Beach House Memories

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “You’re not going to make me walk the beaches every morning now, are you?” she asked, worried.

  “No,” she replied with a light laugh. “We’re covered. You’re off the hook. This summer.”

  “Whew, good,” she said with an exaggerated drawl.

  Russell came closer and picked up his backpack. “Let’s hit the road. These mosquitoes are relentless.” He slapped his neck.

  “Meet you at the Jeep!” Cara grabbed her towel and a flashlight and took off for the beach path.

  Alone, Russell spoke softly. “She’s really a great kid. I wish I could get Pippi down here.”

  “Why don’t you invite her? I’m sure she’d love to come.”

  He shook his head grimly. “She wouldn’t come. She’s angry at me at the moment.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” He paused, then said, “You’re a good mother. But I’m sure you know that.”

  “Does any mother know that?” she replied. “We try. I think that’s the best we can do.”

  “Is it? You put your children as a priority. I respect that. Admire you for it.”

  “Russell,” she said, sensing his pensive mood, “what’s troubling you?”

  “You don’t want to hear my troubles.”

  “I do. If you think it will help.”

  He sighed, reluctant to speak. Lovie waited, not pushing him, hoping that he’d trust her enough to confide in her. He seemed to need a friend now.

  “My daughter told me she didn’t want to see me. That she hates me. And that neither her mother nor I made her a priority, especially when she was little. So she’s decided we are no longer her priority. She hates me. She actually told me to go home.”

  Even in the dim light, where she couldn’t see his face, she could tell it was hard for him to say.

  “Oh, Russell. She’s thirteen and her hormones are racing. You told me about teenage boys. Let me share with you something about teenage girls. They fight with words, and they say I hate you far too often, not having a clue what daggers those words are.”

  “Perhaps, but, sadly, I have to admit she’s right. I was always gone, traveling somewhere, far too much when she was little. I was making a name for myself. And when I was home, I was working all the time.”

  Lovie understood that scenario all too well. He could have been describing Stratton. “And Eleanor?”

  He began walking toward the beach access path. Lovie walked slowly beside him.

  “She wasn’t there, mentally.” He stopped walking and looked off at the sea. “Eleanor and I lost a child,” he said at length. “It took her a long time to get over that.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Lovie said in a rush. She put her hand on his arm in a gesture of sympathy. She couldn’t imagine the unspeakable pain of losing a child.

  “You never really get past it. Poor Pippi got caught in the crosswinds of her parents’ grief.”

  Lovie tried to see his expression, but it was too dark. The sadness in his voice hinted at the depth of despair he must have endured.

  “Is that when you began to travel?”

  “I wish I could say yes. But I’d always traveled for my work. Our son was only two years old when he died.” He shook his head and made a sound of disgust. “I wasn’t even home. I don’t think Eleanor has ever forgiven me for that.”

  She squeezed his arm. “Russell, you can’t blame yourself for that. You couldn’t know.”

  “I wasn’t there,” he said sharply.

  Lovie began to withdraw her hand, but he reached up to place his hand over hers, keeping her palm on his arm. “I’m sorry. I get, well . . . it’s tough to talk about Charley,” he said, seemingly embarrassed for going on. He held her hand in one of his and reached for her other.

  “I do understand,” she said. “I lost my brother and I still miss him.”

  “How old were you when he died?”

  “Not much older than Cara. His name was Michael Jr. but we called him Mickey. I wish you could’ve known him. You’d have liked him. We were close coming up. He was your basic good kid. By no means an angel, mind you, but a good-hearted rascal of a good ol’ boy—with dimples, to boot. He was respectful and polite when called upon to be so. My mama would have nothing else. But in the summer?” She chuckled. “He was a wild hooligan, like all the other boys.”

  She paused, remembering. “One night when he was seventeen he was coming home from a party. He was out on Hamlin Creek in Daddy’s Boston Whaler. It was late. Dark. He was going too fast for that narrow strip up by the marina.”

  She looked at Russell. His eyes never left hers.

