’d make it in just after dinner and surprise Winnie with a book on drawing horses. And Lance—she’d found an Irish six-barrel percussion pistol at a dealer near the hotel.

            She plugged in her car and tried the garage door. She was surprised to find it locked. Lance’s office light was on, so he was home. It was a school night; Winnie would be doing homework or texting Amy. It was dusk and too muddy to be out with Piglet.

            Rather than fish her house keys out of the car, Suzanne circled around to the front door, but it was also locked. Muffled voices emanated from Lance’s office. From the front porch, through shrubs, Suzanne could see Winnie propped up on Lance’s desk, her bare back to the window, hair unbraided. Pressure swelled in Suzanne’s chest. Her heart thrashed and pounded. She stepped backward and her lungs compressed. She set the book down but held the gun snug. Her first inclination was to beat at the window, crash through the glass, but she crouched and circled around the corner. In the damp air, she smelled rotten pyracantha. Winnie would see her from the side window, she thought, if she’d just look up. Lance, fiddling with a row of firearms, gestured towards her daughter. He wore a white t-shirt, his pants on. Winnie’s darting eyes were searching Lance, searching the room. When Winnie saw her mother, she opened her mouth, but Suzanne lifted one finger high and brought it to her lips, lifted the impotent gun. Winnie smiled a slim smile, and Suzanne distinctly heard Lance laugh and say, “That’s better.” Quickly, quietly, she gulped the thick air and made it to the back door. No key in the boot.  

            Suzanne dashed to the car, dialed 9-1-1, recited the address to the dispatcher as she hunted for the housekey. She thrust the key in the lock. “There’s been a serious accident.”