Wavehouse

by Kaltman, Alice;

  Chapter Ten

  I needed Myra. Fortunately, her house wasn’t far from my grandparents. I trekked along the beach, cut up at the next bayside parking lot and was at her place in ten minutes.

  “Oh my god,” Myra gasped as she opened the door. She was wearing a silk kimono her parents had bought her on a recent trip to Japan and had her hair piled up on the top of her head where it poofed out like a giant red mushroom. “What happened to you? You look like the Walking Dead.”

  “I hate my family. All of them. I wish a tornado would whisk them all up to Oz where they could whiz around with the evil Flying Monkeys!”

  “Whoa. Even good old Tom and Lorraine?”

  “They’re evil, too. At least for now.” I stalked past her into the kitchen.

  “Where are your shoes?” Myra asked.

  “Back at the beach. I walked over annoying, sharp little bay rocks to get here. My feet are killing me. You should feel honored.”

  Myra grabbed a bottle of OJ from the fridge and sat at the table, while I collapsed in the chair opposite her. “Here. Drink.” She pushed the bottle toward me. “Maybe some antioxidants and Vitamin C will improve your mood.”

  I took a gulp of the orange juice and felt a little better.

  “So, what happened?” Myra asked.

  I outlined the basic dinner discussion debacle for her—“Even Gramma! I mean, hello? A surfing fashion model? Whose grandmother is this? Since when has she wanted me to do anything but go to college, stay a virgin until marriage, and end up teaching Sunday school?”

  “She is kind of old-fashioned. But seriously? Compared to some of the other old biddies I work with at the Senior Center, your grandmother is like a Cosmo girl.”

  “Ha,” I laughed. Myra was already making me feel better. “Gramma on the cover of Cosmo in some slinky, sexy dress? Hey, maybe she’s the one who can be a model.”

  “Anna, you’ve gotta give them a break. It all sounds super exciting and adventurous.”

  “Myra—”

  “Okay. Okay. Sorry. They all suck. Even Lorraine.”

  “Thank you,” I sighed.

  “So, while we’re on the subject of families, can I have a turn?”

  “Yeah, for sure. What’s going on?”

  “At dinner tonight Daniel spills the beans that this upcoming trip to Paris is more than just another magazine assignment,” Myra said. “My parents are going to Paris to interview for jobs.”

  “What?” I sat bolt upright.

  “Yeah. Like, to work full time in Paris, running an international travel journal. A big, glossy, French thing. Une revue elegant.”

  My heart beat faster. “Does that mean you’ll have to move too?”

  Myra shrugged. “I don’t know. When I asked them, they were all vague and cagey. Daniel said something about how Aunt Sheila would be on sabbatical from Columbia so she could stay with me, at least through eleventh grade; but then Judith got so pissed at him for blurting the details that they got into a major argument and stopped talking to me. Once again, I was the ghost child. I probably could’ve set the table on fire and they wouldn’t have noticed.”

  “Oh God. Please no. I will literally die if you move!”

  Myra looked away.

  “So that’s a yes? Like, you might actually move to Paris with them?”

  “It’s a maybe.” Myra leaned across the table and grabbed my hands. “But honestly? I can’t imagine living anywhere without you; even if Paris is one of the most romantic and culturally interesting cities on the planet.”

  “Hey, remember that report you did on France in fifth grade?”

  “Oh God, please. Don’t remind me.” Myra covered her face with her hands.

  “The beret, remember?” I laughed. “And the penciled mustache…”

  “That terrible French accent,” Myra giggled.

  “You did the can-can, Myra. The actual can-can.”

  “What was I thinking?”

  “Probably just fifth-grade-cute-smart-kid kinds of thoughts.”

  “At least you were paying attention. I have a distinct memory of you sitting there grinning at me while I was kicking.”

  I shook my head. “You really cemented your nerd status with that one.”

  “Well, at least Mrs. McMurty loved it,” Myra shrugged. “I got an A.”

  I hung out at Myra’s for another hour. We decided to play one of our “Regressive Comfort Games,” including Candyland, Monopoly, 20 Questions (but only using children’s books or TV show characters), and Go Fish. We chose Candyland, the most babyish game of all. Queen Frostine and Princess Lolly. We felt cleansed afterwards.

