BUNGALOW

The Summer began, as these things do, innocently enough. And ended, as these things often do, unexpectedly.




Before college graduation, I was approached by a former dorm mate who had seen an ad on an index card pinned to the Career Office corkboard — remember, this was before the Internet or job websites — and had called down to Manhattan to learn more.

The Family needed two nannies with perfect English, flawless academic pedigrees, and a rigorous appetite for hard work caring for four lively brothers under the age of ten. While I was a creature of carrel desks and a bland sheltered existence, The Roomie was the kind of girl who had never spent an evening in a library. She specialized in keg stands, vodka ice luges, and her family’s annual Head of the Charles party. With a loud voice, coarse as gravel, and an appetite for constant activity, she was actually perfectly suited to shepherd and entertain a gaggle of wrestling, wriggling, rowdy elementary school boys. She forecast that my boring and unabating responsible behavior and serious expression would secure us the job.

Felix to her Oscar, we landed the gig and were offered bags of money to drive out to Long Island before Memorial Day weekend. We made our way past twenty foot hedges to Drew Lane, arriving at a house first built by the Fords, or du Ponts, or Vanderbilts. The expanse of oceanfront lawn was the only thing more beautiful than the sound of the crushed oyster shell driveway. The Roomie surveyed The Property and broke the spell with her signature wolf whistle.

We parked my boxy Volvo and were met promptly by our employer. The Mrs. was the very definition of tasteful snobbery, but I secretly and immediately worshipped her. Years of ballet and $400 hair appointments gave her…presence. I admired everything about her, the way young women do. Hers was a life of very proper grandparents, tack rooms, and restraint in all things.

I especially adored her for The Cottage: a white-on-white-on-white bungalow apart from The Main House where we would reside. At the time, I had never lived outside of my parents’ home (unpainted brick) or university housing (painted cinderblock). The Cottage was a compendium of leaded glass, marble, phalaenopsis and every creature comfort available to twenty two year olds.

The Mrs. stocked The Cottage with an entire wardrobe of white summer clothes for us so that we might stay in step with the dress requirements of The Club. She also outfitted us with pagers — remember, this was before cell phones — so that she could reach us separately or together, as The Lads would be busy participating in archery, tennis, golf and sailing. The Roomie called it the “Lockjaw Olympics.”

We actually adored The Lads. They savored every book I read aloud and played board game after board game with me — remember, this was before PlayStations and Xboxes. The Roomie would challenge them to underwater breath holding competitions and secret burping contests. We played t-ball with them after dinner every night, games that drew more and more friends and visitors each week during The Summer.

It was mid-June when we finally got up the nerve to go out at night after putting The Lads to bed. The Roomie had heard from the staff at The Club about a celebrated establishment in Bridgehampton that served cheap beer and strong Dark and Stormies to the townies, the sporting rich, and we, the young.

It was there in Bridgehampton that the preposterous happened. A boy, lanky and long-lashed, a local, said hello to me on the bar patio of The Saloon. He was one of The Lads’ swim lesson coaches, a creature too beautiful for a girl who never gone to prom to behold.

Looking back, of course, the slow motion fall into first love was like straight epinephrine to my weightless frame. It began with notes left on each other’s cars. Funny Talking Heads lyrics. Monty Python jokes. T.S. Elliot quotes. Sam Cooke songs, neatly handwritten on notebook paper — remember, this was a time before texting — tucked under windshield wipers.

We stole glances across the pool deck and eventually snuck hurried kisses behind corners, laughing. I bounded out of bed every morning for the first time in my life, eager for the rush of The Boy. It wasn’t long before he began sleeping over at The Cottage. Needless to say, The Virginity did not stand a chance.

We were coltish legs tangled in bungalow linen. We talked for hours and hours at a time, on the jetty, under the stars, in bed. We bumbled around the village and drank sweet tea — remember, this was before Starbucks — and ate Barefoot Contessa scones. We finished crossword puzzles and swapped books — remember, this was before couples stared at smart phones — all season long. We lived in swimsuits. It was enough to lie still and just listen to the sea. I could barely take my eyes off of him. I could not get enough of The Boy.

