
The Song of the Shells
It was a blazing hot day at a Long Island beach on the Atlantic. The tide was going out, and the waves were widely separated. The younger children followed the receding water and still had time to run pell-mell back up the shore in front of the next wave. Just beyond the breakers a thick, ragged line of people swam and shouted. Further out a few determined souls swam back and forth like ducks at a shooting gallery.
The beach was jammed with families. A little girl finished a sand castle and a little boy yelled Earthquake! and jumped on it. The girl started crying and the mother looked up from a fat bestseller and yelled at the little boy.
Back towards the dunes the professional beach-going families were entrenched. Styrofoam coolers packed with beer squatted under beach umbrellas. Fathers sprawled on the beach-loungers, drinking and listening to the Yankees on black plastic multiband radios. The children sat on towels and complained about the sand, the sun, anything.
In the picnic area huge families crowded around the worn redwood tables
piled with potato chips and hot dog buns. Another hamburger fell into the
fire and Momma yelled at Poppa, or Poppa yelled at his good-for-nothing
son.
The swings were swinging in the playground, some under the steam of their riders, others propelled by hypnotized parents or siblings. The big kids turned the merry-go-round too fast and the little kids clutched the metal tubing and stared out at the blur around them. A body in a wet bathing suit inched slowly down the slide.
People walked in and out of the square refreshments pavilion. They emerged from the darkness with their hot dogs or ice cream sandwiches and made their way across the concrete plaza, staring at the body-builders and beauty queens arrayed there. Clumps of teenage boys hung around and exchanged teenage ideas. French women go to the beach nude! exclaimed one. Yuh mother! replied another.
People lay on the beach like cookies on a sheet. Newcomers walked through the pedestrian underpass lugging their beach apparatus and diffused slowly into the crowd, trying to find a bit of sand. A police helicopter flew the length of the beach. The midday sun raged silently in the sky.
There was a man working his way slowly up the beach. He looked to be in his twenties, a bony white body with snarled and already thinning brown hair. He couldn’t seem to walk straight. After a few steps in one direction he would suddenly yaw off some other way, struggling to keep his balance. He was wearing a tattered blue work shirt and blue swimming trunks. He backed and filled across the sand, up into the crowd and down towards the water. He finally stumbled into a pit and found himself sitting.
He just sat there for a while. Come on now, he whispered. Take it easy. His twitching muscles began to relax and the general uproar in his head subsided somewhat. The darkness ebbed. He took a deep breath. Is everybody okay now? he asked himself.
Yes Norton, said everybody.
All right then. Norton began to hum softly. He climbed up himself until he was standing. His hands brushed at the back of his bathing suit. His toes crawled into the front of his sneakers. Making excellent progress, he continued walking.
After strolling on a bit, Norton stopped and stood where the last vestiges of a wave eddied about his ankles and slipped away.
Hey Norton, my sneaker lace is untied, said one of his feet.
Norton watched the crowd in the water rise and fall. It’s funny, he thought.
An old woman was standing near Norton, a bit closer to the waves. Her feet were sinking slowly into the sand as the water etched pits behind her heels. She was wearing a faded print blouse over an aqua tank suit with a built-in skirt. Norton shuffled forward so that he would sink too. The woman noticed his feet twisting into the sand.
Your shoelace is untied, son, the old woman remarked.
I know, said Norton. Beautiful day to be at the beach, isn’t it?
It is a nice day. The woman turned her attention to the crowd in the water. Norton did too.
You see the boy with the black hair? asked the lady. That’s my grandson.
Norton tried to single people out of the crowd.
He’s sharp as a tack, said the old woman, nodding. He’ll be nine next week.
Norton thought he had distinguished the lad in question. He was standing just where the waves began to curl. As each wave came up he stretched out his arms as if to hold back the water. Even with the ocean as calm as it was, many of the waves were as tall as the boy.
Jason, be careful now! called the woman. The boy turned to look at her and a wave pushed him over. The woman was horrified, but Jason popped out of the water like a bubble. The woman waved for him to come in.