  “He drove the boat straight into a dock. He didn’t see it sticking out in the waterway. He was thrown from the boat and drowned.” She swallowed and looked up at the sky. “It was just a tragic accident.” She sighed. “They said he’d been drinking.”

  “Even if he hadn’t been drinking, he could’ve run into an unlit dock at night.”

  “Maybe,” she said, thinking that in either case, Mickey was still gone.

  “He was my brother and I loved him with all my heart. But I’d think losing your child would be worse. I wanted to tell you so you knew that, at least to some degree, I might understand what you and Eleanor must have gone through.”

  Russell sighed and looked at his hands. “We didn’t survive it,” he said bluntly. “Not as a couple.”

  Lovie thought his hands felt warm and very dry from his work in the sand. He squeezed her hands lightly. “Hey, I didn’t mean to unload. I guess I needed to talk to someone tonight, and somehow, I knew you’d understand. Not judge. I don’t have many people I can talk like this to.”

  She felt that something more might be said when Cara shouted from the beach path. “Hey, what’s taking you two so long?”

  They both abruptly dropped their hands and turned toward the voice.

  “Coming!” Lovie called back.

  Russell turned to pick up the bucket and flicked on his flashlight. Together they walked silently to the beach path. She followed his broad shoulders and the white beam of light that snaked along the narrow, sandy path, one foot after the other, as his words replayed in her mind, as she knew they would for the long night ahead.

  Sea Turtle Journal

  July 15, 1974

  Saw hatchlings emerge from the nest tonight. The hatchlings scrape with their flippers, plowing through broken shells and compact sand, working as a team. This causes the floor of the nest to rise slowly to the surface, like an elevator.

  This was Cara’s first time witnessing a hatching. I was delighted and surprised by how enraptured she was, and how curious. My own sweet hatchling. I stood back and simply watched the magnificent spectacle of dozens of hatchlings, using that teamwork again to keep the team motivated, rush to the sea. They followed the golden moonlight, but once in the sea, they swim off independently for three days to reach the safety of the sargassum floats in the Gulf. I watched and thought how, when I feel lonely in the darkness, I’ll remember this night and the astonishing light of the moon and know that I am not alone in this beautiful world of synchronicity.

  Twelve

  From the first of July until the end of August when schools called children back home, the cottages were occupied, the campgrounds were full, and the island’s only motel was booked. On any given Saturday or Sunday afternoon, cars crept along Palm Boulevard. No one was in a hurry. It was a Southern summer in full swing on the Isle of Palms.

  The turtles kept coming, too, and the turtle team was hopping. So far the team had lost only one volunteer, someone’s husband who never really wanted to join the project in the first place. All the other volunteers were thrilled at being part of the sea turtle summer. With so many nests this year, most of the volunteers had found a set of tracks, which gave them a tangible connection to the project. Lovie always put the name of the volunteer who found the nest on the stick in permanent marker, designating it as his or her nest.

  The first t
ime he saw her writing down the name, Russell had asked her why she did this.

  “It seems a small gesture, but it means the world to the volunteer,” she replied. “It gives her a sense of ownership of the nest, and because of that, she’ll be emotionally invested in its welfare and check on it more often.”

  “Nice,” he replied sincerely. “I’d never have thought of that on my own.”

  It was true. The volunteers were like proud parents of the nests. The phone tree lit up whenever a nest was discovered. So when Russell conducted the first inventory, three days after that breathtaking emergence of the first nest, thirty people showed up to watch.

  Lovie had never done a nest inventory. She’d never had the authority to open a nest after the emergence—or at any time, for that matter. She was as excited as all the others when she reached the beach at seven a.m. As was Cara, who had woken early to come to the inventory of what she now considered her nest.

  Russell wasn’t happy to see so many people clustered in a semicircle around the nest in a hushed excitement. “So many people here this morning. Aren’t they supposed to be patrolling the beach?”

  “All done and no new tracks this morning. You should be happy they’re here.”

