Shelagh

Weekends were spent in the low dunes on the island. The four of them and the dogs. She was with Sailor then; he was big and blond and hovered over her as if she were a boat one had to rig and rudder up. Always had his hands wrapped around something: a nip of rum or a coil of line, or clinging onto Gil’s belt hook with his red thumbs. Gil and Bea wandered down to the inlet, kicked at the dead horseshoe crabs and piles of oyster shells left over from the last party and sang that last sad song Andy had made up. I know some sea shanties, he slurred one night: Ride me down in the waves, my love, my love, sail for a skirt and anchor for a heart and he looked over at Gil, his lips curling under, eyes fiery red and right then she knew Bea would guess. Coolers of beer, jugs of cheap red wine half buried in the sand. And the old thermos Andy always brought in from the dinghy––swiped it from an old oysterman, he told them once, and if you breathe hard you can still smell whiskey––and a bit of the briny sea. He thought he was Irish that Andy, fancied the accent and all that, and Bea grabbed the Thermos, with the old Marlboro logo still on it and she ran down the beach and Gil caught up. There’s Sailor, she said pointing to the furthest jetty. And Sailor stood out there, hands cupped over his eyes, spanning the horizon, looking for something and Andy stood nearby gathering driftwood for the fire. Isn’t he enough? Bea asked and looked at Gil, then slumped down in the sand, the old thermos open now, weeping whiskey into her mouth. She dug a hole and buried herself up to her waist, torso peeking out, one free arm pouring herself more booze. And night came and they built the fire and Gil dug out Bea from the sand and dragged her back and Sailor went to town to buy more whiskey. Bea’d had way too much and was lying down near the fire now, eyes all glassy, the thermos tight under her arm, empty now and Andy barked once because the dogs were too quiet back near the jeep and he put his arm around Gil and pinched her cheek hard then shouted, You’re the one. You’re the one! to no one in particular and he jumped up, started running down to the shore, stripping his clothes off in all directions and Bea looked up and winced and the fire’s glow showed the whole of them: Gil hunched over, arms wrapped around knees, Andy kicking at the dark surf, Sailor’s shadow coming out from the flames, and Bea curled sideways and Gil looked up and smiled and the summer went away.