In the purpose and exhilaration of The Summer, I was unweighted by it all. The reward circuit of my brain was so flooded, I hated to sleep. There were notes to write and 80’s songs to sing and philosophical debates at Two Mile Hollow Beach — remember, this was before cat videos and BuzzFeed quizzes — and so much euphoria, I could not be made to feel tired.

It was playful and cerebral, simple and intoxicating. A bookish girl dressed in white in a bungalow by the sea. A girl in lust with a gentle boy she loved. A dear boy who loved her devoutly in return.

Meanwhile, The Roomie kept The Cottage entertaining with a steady stream of male visitors and cold six packs. She had canoodled her way across most of Suffolk County — remember, this was before dating apps — and had slept with nearly every straight guy with a good sense of humor in eastern Long Island. There were so many funny, average looking guys who were grateful beyond words to The Roomie. Many pints were raised in her honor. By season’s end, she could not buy her own drink at The Saloon if she tried.

August kept slipping away from us, but The Boy and I made plans to call weekly — remember, this was before Skype or free long distance — and to take Amtrak trips to see each other. Everything was still possible then.

It was Labor Day weekend when my pager buzzed the final time. The Roomie stayed with The Lads at the water’s edge, and I trotted up from the beach, my legs strong from teaching The Lads to jump double dutch — remember, this was before iPads — making my way across the bright green lawn to meet The Mrs.

Two large trucks sat in the ivory driveway, while tradesmen unpacked tools, entered and exited The Main House, and gathered between the hedge and The Cottage. The Mrs.’s posture immediately gave her away. She was furious in an Episcopalian sort of way.

Before I caught her eye, I stepped forward to see what the guys were repairing. A broken sprinkler maybe?

Then it hit me. The smell was awful. The lawn was a mess and new sod would need to be ordered. One step closer and then I saw the sludge. I could not understand what I was seeing exactly.

The Mrs. shot me a look and then quietly spat the only terse words I ever heard her say,

“The Property is not connected to city sewer. THIS is a septic tank in failure.”

Then I saw the unthinkable in the muck. And then I began to register my embarrassment. In an instant I was suddenly aware of my place. My age. My social class. My ethnicity. My knowledge of how things worked.

Her voice low, her tone disapproving, she continued. “We’ll be going back into The City this afternoon. Please plan on departing then as well. We’ll send your last check.” She delivered a deliberate brutal pause before continuing.

“And please refrain from flushing any more condoms down the toilet before you leave.”

As The Mrs. left, the worker in waders closest to me — oh thank God this was before YouTube — snickered silently and threw me a mortifying glance. Under his breath, he shook his head and said the words. ”Slut. Stupid slut.”

And there it was.

I retreated toward The Cottage to quickly grab our things and pack the Volvo. When The Roomie and The Lads headed up from the beach for lunch, The Mrs. explained that a few of the toilets had a bit of the wobbles. Some seagrass rugs would need replacing, but all was fine. Wouldn’t The Lads love to go have lunch at The Club before returning to The City?

While The Roomie ate with The Lads (and used the operational washrooms there on Maidstone Lane), I found The Boy’s car and wrote him a note. I don’t know why I could not face him, and I do not know why I wrote the words I tucked under his windshield wiper that final time.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness.
—Charles Dickens

I cried every kind of tear while driving away from Drew Lane, which was at least partially attributed to our difficult goodbyes with The Lads. The Roomie remained uncharacteristically quiet about The Boy the entire ride home. Despite her numerous romantic connections around eastern Long Island, she still doesn’t know what we did to the septic system of The Property over the course of that season. Which is a bit of a bummer. Her potty-mouthed version of the not-funny-when-it-happened story (featuring a PSA about proper trash disposal and the importance of safe sex) would likely make even ME laugh.

I don’t know if the septic failure story, passed local-to-local, ever reached The Boy. The letters he wrote never mentioned it. He tried to call me of course. I could not respond, as every kind of shame got in the way.

In recounting the lost story of the youth and adulthood in that season of lightness and dark, time has allowed the best parts to remain. In letting go of the foolishness and no longer wrestling with the regret, a girl — golden, unweighted, and coming-of-age — remains. Like the particular sound of ocean waves at night through open bungalow windows, the sea — never the same, tirelessly constant — always speaks. It is we who step away from the sea. In this way, we are all The Girl.