  “Any time I open a nest, I’m afraid it will be misconstrued and set precedence in the mind of the public that nests are fair game to being touched.”

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t dream of doing that.”

  “Are you? And what about the people who are not volunteers? I shudder to think of what could happen. Besides, Olivia, we’re not conducting the inventory for the entertainment of the volunteers.”

  “Stop being so stingy,” she replied.

  He stopped, looking at her, affronted. “Stingy?”

  “Yes. You’re a regular Scrooge. Bah, humbug.”

  “I don’t think I’m a Scrooge,” he replied, hurt.

  “You are . . . a little bit.” She tried not to chuckle. “Volunteers are the backbone of the program. They’re out there every morning because they care. We owe them every kindness.”

  His face grew thoughtful. “You’re right, of course.”

  “I know. That’s why you need me,” Lovie replied, and began walking.

  Despite his initial concerns, Russell couldn’t help the teacher in him from coming out. And Lovie knew how much he sincerely appreciated the volunteers’ support.

  Russell put on latex gloves and began digging into the opening of the nest. Lovie knelt beside him, helping. Cara stood beside her, clasping her hands together in excitement.

  “As you can see,” she told the crowd that had clustered so close around them it was getting too warm, “we’re opening the nest. We only do this several days after the hatchlings emerge. We want to give the babies a chance to come out naturally.”

  “Babies?” Russell asked wryly, turning his head.

  Lovie rolled her eyes. “Just dig,” she prodded him.

  “We do this to determine the success of the nests,” she told the crowd. “Of course, a live nest should never, ever be opened, not even touched.”

  Slowly and with great care, Russell dug with his right hand through the soft sand. She watched his face as his arm disappeared deep into the hole, a study in concentration. Then he paused, and his face lit into a boyish grin. Slowly his hand emerged, and there was a collective gasp. Lovie heard Cara’s squeal beside her. In his hand was a three-inch hatchling. Its tiny shell was coated with sand, and the little flippers were batting in the air eager to take off. The crowd pressed closer with cries of, “I can’t see it” and “Can I hold it?”

  “Can y’all back off some? We can’t breathe in here,” Russell said as he handed Lovie the hatchling. Flo and Kate jumped to action, moving the crowd back a few paces. Lovie felt the air cool immediately. She held the hatchling in her hand, so small, so vulnerable. It was hard to believe that in thirty-some years this turtle might return to the Isle of Palms three feet in length and over 350 pounds.

  “Here’s another,” Russell called, and handed it to her.

  Lovie looked around for what to put the hatchlings in. They were scrambling wildly in her palm, eager to escape.

  “Flo!” she called out. “Could you hand me the bucket, please?”

  In a flash, Flo dumped the contents of the bucket and, maneuvering her way to Lovie’s side, set the bright red bucket beside her. Lovie placed the hatchlings in and immediately they commenced scampering around, eager to get to the sea. The crowd sighed, “Awww,” and surged closer.

  Russell came over, carrying two more that had been trapped in the roots of nearby sea oats. He paused to look at the hatchlings in the bucket, then up at Lovie with a quizzical expression. She held her breath, wondering what he’d think of her bucket idea.

  “Good call,” he said, and his smile was approving. He handed her two more hatchlings.

  “Hey, back up a bit, please,” Flo called out, waving her hands to push back the group that was crowding closer for a better look. “Give them some air. You’ll all get a chance to see the babies. I promise.”

  Lovie glanced at Russell for his reaction to the word babies. He only smirked and shook his head.

  Russell had fished five healthy hatchlings from the nest. Five that likely wouldn’t have made it out on their own. While he and Lovie counted the hatched and unhatched eggs for their records, Flo took ownership of the bucket and carried it around the circle, giving each of the people a chance to get a close look. “Don’t touch,” she said to the children eagerly reaching in to pet the turtles.

  Lovie and Russell finished with the nest and led the group to the sea. Flo carried the bucket to Russell. The volunteers clustered in a tight group, along with a few tourists who were fortunately in the right place at the right time.

