The Girls of August (9 page)

“Me too,” Barbara said. “That Bloody Mary did me in.”

She headed out of the kitchen, snapping off her bathing suit straps as she went.

“What are you doing?” I asked, fearing she was about to take everything off.

“I don’t like tan lines. Neither does Teddy. Maddy, you should know that.”

“Oh-oh,” Rachel said.

And to think I had actually been considering going with her. “Sweetie, anything
I ever had with Teddy was a long, long time ago. And we never made it to the tan
line stage, so get over it.” I’d had just enough liquor that I could speak my mind.

Baby’s bikini bottom was half down one hip. Barbara broke free from us and squared
her shoulders. “Baby, going skinny-dipping in front of the house is one thing. But
please tell me you’re not thinking about walking naked as a jaybird down the beach.
That is something totally different.”

Baby cocked her head at Barbara, defiance lighting her eyes. “And if I did, what business
is that of yours?”

“I’ll tell you what business it is,” I said, my slow temper flaring. “This isn’t
a deserted island, Baby. You know that. The Gullahs might live on the other side,
but it doesn’t mean they stay there. Why do you think any of them would want to see
you prancing around naked?” I was fed up with her nonsense.

“Maybe they’d like it,” Baby retorted.

Rachel swung around and came close to putting a finger on Baby’s chest. “You listen
to me. This may be your house but it’s not your show. We are the girls of August,
not the tramps of August. I’ve changed my mind. We’re going to go for a walk together,
and it’s going to be pleasant. And not a single damn one of us is going to take off
our clothes. Your coochie stays covered. Got it?”

Baby lifted a defiant little face at us, her jawline set hard, yet still pretty. She
had moxie; I appreciated that in her.

“Fine. Let me wrap up like I’m from Riyadh,” she said, grabbing a beach towel off
the back of a chair and wrapping it around herself so tightly she looked like a human
Q-tip. “Number one, I had no plans to march down the beach naked. And number two,
if I wanted to frolic nude from one end of the island to another, I damned well would
do it. And there’s nothing you could do to stop me. This is
my
island.” She tossed back her head as though she were the queen of England, pulled
the towel even tighter, and snapped, “Let’s go.”

Despite the kerfuffle with Baby, it was, all in all, a glorious first day on Tiger
Island. We walked the entire island, south to north—me trying and failing to figure
out where Mac’s old house might once have stood—and didn’t come across a single soul
until we neared the northern tip, where a young black man stood alone on the beach,
surf-fishing. His face looked carved from basalt, like a statue’s.

“Earl!” Baby squealed, and she ran ahead of us, greeting him with a hug.

“Who in the hell do you suppose this is?” Rachel grumbled.

“They sure do appear to know each other well,” Barbara said. “Look, she’s holding
his hand.”

“He looks like he ought to be on Easter Island,” I said.

“I’m glad he’s on Tiger,” Rachel said, and growled softly in her throat.

Baby waved us over. “Come on, come meet Earl,” she hollered.

Earl, it turned out, was a Gullah fisherman from the other side of the island.

“Welcome to Tiger Island,” he said. “Baby tells me it’s your first time out here.”

“Yes. Yes, it is,” I said.

“It’s a magical place. We can tell that already,” Barbara said.

“You live here full-time?” Rachel asked, as if the very idea were nutty.

“Oh, yes. Me and my whole family.”

“How wonderful!” Barbara said. “I wish I lived here full-time.”

“But Barbara, where would you get your hair done?” Rachel teased.

“I tell you what,” Earl said. “Out here, if you don’t have it, you don’t need it.”

“That’s true,” Baby said, squeezing his hand.

“Now listen,” Earl said. “Maybe Baby has already told you, but it’s worth repeating.
Don’t you go in the water when it’s murky. You want to see those tiger sharks coming.
We don’t call it Tiger Island for nothing.” And then he winked at us and I had two
impressions. One, I wasn’t sure if he was teasing or not. And two, I thought that
wink was aimed solely at Baby.

“Those little sharks wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Baby said, and then she started laughing
as if she’d just told a whopper of a joke. She pecked Earl on the cheek. “We gotta
go, sweets, but you let me know if you need me. OK? I’m serious.”

“You know I will,” Earl said.

We said our good-byes and headed off in the direction we’d come from. We had gone
only a few feet when Rachel, pausing to pick up a honey-colored scallop shell, said
under her breath, “What do you want to bet he’ll need her.”

If Baby heard her, she didn’t let on. She simply continued to chatter in that stream-of-consciousness
way she had.

