Wavehouse

by Kaltman, Alice;

  The Wavehouse visions had started when I was six. First, I dreamed only of waves, but in later dreams, the waves

  became houses. I would wake up, immediately reaching for any scrap of paper I could find, desperate to scribble the Wavehouse before it was forgotten. Life with Sara was particularly unpredictable back in those days, so I suppose Wavehouses were, somehow, my way to control, to imagine, to feel empowered. They fueled me almost as much as surfing did.

  Sara became annoyed when every unopened envelope or sales receipt was covered with my drawings, so she went out and bought me a sketchbook. I’d draw Wavehouses that formed on the crests of rolling waves or under green swells, hovering like bubbles beneath the surface of the sea; some were simple cottages tucked behind underwater rock formations and landscaped with eel grass and coral; others were massive mansions with plumes of water spewing from their roofs kept afloat by waves. My Wavehouses were inhabited by mermaids and flocks of seagulls. Fish gathered to form shimmering-scale pathways to underwater doors, or swam in and out of open water windows. Pelicans rested on floating roofs, sunning themselves as Wavehouses bobbed with the tides.

  Usually, I never took my sketchbook out in public—no one besides Sara had ever seen my Wavehouses; but this felt like an emergency. My vision was starting to blur with nervous tears. With so much surf-centric activity around me, no one would notice the odd little girl scribbling in a book.

  Sara lingered at the food table, laughing and tossing her long mane of jet-black hair while the surf dudes flipped burgers and chugged beers, which meant she wouldn’t bug me to hide my book or force me to talk to people. To echo my dark mood, I drew a spooky Wavehouse with a curling mass of foamy white water for a roof and spiky mussel shells for its walls. The windows were jagged and irregular, and the door was lined with shark teeth. I was putting the finishing touches on a slippery stone walkway when a squeaky voice over my shoulder said, “That’s really good.”

  Shocked, I swung my head around, almost giving myself whiplash. The squeaky voice belonged to a chubby girl with curly red hair that surrounded her pale face like a bunch of loose and rusty springs. She wore a puff-sleeved dress, ankle socks, and party shoes. No bathing suit, no board shorts, no towel—definitely not a surfer.

  Slamming my book shut, I stared out at the ocean.

  “Seriously,” she continued, talking to the back of my head, “you’re even better than Michael Rindlesmith, and he’s our class artist. I go to PS 6, by the way. In the city.”

  I said nothing.

  “I’m in the Gifted and Talented Program,” she said matter of factly. “Where do you go to school?”

  “Kendall’s Watch Elementary,” I whispered.

  “Huh? I can’t hear you.” Before I could stop her, she plopped down next to me. “Where do you go?” I’d never seen another person, kid or grown-up, with eyes as blue and as bright as hers.

  “Kendall’s Watch Elementary,” I repeated.

  “Oh wow! What a coincidence! I think we’re going to Kendall’s Watch this afternoon. My parents are looking at houses all over the place. They suddenly want to leave the Upper West Side and live at the beach.” she sighed. “I don’t want to move, but then again, I sort of do. I’m very indecisive. My name is Myra Berkowitz by the way. What’s yours?”

  “Anna Dugan,” I squeaked.

  “Pleased to meet you, Anna.” Myra held her hand out to me, like a little executive. She was the least kid-like kid I had ever met. Were all kids from New York City like Myra? I wondered. I took her hand. It was cool and soft.

  “Anna, the artist,” Myra smiled. “Do you have any other cool drawings in that book?”

  I kinda wanted to show her my drawings, but I also kinda wanted her to go away. I hesitated, and, in that pause, my chance to share disappeared.

  “Myra, there you are!” An older version of Myra, wearing a loose, gauzy dress and a wide straw hat, came stumbling across the beach. She was so unsteady in her high-heeled shoes that I thought she might tip over and do a face-plant in the sand. “This may not be Central Park, but you still have to stay close to us. There’s stranger danger even in a place like Montauk.”

  Myra frowned. “Whatever. This is my new friend, Anna. Anna, this is my mother, Judith.”

  Judith gave me a tight smile. “Pleased to meet you, Anna. Now chop, chop, Myra. We’re meeting the real estate agent in ten minutes. Daniel is waiting for us. This beach is a madhouse and it’s giving him a migraine.”

