A Brief Prehistory of All the Summers Since

No need to close the beach. People just stop swimming. The lifeguards pull Jenkins from the water and work on him until the EMTs arrive. People stand in small groups at a distance and watch. Mothers hold their children, telling them not to stare. The EMTs work on Jenkins, then pack him up and drive off. The sun falls behind a cloud, the beach grows cold, and everyone decides it’s time for dinner.

Julie doesn’t speak on the ride home. I sit her at the kitchen table and serve cold chicken, potato salad, and vodka tonics. Halfway through the second vodka tonic she finally says, “My my my.”

Tom and Renée arrive around seven. Our neighborhood is one of those where people show up. I lead them into the kitchen and make more vodka tonics. Tom says, “What a day.” “Make me another,” Julie says. “You make a fine vodka tonic,” Renée says.

We sit around the table drinking until ten, and then Renée helps me put Julie to bed. We get her clothes off, but she refuses pajamas. “It’s summertime, “she says. I turn out the light and kiss her goodnight. “I said summertime,” she says.

Going downstairs Renée says to me, “I know she’s your wife and lord knows I’ve seen her plenty without clothes, but with the two of us there I have to tell you it was weird.”

“It’s been one of those days,” I say.

In the kitchen Tom mixes Kentucky Gladiators. We sit on the back deck past midnight. Looking up at the stars Tom says, “Hard to imagine a world without Jenkins.”

“I think I can do it,” I say.

“I bet you can,” Renée says.

They leave through the back gate, cutting across Tim and Wendy’s yard. I go upstairs and ask Julie where she wants me to sleep. She doesn’t answer. I stand in the dark listening to her snore. In our early years I had been the snorer, and she used to kick my feet to stop me. Now she is the snorer. I’ve never kicked anyone. Her snoring doesn’t bother me. It is a foreign language she uses to say she loves me.