A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(19)

On the upside, the blankets, chairs, and sleeping bags, still rolled up, form a picturesque camp, including a fire pit made from nearby rocks piled around a pit HJ digs in the sand. It’s elaborate and looks planned, like we’re campers from out of town who do this a lot.

On the downside, the cooler and bags are full of random kitchen stuff: cans of beans and fruit cocktail but no can opener, glass jars of mayonnaise and pickles, a carton of orange juice, like she mindlessly swept whole shelves out of the fridge. I see Mom wince when she comes across things like a week’s worth of deli ham—it’ll definitely go bad out here—and she smiles wistfully to me.

Mom and I pile up unreasonable amounts of meat and cheese to make sandwiches while HJ struggles to build a fire. After minutes of frustration, she rips the spout off the lighter fluid and gleefully dumps out the entire contents. Mom and I cower on the far side of the blanket as HJ drops a match and crows at the eruption.

All at once, commotion turns to calm. We sit in beach chairs, the fire between us and the sea, the sun almost below the horizon, wiggling our toes in the warm sand at the edge of the blanket, eating around the edges of sandwiches too tall to fit in our mouths.

“Know what I think at times like this?” HJ says to me. “How much your dad would love being out here with us.”

Mom and I laugh and spew bits of bread and meat to sizzle in the fire. HJ rocks back in her chair and cackles.

“Hey!” she says. “Sun’s almost down! Look for the green flash!”

Some guy she knew—I never call them boyfriends—told her sometimes you can see a flash of green at the horizon just after sunset. Probably a line about the color of her eyes. She’s been looking for it ever since. I guess it’s a real thing if you Google it, but HJ wants to see it in person and never has. Including tonight.

“Someday …” She sips her beer. “Someday …”

“Good evening, ladies,” a man says. A cop in uniform steps over from the parking lot.

HJ smiles big. “Good evening, Officer.”

“Are you not aware fires aren’t allowed on the beach outside the fire rings?”

“Sorry. We made it here for the best view. We’ll let it die out.”

“That’s fine. But the beach closes at ten.” He points at the sleeping bags. “No staying overnight.”

“It’s still March,” HJ says. “It gets cold enough for sleeping bags way before ten. Who tries to stay out here all night?”

“It’s usually people who have nowhere else to stay. I’m going to drive by later to make sure you’ve cleared out.”

“Of course. About when, do you think?”

I stare at her. Does she think she’s subtle?

“At the end of my shift, around midnight.”

HJ smiles. “You won’t see us.”

“All right, you ladies have a good night.” He turns to leave but then stops. “Seriously, Joan, make sure the fire’s out by ten. And no lights or my new shift commander will see you.”

“Jesus, Tom, I’m not a rookie. We’re south of the fire rings for a reason. I’ve been doing this since you were in high school.”

“And you were in junior high.” He adjusts his belt. “It’s Sunday Shots tomorrow night at the Rockin’ Pony. You coming?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

He grins. “See you there.”

As he leaves, Mom rolls her eyes. HJ smiles like she ate a canary.

“You’ve done this for years?” I say. “How come I never knew?”

“Haven’t for a while. Besides, you weren’t old enough.”

“I am now? If the magic number’s seventeen, that’s weeks away. And he said you were doing it in middle school. You were thirteen?”

“Age has nothing to do with numbers, Mel.”

*

Mom doesn’t like the cold, or being away from home, or worrying about getting in trouble with the police, but she likes being awake at night even less. She’s in her sleeping bag, snoring lightly, by eleven.

HJ and I are experts at staying awake but we’re nonetheless bundled up in sleeping bags against the cold. With no lights or moon, no one could possibly see us out here. Dad would have a fit. This is way worse than parking bikes in the house.

“I worry about you, Mel.”

Uh-oh.

“Is that why we’re on the beach, risking arrest, at …” I check my phone. “One fifteen?”

“Pffft. Tom wouldn’t arrest me. He knows he can always ask me for a dance and get a boost from a girl saying yes. Just not slow dances. You can’t tell I have four inches on him if he doesn’t pull me close. Then we look like a kid dancing with his mom.” She laughs. “Nobody wants that image in the room. Perfect recipe for going home alone.”

We lie quietly for a moment.

“Didn’t work,” she says.

“What?”

“Trying to change the subject.”

I’d forgotten how this outing started, with HJ abruptly washing off her game face like she had a new mission. Whatever it is, it’s starting. The most I can do is deflect.

“I worry about you,” she says again.

“Not as much as I worry about you.”