  By the time I got back to my grandparents’ place, the Jeep was gone. Sara had left without me. No surprises there. I limped up the stoop and in through the unlocked front door. The dining table was cleared, polished to Pledge-

  perfection. The kitchen was dark; the only hint left of Thursday dinner was the hum and rattle of Gramma’s old dishwasher. No doubt Gramma herself was upstairs in bed in a schnapps-sodden sleep, dead to the world the minute her head hit the pillow.

  The living room TV was still on, the volume lowered to a mumble, one of Grandpa’s few concessions to Gramma’s needs. Grandpa lounged in his recliner, with his work-booted feet resting on his faux-leather footstool, and his hands palm-up on corduroyed thighs. He looked like he was asleep or meditating—the thought of which made me snicker; Grandpa would no more meditate than he would do the hula. But as I approached, my urge to laugh disappeared. Grandpa wasn’t asleep; his eyes were wide open. He wasn’t snoring but instead wheezed with a disturbing rattle—as if a bunch of nuts and bolts tumbled around in his chest.

  “You sound like shit,” I said.

  “Shut up,” he grumbled. “Oh, and welcome home.”

  I sat down on the couch and looked at the TV screen. A bunch of tall, skinny girls, not much older than me, stood in an awkward clump. A few smiled as if to crack their faces in half, others looked scared and big-eyed, like feral raccoons.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “I dunno,” he shrugged. “I think it’s called Top Model.”

  I turned to him in awe. “Top Model? You’re watching Top Model?”

  He cleared his throat, looked me straight in the eye and growled, “Yes, I am. And if you tell a soul you caught me watching this crap, your ass is grass.”

  I returned his glare to keep the charade of seriousness afloat, but we both knew it wouldn’t last. Grandpa broke first—in a fit of laughter that sounded like a hound-dog with hiccups. I joined in, and momentarily forgot how irritated I was with everyone, including my dear old Grandpa. Eventually, our giggles subsided and we watched the judges lovingly slash each girl to bits, sighing in commiseration when the sweetest, smartest contestant was booted off the show. No mention was made of my surfing or my storming out.

  “So, are you staying here tonight or do you wanna lift home?” Grandpa asked.

  My grandparents’ guest room—which we all still considered my room—hadn’t changed much in years. The bedspread was one of those nubby, white jobs with pompoms skimming the floor. Two embroidered accent pillows rested on top—Gramma’s handiwork; one featured a fluffy kitten in gray thread, and the other a frisky puppy in brown. I had named them Fluffy and Woof Woof, and they were forever waiting for me at the head of the bed. Gramma had sewn them when I turned six years old. That season Sara had had it bad for an Australian surfer named Damian who had treated me like an annoying pet—one he would prefer to be sent to the nearest animal shelter. I had been thrilled when Sara told me Damian was leaving, and horrified when she told me she was going away with him. Damian had intended to travel down the Eastern Seaboard, and Sara planned to keep him company while he “surfed the States.”

  The day they drove away in Sara’s station wagon—their
surfboards leaning up over the back seat—was one of the most awful days of my life. My mother had occasionally left me with my grandparents for a night or two, when she was off doing her party-girl thing. This was different—the packing up of her belongings, the surfboards, the meaningful hug, and the “I love you more than anything, kid. Don’t forget it,” whisper in my ear before Sara drove off. I was afraid that this surf jaunt with Damian would last a long, long time, if not forever.

  I spent that night crying in the guest room, crippled by a really bad stomachache; already, I felt a hole in my heart where my mom had always been. Gramma heard me sobbing into the bedspread and rushed in, carrying the pillows.

  “Oh Anna Marie, my poor baby,” she sighed. “What’s wrong?”

  I turned over to look at Gramma, wiping the back of my hand over my snotty nose. “My tummy aches,” I blubbered.

  Gramma lay down beside me, rubbing my stomach in soothing arcs, and murmuring soothing nothings in my ear. After I had calmed a little, she showed me the pillows. “I made these for you to sleep with at night,” she said. “Hug them close because they’re little creatures who need lots of love and attention. Can you do that for me?”

