We walked over to those sunburned strangers, who seemed in high spirits. The flat-topped one-the one with the volleyball, a pair of binoculars, and four empty beer cans strewn around his cooler-said to go ahead and help ourselves. I was about to help myself when Allie grabbed my arm. "We just wanted some ice," she said to Bud Guy, sounding slightly apologetic.
"You sure?" he asked. He seemed quite generous.
"No," I said. "We're not sure."
"Yes, we are," said Allie, and she held out her hand.
"Suit yourself," he said, pulling the top from his cooler.
We settled for ice, and she thanked Bud Guy. But he only burped and said it must be quite embarrassing getting towed in by Beach Patrol on flimsy plastic floats.
We sucked on cubes and nodded our agreement.
Sitting atop a light-green beach blanket, Darcy waved us over, like she'd missed us.
"And just where have you two been?" she asked. She sat up, squeezed drops of sunblock on her feet, and waited for a response.
I said nothing. Allie turned to watch the seagulls.
"Oh, c'mon," pleaded Darcy, rubbing her left foot. "Where did y'all go?"
"On a slow, relaxing drift," I replied.
I could tell she didn't believe me.
Just then, Jamie Delaney walked over, redoubling her hair band as she approached. Jamie was so small that she barely dented the sand. She turned to wave at her husband-who was out taming the breakers-then said, "Okay, where have you two been?"
"On a long shell hunt," said Allie. Miss Missionary plopped down on the blanket with them and began explaining our adventure, complete with flailing arm gestures and a wide-eyed exaggeration of how far we'd drifted. I tried to toss in a few yeahs and a you-shoulda-been-there, but soon they were off on some poetic tangent, so I slipped away, content to stand at the shoreline and watch Ransom surf the big ones.
Except at Litchfield Beach, there are no big ones.
So I spent the next little while by myself, dawdling on the shore, absently tossing shells in the sea but actively thinking of fate. Or was it providence? And were those jet-ski guys sent by God and how could her prayers be answered in such a timely manner?
I could not decide. But she'd looked so calm out there. How does anyone stay calm in the midst of oceanic doom?
By late afternoon I was toweling off after another failed attempt at surfing. Ransom was the patient sort, but the lesson had ended badly. After my ninth fall, he had paddled out alone, looked back over his shoulder, and told me to stick to fishing.
Whether it was out of pity, or whether they wanted some manly detail about the closed-eye drift, the girls decided to invite me back to their beach blanket. But soon after I sat down, Allie stood and walked offwithout even saying where she was going.
Ten minutes later she returned with more ice cubes and was immediately confronted by Jamie, asking what was going on with her and that generous Bud guy.
"Going on?" asked Allie, as if she'd been accused. "How is it that married women get to carry a license to probe?"
"Oh, just tell us the good parts," said Darcy, brushing a horsefly from her knee.
"Okay, then, I tried to tell him about Jesus," said Allie. "But he wasn't much interested. Kept saying he couldn't believe some church people would join him for a beer, but that others might object. Then he asked me if Jesus would drink a brew on the beach."
"Oh ... well, what did you say?" asked Jamie.
"Told him I didn't know. Missionary school covered everything but that."
When house shadows reached the shoreline, Darcy rose to walk home. Allie helped her shake off the blanket and said that she, too, had endured enough beach for one afternoon.
Before leaving, however, she leaned over to whisper in my ear. "Enjoyed our blind drifting, Jay."
"Me too, Captain."
They trudged between the dunes and modestly wrapped towels around their waists, never breaking stride or conversation.
They had not been gone a minute when up the beach came Stanley and his plaid Bermuda shorts, followed closely by his entourage, the five of them sloshing through backwash, still debating, still arguing over their jumbo words.
Stanley strolled over behind the Numericals, removed his religious T-shirt, and posed a question. "Which of you ladies would like to rub sunblock on my back?"
Not a one of the thirteen looked up.
A strange silence ensued, broken only by the rapid turning of pages, until finally Number Two with the raven hair peered over the top of Tolstoy and said, `Just do it yourself, please."
