resurface

2

"When it comes, the landscape listens

Shadows hold their breath;

When it goes, 't is like the distance

On the look of death."

~ Emily Dickinson

It happened at just past five on a heat-soaked afternoon in mid-May.

I was across town, my t-shirt damp, my hair sticking to my skin. It was a Thursday, and even though the weather had already turned warm and we'd had a few tourists start coming up for weekends, we were still weeks away from summer. Downtown Seaside was almost open. Shop-owners had de-boarded their windows and doors, swept away the dust and restocked for the summer, but they remained closed during the week. They knew they wouldn't have any customers (at least, not ones that could pay good money).

The only places open right now were the ones that survived the winter, the ones us locals couldn't live without: Anderson's Market and the Sheriff's Station. Luke's Place was open year round too, but it was in a different part of town.

I rode my bike down the middle of the empty boardwalk and relished the mild respite the ocean breeze offered from the heat. I was caught in the same moment that plagued me every year, a mixed feeling of dread and anticipation. It wasn't a particularly good feeling. It was like butterflies in my stomach and stress weighing on my shoulders at the same time. I was waiting for the change, but I didn't know if I wanted it to come faster or slower so I was just tensed and waiting.

It didn't matter what I wanted though, even if I had been able to make up my mind.

Seaside was waking up, and we were so close to when it would come alive that I could practically see the people swarming the beach with their umbrellas and coolers and sandbox toys. The air was slightly energized with shop owners ready to banish the quiet sleepiness of winter, inhale the sweet tang o saltwater taffy and the richness of baking fudge, and watch the crowds play volleyball as if their lives were dependent on winning. That meant spending twelve hours a day melting in a candy shop without air conditioning and feeling claustrophobic from the sea of bodies that would swallow up any free area o sand.

Within a few weeks of the summer season, every local I knew would be complaining that they were ready for everyone to go home. I was no exception.

Here it was either summer or winter, full of life or quiet as the grave. There was no in between, no moment for those of us who lived here to catch our breath, and I found myself hating and loving both seasons.

When I reached my destination, I skidded to a stop, leaned the bike against the building and went inside.

Bells jingled as the door sung shut behind me. They were sleigh bells, the kind people usually put on their doors during the Christmas season. Since we didn't really have any kind of fanfare during that time of year, Beth thought it would be funny to hang them year round. She also liked to have them up so that she could sit in Sheriff Platt's office and watch his television when he was out. The bells were supposed to let her know when someone came in.

The police station looked empty, not an uncommon sight for this time of year. The three deputy desks were neatly organized but covered with a layer of dust, and Beth's secretary desk was hidden under a pile of magazines clippings and summer opening invitations. I slipped my backpack off and dropped it on top of the mess and headed around it and down the hall to the Sheriff's office.

Beth shrieked and jumped to her feet when I opened the door. Then she promptly dissolved into giggles, falling back into the Sheriff's slouchy tan couch. Her black hair was piled into some kind of messy knot on the top of her head, a style she made look easy and sexy, and one that I hadn't figured out how to imitate.