  I could and I did. Fluffy and Woof Woof. My first and only pets.

  Sara returned a week later, with a bruised ego and a broken heart. I went back to the cottage with her, but left Fluffy and Woof Woof at Toilsome Lane. I knew I’d be back soon enough.

  Watching the credits for Top Model scroll down the screen, I considered Grandpa’s offer. The idea of staying was appealing—I could collapse into bed, wake up and be fed hot, delicious food by a slightly hung-over but ever-chipper Gramma, as opposed to back at the cottage where cold granola and nearly expired milk—served by me for me—were my only breakfast options.

  I sighed. “I think I’d better go home.”

  Grandpa drove the ten minutes it took to get me home in silence, but for the croony, fifties music on his radio.

  Our cottage was dark, and there was no sign of the Jeep or of Sara. I was disappointed and relieved, flip-flop fashion—like when you slide your hands in front of your face to go happy-up, sad-down. What would come of seeing her tonight anyway? I thought. Probably just more drama. Still, part of me wanted her around.

  “You okay here?” Grandpa asked.

  I nodded.

  “Suit yourself. Just wave to me from the window once you’re in there. Make sure everything is as it should be.”

  I leaned over and kissed his scratchy cheek. “I love you, you old fart,” I said.

  “Kiss my butt,” he replied.

  “Yuck.” I slammed the car door. “Not in your dreams.”

  In the empty house all was as it had been when I had left early that morning—a mess. I waved to Grandpa through the window then gave him the finger. He returned the gesture and drove away.

  The dark screen of the computer sat squarely on the desk. The hunk of junk was no longer just another piece of furniture, but had now transformed itself into a taunting, annoying temptation—one I couldn’t resist. Sitting down in front of the computer, I pulled up YouTube and clicked on The Surfing Siren. The number of views had now reached one thousand and two—five hundred more in less than twenty-

  four hours! Feeling queasy, I ran to the bathroom where I spent the next ten minutes crouched over the toilet bowl. Fortunately, my belly-cramps eased and, with a few deep breaths, I managed to calm myself down.

  I settled into my bed with sketchbook, pens, and pencils, and started a new Wavehouse; the wave-roof, curved in a series of gentle lines that ended in a neat curl. Then, with my pen, I edged the roof with a delicate trim of lacy coral. Under the wavy roof, I sketched an open clamshell with a No. 2 pencil, but I didn’t like the open A-frame effect, so I rubbed it out. Next, I tried a more loosey-goosey tiki hut but that didn’t do it for me either—I wasn’t in the groove. The YouTube and surf scout nonsense were getting in the way, not to mention the most recent bomb—Myra’s possible departure for Paris. All the way across the Atlantic Ocean; not exactly an easy paddle. While no Wavehouse emerged that night, a decision did: I would surf exclusively at Secretspot for the rest of the season; and I wouldn’t return to Early’s until I knew the Stella scout was gone for good, and until I figured out for sure who had posted the YouTube video.

  I fell asleep around midnight, hoping to have a nice, watery Wavehouse dream, but as luck would have it, I had a bad surf nightmare instead. I was paddling and paddling, trying to get to a tree-lined shore but the waves were breaking in reverse. All sorts of stuff from The Shell Shop hit me in the face as I paddled—tee shirts, postcards, necklaces, and Shellys. I tried to grab them as they bobbed past, but they fell apart when I touched them, the little families disintegrating, the cottages splintered or turned to pulp.

  I was grateful to be woken by the sound of tires on gravel. At the window, I saw, through bleary eyes, my mother get out of a silver SUV with Rusty Meyers behind the wheel. It struck me that this seemed like an odd choice of vehicle for someone into environmental issues, but I wasn’t really surprised. Rusty had major poseur written all over his smarmy face and buff body. I’d seen many strutting boors of his type drive up to our door. Sara leaned into the driver’s window, murmuring something to Rusty before wiggling her way to our front door. It was a purposeful wiggle, a perfectly choreographed sashay executed for maximum impact. Returning to bed, I pulled the covers up around my neck and turned my back to the door. The clock read 4:08 a.m.

