by Nancy Star
Callie let out one last terrified scream and burrowed her head in her mother’s chest. By the time Ginger got to the blanket, Mr. Diggans was laughing.
He kneeled beside Callie. “Take another look. Those aren’t monsters. Those are our friends. There’s my sister, Minty, and her husband, Bob. Remember Bob? They took clay baths, that’s all. With clay from the cliffs. Bravo,” he applauded the clay people.
Her mother gave Callie a little shove. “Go on. Take a look.” Callie tentatively untwined herself. “See? Are they monsters? No.”
“Getting clayed is fun,” Mr. Diggans told Callie. “It’s like playing in the mud. Did you know grown-ups like to play in the mud?”
“No.” Callie inched closer to the people she now recognized as human.
“It’s like finger painting,” he went on. “I bet you like to finger paint.”
Callie nodded and looked at her mother. “Can I go to the cliffs and get clayed?”
“Not alone,” Glory said. “Gingie, take your sister to the cliffs.”
Ginger pretended she didn’t hear her mother’s instruction because she did not want to go to the cliffs. She did not want to be in a crowd of naked painted beach people, all of them laughing as if they were bewitched.
She watched as the enchanted crowd ran into the water, holding hands in a wide circle. They let go to dive under and then heads popped up, one and then another, out past the breakers, like seals. Laughing, they played catch with clumps of seaweed, which they then used to sponge off the rust-colored clay that had dried hard on their skin. When they finished, they swarmed out. With the clay washed off, they no longer looked enchanted. They just looked naked.
Ginger turned on her stomach and faced the other way. She’d never seen a naked man before. She’d never seen a man in pajamas, except in movies and on TV. Her father came down to breakfast fully dressed every day.
The wind whipped up. “We should go,” she called to her mother. “It’s too windy.” The umbrella pole jiggled. “The umbrella’s going to fly away.”
“Have you ever seen such a worrywart?” Glory asked Mr. Diggans.
His thigh had moved so that it was touching her mother’s. “I think she’s lovely.”
Ginger waited for her mother to make a remark about his leg, or about whether she was lovely, but Glory’s mouth remained a line flat as the sand. Giving up, Ginger rolled on her back and closed her eyes. A moment later the sky darkened and she opened them. Mr. Diggans was towering over her. She sat up and averted her gaze to his feet. Impossibly, his toes seemed to have grown bigger. He had the feet of an ogre.
“Raspberries?” He kneeled beside her and offered an open container. “Picked them this morning. I hear you love raspberries.”
“You’re spoiling her,” Glory called over and then, “Gingie, is he spoiling you?”
Ginger stood up, taking her towel with her. “I don’t want any, thank you.”
“Is she being rude?”
“Not at all.”
Ginger peered into the container. The raspberries looked as if they’d been dumped in, the bottom ones crushed by the weight of the ones above.
“She’s crazy for raspberries,” Glory said. “The whole family is, right, Gingie?”
“We are,” Mimi answered, and inserted herself between Ginger and Mr. Diggans. Despite her size, with her hands on her hips, Mimi made a stalwart barricade.
Mr. Diggans reached a long arm over Mimi’s head and jiggled the container. “Go on. Take as many as you like.” The raspberries didn’t move.
To make him go away, Ginger picked one that still held its shape, but when she put it in her mouth it was overripe and she quickly swallowed it whole to be done with it.
Mr. Diggans’ wide forehead wrinkled. “That didn’t look good.” She wanted to lie and say it was good, but she couldn’t risk speaking because the berry was threatening to come back up.
“Let me try one.” Mr. Diggans dipped a long finger into the container and scooped out a crimson gob, which he deposited in his mouth. “Ugh.” He wiped his lips on the back of his hand. “She’s right. They’re awful.” He wiped his hand on his trunks, leaving a streak of red. “Rotten raspberries was not my plan at all.”
“It’s the thought,” Glory said.
He extended his hand to Ginger. “Forgive me?” His fingers glistened with spit.
She looked to her mother for guidance, but Glory’s expression remained inscrutable so Ginger stretched out her hand and hoped that was right. She had no idea how long a handshake was supposed to last. It took two tugs to get her hand back.
