Summer of '69(63)

“Want to walk?” she asks as he gives her the cigarette.

He nods and kicks off his loafers. Kirby puts a hand on his shoulder as she pries the straps of her sandals off her heels. Then they trudge through the cool sand to the beach. Kirby loves the beach at night, always has. On Nantucket, she would go to bonfires out in Madequecham, pulling on jeans and an Irish fisherman’s sweater over her bikini. She and her friends would drink beer, roast hot dogs on sticks, sing along as their friend Lincoln played corny old songs on his guitar (Michael, row the boat ashore…). They passed joints around, then bags of chips or paper sacks of snickerdoodles from Aime’s Bakery. Always, someone would strip down and dash for the water, and Kirby was never far behind. You’d think the water would be colder at night, but in fact, it felt warmer. It was also scary. She couldn’t see the size of the waves coming up, or her own legs, or what lurked beneath. There was a very real fear of sharks, who were rumored to feed at night. But this only heightened Kirby’s sense of exhilaration. There was nothing quite like floating on her back, gazing up at the stars and moon.

She misses those nights, so much so that she considers asking Tommy to swim. They’d have to go in their underwear, she supposes, or go nude. She dismisses the idea.

Instead, they walk—to the right, which is west. Tommy doesn’t speak or reach for Kirby’s hand and Kirby figures he’s probably sore, but she isn’t going to apologize for dancing. This isn’t a date, not really. They are only adjuncts to Patty and Luke’s growing passion. Kirby thinks briefly about sharing her concerns about Luke with Tommy but he’s Patty’s brother and the last thing he likely wants to discuss is his sister’s sex life.

Kirby meanders toward the water and gets her feet wet. The water glows where she kicks it up.

“Look,” she says. “Phosphorescence.”

Tommy ventures in and the two of them spend a few minutes splashing, laughing when the water lights up. Then, on the beach, Kirby spies the bone-white shape of a quahog shell.

“Excellent,” she says, picking it up. “I’ve been looking for one of these.”

“Ashtray?” Tommy asks.

“Soap dish, actually,” Kirby says. She rinses it at the water’s edge; it’s perfectly intact, with a swirl of blue and white, like the ocean itself, inside the shell. “I’m on a tight budget.”

Tommy laughs at this and Kirby knows she’s forgiven. He takes her hand and pulls her to him and she knows what’s coming. Sure enough, when she lifts her face, he kisses her. His timing isn’t bad—it’s dark, they’re on the beach with their ankles awash in sparkling water. Things couldn’t really get any more romantic. It’s his execution that’s the problem. His mouth is open too wide; his tongue is thick and meaty and he seems intent on choking Kirby with it. She tolerates a second or two of this, wondering if things will magically improve, ruminating on the mystery of human chemistry. Will Tommy someday meet a woman who thinks his kissing is amazing and who can’t get enough of it?

Kirby presses her hand to his chest and, to his credit, he stops.

“We should get back,” Kirby says.

“I guess you’re right,” Tommy says miserably.



A few days later, Kirby hears from Rajani.

“The Aldworths have taken their boat and their bratty kids to Cuttyhunk,” she says. “They’re paying me to stay at their house with their cat.”

“You’re kidding,” Kirby says. She has had so little contact with Rajani that she knows almost nothing about the family she nannies for; she didn’t know they owned a boat, that their kids were bratty, or that they had a cat. All she knew was that they lived in Chilmark.

“Why don’t you come over?” Rajani says. “We can swim at their private beach and then go to Menemsha for lunch. They left me the keys to their Porsche.”

Kirby doesn’t have to be asked twice. She borrows Patty’s bike and rides all the way out to the address Rajani gave her on Tea Lane. It’s farther away than she thought, but it’s pretty along State Road; she passes rolling farmland and stone walls, ponds and big trees. The landscape is different from Nantucket, where the brush is low and windswept and most of the trees are scrub pines.

Finally, Kirby turns onto Tea Lane and pedals all the way out to the water. At the end of a shell driveway, the house number she’s looking for is carved into a stone. A little farther down, the house itself comes into view. It’s palatial—three stories, with a turret at one end. Around the side is a swimming pool and tennis court. As Kirby is kickstanding her bike, Rajani appears in the entrance, her arms spread wide.

“Welcome to my home,” she says. “Away from home.”

The house is grand. There’s a white piano and leopard-skin rugs and what Kirby thinks is an Andy Warhol hanging in the kitchen next to the fridge, in the same place that another family might hang their children’s crayon drawings. The kitchen is modern. All of the appliances are avocado green, a color that pops against the white tile floor and the pink-and-orange mosaic backsplash.

Kirby follows Rajani outside to the deck. The pool is off to the left. Down three steps and over one small dune is the ocean.

“Are you kidding me?” Kirby says. “You work here every day? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Too busy running after Eric and Randy,” she says. “The demon twins.”