The Global Idea of ‘The Commons’. Отсутствует

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СКАЧАТЬ the children into their swimsuits. Alicia ran to the water first, Robbie’s swimsuit had gone missing.

      Alicia came running back. “Mommy, Mommy, the water’s really warm and there’s seaweed all over the place, and it’s really icky.”

      And sure enough, there was a deluge of seaweed, that bronzy colored seaweed with many branches, called rockweed by the more science-minded islanders, the kind with blisters that children like to squeeze and pop. This struck Hedy as unusual. Large amounts seldom washed up except during Northeasters, and even then, not in quantities such as this. She gazed at it churning in the gentle waves.

      “I don’t want to go in, Mommy,” Alicia said.

      “Oh, silly, it’s not that bad. Come on, give me your hand. We’ll pretend we’re going to some magical kingdom where the mermaids live.”

      And that was the other thing. The moment Hedy stepped into the water she realized the temperature was wrong. All the previous week, it had been brisk, almost uncomfortable, and now? It felt like bath water.

      “Come on Alicia, let’s sit down and let the waves wash over us. Isn’t it nice and warm?”

      “I don’t like it. It’s icky!”

      “Oh, don’t be such an old spoilsport, Pumpkin.”

      Alicia sat down gingerly. Hedy felt like they were sitting in a large pot of vegetable soup, but of course, she didn’t say that to her agitated little daughter.

      Robbie came running down the beach in a pair of cotton underpants, his bathing suit apparently more elusive than imagined. He looked around surprised, and then delighted. He fell to his knees and pulled the seaweed to him, throwing it in the air, and laughing as it landed on his head. Alicia, turning around to watch him, cried, “Oh ick!”

      “Where’s Daddy?” Hedy asked.

      “He’s with his laptop,” Robbie said, and repeated his joyous exercise again.

      Robert eventually came down to the beach, put up an umbrella and opened two sand chairs. The children played at the water’s edge with their pails and shovels, in an area their mother had cleared of seaweed.

      Hedy sat down next to Robert. “I thought you promised not to do any work while we were here this time,” she scolded.

      “I was just going over a couple of briefs, loose ends so to speak. You don’t realize how hard it is to pick up again if you completely neglect it.”

      “That’s what your juniors are for, isn’t it? Maybe you’ve got to learn to delegate more.”

      “Yeah, yeah, yackety-yack.”

      Hedy sighed.

      Robert opened a Sam Larsen paperback that pricked at her literary sensibilities no end, but she knew before they were married, that he was more a legal than a literary animal.

      She allowed ten minutes to evaporate. “Robert, you don’t notice anything different, do you?”

      “Different? Oh yeah, there’s some seaweed on the beach. And I’ve got to admit it’s unusually hot.”

      “Look up and down the beach. It’s ankle deep with seaweed, right up to the high tide line. The water’s abnormally warm. I think something’s wrong.”

      “Oh please, Hedy, let me read, okay? This is supposed to be a vacation. Let’s not manufacture problems.”

      The rest of the day went smoothly. Their beach-side dinners were long drawn-out affairs, then the bike ride to get ice cream. It always surprised them how long the evening hours were without television, and even the children grew tired of so much sandy solitude. It was already well past eight when Hedy told Robert to go ahead and take his walk. It was her turn to bathe the kids and get them into bed. When he returned she’d start out for her walk.

      Hedy had walked about a quarter of a mile, when she met several fellow cottage owners eager to comment on the seaweed. None of them seemed in the least concerned, but fretful perhaps, that the beach was such a mess on their allotted time. Hedy walked on for another half mile or so, before she turned around. It was almost dark now and she could see the blinking of the lighthouse in the distance. Up ahead a group of walkers were blocking her way, staring out at the horizon. A familiar dog jumped up against her in greeting, and then she saw Jean Marsden.

      “What’s up?”

      “Oh hi, Hedy. Look. Sparks shooting up in spots all along the horizon. Is that crazy or what?

      Hedy focused, and sure enough, waves of sparks were shooting up like fireworks in places. “My God,” she said, “what could it be?”

      Jean’s husband, an unflappable fellow, smiled. “It’s probably just an oil spill on fire.”

      “Oh,” another woman said, “I sure pray to God the oil doesn’t drift this way.”

      Jean’s husband was reassuring. “I wouldn’t worry. It’s way far out there. Distances such as these are always deceptive.”

      “It sure is pretty though, isn’t it?” A woman in a purple caftan said, adjusting her glasses, and picking up her restive Yorkie. “What’s wrong with you tonight, Bitsy?”

      The Marsden dog was running around in circles, whining.

      When Hedy got back to the cottage, Robert was engrossed in his laptop. She decided it was better not to call attention to the puzzling display.

      A few mornings later, the sky had a funny cast to it: a kind of bronzy green, but very bright. Hedy stepped out to the terrace and the seaweed was still there, but it appeared that the tide had gone out, and had not come in again. The heat was truly oppressive, and she realized it was dead quiet. No sea gulls circling and laughing. No quavering notes of the redwings emanating from the bayberry bushes.

      Her eyes focused on some objects scattered over the sandbar. A funny feeling clutched her stomach. She slipped into her flip-flops and began to walk. At the high-water mark the seaweed had dried out, and she became aware of a great buzzing: swarms of green-headed marsh flies. She waved them away, and started out over the sand bar. When she got far enough out to see, what she found filled her with horror. The objects were birds. Shore birds of all kinds lying there limply, tangled in seaweed. Some dying, some dead. Expiring clams everywhere, shriveling in their gaping shells, and flies hovered greedily above them. A fetid smell of death, almost visible, hung over the sandbar.

      Suddenly she was aware of a fiery itch, and remembered too late: marsh flies were the Draculas of the fly world.

      Back at the cottage the rest of the family was up, and Robert was dropping Pop Tarts into the toaster. “I see you’ve already been out. How’s the weather?”

      “Not good. Robert, listen to me. There’s an army of marsh flies out there on the drying seaweed. The kids will have to stay on the porch.”

      “Another calamity? Dear, dear.” He turned aside to pour himself a cup of coffee.

      “Believe me. It’s not going to be a beach day. Look at me, Robert. I’m covered with welts. You know how awful their bites are.”

      Robert СКАЧАТЬ