  “Bye, Anna,” said Myra with a magical twinkle in her eye. “Good luck with those drawings. Maybe someday I’ll see your work at MoMa.”

  My work at Moe who? Myra made very little sense to me. But I could tell she was giving me a compliment, from the way she talked.

  “Bye,” I said as she walked away. Wishing she would stay.

  Instead, Sara returned with a friend from the food table. “Anna, this is Kurt,” she said in a treacly, sing-song voice. “He’s from Rockaway.”

  “Yo, Anna. I hear you’re quite the little gromette.” Kurt gave me a goofy grin and a surfer’s wave, with his thumb and pinky extended and other fingers folded to his palm.

  I shrugged and turned away, thinking how much I preferred Myra’s business-like handshake.

  It was an excruciatingly long time before the “Girls 10-12” heat was called. Meanwhile, Sara and Kurt chatted away about surf breaks and surf stars—surf, surf, and more surf, like waves were the only thing that mattered. I sat on the periphery of their gab-fest drawing Wavehouse after Wavehouse, trying to block out their flirty banter. Then suddenly it was time. I knew this only because Sara shouted in my ear and shook me as if I were a piggy bank from which she was trying to retrieve her last dime. “Come on Anna! Put your jersey on and get out there! Now!”

  Reluctantly, pulling the green jersey over my rash guard, I picked up my board and stumbled to the water line.

  “Um, you might want to attach your leash,” the blonde girl beside me said.

  “Oh right,” was all I could manage. As I bent down to Velcro my leash to my ankle, I could feel her shooting ‘loser’ rays into my spine.

  “Yeah,” her dark-haired friend said. “You can’t be such a great surfer that you can compete without a leash. Right, Kiara?”

  “Right,” Kiara agreed. “And that’s not allowed anyhow. It’s against the rules.”

  When the horn blew, all the other girls dashed into the water, leapt on their boards, and started paddling out.

  Immobilized by fear, I felt electric currents running every

  which way through my body—rigid with performance panic; a complete shyness shutdown. A tornado could have whipped through and I wouldn’t have budged. Staring, transfixed, at the ocean, all I saw was blurry blue stuff, and all I heard was a dull buzz in my ears and the fwump fwump of my racing heart.

  “Anna! What are you doing?” I heard Sara’s yell as if she were miles away. “Get out there!”

  Stumbling into the water, I started paddling blindly, without any sense of direction. Finally, I made it to the lineup and the only spot left, between Kiara and her nasty friend. I managed to peep out a “Hi,” but both girls ignored me. The drift kept pulling me toward Kiara. When my board got too close she snapped at me: “Hey! Stay in your spot. Don’t crowd me, you loser!”

  The other girl giggled, and I felt like a tiny snail, slimy and miserable, trying to steady myself on my board. Then a wave was upon us. It was a clean, easy wave that under normal circumstances I could’ve ridden with my eyes closed. We all turned our boards to catch it, but I was set up best, closest to the curl, so the wave was ‘legally’ mine. I could feel the girls’ eyes on me, waiting for me to mess up, hoping I would. I felt unable to focus on the coming wave, distracted by the other girls’ shiny jerseys flashing in the blinding sunlight, and the roar of the crowds on the beach. The relentless reggae music with its ska-ska b
eats thrummed in my ears. This wasn’t what surfing was supposed to be, at least not for ten-year-old me. Surfing was supposed to be my happy place. Surfing was about connection and comfort, but there I was, about as disconnected and uncomfortable as I had ever been.

  You can do this, I told myself. You do it all the time. You love this. The wave’s surface sparkled like a collection of aquamarine crystals, set off perfectly by a turquoise sky and puffy cotton clouds. Feeling a flush of confidence, I paddled with ease as the swell rose behind me in a rolling, smooth tumble. My positioning was perfect, my wave radar in full-function mode. I’m coming for you, Anna, I imagined the wave saying. We can do this! I imagined how I would carve along the wave once we connected. I would be like a makeup artist drawing a beautiful design all over the face of the wave. The wave was so close, it was go-time. I felt my body prepare, and then—

  Nothing.