Dangerous looking, that Number Two.
Whiffs of fresh paint met me on the porch, and I entered our beach house to the sound of a roller swishing up and down a bedroom wall.
Steve appeared intent on painting the entire room. Tiny sea green droplets covered his arms, his feet, his stubble. Sea green apparently comes in many shades-none of which matched the original color-and the bedroom was only half finished when I stepped across the newspaper. "That's no way to get a tan."
He did not seem amused. "Grab a brush and do some trim, will ya?"
I started with the baseboards, the fumes growing stronger with each stroke of the brush. A warm wind blew through the window as Steve stood on his toes, rolling the far wall and whistling "Heartbreak Hotel." He turned to watch my progress. "Takes two coats to cover those white streaks," he warned.
I dipped my brush and said, "You really blasted those mosquitoes."
He shook his head and dunked his roller in the pan. "Any female interaction on the beach today?"
"Shoulda been there."
"Details, Jarvis."
"Maybe later. I need a shower ... these fumes are killer."
Steve said I couldn't use our shower because his paint supplies were in there and he was using the tub to wash out the brushes.
"Use the shower underneath the house," he said, dipping his roller again.
So I grabbed a towel and headed for the stairs.
Beneath our beach house, white concrete felt cool against my bare feet. Wooden planks surrounded the shower; a balmy silence encircled the planks. As I took off my T-shirt, I was startled by an unexpected whoosh. Water heaved from the showerhead.
"Who's in there?" I asked.
"It's me," came a female voice rising above the spray. "My name's Rona."
I walked around the shower and saw a beach-soiled weightlifting magazine on the concrete. With that limited evidence, I deduced that she was, in all likelihood, Number Eight. "Why, Rona, are you in a shower beneath the men's house?"
"We have twelve girls in our own house ... with only two bathrooms."
"Then you're impatient?"
"Those other girls take an hour to get ready. Just to go sit on the beach!"
"So I've heard."
"That's the only thing that really stinks about these beach trips. But don't worry, I'm still wearing my swimsuit."
I put my T-shirt back on, leaned against the planks, and dug a fingernail into a bar of Dial. "Were you one of the thirteen readers?"
"Yeah, I was in the middle, reading a relational book and that magazine over there."
"Any sunburn?"
"A little. And you?"
"On my shoulders. I sorta got lost at sea."
Her shampoo bottle thudded on the floor. Her voice faded. "I heard about that."
With my initials carved in soap, I pleaded with her. "Aren't you almost done?"
"No, I just got here. Wanna go to dinner sometime?"
Oh, mercy. Why me. "Do you always take such initiative in asking men for dates?"
"Sometimes. It's a strategy from the book."
"Does it work?"
"Occasionally. Gives me a sense of independence."
I sat on the concrete, my back still against the planks. "Independence is a good thing."
"Most of the time. You think I'm crazy?"
"Maybe a little, but you're not alone."
"I'm not?"
"No. Darcy Yeager said she feels free and independent when she speeds."
Rona turned down the shower spray. "Is she the tall blonde with the lime Cadillac?"
"That would be her."
"She's snooty. Never speaks to me."
"She's not snooty."
"Yes, she is. She's so snooty the guys are afraid of her. You don't ever see her with any guys, do you?"
"Maybe she's secretive."
"I doubt it. I think she's snooty."
"Well, don't use all the hot water, Rona." I rose to my feet again.
"What about going to dinner?" she asked, her voice rising. "We could even go Dutch."
Shower spray pattered off the boards. I quickly pondered my options. Now this was pressure. Standing on cool concrete beneath a beach house, I tried to envision this future Dutch date. A date consisting of me, muscular Number Eight, and ... the good doctor?
Disguised as a young waiter, Seuss approaches our table:
Oh, man, Jarvis, too long in the sun.
After sidestepping Rona's proposition, I postponed my shower, walked slowly up the porch stairs, and went back inside to lay down on our coralprint living-room sofa.
From the bedroom came the steady swish of a paint roller. I could've been more help to Brother Steve, but the afternoon had drained me.
