“Hi,” she said.
“Hi. Where’s David?”
“Down with the band. He’s making a request.”
“What’s he requesting? ‘Far Far Away’?”
“Yok yok,” Sandy said.
The amplifiers exploded into sound again with “Chelsea Bird,” a hit expertly recorded by an English group and excruciatingly imitated now by Deuce and The Dynamiters. “Chelsea Bird, so cool, so nice, so cool like ice, so nice, so nice...”
“... because in this day and age, there are only hypocrites and Puritans and nothing in between. I ask you, does...”
“... Johnson really know what the fuck he’s doing...”
“All the world dig her, all the world love her, Bristol, Taunton, Leeds, and London!”
“... or is he only concerned about his precious image?”
“Blackburn, Bangor...”
“... into a drugstore and says he wants to buy a deodorant, and the clerk says, ‘Yes, sir, did you wish the roll-on ball type?’...”
“Die Kinder...”
“... all the world dig her, all the world love her, Bangor, Blackburn, Leeds, and London!”
“... ‘No, thank you, just the regular underarm kind...’”
“... of fools do they take the American public for?”
“Chelsea bird, so cool, so nice, so cool like ice, so nice, so nice...”
“... I love them both, they’re my precious sweethearts, these two darling boys.”
“All the world dig her, all the world dig her, all the world dig her, mmm.”
The voice suddenly cut through the cooperative din of the Dynamiters and the party guests, amplified and blaring from the group’s expensive loudspeaker setup, overwhelming all other noise by sheer volume and ineptitude. Sandy and I both turned to look over the deck at the same moment, trying to pinpoint this new source of sound, this intrusive and cacophanous groan from below. An amber rectangle cast from the living-room window above illuminated three quarters of The Dynamiters plus a short, chunky, dark-haired girl who had commandeered Deuce’s microphone and was holding it just below the head, as though producing, by her strangling grip on its neck, the horrible sound that permeated the night. We might not have recognized the girl as our friend from the beach had she not smiled in that moment, revealing her beautiful metal bands in what was doubtless intended to be a sexy grin accompanying the “Portsmouth, Dartmouth, Falmouth” line of the song. She continued slaughtering the lyrics as Deuce winced behind her, his head going deeper into his shoulders with each offkey bleat. Behind him, Phil’s fear of acne exposure fled before an overwhelming curiosity as he lifted his face to see who was being sick on the lawn. David came rushing up the steps to the deck, laughing helplessly, running over to where Sandy and I stood with our mouths open, listening. The dark-haired girl would not relent. The lyrics resisted her, the amplifier feedback squeaked, the drummer tried to drown her out by playing even louder (a feat I would have thought impossible), and Deuce and the embarrassed Phil tried to recover their cool by singing stronger than she, but only succeeded in sounding out of tune against her flat and penetrating whine, “All the world dig her, all the world love her, Chelsea bird, mmm, Chelsea bird, mmm, Chelsea bird, mmm, dig her, dig,” and the song ended.
The guests stood in drunken stupor and neurasthenic shock on the silent deck.
“Thank you very much,” the dark-haired girl said into the microphone. “My name is Rhoda.”
We took a walk along the beach after the party broke up.
There were a lot of parties on Greensward that night, and snatches of music drifted over the dunes, overlapping, and then getting lost in the steady murmur of the ocean. The moon had risen high and silvery over the water, dripping molten filigree from horizon to shore, illuminating the beach with a flat white light. The evening was soft, the distant stars blinked against a deep black void. We walked barefoot on the cold wet sand. We had already laughed ourselves silly over Rhoda and The Dynamiters, and now we were curiously silent, ambling up the beach without any clear destination in mind, stopping once to watch an airliner blink its red and green wing lights as it soared overhead, stopping again to listen to the clanging of a buoy far out on the water, and then picking up our steady gait again, the ocean on our left, the dunes dark with beach grass that rattled and whispered with each gentle gust of wind that came in off the water.
And then we sat on the edge of the shore; Sandy with her knees folded against her breasts, arms wrapped around them, skirts tucked in; David and I leaned back on locked elbows, legs stretched to where the water just touched our toes.
The night was so still.
The party sounds dissipated and then vanished completely, save for an occasional distant voice raised in farewell. There was a lingering sadness on the air, the knowledge that August was almost here, summer would soon be over. And then, as though giving voice to the permeating sense of grief, there was a sobbing sound behind us. Startled, we turned to look toward the dune, and saw nothing but the tall beach grass shifting in the ocean wind, illuminated by the brilliant moon. Puzzled, we looked at each other, and then Sandy got to her feet and walked swiftly to the dune. Climbing it, she signaled to us.
Rhoda was sitting with her face buried in her hands, sobbing bitterly.
“Who is it?” David said.
“It’s Rhoda,” I said.
“Go away,” Rhoda said. She would not take her hands from her face. Her shoulders were heaving. She had stopped sobbing only long enough to utter her command and take in a fresh gulp of air.
“Come on, leave her alone,” David said.
“No, wait a minute,” Sandy said.
“Go away,” Rhoda said again.
“She doesn’t want us here, for Christ’s sake, let’s...”
“Can’t you see she’s crying?” Sandy said.
“Well, what’s that got to do with anything?”
“He’s right,” I said. “Come on, Sandy.”
“No,” Sandy said.
“I can’t stand crybabies,” David said.
“Neither can I.”
“Well then, go,” Sandy said. “If you want to go, go.” She sat beside Rhoda in the sand and put her arm around her. “What’s the matter?” she said.
“Go away.”
Rhoda was gasping for breath now, still sobbing and trembling. She turned away from Sandy and flung herself full length onto the sand, her face hidden in the crook of her elbow. Sandy touched her hair and said, “Rhoda?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Come on, the hell with her,” David said.
“Oh, shut up,” Sandy said. “Can’t you see she needs help?”
“I don’t need help,” Rhoda said, gasping.
“Now you just stop that crying,” Sandy said. “Do you want to choke to death?”
“Nobody ever choked from crying,” I said.
“If she wants to cry, let her cry,” David said. “It’s better than her singing, anyway,” and Rhoda burst into fresh tears.