Beach

by Carol Brussel

Lightning Capital

by Tom CardamoneWalking the shore at night I typically stay close to the waterline; condominiumlights illuminate the foam of the softly crashing waves. Summer rain sweepsthe entire beach clean of footprints, making mine fresh and deep as they marka meandering road that will also disappear, wiped away by early morning hightide. I've been walking the beach a lot lately, thinking about school, about myparents, about Travis, about everything. Mostly I think about Travis. In thedistance cloudy remnants of a storm hover low over the Gulf, and flashes of lightning shimmer off the plane of black water.

My parents will want me home soon.

Reaching down for a shell, I discard myfirst choice as too concave, with clumps of moist sand dropping from thecleats of grayish-dusty purple barnacles hidden on the reverse side. Spottinga sturdy chunk of sea glass, I scoop it up. It's good and flat and dark green. Iimagine it's the bottom of a champagne bottle broken against the bow of aship launched before my parents were born, rolled smooth on the seafloor bythe very waves that eventually, carelessly, pulled down the ship and its crew,massaging rust into stilled propeller, now scrubbing and caressing thecaptain's skull, a rotting pipe bobbing between loose white teeth.A clap of thunder interrupts.I skip the chunk of sea glass across the water; it bounces three times on thetips of stunted waves, to waft and sink back toward its rightful dark

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playground of seaweed and shipwrecks and diplomatic manta rays. Yesterday Travis and I rode our bikes to this very spot. He's the only friend I'vemade since my parents moved us to Siesta Key. We were unloading our U-Haulin front of the new house. Mom, hands on her hips, squinted at the brief yard of white pebbles flecked with formica and a few loud cactus-looking plantsbursting forth on either side of the cracked driveway. I knew she was perturbedthat we were moving again, and likely perplexed that our house had this stonyMartian landscape in place of grass. Every time Dad and I passed between thehouse and the U-Haul he shot me a loaded look:

help me make this work, Tom.

I wanted to laugh, finishing his thought:

because we're running out of houses!

But I didn't laugh, I didn't smile. I did not answer his searching, tired, hopefuleyes with mine. This move meant a new Middle School. It meant I was far fromthe few friends I'd managed to hold onto through the last few towns, thesudden moves.As dusk neared, some kid rode past, barefoot and shirtless, hunched over thehandlebars of a dirt bike. Long brown hair hung low in his eyes. Red shortsbunched high on his tanned thighs, clinging tightly like a furled sail. I watchedhim circle, come back, and stop by our new, eager mailbox just as my Dadhanded me my own bike from the back of the truck."Hey," he called out. His voice was deep, deeper than mine. Suddenly I wasvery self-conscious. "Want to go for a ride?"With that he put both feet on his pedals and rocked his bike back and forth, anurgent balancing act, a rocket about to launch. I wavered."Waitaminute," Dad grunted, and dug into his pocket. Handing me a ten-dollar bill, "Get yourself some pizza and let your Mom and I unpack."I shrugged. The unexpected money, this kid on his bike, Mom warily kicking atthe gravel--I had no choice. Exhausted from moving--but by now it was all Iknew; frustrated, surprised at the burden of tears welling up in the corners of my eyes, I hopped on my bike and sped past the boy. He caught up quickly as Ipedaled down the middle of the street, trying not to look at him, wonderingabout the different kinds of dread stuffed into the quiet, flat-roofed houses thatlined the block."Hey. Let's go back the other way. The laundry mat by the grocery store hasthe best video games."He braked. I slowed. "C'mon, I'll show you around." His voice was confident. Ahalo of cicadas buzzed around the sound of his voice.He told me his name. I said mine softly, a cussword in church. So we swungaround and rode silently past my new home. Mom, crying, swung a shovel atone of the cactus-things in the yard, slicing it in half. Dad came up from behindher and tried to take the shovel away. As they struggled I pedaled like mad,Travis speeding up ahead of me, leading the way. A flock of churlish starlingsteased a tilting telephone pole, black against the pink chalky sky.This part of the beach has fewer condominiums and hotels, more low dunessutured with stiff brown grass. At night this stretch is darker, quiet. You canhear the sea and you can hear yourself. You can also see more stars but it'sharder to see shells so I just stare at the horizon.

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This morning Travis crashed his bike through the back yard; feet off the pedalshe leapt, letting it drop to skid beneath the grimy dirt bedding beneath thegrapefruit tree while he marched into the kitchen, the screen door slammingbehind him."Hi Miss-us V., got any juice?" He'd already opened the fridge. Bent over, thosesame red shorts shifted, weathered but still vibrant, two sails now stretchedfull and round. Later we tried to best our last high score on Frogger at thelaundry mat, the smell of warm cotton wrapped around us, the drone of churning dryers emitting the white noise of an electric swamp. Pixilated trafficcrushed pixilated frog. His turn. I eyed the perfect red bullet hole heavy on histhigh, a quarter caught between his flesh and taut pocket.Thunder rumbles overhead, bringing me back.A flash of lightning illuminates the slow billowing folds and enlargedcorpuscles of a surprisingly low cloud. I turn to cross the beach to search for apath among the dunes that will lead me to the road.Another flash but no thunder.And a star falls.Skips like a luminous shell, searing the water as it spins.I smell acrid, saline steam.

That's not a star, it's a…a man? A small body?

Iwant to comically rub my eyes as the falling star hits the sand at my feet with agentle thud. I look around. I want an errant jogger, a wino, some Canadiantourist, someone--anyone--to verify the beautiful light smoldering at my feet. Ameteor? It crackles. I squat to get a closer look. The crackling sound is sandfusing to glass, separating from the cooler, moist sand beneath it with a snap.The falling star is a little man, aglow, but fading.No, the little man is a falling star.I note tiny limbs that end in black points. A chest heaving, he's tired.Wounded? A tiny head, a point really, rising from between an assumption of arms. No eyes, no facial features, but I sense a mouth, a thin dark creasemoaning quietly, the only break in the constant glow of his body and limbs,drawn in pain. Not realizing that I'd gotten so close, I sense no heat. But hesenses me. His small pointy arms wave me closer.

Impossible.

I freeze, feelinga silent cry reverberate throughout my skeleton. Instinct takes over and Iscoop my hands under the soft sand beneath him, bits of broken shellsparkling like jewels imbedded in the fresh glass. Taking the fallen star to mychest I let him feel my fearful heartbeat, confused and rapid. I hold him thereand look up, searching for his home. The sky is intermittently black, a fastpetroleum pool pricked with the ice of stars, smeared with clouds, but I cannotfind an empty space, a hole, a ruptured and blown-out bracket. All is as itrandomly should be. The weight in my hands pulses and I lean in without athought and place my lips over the point I assume is his head, the thin line Ibelieve a mouth; lightly, I breathe out. Injecting my life into his, I think,

Thank God this isn't burning my lips.

So light shoots down my throat.The skin beneath my fingernails sizzles and glows a wholesome pink. Sparksshoot out from underneath my toenails, tickling the sand. Embarrassingly, Ifeel my testicles rise; it's like they're rotating in the tight canvas of my ball sac.

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