  I never stood up; my tummy was glued to my board. I rode like that all the way to shore, keeping my head down so I wouldn’t see the crowds glaring at me, wondering what kind of idiot kid I was. Sara was waiting at the water’s edge. The moment my board skittered on to the sand, she, without a word, ripped the jersey off my trembling body. Her eyes blazed like there was a fire in her brain. Unleashing my board, Sara carried it under her arm while she pulled me through the crowds with the other.

  I stood and shivered, dripping wet, as Sara stuffed our belongings into her beach bag. She carelessly shoved my sketchbook and pens in with the rest of our gear and stalked over to the Jeep. Everyone stared. Grownups muttered and mumbled; kids pointed and laughed. Making my way through the crowds felt as grueling as traversing the Sahara Desert. Finally, I got to the car and slipped into my seat.

  Sara sat white-knuckled behind the steering wheel, smelling like a combination of coconut body wash and sweaty rage. We high-tailed it out of the parking lot, and not a single word was spoken the whole drive back to Kendall’s. I don’t know who was more humiliated, Sara or me.

  Nearly seven years later, not a whole heck of a lot had changed. Yet…

  Chapter Two

  Anna, wake up.” Sara’s muffled voice came from behind my bedroom door. “The waves are six to eight feet at Early’s. Clean lines. Perfect barrels.”

  I moaned and turned over in bed, yanking the sheet over my head as I heard the door open.

  “Suit yourself,” Sara said airily, “but if you want a ride, you’ve got ten minutes.” The door slammed and I heard her footsteps retreating down the hall.

  Thanks a lot, Sara, I thought. For tempting me with ideal surf conditions; for always being impossible to ignore; for making me choose, but broadcasting your own opinion loud and clear.

  The clock clicked over to 6:00—6:05—6:09. Closing my eyes again, I tried to visualize the Wavehouse I had just glided through in my dream. The roof, a green-blue hill of ocean edged with a white curl of foam; the walls, shells, and fish bones. Now my dream dwelling was blurred from memory, replaced by real wave yearnings. Clean lines. Perfect barrels.

  “Last chance,” Sara called from the hallway. I could hear the floorboards creak as she clomped around our tiny house, rummaging through drawers, running water, grinding beans, and brewing coffee. Finally, I heard the squeak of rusty hinges as Sara opened the bathroom door to grab her surf clothes drip-drying on the shower rod.

  “All right, all right,” I called with exasperation. “Gimme a minute. I’m coming.”

  So began my own morning ritual of blindly searching through the heap of clothes on my bedroom floor for bathing suit, rash guard, and board shorts. The bathing suit was damp, and after I pulled the wet rash guard over my head and velcroed the equally wet board shorts at my waist I shivered like a scared dog. It was a rude awakening, one all avid surfers knew and none enjoyed.

  I stumbled into the bathroom for a splash of cold water to the face, a swipe of a toothbrush to the teeth, and a pass of a hairbrush through the hair. Sara, waiting for me in the kitchen, held a travel cup of coffee in one hand, and a banana in the other. I grabbed both and she smiled, the lines around her eyes crinkling in a way I liked, a way that made her seem her age, almost.

  At thirty-five my mother was still beautiful. The local boys who surfed with her every day, who had known her since before they could talk, barely noticed. But the summer surf crowd, the guys who made the four-hour drive out to Kendall’s Watch from New York City, those guys gave my mother many admiring glances. Aside from her waist-long jet-black hair, thick red lips, and provocative brown eyes, Sara was a kick-ass surfer, better than all the other women in our town, and most of the guys—not quite professional level, but close. She had a perfect take-off and a perfect body, knew just where the sweet spot was on every wave, and where the soft spot was on every man she hooked.

  Sara said that I was “naturally beautiful” and with just a little effort could be a “knockout,” but she didn’t have too many opinions I could trust. While people often commented that I was morphing into a younger version of her, I couldn’t see it myself. My hair, cut blunt at chin-level, was entirely un-sexy but easy to care for. My lips looked like a smashed

  tomato; add lipstick and I was in danger of becoming a walking stop sign. My brown eyes were too close together, and my bee-sting boobs, and lean, sporty figure made me look more like an adolescent boy than a full-blown sexy girl.

  “Come on. Let’s rock n’ roll before the wind shifts.” Sara scooped her keys from the giant junk bowl by the front door and started outside. I followed. As usual.

  Our surfboards were strapped to the top of Sara’s ancient, barely running Jeep. Sara threw her stuff in the back along with the bars of surf wax, extra leashes, zinc oxide tubes, and musty smelling, sand-encrusted towels.

