essay by Robert P. Barsanti
They said that they were never coming back.
Again.
For thirty-eight years running.
They had their reasons. They weren’t rich. They told everyone that. They brought air mattresses for the kids, five frozen meals in a cooler, and a full tank of gas. The bikes were tied onto the car, the sleeping bags stored in roof carrier, and everything else packed around the kids. (Tim, your feet are going to be on the Hibachi).
Nantucket wasn’t for them, they said. They weren’t going to be buying cocktails that cost as much as a Domino’s pizza. They weren’t going to be shopping or going out to eat. They weren’t going to go on a tour to Great Point, or on a boat out to the Tuna Bar, or to a gala. Nantucket wasn’t for them: they would never be coming back.
They were here for the beaches. They packed up the bikes with towels and lunch, then pedaled off to Surfside. Soon, because it was closer, they pedaled to Nobadeer, but sat away from the cars. Dad, Mom, and the three ducks tagging along behind. As long as the weather was good, they rode the waves, walked the shore, and read books until they ran out of pages or sunscreen. But there are beaches everywhere. And cheaper.
On the last night, they drove the car to the beach around five o’clock. Then, with their Hibachi, the last of the frozen food, and any guests/uncles/friends who had slipped in and slept over, they had the famous final meal on the beach. One year, they had tried to cook fish, but it fell apart on the grill and needed to be washed off in the ocean. Generally, they cooked burgers and corn, had bean salad and potato salad, and a slice of the blueberry pie.
Even then, in the cooling evening as the sunset faded and the stars appeared, they swore they would never come back.
Then, before ten on Sunday morning, the old Coach appeared on the back step to take his cup and to talk business. She wanted her husband to point out the mildew in the bathroom (it looked like a Roosevelt), the sagging cabinets, and the spiders that took over the outdoor shower EVERY NIGHT. And maybe he did. But, after a few minutes of brotherhood and bullshit, he signed a check and handed it over. The check disappeared into a front pocket. Then Coach helped load the sleeping bags and the towels into the roof carrier.
Somehow, they came back.
Again and again and again.
This year, as always, Gram and her sister came down during the third week in August to the same house. She invited all three of the children and their families, but only Tim and his family could make it this year. He came with his wife, his daughter who was finishing high school, and his son who was in his second year at UMass, and the girlfriend whose name slipped away. She was a runner with several bikinis, an adoring glance, and a tent that the two of them slept in out back. Gram kept running the air conditioning every night just in case.
She had made arrangements with the Coach’s daughter, who never put in a pool, or a deck, or landscaping. Nantucket is not kind to houses: the years and the wind had cracked the windows and doors open, so there had to be some work done: a new roof, new windows, and a lot of new paint. But it remained a handshake deal.
They wouldn’t come back next year. She was sure of that.
The island had changed and not for the better. The traffic was worse, which was hard to believe. Sharks patrolled the south shore beaches, although the surf was more deadly. Even the power at the market went out. With its “updates,” the house remained drafty, spotted with mold, and infested with squadrons of spiders. Especially in the outdoor shower.
Now without the bicycles, they drove to Ladies’ Beach in the late afternoon on Friday, their last full day. The ladies settled into their chairs, walked into the surf up to their knees when it got too hot, then returned to Elin Hilderbrand. Tim and his wife settled in, while the three young people stared at their phones from their towels. Gram kept her eyes on that girl.
As Gram sat back in the chair, she thought that they would never come back.
The beach changed. It smelled like cigars. Beautiful people with Tommy Bahama chairs sat in precious clusters with wine glasses and deli meats on a plate. The children had boogie, surf, and stand-up paddle boards. They had kadima paddles and frisbees and toys, yet the kids sat in their chairs and stared at their phones. Nobody was reading.
She closed her eyes.
She woke up after more than an hour. The light was fading in the east and reddening in the west as the sun settled towards clouds. Her neighbors, their cigars, and their phones had left nothing but ash and dents in the beach sand.
The children had dug a hole for the grill, filled it with charcoal and lighter fluid (apparently), and lit it with four-foot-high flames. The cooler was ready with potato salad, ears of corn wrapped in aluminum foil, and leftover broccoli salad. Her sister had a large-ish wine glass in one hand, but her eyes were on the red lights on the horizon.
“Let’s go for a walk,” she said.
And they did, with their feet in the lace of the ocean. She drank her sister’s wine until they ran out, then they came back to dinner with the next generations.
In the gloaming, as the constellations returned, one ancient star at a time, her family finished the wine, finished the brownies, and folded the towels. Everyone else packed the car and left the two older women in their chairs. On this night, the meteors fell into the sea. They all sat to watch.
The next morning, when the Coach’s daughter appeared for coffee and conversation, Gram gave her a check.
She was afraid that she might not come back.