I worry about that boy, said his grandmother. His mother spoils him, you know. Lets him run around and stay up half the night. If I didn’t come down here to watch, she was going to let him swim alone! She shook her head.
Jason sloshed up to them. Didja see that wave, Grammy! It nearly did me in! Boy!
I told you not to go in so far, said Grammy. You can’t trust that
undertow one second. This should be a lesson to you I hope.
Jason had noticed Norton, and for a moment they looked at each other. Norton liked Jason’s round face, and he smiled. Jason looked up at Norton and thought, He’s spooky!
That last wave ganged up on you, said Norton. I saw it.
Jason hesitated, looked at his grandmother. Waves don’t do that, he said carefully.
That one did, insisted Norton. They only do it when your back is turned. He nodded. You didn’t know that, did you?
Jason’s grandmother looked at Norton, seeing him for the first time. The sleeves of his work shirt had ripped from the cuffs up to the armpits and they stayed behind when his arms moved. With sudden distaste she noticed that his fingernails were long and very dirty.
Jason had thought about Norton’s words. That’s not true at all, he said.
You know, continued Norton, once I asked a wave why they did that. Do you know what it said?
Jason’s grandmother took Jason’s hand and started to walk up the beach.
Jason trailed along behind, looking back over his shoulder. Norton
watched them disappear into the crowd.
The wave told me that they thought it was funny, said Norton.
Why did we leave, Grammy? asked Jason. I thought that guy was neat.
He was a mess, said Grammy.

Norton suddenly stopped walking to tie his sneakers, but somebody whispered in his ear and he took them off instead. He jammed his hands into them and walked on.
You look pretty stupid, Norton, said his hands.
How can something look stupid? he asked.
You do, they said.
You can’t even see me, Norton pointed out. His hands sulked at his sides. Norton ignored them and walked on. He watched a row of people swimming madly to catch a body-surfing-sized wave. He watched his toes free themselves from a piece of seaweed. Finally he looked back at his hands. Come on, he pleaded. Play the game.
We are, insisted his hands. You play the game.
I am, Norton assured them, nodding his head. I am.

The tide was dead low. The sand near the water was clotted with seaweed, pieces of wood, rubber sandals, flip tops, jellyfish. Norton was collecting shells. He only picked up the shells that were the very smallest. There were a lot of those on the beach, so he wasn’t moving very rapidly. He had almost filled one of his sneakers. The shells were singing, but there were so many of them that when Norton held his sneaker up to his ear, all he could hear was a general roar. The shells were happy. Norton had known they would be happy if they had a lot of other shells around. Norton was happy too. He liked crowded beaches.
There was a small bunch of people gathered around something a short way down the beach. Norton joined the group and saw a handsome man working on a sculpture in the sand. It was a woman lying on her side, with her hands folded under her head. Her hair flowed down in a great wave, subsiding into tiny ripples which disappeared into the sand. The sculpture was completed down to the waist, but the remainder was just a rough pile of wet sand.
Some of the people watching were scandalized by the sand’s nakedness. Others folded their arms across their chests and nodded to each other, whispering loudly.
Norton stared, delighted. The sculptor brushed gently across the sand and uncovered a wide sandy hip. He pushed with both hands and a leg appeared. The sculptor worked fluidly, rhythmically.
He’s very talented, isn’t he? someone whispered, nodding.
Isn’t he though? nodded someone else.
All as one, Norton was fascinated. The sun reflected somewhere and sparkled in his head as he watched. She’s asleep, thought Norton. He backed out of the crowd and went around to the sculpture’s head. He looked into the face and realized it was not sleeping, it was dead. A great wave rose and crashed in his head. The floodgates burst. The voices of the world laughed and shouted and sobbed. Norton stared at the cold, grey face. The song of the shells filled his head, poured out his eyes. He staggered back, his legs having taken the initiative. The crowd parted around him like water around a bubble. A murmur rose. Norton stumbled across the beach, dumping sand and tiny shells onto everybody’s towels and egg salad sandwiches. He managed to climb a dune on all fours. As he struggled to his feet at the top, the lifeguard’s whistle sounded across the beach, calling someone back to shore. Norton started a step across the dune, and slowly crumpled into a ragged pile.

