August:
Bustle
20 August 2011
Kathleen thought that she was going to miss the 8:10 ferry. The 6:27 out of Penn Station was detained at Jamaica because of “signal problems,” which in the LIRR’s low Stalinist manner were persistently announced but never explained. I was all the more glad, then, that I’d decided not to wait dinner for her arrival. In fact, we were just finishing up when she called to say that she might have to take the 9:00.
Well, some of us were finishing up. Others hadn’t eaten — “others” being the parents of a little boy who has been having a lot of excellent fun out here on Fire Island, swimming, running, climbing onto chairs; checking out the screen doors to see if, maybe, for once, they’ll open to his touch; and religiously following his new diet of milk and french fries. More fun, alas, than his developing constitution can handle, given — I forgot to mention this — his disinclination, what with all the fun on offer, to take naps. The meltdown began while I was setting the table, and it had not entirely subsided when Kathleen called again, to say that she had indeed made the 8:10 — as happens on weekends, the boat had been held for the train — and I scooted off with the wagon to meet her.
It was very still, and slightly humid, not our best weather, when I walked to Ocean Beach.  Distant flashes of sheet lightning lit up the sky in the west, but the air barely moved. When I reached the dock, I spotted the tiny constellation of gliding lights that I knew to be the Fire Island Belle (or its sister, the Queen) and thought how good it was going to be to see Kathleen. Maybe she would want to have a quick bite in the town. I would give The bars were overflowing with young people, but Rachel’s was almost empty, and that’s where we went, straight from the ferry; Kathleen did indeed want a quick bite in town. The moment we took our seats, the hanging baskets of plants in the window begin to sway in a gusting wind that put me in mind, not entirely unhappily, of Twister. We were sure that we’d be soaked in the impending storm. But the storm impended elsewhere. The breeze kept up, but the rain never came. When Kathleen had finished her crab cakes, and the orders of buffalo wings that I’d ordered in lieu of dinner for me were packed up (we’ll find out tonight how well they kept), we headed home in the dark, we were surprised by the nightscape of the band of National Seashore that separates Robbins Rest from Ocean Beach: it looked like snow. The sand almost glowed white, and the tops of the reeds and the scrub seemed vaguely phosphorescent. We trudged along thinking that we were ridiculously underdressed; we ought to be wearing boots and parkas!
As we neared the house, we listened for Will but did not hear him. Coming up the ramp, we heard the amiable chatter of a group of adults, but no child, sobbing or otherwise. Will had finally gone to sleep, and his parents, grandparents, and great-uncle were gabbing in the living room. We were happy to join them. I would occasionally tell Kevin to keep his voice down, and Kathleen would tell me to keep my voice down. We didn’t stay up long. We had all shared Will’s busy day of doing nothing at the beach.