Sherwood Island

In July, the inside of Rain’s shiny new AMC Eagle felt like the inside of a freezer.  She cranked the air conditioning and left it blowing in a continuous blast of arctic level air. She steered her car through the winding roads of Westchester, then Fairfield County, toward the Long Island Sound. To confirm there was still a heat wave outside, I rotated between sticking my hand through a crack in my window and pressing it against the AC vent until it went numb. There was no fear of death should the passenger side airbag deploy. In 1979 we didn’t worry about things like seatbelt or airbags. I was eight years old, enjoying the view from a front bench seat.

A day at the beach with Rain was the highlight of each summer, aside from the two weeks I spent with her and Uncle Joe, of course. With them, my days were filled with swimming and firemen fairs and fishing on Long Pond.  But beach days were reserved for just Rain and me. Together, we would float for hours in the salty water of the Long Island Sound. Peacefully bobbing on barely there waves, those days were magnificent.

Rain was able to float. I watched as she lowered the mass of her body back into the water and, just as I was sure she would go under, as I would if I tried to copy her, she popped back to the surface. Like magic, the weight of her rose, miraculously held up by the gentle waves of the sea. It was then that she closed her eyes and turned her face up to the sun. 

With the tide out, I could see rock colored crabs scurrying around my feet as I shuffled toward her. When one lunged toward my toes, claws poised with the threat of a pinch, I jumped. Buoyed by the water, I landed on top of Rain. My small body held up by hers, we laughed from deep within our bellies. Then, for just a while, I laid on top of Rain who laid on top of the water asked her how she floated so well. I watched beads of water roll from her skin and listened to her heartbeat. 

On the beach, in cloud of coconut scent and glistening with tanning oil, I made a ritual of laying out my blanket. Eventually, I gave up trying to keep my greasy limbs perfectly sand free and dozed. Later, I sat cross-legged on my blanket and Rain straightened her chair to pull sandwiches from a cooler. We chatted between bites. I peered inside of her always present, monogrammed LL Bean tote and located a bag of Fritos. They were always most delicious when warm from the heat of the sun. I alternated licking the salt off the Fritos with sips of shockingly sweet Hawaiian Punch. At home, Fritos and Hawaiian Punch were never an option. Not unless Aunt Rain arrived on the weekend, carrying her wonderful tote filled with treats. 

For the rest of the afternoon, Aunt Rain sat next to me and read her book and I basked in the sun. Our shared silence was never uncomfortable. With her there was never any fear or expectation of biting words or hands. 

The ride home was the good kind of quiet. Slightly sunburned, the air conditioner blew a chill over my body, raising bumps on my arms that reminded me of freshly plucked chickens. I like that in July, I didn’t have to worry about freshly plucked chickens. At Aunt Rain and Uncle Joe’s house, there were never Saturdays devoted to the slaughter of unfortunate hens who’d stopped laying eggs. For two weeks, I was spared the possibility of a headless chicken careening through the barn, silent but for the wind of it’s flapping wings. When I stayed with Rain and Joe, we stopped for buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken on the way home from the beach. Today, I thought, I’ll be sure to request the extra crispy recipe.

I laid my head back against the seat and watched the lush green of Connecticut fly past my window. The blur of it lulling me into a sleepy, post-sun state. I looked over at my Aunt Rain and marveled at her beauty before closing my eyes for a nap.