Norton? Hey Norton, you there?
No answer.
It’s all gone, Norton. It’s okay now. Norton was a tiny flickering dot, and he didn’t respond.
Everybody’s OK now. Still there was no reply.
Come on, they begged, Play the game.
Divide, said Norton.
Darkness and light, said his eyes promptly.
I’m not darkness, said Norton slowly. I’m not light either.
Fast and slow, suggested his feet. Norton denied them both.
Man and woman, proposed his groin.
Not man, responded Norton, and not woman.
The divisions and denials continued for a bit. How about Norton and not-Norton? somebody finally offered.
Norton thought for a moment. No, he said, I don’t think that’s quite right either.
Well, what are you?
Everything, answered Norton. Everything and nothing.
His eyes opened.
He saw sand and dune grass. Nearby, a hand and part of a foot were visible. Wiggle, said Norton, and they wiggled. Norton smiled.
A bug was hurrying across the sand. If that bug crawls near my hand, thought Norton, I will mash him, to show him what cruelty is. He watched the bug intently. After a moment it reached the edge of Norton’s hand. It cast back and forth, then began scaling up Norton’s palm. Norton brought his hand up in front of this eyes.
Hi, he said. The bug said nothing and crawled onto the back of Norton’s hand. Norton turned his hand over. Where are you going? he asked.
I don’t know, said the bug, crawling back over to the palm. It stopped, feelers waving. It had discovered its own trail.
What are you thinking? asked Norton.
I don’t know, said the bug. It turned and crawled down Norton’s fingers. Norton put his hand on the ground so the bug could get off. It paused again, on the sand, then crawled off in the direction it had been previously heading.
Then why are you in such a hurry? called Norton after the bug.
I don’t know, said the bug, and disappeared into the grass.

Norton climbed down the dune and found himself standing near the pedestrian underpass leading to the parking field. There was a broken stream of tired but colorful people heading through into the parking lot. Norton was very impressed with the sounds coming from the tunnel — the uniquely syncopated rhythm of sandaled feet, tubular aluminum frames knocking about, the babble of conversations and the shouts of children pleased with the sounds of their voices. Norton hummed into a corner of the tunnel, and the tunnel hummed along. Norton smiled.
I’m hungry, rumbled his stomach.
The darkness inside the refreshments pavilion engulfed him as the door slammed shut. Cold floor, observed his feet gratefully.
The beach scene became washed-out and artificial as Norton’s eyes adjusted. The features of the building began to appear around him. All around the wall, above the doors, there were posters of people drinking sodas, eating hot dogs and hamburgers and so on. Down at the back of the building a sign said French Fries $.50. There wasn’t any picture and Norton was disappointed.
A door suddenly swung open and knocked Norton off balance. Looking up from the floor he saw a woman blinking in the darkness, peering down at him.
I’m very sorry, she said. Are you all right? Norton nodded as she helped him up onto his feet. There you are, said the woman, letting go of his arm. She looked him over. Are you sure you’re all right? she asked. You look a little shaky.
It’s normal, said Norton. I’m okay.
I just didn’t see you there, she explained. The sun was so bright. Norton’s hand rubbed his head. Did you hit your head? she asked. I’m a nurse, so you don’t have anything to worry about.
Norton had become engrossed in the scene through the door behind the woman. Two boys were punching a beach ball back and forth, trying to keep it up in the air. The woman thought he was staring at her. She stared back, uncertain of his motives, but determined not to look away.
Moments passed. Why is he staring? she wondered. What can I mean to him? Finally she asked, Are you really all right?
Norton looked at her. Excuse me? he said.
I’m a nurse, the woman repeated. You don’t have to worry.
OK, said Norton.
The nurse thought, This man is not well. What’s your name? she asked, to keep him talking.
Norton.
Norton what?
Norton Hocas.
