Summer by the Sea

by Susan Wiggs

  Each year at summer’s end, Alex went away, and Rosa felt bereft after he was gone. They always said they’d write to stay in touch, but somehow, neither of them got around to it. Rosa got busy with school and sports, and the year would speed past. When the next summer rolled around, they fell effortlessly back into their friendship. Getting together with Alex was like putting on a comfortable old sweater you’d forgotten you had.

  That fourth summer, they were both going into the seventh grade, and they didn’t ease back into the friendship as effortlessly as before. For some strange reason, she felt a little bashful around him that year. He was just plain old Alex, skinny and fair-skinned and funny. And she was just Rosa, loud and bossy. Yet there was a subtle difference between them that hadn’t been there before. It was that stupid boy-girl thing, Rosa knew, because even the nuns were required to show kids those dumb videos, Girl into Woman and Boy into Man.

  According to the videos, Rosa was still at least ninety percent girl, and Alex was definitely a boy. He had the same scrawny chest and piping boyish voice. She was pretty scrawny herself, and even though she sometimes yearned for boobs like Linda Lipschitz’s, she also dreaded the transformation. Maybe if her mother was still alive, she’d feel differently, but on her own, she was more than happy for nature to take its time.

  Mrs. Montgomery hadn’t changed one bit, either. The whole first week of summer, Alex was confined to the house because his mother said he had a head cold. Fine, thought Rosa, trying not to feel frustrated about missing out on perfect weather. They’d find indoor things to do.

  One day in June she showed up with an idea. She found Alex in the library, reading one of his zillions of books. Before she could lose her nerve, she took out a folded flyer and handed it to him.

  “What’s this?” he asked, adjusting his glasses.

  With great solemnity, she indicated the flyer. “Just read it.”

  “‘Locks for Love,’” he read. “‘A non-profit organization that provides hairpieces at no charge to patients across the U.S. suffering from long-term medical hair loss.’ And there’s a donation form.” He touched his pale hair. “Who would want this?”

  She sniffed. “Very funny. Get the scissors.”

  He eyed her thick, curly hair, which swung clear down to her waist. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded, thinking of her mother, the baby-bird baldness that had afflicted her after the chemo kicked in. She’d worn scarves and hats, and someone at the hospital gave her a wig, but she said it didn’t look like real hair and never wore it. If only Rosa had known about Locks for Love then, she could have given Mamma her hair.

  “Do it, Alex.” She blew upward at the springy curls that fell down over her forehead. Her hair was always a mess. There was never a hair tie or barrette to be found in the house. Pop never thought to buy them, and she never remembered to tell him.

  She looked up to see Alex watching her. “What?”

  “You really want me to cut off your hair?”

  “I need a haircut, anyway.”

  He grew solemn. “There are salons. My mother takes me to Ritchie’s in the city.”

  “I don’t think I would like a salon. Mamma used to cut my hair when I was little.” Suddenly it was there again in her throat, that hurtful feeling of wanting. She blinked fast and tried to swallow, but it wouldn’t go away. That was another thing about this girl-into-woman business. Sometimes she cried like a baby. Her emotions were as unpredictable as the weather.

  Alex watched her for a moment longer. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose—a nervous habit. She looked him straight in the eye and conquered her tears. “Go get the scissors. And a hair tie.”

  “A what?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You know, like a rubber band with cloth on it for making a ponytail. Or just a rubber band will do. The instructions say I have to send my hair in a ponytail. Do it, Alex.”

  “Can’t we maybe get Mrs. Carmichael to—”

  “Alex.”

  Like a condemned man walking to the gallows, he went upstairs, where she could hear him rummaging around. Then he returned with a rubber band and a pair of scissors. That was the thing about Alex. As her best friend, he did what she wanted him to do, even when he didn’t agree with her.

  It felt like another adventure. She grabbed a towel and they went outside, Alex grumbling the whole way.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “I have to brush my hair and make a ponytail.”