I was nearly asleep when Stanley opened the front door, kicked off his sandals, and headed for the kitchen. He began rummaging through the fridge.
"Wanna Coke, Jay?"
I buried my head in a pillow and mumbled, "No thanks, Stanley."
"We were glad Beach Patrol found you two."
I sat up to peer over the sofa. "And just how did you know about that?"
He popped the tab of his drink and leaned against the wall. "I was the one who called 'em. On my cell phone. It was looking a bit dicey out there."
"Oh ...,,
Humbled, I allowed faint whiffs of sea green latex to lull me off, lull me further, and further still, as he left me there alone, alone on a beach house sofa beneath the swirling breeze of a rusty ceiling fan.
After showering with the paint brushes, Ransom leaned over the sink and tried not to drool on his obnoxious, yellow Hawaiian shirt. "I got a hot date with my wife," he said, rinsing his toothbrush. "We could only stay single for one night."
"Now we really hate your guts," said Steve. He was struggling to snap the top button of his shorts. I felt sorry for those shorts.
"Finish cleaning the shower, dude," Ransom said. "Soles of my feet are green."
He raised a foot for proof; I raised mine to give witness. We matched.
"You're right ... sea green."
Steve pulled a fresh shirt over his head, grabbed his wallet off the dresser. "Stop the complaining and wear socks."
I threaded my leather belt through khaki cutoffs. I had little energy but lots of appetite. "Another dinner reservation for fifty?" I asked.
"Maybe not," said Steve. "Just need to gather a few more rebels."
Rebels gathered, we watched Stanley lead the convoy out of Litchfield Beach. We'd be the caboose. Squeezed into the backseat of the Jeep, Lydia, Allie, and Joe bobbed their heads to the sounds of coastal radio.
The first nine cars turned north, but we turned south and headed for the shrimp docks of Georgetown, ten miles away.
Antebellum homes girded the waterfront of the port city, their wraparound porches hinting at life slow and gracious. The locals actually waved.
Past the gracious and the antebellum, we approached the waterfront on a graveled driveway announcing our arrival with snaps and pops. Through the windshield, we watched a dockhand washing down the deck of a shrimp boat.
"How many pounds do we want?" asked Steve, unhitching his seat belt.
"Two," said Lydia.
"Three," countered Allie.
"Five," said Joe.
The weathered shack had hand-painted signs reading FRESH SEAFOOD, though the smell drifting past our noses was anything but fresh.
"That's the local paper mill," said Lydia as she and Allie hurried inside.
"Oh, what fragrant aroma," mumbled Steve, holding the door and sniffing the air.
The shack's bare wooden walls had a damp, crusty look to them. A small chalkboard hung crooked behind the counter, proclaiming the day's specials in stilted blue handwriting.
"I'll have you know these shrimp were swimming just two hours ago," said the old man behind the counter. "And that'll be just five bucks a pound for you young people."
"What a bargain. We'll take four pounds," said Joe, handing him our cash. "And you keep the change, sir."
The old guy stuffed the cash in his pocket, sat down in a wicker chair, and propped his feet on a cooler. On the way out, we paused to check his inventory. Atop icy mounds, various sea creatures lay frozen and priced.
"Oh, wow," said Allie, leaning in for a closer look. "Look at the eyes on that dead flounder. Poor thing needs plastic surgery."
On the short ride back to Litchfield-with the wind whipping through our crowded jeep and the girls trying to car-dance to the beach music-I was sifting through Bud Guy's question, the one about Jesus and a brew on the beach. I pondered this question for a couple miles, then turned and faced the backseat to solicit group opinion.
Steve weaved into the fast lane and said, "I think he would."
"Gotta disagree," said Lydia. "Not his style."
"Sure he would," Joe protested, holding our plastic sack of shrimp, his big head wedged against the jeep's roll bar. "He just wouldn't make a fuss over it."
`Just depends," said Allie, her dark bangs all windblown and happy. "If there were an alcoholic around, he'd decline. But if he'd been adrift on a gaudy plastic float for hours without a sip of water, then certainly." And her foot jolted my seat.