  Sara cracked my door open, and I heard her sigh. Then something super weird happened. Sara sat on the edge of my bed, near my head—it seemed like she was there for forever. Then she stroked my face, trailing her warm hand down the side of my cheek. I lay still, pretending to be asleep, which was hard, because it felt so good I almost cried. Eventually Sara rose from the bed and I heard the door close behind her.

  I imagined Sara kicking off her high-heeled sandals, pouring herself a tall glass of water to purge her alcohol-coated insides, and rummaging in the back of the silverware drawer for the spare pack of cigarettes; maybe she would light one up and take a few drags before burying the wasted cigarette deep in the trash, so as not to be reminded later of her post-date impulsivity. Often she would stay awake all night—sitting zombie-like with that damn photograph of my father in her hand, thinking thoughts she didn’t share with anyone, including me.

  I tried to stop imagining. I tried not to care.

  Trying was as far as I got.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next day it poured—a relentless kind of rain that beat down on the tin roof like a punishment. There was no surf to speak of, only big, gray washing machine slop without form or reason. Locals stayed home, attending to household chores; tourists stayed indoors too, opting for cable TV in mildewed motel rooms, or quick dips in under-sized but over-heated indoor pools.

  The Shell Shop was empty. My mother had given me the morning off, so I stayed home trying to read a book Myra had bought me—Frank Lloyd Wright: A Life by Ada Louis Huxtable. As usual, Myra was trying to get me to think beyond my Kendall’s Watch existence. But reading about Wright was downright depressing; he seemed like a narcissistic jerk who had come from a really messed-up family. I skipped the story and browsed the photos. The houses he had built were cool, though. Like me, he seemed to like watery stuff, like rivers, waterfalls, and brooks.

  Despite my lack of interest in Wright’s life, the book inspired me. I drew a Wavehouse of angled driftwood and sharp-edged razor clams on an underwater cliff of coral, covered with succulent, seaweed plants. Schools of bluefish darted in and out of the feathery plants, feasting on plankton and algae.

  In the afternoon, I worked at The Shell Shop. When Sara and I were there alone, we circled each other like a couple of territorial cougars with nothing to do but worry about our tails being swiped. That night she went out on the town with Rusty again, and
returned late. I waited for her like one of Cinderella’s faithful mouse buddies as Sara stepped from Rusty’s enchanted SUV carriage and floated back to her humble home.

  Saturday morning the sun broke through, and the wind calmed and shifted. At dawn, I heard Sara’s door open and her voice: “You want a lift?” Her voice sounded pleasant but forced. “The waves at Early’s are decent.”

  “Nah,” I replied, keeping my eyes closed and my back turned. “I’m sleeping in. Maybe I’ll bike down later.”

  “Okay, if you don’t make it, I’ll see you at the shop. Be there by ten, please. I’ll go straight from Early’s.”

  After Sara drove away, I jumped out of bed and checked the week’s tide chart in the Kendall’s Kalendar. The Kalendar was our cheap town paper that mostly featured local business ads, church and community events, horoscopes, and TV listings. Occasionally someone wrote a decent article about beach erosion or traffic congestion; the tide chart, however, was a section that both fishermen and surfers depended on. Hitting the ocean at the wrong time or the wrong tide could result in no fish or no waves. In other words, a disaster.

  Low tide had peaked at 6 a.m., and it was now half-past. An incoming tide, light offshore winds, and an ocean-born groundswell would create perfect surfing conditions at

  Secretspot. Scarfing down a bowl of stale granola, I quickly

  got my gear together. I didn’t bother calling Myra—she was staying home in order to squeeze more information out of her parents before they left for Paris that afternoon. I planned to stay with Myra for the next four nights, even if she claimed she didn’t need the caretaking. We would, no doubt, be clinging to each other like barnacles.

  I got to Secretspot half an hour later, and the waves looked sweet; four to five feet on the face, and arriving in four-wave sets at a decent three-minute interval. Enough time to catch one, ride it as far as nature intended, and still have time to paddle back out, catch my breath and wait for the next train. After prepping myself with sunscreen and my board with wax, I skidded down the cliff and made my way across the narrow beach to the surf. The bottom dropped away quickly, and I had to paddle from the get-go; there was no time to stand around in the white water waiting for a golden opportunity.