PAQRT II
You will surely forget your trouble,
recalling it only as waters gone by.
Life will be brighter than noonday,
and darkness will become like morning.
—Job 11:16–17
July 3, 1964
“Black raspberry’s good,” Piper said with an approving nod.
“It’s not as good as chocolate,” Sailor said dejectedly.
Whitney put the ice cream in the freezer and noticed the frazzled look on his wife’s face. “Uh-oh! How come you guys are all inside? Are you driving Mom crazy?”
“Nooo,” the younger three chorused innocently. Whitney looked at his wife for confirmation, but she just raised her eyebrows.
“We were just looking for more jars,” Piper explained.
“Actually, we were just going back outside,” Birdie corrected, motioning for her younger siblings to follow her.
“But I still need a jar!” Piper cried.
“I have one right here,” Easton reminded, taking the top off the jar in his arms. “Anyone want a pickle?” he asked, fishing out a sweet pickle and popping it in his mouth.
“I’ll have one,” Piper and Sailor both said.
“Use a fork,” Martha scolded, picturing all the invisible microorganisms that had just jumped off her son’s hand and were now swimming in the pickle juice.
Hugging the jar to his chest, Easton pulled open the silverware drawer, but at the same moment, Piper and Sailor both reached for it, and without the support of his other hand, it slipped and fell to the floor, spilling sticky pickle juice everywhere.
“That’s it!” Martha exclaimed. “Out!”
“Out, guys,” Whitney repeated, ushering his children around the puddle and in the general direction of the door. Easton was the last in line, but as he reached the door, he picked up his mason jar and turned around. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he said, his eyes glistening. “I didn’t mean to ...”
“I know you didn’t,” Martha said, trying to regain her composure. “It’s just that I have a lot to do....”
“You don’t have to give me any presents.”
Martha’s frown softened. “Well, that wouldn’t be much of a birthday, would it?”
He shrugged. “C’mon, Willow,” and the yellow Lab took a few more quick swipes of the sweet puddle with her tongue, gulped down some pickles, and trotted after him, leaving a trail of muddy—and now sticky—paw prints.
“I’ll get this,” Martha said with a sigh, setting the empty batter bowl in the sink and reaching for an old towel. “You can get the broken glass.”
“I’ll get this,” Whitney countered, taking the towel from her, “and the broken glass.”
“What I’d really like you to do is take them for a hike—they’ve been underfoot all afternoon and I still have the cake to frost and presents to wrap.”
Whitney nodded. “I’ll get this, the broken glass, and I’ll take them for a hike.”
“It’ll be dark soon....”
“We have flashlights, and it won’t be the first time we’ve gone for a hike at night.”
Martha sighed. “Okay, you can get this and the glass, but I’m doing the dishes.”
“Okay,” Whitney said with a smile. “I’ll let you do the dishes.”
Ten minutes later, the kitchen floor was cleaner than it had been all week, the broken glass was swept up, Willow’s paws were rinsed and dried, and the children were loaded in the station wagon—Easton in front, Sailor and Remy in back, and Piper and Birdie in the “way back,” looking out the back window.
“ ’Bye, Mom!” they chorused as their father pulled away.
Piper looked up and saw Willow peering through the screen door. “We forgot Willow!”
“She’s not coming,” Birdie said.
“Why not?” Piper asked, dismayed by the injustice.
“Because Dad just cleaned her up,” Birdie explained.
“But she loves the beach.”
“Next time,” her sister assured.
Whitney turned on the radio, and when the girls heard the song that was playing, they begged their father to turn it up and crooned along with Gerry and the Pacemakers as they sang their melancholy hit song “Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying.”
When the song ended, Whitney turned it down and looked over at Easton. “I didn’t know you could sing,” he teased.
Easton blushed and looked out the window. The cool breeze felt good on his hot cheeks. “How come there’re so many fireflies this year, Dad?”
“Because we had such a wet spring,” Whitney surmised. “Insects love wet, mild weather.”
“It’s neat to see so many—the woods are full of ’em!”
“Lightning bugs are neat,” Whitney agreed, “but mosquitoes won’t be.”
“Ugh! I hadn’t thought of that,” Easton said. “That definitely won’t be fun.”
Whitney pulled into the Nauset Light parking lot, and they all piled out and stood around the back of the car, dividing up the pails and flashlights. “I want to take a picture of you guys in front of the lighthouse,” Whitney said.
“Aww, do we have to?” Sailor moaned.
“Yes, we have to,” Whitney said.
As Easton waited for his sisters to sort through the pails, he watched the lighthouse scanning the darkening sky. Red . . . white . . . red . . . white. Rhythmically. Faithfully. Endlessly. It never stops, he thought. It just keeps turning . . . on and on . . . forever!
“Ready, East?” Whitney said, interrupting his son’s thoughts.
“Huh?” Easton turned, saw his dad holding out his pail, and realized his sisters were already walking across the parking lot. He nodded, took the pail, and trotted after them.
They stood together, in age order, jostling for position.
“Ready?” Whitney said, focusing the lens in the fading light.
“Wait!” Easton said, dropping his pail and throwing his arms around his sisters’ shoulders. His sisters did the same, and as they laughingly pulled each other closer, Whitney snapped the shutter, capturing a sweet, carefree moment.
“Okay, no funny stuff this time,” he said, eyeing Sailor—who’d made bunny ears behind Remy’s head.
Sailor squinched her nose and stuck her tongue out at him.
“You won’t like it when your face freezes that way, missy!” he teased.
“You won’t like it when your face freezes that way, missy,” she mimicked, grinning at him.
“Okay, are you ready this time?”
They all nodded.
“Nice smiles . . . on three. One . . . two . . .”
They gave their dad their best smiles, and Whitney snapped the shutter again.
“Thank you for your cooperation!”
“You’re welcome,” they shouted, happy to be free and laughing as they raced toward the stairs.