Seaspray Drive felt warm and serene as Steve parked the jeep on our crushed-shell driveway. I got out and leaned the seat down for the girls.
"Gracias," they said, stepping carefully across the shells.
Following them up the stairs to a beach house kitchen, I paused to replay this first full day of my very first churchy beach trip, wondering if today was the highlight, or merely the prologue.
Through the kitchen window, I watched summer's sun melting toward the Pacific. I boiled our four pounds of shrimp, Joe covered them with ice, and Lydia suggested we go eat on the beach.
"But there's a baseball game on," Steve protested, spreading real butter across fake Italian bread.
"There's always a baseball game on," said Lydia, digging through the fridge. "In fact, I think they play baseball twelve months out of the year now. Game after game after game, then fly somewhere else for even more games, then back home to play the same team they just visited, only with different uniforms, which means they sweat too much, so no wonder those batters are always fidgety."
"I resent that synopsis," said Joe, sampling the dinner. "And besides, we're only arranging everything in its proper place before swinging."
"Women don't have that problem," said Lydia.
Steve stared blankly at the bread for a moment, then said, "Duh."
"Where do baseball players learn words like synopsis?" asked Allie. She grabbed an armful of canned drinks and backpedaled toward the front door.
"In a dictionary," said Joe. "We have dictionaries on the team bus to improve our vocabulary. In case we get interviewed."
"Any Bibles on that bus?" she asked.
"Driver always brings two Bibles, six dictionaries."
I grabbed the tartar sauce off the counter, the fake Italian bread from the stove. Allie held the door with her foot. "You coming, Mr. Cole?"
`Just to eat," said Steve. "Then Joe and I are watching the rest of this game on TV ... to hear all the great vocabulary."
We strolled toward the beach, dinner in tow, and Lydia said what a shame it was for a baseball team to have the dictionaries outnumber the Bibles, especially after the batters embarrass themselves on national TV. Then Joe said
he'd heard enough of this ignorance and maybe we could finish our seafood song since Stanley wasn't around to rudely interrupt.
"Yeah," said Lydia. "Why did Stanley rudely interrupt?"
"Maybe he prefers hymns," I offered in slight defense of Stanley, which felt a bit weird. But the guy did call Beach Patrol.
Allie said the canned drinks were freezing her arms and that the lobster song was just for lobsters, though maybe there was a shorter tune dedicated solely to shrimp, but who cared since it was no fun without a cook in a floppy white hat, and besides, Lydia couldn't hold a note anyway.
"Can too," said Lydia, elbowing her friend.
"You screech," said Allie.
"I do not screech."
"Then you bellow."
"I do not bellow."
"The lobster was glad to be put out of his misery."
`Jay told me the lobster went to hell."
As we crossed the oceanfront road, Steve shuffled up beside me and whispered that he thought there was a special purgatory just for crustaceans.
Yet another issue I'd never stopped to ponder.
At the base of a darkened sand dune, we sat cross-legged on beach towels, watching a rising tide lag the previous night by an hour, the waves pounding out slow and steady rhythms against the shore. Nature's percussion. Warm scents of seafood trailed the breeze, and our smallish gathering seemed wearied, lazy even.
"No one asked a blessing," said Lydia, dunking her shrimp in cocktail sauce.
"Yea God, boo devil," said Steve, quickly peeling his shrimp to keep up with Joe.
"How eloquent," said Allie. She shut her eyes, in no hurry to finish her own return of thanks.
Briefly, I tried to imitate her. But I had only the form, not the substance. Her head was bowed so low that her hair brushed her towel. The terry cloth was a deep yellow, with loopy, red Spanish words flowing end to end.
I thought it a verse-and would've asked about the words-but figured I should learn a proper English blessing before delving into Spanish Scriptures.
"What happened to Darcy?" asked Steve, refilling his plate.
"Got herself a tummy ache," said Allie, not looking up from her meal. "After we came in from the beach today, Darcy ate a whole bag of Brussels Mint cookies. She's sitting up in our crow's nest, silent and pale."
Flabbergasted: A Novel Page 8