and sad at the same time. Then Mama’s expression changed as she looked up at Papa, who stood at the doorway, his face all flushed from tap-dancing.
“What?” asked Papa, out of breath. “What do you miss?”
“Something,” said Byrd lightly, her tone changing. “I don’t know just what, but I miss something.”
“I know,” said Mama. “I’m restless. Tomorrow the last summer ferry leaves. And then?”
“We get the island back,” Papa said, “and everything will be quiet and peaceful and all ours.”
“Excitement,” said Byrd suddenly, her face bright with memory. “We need something new and exciting to happen.”
“Like dinner?” suggested Papa.
“Oh!” Mama jumped up so quickly that the porch swing almost toppled Byrd. “The pot roast is done. Here.” She gave the batter bowl to Papa.
“What was this?” he asked, sampling it.
“That was dessert, dear heart,” said Byrd. She got up very slowly. Then, with a quick smile and a sudden shake of herself, like a wren, she went inside.
“Such excitement,” said Papa softly. Then he looked at us. “This is enough excitement.” There was a pause. “Isn’t it?” he added, asking himself the question.
We ate dinner as the sun set; candles on the table, the dinner a yearly celebration that tomorrow the island visitors would leave. The seasons on our island rose and fell in a rhythm like the rise and fall of the tides. Autumn was ours with quick colors, leaves flying until they were gone and we could see the shape of the island. The land rose and fell, too, from the north point where the lighthouse stood, curving down into valleys like hands holding pond water.
Soon winter would come, the winds shaking the windows of the house, the sea black. Herringgulls would sit out of the wind on our porch, watching for spring that would come so fast and cold, we would hardly know it was there. Then summer, visitors would come off the ferry again, flooding us, the air heavy with their voices. And again, at summer’s end they would be gone like the tide, leaving behind small signs of themselves: a child’s pail with a broken handle, a tiny white sock by the water’s edge. Bits and pieces of them left like good-byes.
Suddenly, as we ate, a gull flew low over the house, its crazy shriek startling us. We looked up, then at each other. Nervous looks and laughter. But there was nothing to be nervous about on that day.
It was the next day, after the last ferry took the summer people away, that it happened.
chapter 2
Puffs of wind came off the water, sending Lalo’s hat flying down the beach. He ran after it, small sprays of sand sent up by his feet. A kite whirled and dipped, suddenly plunging into the water. There was a group sigh behind us, summer tourists on the porch of Lalo’s parents’ hotel. They stood like birds on a line, their bags all packed, faces red, noses peeling from summer sun. Summer’s end.
“Lalo!” Mr. Baldelli called from the porch, and we ran up to carry bags to the hotel truck, hoping for tips.
“My umbrella, don’t forget, Larkin,” calledMrs. Bloom. Mrs. Bloom came every summer, bringing her beach umbrella, her chair, and her little hairy dog whose full name was Craig Walter. I took the yellow umbrella from Mrs. Bloom. In her arms Craig bared his teeth at me.
The Willoughbys clutched handfuls of wild-flowers, almost gone by. Their children lugged suitcases of rocks, dead horseshoe crabs, and sea urchins that would crumble before they got home.
Lalo and I sat on the back of the truck for the short ride along the beach road to the dock. We passed people on bicycles, their baskets filled. We passed parents walking with children, babies in backpacks, dogs loping nose to the ground behind them.
At the dock cars were already lined up waiting to leave. Griffey and his musical group were there, playing “Roll Out the Barrel,” the only song they knew. Griffey played accordion and Rollie the fiddle. Arthur played his
“What?” asked Papa, out of breath. “What do you miss?”
“Something,” said Byrd lightly, her tone changing. “I don’t know just what, but I miss something.”
“I know,” said Mama. “I’m restless. Tomorrow the last summer ferry leaves. And then?”
“We get the island back,” Papa said, “and everything will be quiet and peaceful and all ours.”
“Excitement,” said Byrd suddenly, her face bright with memory. “We need something new and exciting to happen.”
“Like dinner?” suggested Papa.
“Oh!” Mama jumped up so quickly that the porch swing almost toppled Byrd. “The pot roast is done. Here.” She gave the batter bowl to Papa.
“What was this?” he asked, sampling it.
“That was dessert, dear heart,” said Byrd. She got up very slowly. Then, with a quick smile and a sudden shake of herself, like a wren, she went inside.
“Such excitement,” said Papa softly. Then he looked at us. “This is enough excitement.” There was a pause. “Isn’t it?” he added, asking himself the question.
We ate dinner as the sun set; candles on the table, the dinner a yearly celebration that tomorrow the island visitors would leave. The seasons on our island rose and fell in a rhythm like the rise and fall of the tides. Autumn was ours with quick colors, leaves flying until they were gone and we could see the shape of the island. The land rose and fell, too, from the north point where the lighthouse stood, curving down into valleys like hands holding pond water.
Soon winter would come, the winds shaking the windows of the house, the sea black. Herringgulls would sit out of the wind on our porch, watching for spring that would come so fast and cold, we would hardly know it was there. Then summer, visitors would come off the ferry again, flooding us, the air heavy with their voices. And again, at summer’s end they would be gone like the tide, leaving behind small signs of themselves: a child’s pail with a broken handle, a tiny white sock by the water’s edge. Bits and pieces of them left like good-byes.
Suddenly, as we ate, a gull flew low over the house, its crazy shriek startling us. We looked up, then at each other. Nervous looks and laughter. But there was nothing to be nervous about on that day.
It was the next day, after the last ferry took the summer people away, that it happened.
chapter 2
Puffs of wind came off the water, sending Lalo’s hat flying down the beach. He ran after it, small sprays of sand sent up by his feet. A kite whirled and dipped, suddenly plunging into the water. There was a group sigh behind us, summer tourists on the porch of Lalo’s parents’ hotel. They stood like birds on a line, their bags all packed, faces red, noses peeling from summer sun. Summer’s end.
“Lalo!” Mr. Baldelli called from the porch, and we ran up to carry bags to the hotel truck, hoping for tips.
“My umbrella, don’t forget, Larkin,” calledMrs. Bloom. Mrs. Bloom came every summer, bringing her beach umbrella, her chair, and her little hairy dog whose full name was Craig Walter. I took the yellow umbrella from Mrs. Bloom. In her arms Craig bared his teeth at me.
The Willoughbys clutched handfuls of wild-flowers, almost gone by. Their children lugged suitcases of rocks, dead horseshoe crabs, and sea urchins that would crumble before they got home.
Lalo and I sat on the back of the truck for the short ride along the beach road to the dock. We passed people on bicycles, their baskets filled. We passed parents walking with children, babies in backpacks, dogs loping nose to the ground behind them.
At the dock cars were already lined up waiting to leave. Griffey and his musical group were there, playing “Roll Out the Barrel,” the only song they knew. Griffey played accordion and Rollie the fiddle. Arthur played his
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