Every year my parents rent out the Little House That Could for part of the summer. Because they love the house, they choose people who will love it too - usually young families that are drawn to its old fashioned charm and its proximity to the ocean. When they return home, we find traces of the summer they left behind: a pot boiler, a pingpong table, a beach paddle, a rainbow umbrella, all little offerings to the Little House That Could.
A young family moved into the house on Friday. Putting away their shoes, they padded barefoot through the garden and down the street to the wine dark sea, where the shore was dotted with bodies and chairs and coolers full of beer. The sand was hotter than hot - so hot that the children sat on their towels, refusing to touch the soles of their feet to the blazing sand. Come swim with me, cajoled the mother. Let's make a mad dash to the sea! But the children shook their heads no no no no and the mother waved behind her as she ran to the surf. Watch me, she called, smiling at her four little ducks all in a row as she waded waist deep into the ocean.
Two boys and a boogie board swam by, waiting for waves. Floating on her back, she didn't hear them at first, didn't notice the frantic splashing as the rip-tide pulled them out, knocked them over, tossed them up. When she saw the boys they were joined by two other swimmers who had gotten caught by the powerful tide. The sea was muddled with sand but she was a strong swimmer and had swum in this ocean her entire life - 45 summers in all. She called out to the boys I'm coming to get you! I'm coming! Hold on to the board! As the boys struggled to keep their heads above water, two others joined her, swimming into the rip-tide. Suddenly the water was riddled with thrashing limbs, and she found herself under the waves, turning and tumbling, lungs full of water, mouth full of sand. And she thought, I can't see my babies, my ducks in a row! but the force of the waves pushed her down, down, down, right to the bottom of the sea. She became tired, so very, very tired. She thought she would rest just a moment, let her limbs relax and stretch out before her while the sea carried her out to the horizon, but a terrible panic seized her, willing her to body to struggle for air. Just one breath, she thought, just one will do and then I will swim back to shore and rest my body on the piping hot sand. And as she tossed and tumbled, it occurred to her that the milk on the counter would spoil and she hoped that her husband back at the house would notice it sweating in the heat. She remembered that she had never learned French and this passing thought bothered her until she let it go, along with the tension in her arms and her legs. It felt so wonderful to be still, to let her body go limp at the bottom of the sea. She was so tired, so very, very tired, and it was a relief when she let the tide win.
When they pulled the boys out coughing and sputtering, they saw her bob to the surface, a ghastly surprise that made them go cold. Her four little ducks all in a row cried out as they dragged her body to the shore.
On Sunday, the father and the four little ducks gathered up their things and left the Little House That Could. They left it neat as a pin. When my parents returned to the house today, the only trace of the summer the father left behind was the unmade bed he shared with his bride.
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We are utterly haunted by this story and by the family that once loved our house.
Photo: via Sabino.
