Postcards From Last Summer by Roz Bailey Page B

sand.
    â€œYou picked the right time,” I called to them. “The waves are just starting to get interesting.”
    â€œWould that be good or bad?” the dark-eyed guy asked, lowering the board.
    â€œLindsay . . . Charlie.” Tara introduced. “He’s never surfed before. I promised to give him a lesson.”
    â€œBrave soul,” I said. “Tara will be a good teacher, but watch out for those ballbusters in the surf. They’re ruthless.”
    â€œI’ll take that under advisement when I’m flailing in a riptide and they’re surfing wheelies around me,” Charlie said as he placed the board on the sand.
    â€œThat’s a little extreme,” Tara said.
    â€œWhat? They won’t let me drown?”
    â€œNo. They can’t surf wheelies.”
    â€œVery reassuring.” He spread his arms out wide. “Okay, Tara, have at me. You’re the great Kahuna and I’m Gidget, just grabbing a board for the first time.”
    I smiled. Charlie Migglesteen was a little nerdier than I’d expected, but he seemed to like Tara, and she obviously enjoyed moving beside him as she demonstrated how to stand on the board, how to pop up and balance.
    â€œYou think I’m a goofy foot?” he said with a deadpan expression. “You should see my cousin Leo.”
    Tara and Charlie waded into waist-deep water to watch as I demonstrated how to maintain trim and stand at the same time. Then I loaned them an extra board so Tara could paddle out with Charlie.
    â€œNot bad,” Bear said, watching with me on the beach as Charlie wiped out. “At least he got on his feet.” Leave it to Bear to see the good.
    I nodded, thinking that Charlie was built right for surfing—solid and short, a compact body with a lower center of balance. “He could do well with some practice. Though I guess you don’t see many waves in North Korea. He’s stationed there with Tara’s brother.”
    Bear scratched his chin. “Aw, man, I envy him. He could surf Fiji!”
    Â 
    By noon the tide was high, slamming onto the beach in sick, un-surfable waves. Tara and Charlie followed me home, where Charlie, Steve, and Bear went through Steve’s collection of boards in the yard, looking for something to loan Charlie for the next few weeks.
    In the kitchen, Tara and I reached into the cupboards, searching for some spices and condiments to zing up a big batch of tuna fish for sandwiches to feed the crew.
    Tara called out the inventory. “We’ve got onion flakes, Italian seasoning, dried mustard, paprika . . .” The top of her suit was unzipped and peeled down to her waist, revealing a chocolate bikini top. In contrast, I felt doughy, with sand caught in the seam of my swimsuit, a sheen of salt caked on my legs. “How do you feel about capers?”
    â€œBring on the crazy capers.” I was opening a large can of tuna when Ma came in the porch door with a bag of groceries.
    â€œTara, hello! Will you sit for a cup of tea?” my mother asked. Although born and raised in Brooklyn, Mary Grace had picked up the lilting cadences of her parents, Irish immigrants. My maternal grandfather, James Noonan, a carpenter, had come to New York with a sack of bedding and the clothes on his back—or so went the family lore. A quick-footed dancer and scotch drinker, James had worked long hours as apprentice to a cabinetmaker to perfect his craft—work that ultimately paid off when he fast-talked his way onto the crew of a Park Avenue apartment renovation, where he convinced the designer to upgrade the wood and proceeded to craft a masterpiece.
    From then on, whenever a “Park Avenue swell” was renovating an apartment, James Noonan was hired to do the cabinetry. Now, as Ma opened a dark walnut cabinet to stow two boxes of tea, I was reminded of the history in this house. Her grandfather used to see weekend patients in the dining room. My