The Last September: A Novel

It was a funny thing to say, especially considering there were no other castles on the beach. I took my hands off the rock and watched Ladd work. Whereas my sneakers were getting soaked, he had the prescience to go barefoot with his cuffs rolled up. I took off my sneakers and threw them up onto the sand past the tide line. Then I rolled up my jeans and set to constructing a new tower.

We worked for what felt like a long time, Sarah playing in the sand above the tide line, until the water surrounded us, lapping at our cuffed jeans, deep enough for Lightfoot to swim around us in little circles. We sloshed back toward shore and sat, not saying anything to each other but occasionally speaking to Sarah, now the only one of us at work, still digging through the tide pools. By now the water swarmed all around the castle—just like Eli had said, it looked like medieval ruins. The day, in its early-autumn morph toward evening, had turned overcast, that otherworldly flat light. I wished I had a sweater. The water was black beyond the jetty and green closer to shore. Sarah chattered away while she dug, her diaper getting soaked by the salt water, while low gray clouds formed on the faintly pink horizon. The fantastic castle floated amid it all.

“I should go get a camera,” Ladd said.

It would have been lovely to photograph. At the same time, I didn’t think a camera could capture the precise magic. And I didn’t want to be left alone. I couldn’t decide—I didn’t seem to know—who or what to be afraid of.

“Don’t,” I said. And then, startled by the urgency in my voice, added, “Let’s just save it for this one moment.”

Ladd nodded, his gaze fixed on the rising castle. A part of me hoped that Eli was close, even watching, appreciating—with the pieces of his old mind—this tribute. The thing of beauty that he would recognize, just like the ones he used to make, out on the rocks. If he ever remembered a time, those summers, when his mind belonged to himself, no other voice but his own.





14


That evening Ladd, Daniel, and I stood on the back deck staring out at the water where the sand castle still rose. Sarah dropped a tennis ball for Lightfoot, who chased it for several bounces, then caught it and brought it back to her. She shrieked with astounded hilarity—the discovery of fetch. From inside the house, Mrs. Duffy called to us. I picked up Sarah and followed the two men inside. On top of the sideboard sat a white bakery box. When I peered through the plastic, I saw the swirling yellow script, Happy Birthday Brett! Sarah pressed her hand on top of the plastic, smudging the letters. I put her on the floor.

“Did you forget?” Ladd said. His voice sounded so gentle. It made me want to turn and shove him against the table. “Of course you would forget,” he said in that same careful voice. “With everything that’s going on.”

Of course I would forget, with no wish for time to move any direction but backward. I lifted up my hands to cover my face. My shoulders shook but still no tears. I could sense both men, standing back, not sure if embracing me would be wrong in some way. Sarah’s hand closed around the hem of my skirt, just above my knee. The room felt weighted heavily with the two of them, not willing to hug me, so I picked up Sarah and wrapped my arms around her. She hugged me back, tightly, and I realized that between swimming and playing on the sand she hadn’t napped. I could put her to bed early. I could escape.

Mrs. Duffy marched out of the kitchen and put her arms around both me and Sarah.

“There, there,” she said. “It’s too much, it’s all too much. It’s more than a person can be expected to bear.”

“Thank you,” I said, not looking at any of them, Mrs. Duffy’s arm still protective across my shoulders. The cake sat there, its writing smeared, its festiveness awful. “But I’m just so tired. I think I’ll go upstairs.”

“Brett,” Ladd called after me. His voice sounded impatient, maybe even angry. I didn’t turn around, just kept climbing the steps, and he called out again.