  “You sure you’ll be warm enough?” Sara asked. “Marine forecast says the water temp’s only sixty-eight degrees.”

  “I can handle it,” I grumbled as I climbed into the passenger seat, belted myself in, and took a slurp of coffee.

  “I threw your wetsuit in the back, just in case,” said Sara. “You know how easily you get chilled.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Whatever. You’re welcome,” Sara sighed as she backed out of our gravel driveway. “I’m gonna need you at the store this afternoon, by the way. The weather is perfect, and tourists will be arriving for their last week of summer fun in the sun, and hopefully buying memorabilia.”

  Dugan’s Shell Shop, started by my grandfather Thomas Dugan, had initially been a small-time gig intended to make a little extra cash after retirement. When I was eleven, however, Grandpa had had a major coronary—a disaster that had required a pricey triple by-pass, nearly wiping out my grandparents’ retirement fund. Even worse, at seventy-seven years old, Grandpa had been told that he couldn’t do much of anything anymore. Running the shop had become Sara’s responsibility. For a local chick with a party-girl reputation, Sara was a surprisingly good businesswoman, and if anyone could make it work in the throes of a global recession, she could.

  “Do I have to?” I groaned. I wanted to surf, then go home, and sketch that fish and bone house I had dreamt of the night before.

  “Extra hands, extra sales, Anna,” Sara snapped. “And we need every dime. I need you and that’s that.” Sara always liked to drive with the windows wide open, with her long black hair billowing like a dark flag. This was cool—in all senses of the word—on sunny summer days, but a big problem the rest of the year.

  That morning, it worked to great effect, enhancing my mother’s exotic beauty and ridiculously magnificent hair. The Sara Dugan, I thought. Pirate ship. Prisoners beware. Nothing stands in her way. Sara switched on the radio, twiddling the dial until she settled on a station that blared Hip-hop. Really? Weren’t mothers supposed to listen to classic rock or show tunes?

  “Whatever,” I sighed. Thing was, she was right. A successful shop always needed more hands. That’s where I c
ame in. When I turned fifteen and could legally work, I had no choice but to help out. I tried to spend most of my Shell Shop time in the storeroom, where I unpacked shipments, monitored inventory, cleaned off occasional beach towels that got slimed by a tourist kid’s runny nose, or glued shell embellishments back on sunglasses that had been tried on one too many times. Even though customer service didn’t completely undo me, I lacked my mother’s talent. Instead, I excelled at behind-the-scenes operations. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there.” I always was.

  “Hoo-ha, check it out!” my mother hooted as we crested Early Point and the ocean came into view. Perfect white lines were breaking left to right in the cobalt sea. Sara patted my knee in excitement. “Just the way you like them, Anna. Big and steep.”

  Suddenly I was wide awake and almost happy.

  We pulled the car into one of the last remaining spots. A quarter to seven, and the parking lot was already crammed with surfers pulling on wetsuits, waxing boards, or strutting and boasting like a bunch of pumped-up roosters. It was the usual combo of locals and weekenders—mostly guys with territorial testosterone fueling a competitive vibe. Why did guys have to be like that? It was one of the definite downsides to being addicted to a sport dominated by men.

  Under any other circumstances, I would’ve been running for the nearest cave. But when it came to surfing, I managed to ignore the one-upmanship as best I could. Mostly I kept to myself and surfed solo. I kept the lowest of low profiles, while Sara went billboard big. That morning, she pounced out of the Jeep like a lioness and began massaging sunscreen on her perfectly toned arms while several guys in the next car watched and drooled.

  “Hey, Anna,” someone called as I slid out of my seat—less lioness, more lizard.

  It was Jimmy Flannigan, a local kid a year older than me. His family owned the Sea Breeze Motel on the ocean side of Main Street, directly across from the Shell Shop. Jimmy, like me, was a captive who had to work summers to help keep his family business afloat. While I stacked tee shirts, he stripped beds. Jimmy was a decent surfer and a decent guy, not all macho and brain-dead like most of the boys I had grown up with. He was one of the few kids my age that I felt comfortable around. I guess you could say we were almost friends. Jimmy bounded toward me and handed me a purple flyer. “It’s that time of year. I’m totally psyched!”