  He shook his head. “Have at it.”

  Her thick, coarse hair was hopelessly tangled. She’d washed it that morning in anticipation of the shearing, but during the bike ride over, the wind had whipped it into a snarled mass. Alex watched her struggle for a few minutes. Finally he said, “Give me the brush.”

  She felt that funny wave of bashfulness again as she handed it over. “Have at it,” she said, echoing him.

  “Turn around.” His strokes were tentative at first, barely touching. “Jeez, you’ve got a lot of hair.”

  “So sue me.”

  “I’m just saying— Hold still. And be quiet for once.”

  She decided to cooperate, since he hadn’t wanted to do this in the first place. She stood very still, and all on his own Alex figured out how to brush through the tangles without tugging or hurting. He started at the bottom and worked upward until the brush glided easily through her hair. His patience and the gentleness of his touch did something to her. Something strange and wonderful. When his fingers brushed her nape, she shut her eyes and bit her lip to stifle a startled gasp.

  She could hear him breathing, and he sounded all right. She was always leery of setting off an asthma attack. But he was on some new medication that controlled his condition better than ever.

  “Okay,” he said softly. “I think that’s got it pretty good.” He smoothed both hands down the length of her hair, gathering it into a ponytail. Then he stepped out from behind her. “Rosa.”

  Her eyes flew open. “What?”

  “You look weird. Are you sure you want me to do this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Your funeral.” A moment later he stood behind her, snipping away. It was nothing like the way Mamma used to do this, but she didn’t care. She was happy to get rid of all the long, thick hair. It took a mother to look after hair like this, and without one she might as well get rid of it. Besides, there was someone out there who needed it more than Rosa did.

  She felt lighter with each decisive snip. The fat ponytail fell to the ground and Alex stared down at it. “I’m not too good at this,” he said.

  She fluffed her hand at her bare neck. Her head felt absolutely weightless. “How does it look?”

  He regarded her with solemn contemplation. “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you know. You’re looking right at me.”

  “You just look...like Rosa. But with less hair.”

  What did a boy know, anyway? With the exception of her friend Vince, no boy ever had a clue about hair and clothes. She’d have to get Vince and Linda to tell her.

  She picked up the long ponytail and held it out at arm’s length. Alex stepped back, as though it were roadkill.

  “Well,” she said. “They ought to be able to make a wig out of this.”

  “A really good wig,” he said, edging closer. “Maybe two.”

  She put the hair into a large Ziploc bag, like the instructions said to do. At that moment, Pop rolled a wheelbarrow around the corner from the front yard. He was whistling a tune, but it turned to a strangled gasp when he saw Rosa.

  “Che cosa nel nome del dio stai facendo?” he yelled, dropping the handles of the barrow and rushing to her side. Then he rounded on Alex, spotted the scissors in his hand and raised a fist in the air. “You. Raggazzo stupid. What in the name of God have you done?”


  Alex turned even paler than usual and dropped the scissors into the grass. “I... I... I...”

  “I made him do it,” Rosa piped up.

  “Do what?” Mrs. Montgomery came out to see what all the ruckus was about. She took one look at Rosa and said, “Dear God.”

  “It is the boy’s fault,” Pop sputtered. “He—he—”

  “I said, I made him do it,” Rosa repeated, more loudly. She held out the clear plastic bag. “I’m donating my hair to...” Suddenly it was all too much—Alex’s sheepish expression, the horror on Pop’s face, Mrs. Montgomery’s disapproval, the bag of roadkill hair. The explanation that had made such perfect sense a few minutes ago suddenly stuck in her throat.

  And then she did the unthinkable. Right in front of them all, she burst into tears. Her only thought was to get away as fast as possible, so she dropped the bag and ran, all but blinded by tears. She raced as though they were chasing her, but of course they weren’t. They were probably standing around shaking their heads saying, Poor Rosa and What would her mother think.

