A cold front blew in. The lower temperatures jump-start the day, quickening all living things. Dogs sprint from porches to greet friend or stranger. Carriage horses whip their heads at stoplights, restless with extra energy. Locals walk at a brisker pace; they even talk a tad faster.
In anticipation of cooler weather, I drove to the beach in my wetsuit. Now, zipped up and sticky like a banana in its peel, I’m sweating.
Laudie’s funeral isn’t until this afternoon. It feels sacrilegious to surf the day she’ll be buried. But what else am I supposed to do? The day stretches before me, and no other activity seems to come even close to the spiritual nature of the ceremony ahead.
Everything is in place for the reception. The furniture has been rearranged on the piazza to create additional space. The dining room chairs have been pushed to the walls. The corkscrews are lined up on the bar, along with Laudie’s sterling iced tea spoons for mixing drinks.
The windows have been Windexed and the silver shined with polish. The hemstitched linen cocktail napkins have been starched and pressed. Empty platters sit on the dining room table; on top of each is a little note indicating to Mrs. Harley’s servers exactly where to place what: “chicken salad sandwiches,” “pickled shrimp,” “mini quiche.”
I plow into the ocean; this is not a day to inch in. The water is warmer than the air, but not by much. My Goodwill wetsuit is graded for much colder water, which is necessary, because like most Lowcountry women whose natural element is heat, I chill easily. The wetsuit will enable me to stay in the surf for thirty minutes; any longer and I can’t keep my core warm. The clock is running, like Laudie’s watch—which I’ll soon wear. Mom instructed Mr. Mackey to remove Laudie’s jewelry before the burial so she could give Laudie’s favorites to Caroline, Weezy, and me.
With my torso on the board, I kick and paddle against the counterpush of the ocean; it’s strong, but nothing like the hurricane swell. Still, in these autumnal seas, maintaining homeostasis consumes huge amounts of energy.
I catch a few waves and take a moment to think of Laudie, try to absorb the enormity of her death. A pale sun warms my back. My hands are white from the cold. I open and close them, hoping to generate enough warmth so that I can lift myself on my final ride. My teeth start to chatter. My feet have stiffened.
“Hey! You, in the arctic gear.” I turn to see Ben paddling toward me. He wears the same ratty rash guard. He has an easy smile—wide, generous, guileless. His longish curly hair doesn’t fully hide his ears, which stick out, maybe the only part of him that isn’t perfect. “Nice wetsuit.”
I slide the board beneath me so that I’m in a seated position. I cycle my legs like eggbeaters to keep myself somewhat in place. “It is.” I pull at the squishy fabric of my secondhand wetsuit. It makes a satisfying sucking sound as it forms an air bubble around my stomach.
He copies me, but his rash guard doesn’t create the same sound effect. “How about a hot meal, on me? I still haven’t thanked you properly.”
A hot meal. Nachos. Grilled cheese, maybe. Or a tower of greasy fries. “I actually would really like to join you, but I can’t. I have to get back to town.”
“I’m glad you actually would.” He winks. “Gotta get back to work?”
At 10:00 a.m. on a Wednesday, it’s a legitimate question, but I don’t want to tell Ben about Laudie and her funeral just four hours away. Then again, when’s the last time I’ve been fully honest with anyone, including myself? What is there to lose? “I’m going to a funeral. My grandmother died.” My face heats. My stomach flips. I miss her.
Ben doesn’t say anything for a moment. He probably thinks I’m crazy for surfing on the day my grandmother will be buried. We stare at the ocean, bobbing up and down at different times like we’re riding horses on a carousel. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. You came out here to be alone.”
“No. I mean I did, but . . .”
“I’m really sorry. I’ll give you your space.” Ben slips onto his stomach and skims across the ocean, past the second break.