Page 27 of On Fire Island

The tennis people yelled in protest while our guys erupted in cheer. Les whipped off the bandanna; his signature smile crossed his face as he took the bases in stride, bum leg and all.

The men chanted in unabashed delight, “Little Les! Little Les! Little Les!”

I watched the scene unfold with joy, which increased tenfold when my awestruck gaze reached my husband. I expected more of the same melancholy from him, but there he was smiling like the rest, totally feeling the ovation. Even he couldn’t resist the collective thrill of watching a man who thought his glory days were behind him hit a home run over a forty-five-foot net, blindfolded.

I knew Ben’s venture into joyfulness was just a dalliance. His shoulders, which were now on par with his ears, would soon slump back down under the weight of his grief. But, for a moment, I could see the future. I could see a place where it would be OK to leave him behind.

sixteen

Digging It / Not Digging It

The sounds of Chance the Rapper and Kendrick Lamar riffed through Renee’s living room where Norah Jones and Alabama Shakes had once reigned supreme. It made me laugh to hear Renee rapping about hacky sacks and Rascal Flatts, but she seemed to take to it. Under other circumstances, Matty may have enjoyed the switch, but he decidedly embraced anger instead. Though not enough anger to prevent him from helping himself to a serving of “Gabe’s famous clam sauce” loaded with garlic and freshly caught clams from the Great South Bay. Renee and Gabe had dug for them a few hours earlier.

It was a sight to see: Renee Tucker, who had previously needed coaxing into a pool, immersing half her body in the Great South Bay, and blindly pressing her pedicured feet against the muddy, sandy bottom, in search of clams. Gabe, the drummer, had apparently grown up in a small Long Island town not far from the Bay Shore ferry, and had spent his childhood catching blue point crabs and clamming. Somehow when he said, follow me, and waded waist deep into the dark mysterious water with a bucket hanging from his side like a messenger bag, Renee followed. It was likethat trust game, where you fall back into someone else’s arms, but on steroids.

“Who are you?” I yelled out, the bay gently lapping over my toes, “And what have you done with my best friend?”

I wasn’t really that surprised to see Renee rising to the challenge, not wanting to look like an Upper East Side divorce attorney whose closest relationship with a clam was her standing Wednesday night date with a plate of spaghetti alle vongole at Elio’s, in front of her young lover. At least five people I knew passed by and bore witness. I couldn’t wait to hear how the girls working the register at the market would spin this saucy tale.

Gabe took her hand and led her through the water to an exposed sandbar. Another first, as I had never seen anyone lead Renee anywhere. Once there, he instructed her to step around, feeling for something hard with her feet a few inches below the surface.

“It should feel more like a baseball than a golf ball, if it’s big enough for us to keep.”

They cha-cha-slided through the shallow water—right foot let’s stomp... left foot let’s stomp.

“You OK?” Gabe asked with a sweet smile.

“Yeah, I’m digging this!” Renee responded, causing his smile to explode across his face. Hers too.

After a few minutes, her face lit up again. “I feel one!”

“OK, now reach down and dig it out with your hands.”

She didn’t stop to think. If she had, I doubt she would have gone through with it. The unknown and Renee didn’t mix, but she reached down, dug her hand into the ground, and pulled out a clam.

“I got it, I got it,” she sang, holding the shelled mollusk over her head like the prize that it was.

Gabe laughed. “Amazing—now we just need about thirty more!”

An hour or so later, they were back home with a bucketful. They both smelled like low tide, which smells an awful lot like a brinier version of garbage day in New York City. They headed straight to the outdoor shower.

“Is Matt still at work?” Gabe asked, soaping up his hands.

“Yes,” she managed, praying it was true.

He took her nipple in his mouth. “Salty.” He smiled before coating her breasts with his soapy hands. He moved his attention to her left ear; even under the running water, the sensation stirred the tiny hairs on her neck, sending shivers to every cell of her body. He planted tiny kisses between her breasts and continued to her belly, traveling farther and farther down her torso till she was trembling with desire. She tightened her thighs, in an attempt to take back control.

“Relax,” he said.

She tried to let herself go. She really did. She put her hands on his head, directing his eyes toward hers.

“I’m worried that Matt will come home.”

“I’ll be quiet, if you can,” he whispered, with a mischievous grin.

She wanted to let him. But she just couldn’t.

“Stop!” she said, turning her back to him. She rinsed off, grabbed her towel, and slipped out and into the house.

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