Page 8 of Stony Point Summer
“I did.”
“But Shane,” Celia says as she turns her jar, “why would you want to unpack at the end of a long, hot day?”
Shane places a hand over her jar-fussing hand. “Had someone important I needed to see.”
The beat of silence that follows is palpable. Celia’s obviously at a loss for words. “Shane.” A quick breath, a tip of her head before she goes on. “But … Well, your clothes will wrinkle. Let’s finish up here, then I’ll help you unpack. Youhaveto hang things up before the wrinkles set.”
“Okay. But fair warning, my fridge is empty, too. Haven’t picked up any groceries yet, either.”
This time, Celia smiles and shakes her head. “We’ll stop at Maritime Market on the way and get what you need.” She reaches over and touches the side of his face.
And says nothing more.
Her fingers, they just trace his jaw. Shane feels her touch on his whiskered chin. She’s gentle, but tentative, as they both tread carefully with each other now.
Both a little afraid, he thinks, of what’s right in front of them.
Lifting a few wildflowers from a jar, he traces Celia’s face with the flowers’ soft petals. When she closes her eyes at the sensation, he tucks the stems behind her ear, leans close and lightly kisses her.
Celia murmurs something—what, he can’t be sure as he leaves one more kiss on her lips.
On the stone patio outside the porch windows, large clay pots brim with red geraniums. Beyond is a view of the distant beach, past the inn’s secret path. Sweeping dune grasses keep that path well hidden. As evening settles, those green grasses sway in the waning sunlight.
four
— Then —
30 Years Ago
The Meeting
THEY’RE ALMOST INVISIBLE, THE TWO boys crouched low in the marsh.
The sweeping grass blades provide good cover, the way they arch well over their heads. There are wildflowers in the marsh grass, too. Their scattered blossoms draw bumblebees and hummingbirds alike. The late-day sun sinks lower. In its golden rays, summer insects hover around the boys.
The boys, though, they pay it all no mind. Instead, they proceed with the focused stealth of soldiers. Their movements through the grass are undetected. Their talk, managed silently with hand motions. The lug soles of their hiking sandals are caked with mud. More wet mud is smeared beneath the boys’ eyes and dabbed on their cheeks. They both wear camping vests over their tees—the vest pockets filled with rock-grenades, stick-machetes, canteens, C-rations. The older boy—who looks to be about nine—has a toy machine gun slung over his shoulder. The younger boy, sevenish, wears a camouflage boonie hat.
That hat, it looks authentic. It’s a little big on the boy’s head, and is battle-weary—ragged at the brim edges, with a branch loop coming loose, too. A faded patch, military insignia of some sort, is pinned to the hat’s front. The way the boys silently move up and down the muddy banks, and in and out of the marsh grasses, they seem well-versed in the ways of war. Theirs is the type of childhood play that comes only from listening to hours of a father’s war stories. Hours of a revered, low voice relaying the danger, the adrenaline, of life in a Southeast Asian jungle, maybe. Life in a faraway land called Vietnam.
Meanwhile, they’re after something in the tangled brush of this Stony Point marsh, these two rough-and-tumble boys.
Someone is in their targets. It’s someone around the bend, where the water opens up into a small inlet. Whoever is there is making noise—and isn’t alone. Animated talk, and splashes in the water, give away their presence. Again, it’s young boys.Thesetwo, dressed in shorts and striped T-shirts, are also about seven and nine. What’s distinct about them is they look almost like twins—with their closely shorn light brown hair and their lanky physiques. Obviously brothers, they’ve just finished tying long pieces of string to large toy boats. Those boats are afloat on the calm marsh water, drifting this way, then that. The boys—carefully navigating their vessels—stand side by side on the banks and pull their stringed boats along. The older boy maneuvers a red sailboat with white canvas sails; the younger, a deluxe plastic motorboat. The rise and fall of the boys’ young voices conveys some made-up seafaring story. Something about a grizzly ship captain, maybe fighting a creature from deep beneath the sea.
These boys keep their boats moving through the brackish waters. A white egret stands still beyond them. The tall marsh grasses shade them from the setting sun. What one brother does, the younger brother mimics—whether it’s dropping anchor, or giving orders to an imagined crew, or harpooning a fantasy deep-sea creature. They play in unison.
Theyturnin unison, too. Turn suddenly when their play is violently interrupted. Large rocks fly from the tall grasses and pelt their floating toy boats. One after the other, those rocks seem to detonate all around them, like grenades, the way they forcefully splash into the inlet. The water explodes in silvery plumes with the never-ending barrage.
“Hey!Hey!” the older boy calls while reeling in his toppled sailboat. He tosses it aside on the muddy banks and turns to the two soldier boys keeping a safe distance.
“Stay back,” the older soldier calls out. He shifts that toy machine gun off his shoulder and aims it at the taller boy.
“Kyle,” the younger boy with the motorboat says, getting his brother to turn to him. “It’s stuck.”
This Kyle, he sees his brother tugging at the string attached to his capsized boat. The vessel is hung up on a piece of submerged driftwood. “Just yank it, Shane,” Kyle tells him.
“I tried.” Again, Shane gives a tug on his wet strand of string.
“Here,” Kyle says, stepping in Shane’s direction. “I’ll get it.”