  “We’re going to let these hatchlings walk to the water,” he explained. “The trek across the sand is what helps them orient correctly so that once they are in the ocean with no landmarks, they swim in a straight course, usually into the waves. After these little guys enter the ocean, they’ll have some fifty miles to swim to get to the Gulf Stream. We don’t know exactly. Some say only one in a thousand turtles makes it. So let’s wish these turtles Godspeed.”

  Flo stepped forward to guide the group back, her voice booming. “They need to see and smell the ocean. So I’m going to ask y’all to please fan out in a large semicircle. That’s right.”

  The group willingly obliged.

  “We couldn’t do this without the whole team,” Russell said to the group. “Each and every one of you is important to the project. But I think you’ll agree with me that no one deserves to release the first batch of hatchlings more than Olivia Rutledge.”

  Everyone smiled in approval, and their applause was heartfelt. Flo released a piercing whistle.

  Lovie felt the emotion rise up to blur her vision. She blushed, always a little shy at being called out in a group.

  Russell handed her the bucket. “Madam, would you do the honors?”

  Through her tears, Lovie could see the five dark hatchlings scurrying at the bottom of the bucket and hear the raucous scratch-scratching of their sandy flippers against plastic. Their brown-black coloring was a sharp contrast to the bright red of the bucket.

  “Cara?” she called. “Will you help me?”

  Cara bolted forward to put her hands on the bucket.

  “Good luck,” Lovie murmured to the hatchlings, then she and Cara lowered the bucket, letting the hatchlings scramble free to the sand.

  They were comical, like Keystone Kops, as they bumped and crawled over each other to escape. Endearing little tracks, miniatures of those left behind by their mothers, trailed along the moist sand as the turtles fanned out, determinedly following the age-old call of the sea.

  Lovie rose to her feet and her gaze swept the group of volunteers gathered around the hatchlings. Some of them had brought their children, hoping they’d learn from the experience. Lovie saw how they were all children in this exper
ience, with eyes as large as saucers. A few had cameras and clicked madly, free to photograph in the daylight. This was the first sea turtle hatchling most of them had ever seen.

  Cara diligently followed a lone straggler as it made its way to the surf. The hatchling paused for a fraction of a second, lifted its head as if to sniff the sea for direction, then took off again. The ingoing tide reached higher with each wave, finally sweeping over the hatchling, washing off the sand and revealing the gleaming reddish-brown color of its shell. Tasting its first salt water, the hatchling surged eagerly forward with renewed vigor. A second, larger wave captured the hatchling, and in that miraculous, tumbling instant Lovie saw the hatchling dive. She reached out to grab Russell’s hand, so awed by the power of this ancient instinct. Immediately this last of the turtles began swimming furiously, gracefully, with the skill of 180 million years of training.

  As the wave receded, carrying its passenger along into the vast sea, Lovie again felt her eyes fill. She wasn’t sure if she cried for the hatchling or for Russell’s words. But everyone was getting teary eyed, hugging each other and patting friends on the back. People came up to congratulate them and to thank Russell for allowing them to be part of the project. For so many years she’d hoped to enlist the help of islanders for the sea turtles, and this summer it was actually happening.

  The group began disbanding, calling out farewells and walking off toward different paths to their homes and their lives. Flo was far ahead, talking with Miranda as they exited the beach. Cara was walking home along the shoreline, playing tag with the waves. In all the excitement, it wasn’t until Lovie began walking back that she realized Russell was still holding her hand.

  Russell drove Lovie to his house, where she’d parked her car, and she climbed into her old station wagon. It was an oven inside, so hot it hurt to sit and her thighs stuck to the fabric. The engine whined but didn’t turn over. “Not again,” she muttered. After a third effort, the engine was wheezing, fainter and weaker. She put her forehead in her palm and groaned. She cursed her folly for not getting the car checked out when it had happened earlier. She’d been so busy, but that excuse seemed lame. Now she was stuck. This could take hours . . . She looked out the window, but Russell had already gone into his house.