“Yoo-hoo.” Glory waved her crossword magazine in the air and brushed some invisible sand off her thighs. “Shall we finish?”
Mr. Diggans returned to her as if nothing had happened. Nothing had happened.
“We were here,” Glory said, pointing. “Four-letter word for shoe.”
“Clog,” Ginger said, quietly.
“Beautiful and smart,” Mr. Diggans observed.
“Why don’t you go for a swim,” Glory called over. “Before it gets too windy.”
“It’s already too windy,” Ginger said. “They’re going to change the flag to red.”
“What are you, a psychic now? It’s yellow. Everyone go with Gingie. She’s in charge.”
Charlie reminded her he couldn’t go in because of his cast, so Glory let him stay and dig. Callie wanted someone to take her to the cliffs and to the Cut, but Ginger talked her into staying near the blanket by telling her they needed a brave volunteer for a special mission. The job was standing guard in front of Mimi’s rock tower to make sure no one knocked it over. Callie accepted the assignment and like a little soldier, knees high in the air, marched back and forth, saluting people as they walked by.
Ginger followed Mimi to the sea. Glory called after them, “Don’t go in far.”
The wind picked up as they walked. Hats flew off heads. Tuna fish sandwiches turned crunchy and were abandoned. Gulls swooped in, making a party of the remains. But Glory said the umbrella was not loose, and the ocean was not rough, and the flag would not switch to red. So maybe people weren’t packing up to leave and the sand wasn’t getting in her teeth. Maybe her hair wasn’t flying in all directions and the sky wasn’t blue, and the water wasn’t wet, and her family wasn’t falling apart.
They sat at the water’s edge and Mimi said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if we got a jellyfish and threw it at Mr. Diggans and it turned out he’s allergic and he got stung and dropped dead?”
“Hysterical.” The blustery wind carried over the sound of a shriek. They turned and saw their mother chasing after the umbrella, Mr. Diggans right behind her. Glory ran the way she drove, her body moving forward while her head looked in the opposite direction. Both of them were laughing hard, oblivious to how the bobbling umbrella was threatening one family after another as it danced top over bottom along the beach, rising up over heads, touching down softly on sand, then up again to the next near-catastrophe.
A blustery breeze tossed Ginger’s hair in a frenzy, blinding her, and then, as suddenly as it started, the wind dropped dead. She pushed her hair out of her eyes in time to see the umbrella fall like a missile, spear down, landing perfectly erect, to her mother’s delight.
In the sudden calm she could hear Glory’s laugh, heartfelt and real, as she ran with Mr. Diggans to where the umbrella stood. They both flopped down beneath it. A moment later they were up on their feet and Glory was motioning to her daughters while calling out instructions.
“I think she’s saying you have to keep an eye on Callie.” Mimi gave her mother a thumbs-up and they watched her disappear out of sight, to the far side of the cliffs.
Charlie was digging in his hole and Ginger was playing Spit with her sisters when Glory got back to the blanket. Mr. Diggans stood behind her, the umbrella perched over his shoulder, light as a twig. Her mother’s smile looked dreamy, and Ginger noticed her legs had been clayed.
Callie reached over a
nd touched the red-brown streaks. “You did it. You took a clay bath. Can I? Can I get clayed?” She turned to her sisters. “Please take a clay bath with me?”
“No,” Ginger said, and Mimi quickly seconded, “No way.”
Callie experimented with defiance. Slowly, unsure how this would go, she took a step toward the cliffs. The family watched, amused. She was, after all, a little girl, the youngest of four, the one who made no demands. She continued, kicking sand, and walking ever so slowly, until Glory called out to put an end to it. “Callie Claire. You are not going to the cliffs alone. Now come over here and sit down.”
Callie obeyed half of what her mother said, the sitting-down part. “I’m going.” She scooted over an inch. “I’m going to get clayed, and then I’m going to swim in the Cut.”
Glory laughed and turned to Mr. Diggans. “She wouldn’t dare.” Their heads tipped together as they went back to the puzzle.
Ginger watched her youngest sister who, like in a game of red-light green-light, moved toward the cliffs every time her mother’s eyes went to the puzzle and then froze in place when her mother looked her way.
