“Nothing. That was it. She took the foil out of the oven, put it on the coffee table, and we pulled it off with our fingers and ate it while we watched TV.”
I laughed. “What did you call it?”
“She called it ‘melted cheese.’”
“How did you ever get so creative and smart?” Sheba recrossed her legs, left over right now. “Your mother was of no help to you.”
“At least she was there. Unlike my dad, who was with the macramé lady who lived down the road.”
“We did macramé at camp!” Izzy cried.
“Who was the macramé lady?” I asked.
“She sold macramé plant holders outside the supermarket. She had big eyes and big tits. That and the macramé did my dad in. He followed her home one day and that was that.”
“Tits,” Izzy whispered. I hoped she wouldn’t ask what it meant.
Mrs. Cone walked in wearing a breezy yellow sundress and leather sandals. She paused, looked at Sheba, and then slipped off the dress, revealing another microkini. Then she sat at the table.
“Izzy and I made oatmeal,” I offered.
“Lovely!” Mrs. Cone clapped.
I went to the stove and ladled out a big bowl for her. “Do you mind pot roast for dinner?”
“What does everyone else think?”
“I think it’s too wintry.” Sheba recrossed her legs again. Each time she moved them, it was like a flash of lightning that everyone but Izzy turned toward.
“I want it,” Jimmy said. “It’s better than melted cheese on tinfoil.”
“Jimmy’s dad loves the macramé lady with big eyes,” Izzy said.
“Baby,” Sheba said, to Jimmy, “you’re right. This time is about you. Pot roast it is.”
“Hurrah!” Izzy shouted.
At two p.m., Izzy and I stuck the roast in the oven. It had to cook for four hours. Back on the beach, we decided we’d collect shells to decorate the dining room table.
“Hat.” I plopped a purple hat on Izzy’s head. Her face and shoulders had been burning and peeling all week long and I wanted to stop the cycle. Everyone but Dr. Cone and Izzy had been slathering on Bain de Soleil tanning oil all week, trying to heighten the sun’s effects. Sheba was the darkest, with Jimmy coming in second. Mrs. Cone only crisped and then molted, so she had to start all over again every second day. Dr. Cone was uninterested in tanning, but had been turning brown nonetheless. I looked as brown as a nut and my hair had gone blonder.
“Bucket,” Izzy said, and she gripped the handle of her bucket and started marching down the beach.
“We’ll be back in a bit,” I said, but Dr. Cone—the only one on the beach with us—wasn’t listening.
I hurried after Izzy. I hadn’t put on my shorts or shirt and felt like there was too much air on my skin as we walked along. Each time I bent over to pick up a shell, I pulled my bottoms out of my crack and checked the triangles of the top even though no one was around to see me.
Izzy started singing a Jimmy song from our favorite Running Water album. Soon, I was singing with her and forgot about my near-nakedness. After each song ended, Izzy paused for what seemed like the same number of seconds as the silence between songs on the album before starting in on the next one in order.
“Look!” Izzy stopped mid-song and pointed at a horseshoe crab shell as big as a serving platter. It was in perfect condition; a mottled, brownish-red, the color of Mrs. Cone’s skin just before she peeled.
“Cool!” We’d found half shells, three-quarter shells, and shell shards earlier in the week. But this was our first encounter with an unbroken, completely formed shell.
“Where’s the crab?”
“Probably eaten by seagulls.” I flipped it around so we could study the underside. “Look at how big this is! Horseshoe crabs are older than dinosaurs.”
“Can we keep it?” Izzy lifted the giant shell and tried to put it in the bucket. It was far too big.
“Yes. But let’s pick it up again on our way back.”
“What if someone else takes it?” Izzy pressed the horseshoe crab shell against her chest. It covered past her protruding belly.
“We can hide it in the dunes and get it on the way back.”
“Yes!” Izzy held the shell high above her head like a boxer with his trophy, and ran toward the dunes. I jogged a couple of paces behind. She climbed to the top of a dune and stopped as if she’d bumped into an invisible wall. When I caught up to her, my body did the same halting bump.