“Earl is the nicest fella. Well, next to Teddy, that is. Looks like the tide is
coming in. I’m so hungry I could eat a whale. I want to find me a sand dollar. I
haven’t found one in a coon’s age. I wish we were like the Indians and used shells
as money. We’d ALL be rich then. Lookee there, down a ways, at Mr. Blue Heron. Isn’t
he pretty! Fishing the shallows, just like an old man. Hey, are y’all having any
fun?”

“Loads,” Rachel said.

“We’d have more fun if you’d…” Barbara didn’t finish her sentence, which I was relieved
about because I was certain she had intended to say something such as
keep your big mouth shut
.

“If I’d what?” Baby asked.

“Nothing.”

“I’m going for a dip,” I said, congratulating myself on how adept I was becoming at
avoidance.

“Watch out for the tiger sharks!” Baby chortled, dropping the towel to the sand
and plunging into the surf.

By the time we got back to Tiger’s Eye, we were sunburned, famished, and exhausted.
I threw together shrimp and pasta in olive oil and lemon for supper. Barbara tossed
a good green salad. And Rachel made sure to pour lots and lots of pinot grigio.

We ate outside, the sea breeze whipping our hair and tingling our sunburned skin,
and we laughed as we told stories of Augusts past. The time the fishmonger came to
our house and proclaimed his love for all four of us (Mississippi). And the time
Barbara got confused because we’d rented a little, nondescript house on the Florida
Gulf Coast that looked like all the other nondescript houses in the neighborhood.
After a beach stroll one afternoon, she walked into the wrong bungalow, helped herself
to a Coca-Cola, and flopped down on the couch. The old couple who owned the place
screamed bloody murder when they opened their front door and saw Barbara sitting
there like she owned the place (Longboat Key). The full moon that was so big and
low over the water, Melinda burst into tears and said it was the most beautiful thing
she’d ever seen (St. Simons Island). Hurricane George forcing us from our charming
digs in Orange Beach, Alabama, on our final night, so that we moved on to Mobile
and had a raucously fine hurricane party that was crashed by a contingent of young
Swedish marine scientists who were studying the effects of freshwater intrusion on
oyster beds. That old, run-down place on the Outer Banks with its defunct gas pump
that Barbara was convinced was going to blow up, shredding us all to smithereens.
The last house we shared—Melinda’s final August—where we gazed at the calm Gulf and
made promises to each other that we’d probably never, ever be able to keep, such
as the one I made to Rachel:
I will never complain when you say something sarcastic as long as it’s also funny
(St. Teresa, Florida).

“I think a return trip to St. Teresa might be in order one day,” I mused.

Rachel picked at the last of her shrimp and said nothing.

Barbara, who had cleaned her plate, said, “I dunno. Might be too damn sad.”

Baby sighed as though she did not want to hear Melinda’s name spoken even once more
and then—having eaten three helpings (where did she put it all?)—pushed herself away
from the table, walked over to the hammock at the opposite end of the porch, flopped
down, and said, “Awwwww. I sure wish Teddy was here,” admiring the rock on her finger.

“Just ignore her,” Rachel growled.

“Attention-seeking little twit,” Barbara purred.

“I’m getting fed up with the Teddy this and Teddy that,” I whispered.

“Looks like the floor show is about to begin.” Rachel tossed down her napkin and
watched as Baby pranced down the steps and began to cartwheel across the front yard,
expertly missing the rugosa roses and their torturous thorns.

“Wheeeeee!”

“Baby,” Barbara called, reaching for the wine bottle, “your pretty house sort of reminds
me of Cornelia’s home.”

She did a backward somersault.

“How’s that?”

“The roses,” Rachel said. “The goddamned roses.”

“How old is this place, Baby?” I asked.

“I think Granddaddy built it in the nineteen twenties. Or was it the thirties? I
don’t remember. But anyway, he’s long dead. And my mama—did I tell you she’s dead?
Passed on almost a year ago now—gave it to me as a wedding present. I redecorated.
Got rid of a lot of the old stuff. I mean, I kept some things…stuff my mama and my
grandparents loved. But some of the pictures, furniture, photos, what-have-yous,
I chucked.” She did a split and then spun into a standing position, which led into
something that resembled a backbend.

“Why?” If she would just stop moving, I thought, my growing nausea might ease. “Why
would you throw away family photos?”

Indeed, she did stop for a moment. “Clean slate. I paid a family on the other side
of the island to bag up all the old crap and do whatever they wanted with it. And
I hired Mrs. Louise K. Baker, of Louise K. Baker Interior Designs, to fluff up the
place. I think she did pretty good.” Baby got on all fours and crab-walked.

