The Fire, the Water, and Maudie McGinn: Chapters 31–49

About a dozen dogs are zooming around, in and out of the shallow water. One, a giant black-and-white doodle, bounds right up to me and drops a dripping tennis ball at my feet.

His pink tongue lolls.

I pat his wet, salty, stinky head with one finger—he’s so big, his head’s practically at my chest level.

“He won’t play with any of the other dogs on the beach, because he thinks he’s a person. If another dog comes up to him, he’ll hide behind us like a shy little kid. But he’s not shy with people at all. He’ll go right up to a person he likes and shake on them on purpose, or jump on them. It’s honestly mortifying.”

She punches her fist in the air, then looks sheepish. “Oops. Sometimes I get carried away. Mom says I like the sound of my own voice too much.”

“Oh. That’s interesting,” I say, trying to sound casual.

Now I’m in a washing machine of bloopy, salty, murky suds.

Her white hair is all matted and dirty, and she wears a filthy down jacket that’s been mended with tape.

But everything’s too bright or artificial feeling, or has frills or ties or ribbons or yucky lace.

But when we get out of view, Dad stops the cart right there in the aisle and plucks a slinky purple-glitter halter off the top of the pile. He holds it up by one strap, looking bewildered.

Her bare feet, as always, are full of chafes and sores.

Some older girls—his sisters, probably—hug him and console him. They flash me little wary looks.

I let the coolness loosen
the hot misery,
let the water dissolve
the shame that smolders in me
like a sputtering flame,
that sticks to me
like a greasy film,
a second skin.

Ron’s a good man. He works hard to make a nice life for us and provide for our every need. He’s generous. He loves us. He doesn’t drink or carouse like some men. He’s devoted.

I hold the postcard between the tips of my fingers and read it through twice, hearing her familiar sassy, twangy, strong-as-steel voice.

They’ve uploaded aerial drone footage of all the fire-affected areas.

The thick, glossy green grove of surrounding trees is gone, as well. They are a smoking wasteland of gnarled burnt witch hands, reaching knobby fingers toward the sky.

That day, Mom quickly ushered me out of the house, and we spent hours shopping and at the park.

I could smell fresh caulk and paint.

I sidle up to the sign to read the details.

We can build seawalls, we can shore things up with scaffolding, we can dredge and bring in sand...but eventually, we’ll have to give it up to the ocean, and adjust to a new shoreline.

Waves of change. It’s inevitable.

Three sleek black fins are sluicing the surface of the water.

Sunlight pours through gauzy white curtains at the windows.

Dog hair is floating in the shafts of light.

They are not very good singers, but no one around them is giving them so much as a snide or sarcastic look.

One guy is sprawled on top of a table fast asleep, using a thick book as a pillow.

“You have to learn to stand up to those sorts of people!” Etta says. “Assert yourself! Don’t let them dominate you—don’t put up with that!”

We sit in silence for another moment, straddling our boards.

Here, there are weedy strips of cement in the centers of the roads, scraggly palms, tired strip malls.

He has a wispy old-person’s voice, leathery skin, and stubbly tufts of white hair sticking out from under a Padres baseball cap.

“I’m no cook. But they’re something your grandma was famous for. Like a corn-flour pancake with melted cheese inside. Sometimes ham.”
Rollie scowls at Dad. “Your own daughter never had an arepa! Hey, you know what? I think I’ve got something for you. Be right back!”

They just called me a slow learner, put me in remedial classes.

He hyperfocuses on woodworking, I hyperfocus on reading or writing or surfing.
Dad gets overwhelmed sometimes, and so do I.

Well, when Ron gets mad, he gets those same pinpoint eyes. But he doesn’t turn green, like the Hulk. Instead, he turns red.
Red flushes into his bull neck and spreads in a wave over his face and rims his eyes.