  She ran instinctively toward the ocean, where she could be alone on the empty beach. Breathless, she flopped down and leaned against the weatherbeaten sand fence and hugged her knees up to her chest. Then she lost it for good, the sobs ripping from a place deep inside her she had foolishly thought had healed over. It would never heal, she knew that now. She would always be broken inside, a motherless daughter, a girl forced to raise herself all on her own, with no one to stop her from doing stupid things, or to tell her everything was going to be okay after she did them.

  Her chest hurt with violent sobs, yet once she started, she couldn’t stop. It was as if she had to get out all the sadness she usually kept bottled up inside. The crashing surf eclipsed her voice, which was a good thing, because she was gasping and hiccupping like a drowning victim. After a few minutes of this, she felt weak and drained. The wind blew her chopped-off hair, and she brushed at it impatiently.

  “Are...you okay?” asked a voice nearby.

  Startled, Rosa crabwalked backward, mortified that he’d seen her lose it. “What are you doing here, Alex?”

  He offered a half smile—half friendly, half scared she might explode. And he held up a manila-colored padded envelope. On the front, he’d carefully printed the address. “I told our parents about your project and they understood. It’s okay, Rosa. It’s perfectly fine. Your dad got all proud of you and my mom said you did the right thing. You don’t need to worry about getting in trouble.”

  She used her shirttail to wipe her face. She should probably feel mortified, but she didn’t. She just felt...emptied out. Sitting back on her heels, she looked up at Alex. “I didn’t think things through, and I’m so embarrassed,” she confessed. “I look like a freak.”

  He dropped to his knees beside her. “Naw. You look good. Honest.”

  And then somehow everything shifted and changed in the blink of an eye. He set down the thick envelope and put his arms around her, awkwardly but with absolutely no hesitation. Rosa had no idea how to react, she was so surprised, and so...something. She didn’t know what. She didn’t even feel like herself, but like a different person, sitting here with his arms around her and his face so close she could hear every breath he took.

  “It’ll be okay, Rosa,” he said. “I swear.”

  And then it happened. He kissed her. His lips touched down, first lightly and then pressing a little harder. She kissed him back, knowing she had never felt anything quite like this. She was engulfed, and for the first time she understood that a kiss wasn’t something you did with your lips but with your whole self. It was a kind of surrender, a promise, and she couldn’t believe how wonderful it made her feel.

  They came apart slowly. He was red to the tips of his ears, and Rosa figured she probably was, too.

  “Well,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “I guess you’re my girlfriend now.”

  “You?” She burst out laughing and jumped to her feet, grabbing the envelope. “Dream on, Alex Montgomery.”

  “You know you want to be,” he said. His eyes crinkled when he grinned at her. He chased her halfway down the beach before she started to worry about his breathing and slowed down. And then they sort of fell together, shoulders touching, their hands caught, and they walked slowly back toward the house, talking like they always did, the best of friends. The coolness of the breeze on Rosa’s neck made her smile.

  part three

  MINESTRA

  We never tired of being asked, “What makes Joe Louis win all his fights?” because we loved to shout the answer: “He eats pasta fazool, morning and night.” This simple dish is almost too hearty to be termed a “minestra” (soup), but it’s served in thick bowls rather than on plates, and eaten with a spoon. During Lent, this meatless dish is always on the menu.

  Pasta Fazool,

  from the region of Puglia

  Warm 4 Tablespoons of fruity extra-virgin olive oil in a large saucepan and gently sauté 1/2 onion, chopped, a peeled and chopped carrot, a rib of chopped celery and some minced garlic. Open a can of cannelini or Jackson Wonder beans and drain, then add to the vegetables along with 4 chopped plum tomatoes, a pinch of fresh rosemary and 2 cups boiling water. Bring back to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for thirty minutes. Transfer about half of the beans and their liquid to a food processor and process to a thick purée.