Mimi broke the bad news. “If she goes all the way to the cliffs they’re going to make one of us bring her back. And it won’t be me. I’d rather drop dead than go there.”
“Then tell Charlie,” Ginger said. “Tell him he has to take Callie to the cliffs right now.”
“He won’t. He’ll say he’s too busy digging.”
Ginger disagreed. “Tell him Callie will get in trouble if he doesn’t. He hates when she gets in trouble.”
“Okay.” Mimi got up. “I’ll tell him he has to go, or else!” Problem solved, Ginger lay down and closed her eyes.
It seemed to take forever for Mimi to come back. When Ginger finally sat up to see if Charlie had agreed, Mimi was standing at the dunes doing nothing and Callie was nowhere in sight. It really was exasperating having Mimi as a sister.
Ginger called to her. “Did he go?” When Mimi didn’t answer, she stood up and yelled, “Did Charlie go?” She walked over to where Mimi stood. “Did Charlie go with Callie?”
Her tone caught her mother’s attention. Glory stormed over. “What now?”
“Callie went to the cliffs. I think with Charlie. But maybe alone.” Ginger looked at Mimi but got no confirmation.
“What do you mean you think?” Glory asked.
Mr. Diggans joined them and looked toward the sea. “Would Callie go in the water without telling you?”
“She didn’t go in the water,” Ginger said. “Callie went to the cliffs to get clayed.” She turned to Mimi. “Did Charlie go with Callie or not?”
Mimi didn’t answer. When Ginger followed her sister’s gaze, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck fluttered a warning. Her sister was staring at the sand where Charlie’s hole was supposed to be but, impossibly, the hole was gone. It was as if the rules of the universe had shifted. How could a hole that big be gone? “Where’s Charlie’s hole?” Ginger slowly turned in a circle, and then reversed direction.
“For the love of god,” Glory said. “You’re looking in the wrong place.”
Disoriented, Ginger turned around again, but everywhere she looked, the sand was the same: flat and level as a pond. How could everywhere be the wrong place?
“You’re not looking where you should,” Glory insisted, panic growing in her voice.
Mimi slipped her hand into Ginger’s clenched fist. “I saw the sand go in. I saw the hole fill up.” She paused and the rest came in a whisper. “Charlie’s inside.”
“What?” Glory sounded angry. But as she stared at the sand she finally saw what Ginger saw. The sand was the same everywhere. Flat, everywhere. Flat as ice. Her mouth gaped open and then, as if in slow motion, Glory’s piercing scream echoed down the beach, slicing through the sound of families arguing about who had the tanning oil and if there were enough grapes to go around. The scream was followed by silence. The next wave crashed, and pandemonium.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The first call Ginger made was to Richard. When he didn’t pick up, she left a message. Glory died. Can you call Nick’s mom? She felt a rush of adrenaline at the thought of Julia coming back, and then a flush of embarrassment. Her mother’s death should not be reduced to a happy excuse for Julia’s return. Besides, Julia had made her intentions clear. Ginger pictured her—cheeks red, face hot—appalled that the conversation had taken a turn to contingency plans in case someone died. Then she pictured Richard brokering the awful compromise. If something happens, we’ll let you know. But we won’t expect you home.
She crossed her hands, one atop the other, at the bottom of her neck, as if trying to shield herself from pain. Then she dropped both her arms. She’d know more later, when she spoke to Richard. Now it was time to call Mimi.
She tried her cell phone first, and when there was no answer, she called the house.
Troy picked up. “I think she’s in the attic. I think she’s looking for old clothes to cut up for a quilt. I think my dad commissioned one for his waiting room. I think—”
Ginger interrupted. “Troy, sweetie, could you go find her and ask her to call me right away?”
After that there was nothing to do but wait. To distract herself, she tried reviewing the contents of her supply cabinet. When that didn’t work, she picked up a legal pad to make notes for her next Danger Class. The class was scheduled to be on “The Dangers of Recess,” but what she wrote down instead was “The Dangers of Sand Holes.” She started to cross it out—this was a subject that Ginger, well-raised in the art of deflection, had avoided discussing for years—but her pen stopped. Why hadn’t she taught a class on this? She knew enough about them. She’d had a Google alert set up for sand holes for years. She kept close track of them, both where and how they happened and, of course, the aftermaths.