Is that an Indian name?
I don’t know, said Norton, I never asked. He noticed the smaller boy was having difficulty guiding the ball. The bigger boy was running around madly, trying to keep up. Finally the smaller boy gave the ball a good whack on the wrong side and it sailed off into the picnic area.
The nurse observed that Norton’s attention had drifted again. He’s feeble-minded, she thought. She began to move away from him, watching to see if he noticed. He didn’t. She turned and walked away, telling herself it was a shame that nothing could be done for people like Norton Hocas.
The smaller boy had run into the picnic area. He got his arms around the big ball and was straightening up when the other boy jumped on him. The little one squeaked with surprise and they fell into the sand, laughing and tussling. The ball popped out and rolled away in a huff.
Norton felt happy then. The boys collected their ball and returned to batting it about. This is where I came in, said Norton. He turned and walked towards the back of the building, staring at the posters.
There was a long counter separating the kitchen from the rest of the building. Men in starchless red and white striped shirts moved about slowly. Norton stood at the counter and watched. A fat counterman stopped as he passed Norton. He was carrying a greasy spatula in one hand and a crusty mustard squeeze bottle in the other.
May I have y’order please.
Norton paused, not having thought about that. I’d like some french fries, he said. The man nodded as though he had known all along and moved away.
Norton was humming softly to himself when the man returned. The fries were outfitted in a sharp red and white striped box. Norton took them, nodded, and drifted away. The counterman threw an unordered burger onto the grill.
The red and white striped girl at the cash register looked pretty busy, so Norton left some money from his shirt pocket on a nearby table and wandered through.

It was getting on in the afternoon. The air was cooler and the crowd on the beach had thinned out to isolated clumps. Norton sat idly on a swing, eating his french fries and watching the tide come in.
A scruffy little dog came up and sat by Norton’s swing. I’m sure hungry, it said.
You want some french fries? asked Norton.
You bet, said the dog. If you like, I can do tricks.
No, that’s all right, said Norton. Don’t bother. He ate one more and began feeding the rest to the dog. You live around here?
Sometimes, said the dog between bites. In the summer anyway. He ate the last of the french fries out of Norton’s hand, then looked up. Got any more? he asked.
That’s the lot, answered Norton. After a moment, the dog lifted a paw, then sat up on its hind legs. What are you doing? asked Norton. I haven’t anything else to eat. He showed the dog the empty box.
The dog flopped down into a sitting position, then stood up. Well it was worth a try, he said. You’d be amazed how often more food will turn up after a little paw-shaking or what-have-you. Mind if I root around in that box for a bit?
Help yourself. Norton put the box on the sand and watched the dog tear it apart. Do you like the beach?
Sure, said the dog. If you don’t mind some sand, there’s always lots to eat. He finished destroying the cardboard box. Hey look, said the dog, I hate to eat and run, but I think that bunch over there dropped a hamburger.
I understand, said Norton as the dog began to trot away. It’s been a pleasure talking.
The dog stopped and looked over its shoulder. I can’t talk, it said.

The ocean was running higher as the tide came in. An offshore breeze blew across the beach and out over the water towards the sun. Norton was walking along the beach again, just walking.
A jeep drove past him. A park ranger called out, Beach closes at sunset. You got about half an hour. The jeep drove away.
How do you close a beach? wondered Norton. He cut back up the beach and walked in the tracks of the jeep.
After a while he noticed one of his sneakers half-buried in the sand, and he picked it up. When he poured out the sand, he discovered that it was the sneaker that he had been carrying the shells in. Nearby, just on the edge of the wave-smoothed sand, he found the sculpture of the dead woman. Waves and passing feet had erased the detail and much of the form. Norton sat down beside the remains of the woman. He arranged tiny shells in a crown on her head. He looked out into the water. It’s funny, he said.
Having traveled across the ocean, a wave encountered the shore. It rose to a white peak, toppled, and crashed into the sand. For a moment, the sound roared through the universe, then it was gone.
— David H. Ackley, Medford, Massachusetts, circa 1978.