  Stir the purée back into the beans. Add 1/4 pound of ziti (or other pasta) and another 1-2 cups of boiling water to the beans in the pot. Cook, stirring constantly, until the pasta is tender, about 10-15 minutes. Remove from heat. Add salt and lots of black pepper to taste.

  Serve in warm bowls, garnished with a drizzle of olive oil, a sprinkle of chopped flat-leaf parsley and some parmigiana.

  ten

  Alex Montgomery awoke with the rumble of an eighteen-wheeler pounding through his head. His eyelids felt glued shut, and his mouth was so dry that for a moment he panicked, fighting for breath. Then, slowly, bit by bit, he peeled his eyes open to a painful squint and propped himself up on his elbows.

  It wasn’t a rumbling eighteen-wheeler he heard, but the roar of the surf outside his bedroom window. And he wasn’t sick, but hung over.

  Same difference.

  With a groan, he pushed the covers away and sat up. In college, he used to consider head-banging debauchery liberating. Amusing, even.

  Not anymore.

  He groped for his glasses, found a pair of frayed, cutoff blue jeans and put them on, then staggered to the bathroom to brush his teeth before his mouth was declared a biohazard.

  The picture in the mirror of the medicine cabinet made him groan. Beard stubble, bloodshot eyes, a mouth that had forgotten how to smile. He shuddered and opened the cabinet to make the reflection go away.

  Brick-red water sputtered from the choking faucet. He turned the spigot another notch, and the spurt turned to a stream, and the stream turned—well, not quite clear but good enough for brushing his teeth. He studied the contents of the cabinet. Baby aspirin, its expiration date marked 1992. A bottle of iodine, its cap fused by rust. And of course, one of the ever-present syringes of his youth. He scooped it all up and threw it into the trash can.

  Having second thoughts, he took out the baby aspirin and stuffed the bottle in his pocket.

  Then he splashed water on his face and hair, scrubbed the towel over his head and put his glasses back on. He couldn’t face shaving yet, and refused to think about putting in his contact lenses. “Coffee,” he murmured, slinging the towel around his neck and shuffling down the stairs to the kitchen.

  Here in this house, his mother was everywhere, as he’d known she would be, even though she had stopped coming here a dozen years ago. The house and grounds had been kept up, because God forbid it should look shabby.

  As he p
assed the master bedroom, he imagined catching a whiff of her trademark scent—Chanel No. 5 and Dunhill cigarettes. He recognized her tasteful eye in the white painted frames of the photos on the wall of the stairwell, in the careful arrangements of dishes in the kitchen cupboards. He opened the pantry to find a few rusting cans of tuna and anchovies, baked beans, Campbell’s soup and, of course, a lifetime’s supply of martini olives—but no coffee.

  The fridge held only the six-pack of Narragansett he’d stashed there yesterday when he arrived. He looked at the beer for a long time. Then he looked at the clock on the stove—10:30 a.m. The refrigerator motor kicked on as if prodding him to make up his mind.

  “Screw it,” Alex muttered. He grabbed a can of beer, opened it and took a slug. It was clean and cold—good enough.

  Scratching his bare chest, he walked out to the veranda facing the ocean and sat in a half-rotten wicker chair. The cushions hadn’t been put out in years. Maybe now they never would be again. In the past, before Memorial Day, his mother had ordered the house to be opened, the pantry stocked and the furniture uncovered.

  Not this year. Not next. Never again.

  Yesterday he’d sought solace from his friends, people who had known him for years, people who were supposed to care about him. The liquid sympathy they’d offered had barely scratched the surface of his grief. Numbness, that was all he felt. That, and annoyance because Natalie Jacobson had chosen last night to come on to him.

  Mindless sex was always welcome, he conceded, even right after your mother dies. But when he looked into Natalie’s hungry eyes, even the wine he’d drunk couldn’t keep him from feeling a faint self-loathing.