Just this July, a six-year-old boy died at a Massachusetts beach after digging a deep hole with a small plastic shovel. He was one of four sand-hole-collapse fatalities over the summer. They happened all around the country—in Oregon, the Bay Area, the Outer Banks, and at the Jersey Shore. They happened in England and Australia. She read all the articles and watched all the videos. The videos were strikingly similar, the brief shot of a school photo, a young smiling child, followed by a cell phone video of a doomed attempt at rescue.
New England Journal, she wrote on her pad. She’d come upon the NEJM study several years ago, a decade of sand-hole accident data—the youngest fatality, a three-year-old boy.
How had she never taught a class on this? Most parents had no idea a child happily digging one moment could be buried the next. And there were safety precautions. Easy ones. Number one: she wrote. Check for holes on the beach. Number two: See a hole, fill it in. Number three: Never let children dig higher than their knees. Her phone rang, and she put down her pen.
Mimi’s reaction was pretty much what Ginger expected, acceptance followed by annoyance. “Of course. It’s Thursday. Of course she would pick a Thursday.”
Is this a bad day for Mom to die? Ginger thought. She didn’t say it because she knew the answer would have been an unironic, Yes. Didn’t everyone who knew Mimi know Thursdays were a nightmare for her? Thursday was Neil’s late night, and despite a house filled with relatives, not one of them ever stepped up to offer help with the trifecta of getting Hunter to baseball, Troy to his math tutor, and Wallace to Mock Trial.
Since Mimi liked to be in charge of important things, Ginger decided to relinquish control and let her sister pick the funeral home. Her hope was this would get her sister off the phone before she asked the question Ginger wanted to avoid, but it didn’t work.
“So, Gingie. How long do you want to wait to have this hullaballoo? We need to give people a chance to get here, right?”
“People?” For a moment Ginger let herself imagine Mimi was referring to a minion of Glory’s old friends, men in loose-hanging suits and women wearing peds and pumps, rotary phone receivers pressed to th
eir ears as they searched for something, anything, an eyebrow pencil would do, to scratch down the details of their friend’s funeral. But of course that wasn’t it. Glory had shed her friends years ago. By people, Mimi meant Julia.
“It’s not a problem waiting,” Mimi reassured her. “Are you getting her a plane ticket or are you going to drive there and pick her up? Is the boyfriend coming?” Ginger felt a surge of regret that she’d told Mimi anything about Nick. “Whatever. It’s fine. We can wait. A few days. A week. It’s not like Mom would care.”
That part was true. The custom of quick burial would have held no meaning for Glory. Her religious practice consisted of two meals a year that were only vaguely related to Jewish holidays. In the spring she’d make a Passover supper, usually held on Easter Sunday, with a token traditional offering to mark the occasion—freshly grated horseradish, for example, but no gefilte fish. In December she’d host a Hannukah party, where she’d serve latkes cooked so briefly the centers would still be frozen, and, if she remembered, applesauce from a giant jar which, after dinner, would retire to its primary purpose of growing mold. Lighting candles was not part of the program. Too dripsy.
“Neil’s mother will have a conniption if we wait,” Mimi was saying. “But she doesn’t get a vote.” She noticed Ginger’s silence. “You can find Julia, right? She has a phone, doesn’t she?”
Ginger had thought about this: if it turned out Nick’s mom didn’t have current contact information, Ginger would find Julia herself. Portland wasn’t that big. Surely street performers knew where each other lived. She checked her watch. If she left now, and drove straight there, she could make it to Portland before dawn. She knew where to go, the neighborhood where buskers performed. She’d seen the streets in videos and surveyed the grid on Google Earth. She’d start when the sun came up, questioning fire-eaters and fiddlers and runaways. She’d ask anyone she could find if they knew of a couple who wore Salvation Army uniforms and did something with a helmet and a sheet. She stopped herself. It was amazing, really, how quickly her daydream went from Richard calling Nick’s mom to Ginger picturing her daughter beside her in the car, coming back home for the funeral and deciding to stay.