“For heaven’s sake,” Rachel spit.

“I still don’t understand. How could you get rid of family heirlooms?” Barbara asked,
rising and walking over to the rail.

“Just did.” Baby grunted and then collapsed in the grass. “I tried to get Teddy
to take down that damn lightning rod, or at least that blue glass ball my daddy put
up there. But he wouldn’t do it. He will, though. Just you wait and see.”

“I like that glass ball. It’s pretty,” I said.

“No! It’s not! It’s like an eyeball that watches my every move,” Baby said, staring
skyward.

“Well, anyway,” I said, “Cornelia’s house was where we first gathered, so even though
none of us could stand her, that house is a part of us.”

“Yep. Shit. I guess so,” Rachel said.

“Wasn’t that wedding something? Like a
Great Gatsby
wedding.” Barbara reached over to the table, picked up her wine, and swirled it.

“Teddy and Cornelia’s?” Rachel looked at Barbara as if she’d lost her marbles. “It
was ridiculous.”

“You could have solved world hunger with what they spent on flowers alone,” I said.

“Teddy never talks about her,” Baby said as she made grass angels, her arms and legs
flapping against the green sod.
Somebody keeps this yard up
, I thought.
Probably one of the Gullahs
. “Is she pretty?”

I shrugged my shoulders. Barbara glanced at me over the lip of her wineglass and
rolled her eyes. Rachel said, “If you like Barbie dolls with money for blood, yeah.”

The nausea that had stalked me on and off all day eased and I started laughing. Teddy
might have dumped me for the Ice Queen, but I got a keeper and he got a divorce.

“Were you always a caterer? You cook good,” Baby said to me, sitting up, her bikini-bottomed
bum nestled in the grass.

“She’s gonna get worms sitting like that,” Rachel said into her glass.

“Nope,” I said, and I downed a healthy gulp of pinot.

“She stopped teaching when she and Mac moved to Charleston,” Rachel answered for me.

“Why?”

“Because teachers don’t get paid squat in South Carolina and she followed her bliss.”
Barbara took a deep breath, filling herself up with the ocean breeze.

“Her what?”

“Bliss!” Rachel spun around in her chair. “B-L-I-S-S.”

“Oh!” Baby crowed. “I thought she said ‘piss.’”

I looked up from my wine and Rachel, Barbara, and I caught each other in a shared
glance that was solid, born of old times with the promise of new ones. We all began
to sputter and giggle—Baby too.

“I followed my piss!” I said between hiccupping laughter.

“She followed her piss and her dreams came true!” Rachel screamed.

“Follow your piss, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Barbara intoned.

“Ignorance is…,” Baby started.

“Piss!” we all yelled.

And that’s what we were doing when the first star pierced the night sky. Being silly.
Laughing as loudly as we possibly could, as if we wanted God to hear.

Later that evening, after a round of “Good nights” and “Sleep tights,” I slipped
under the damp-and-salt-smelling sheets feeling more exhausted than I had a right
to. Still and all, despite my bone-tiredness, sleep did not come easily. I listened
to the surf crash and recede, crash and recede, and with each onslaught, thoughts
of my family—my real family—washed over me. Out there, outside my closed bedroom
door, when the girls and I were chatting and laughing, swimming and strolling, my
real family seemed like a distant, pleasant galaxy that I soon would return to, so
I gave it little thought. But when I was alone, in the dark, memories of Mac welled
up and I missed him so badly my spine ached.

But he would not have fit in here, nor would any of the other spouses. Ours was a
female circle and the men would have been broken links. We all knew that. Besides,
it wasn’t as if we didn’t go on “real family” vacations. Mac and I went on at least
one a year—a single trip that was huge and fabulous, and then weekend getaways as
time allowed, to favored spots such as Asheville to go skiing or even Manhattan
to catch a new musical. We’d been to Paris, London, Rome, Morocco. We’d sipped champagne
at a café in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. We’d cruised down the Thames in a Mississippi-style
stern-wheeler. We’d kissed like passionate teenagers in St. Peter’s Square as a flock
of nuns from some Eastern European country looked on and giggled. I have ridden a
camel, by God, in the Sahara freaking Desert. But over all the years and all the
places, neither Mac nor I has ever said, “Hey, let’s go spend some time by the sea.
St. John. Acapulco. Hawaii.” For the two of us, the sea never made it onto our radar
screen. It was as though beach-side vacations were the sole realm of the girls of
August and so Mac and I instinctively avoided them.