Catherine
On the third Tuesday in August, McKee’s dog, Myrtle, wakes her at one minute past six, which, knows, is
precisely the time of that day’s sunrise. (She checked yesterday.) Myrtle’s sense for this is uncanny, her method of waking
always the same. She puts her two front paws on the bed and presses her wet black nose into the side of ’s
neck.
There are worse ways to be awoken, supposes, but why must Myrtle come always to her side, never to Amber’s? She
slides out of bed, grabs her phone from her nightstand, and makes her way downstairs, careful not to wake the couple’s two
daughters (Sophie and Charlotte, eight and ten), fast asleep in their bunk beds.
“Coffee first, then walk,” tells Myrtle. “Also, Advil.” The night before, the girls’ favorite babysitter, Maggie
Sousa, came, and Amber and enjoyed a much-needed night out on the town. They’ve been so busy this summer—Amber manages
the front of house at Spring House and works at Island Bound Bookstore—and usually on such opposite schedules that
they’ve been like ships in the night.
They started with cocktails at The Oar, then moved on to a sumptuous dinner at Eli’s. Amber’s friend Kip bartends at Eli’s and he made their second round extra strong. They split a bottle of Chateau de Sancerre, so crisp and refreshing it practically drank itself. They had dessert too—both the baklava and the Black Forest mousse cake. Then, as if all of that weren’t enough (it was, in retrospect, enough!), they’d made their way to the outdoor bar at Spring House for nightcaps. Baileys over ice for , and a bourbon (Jefferson’s, neat) for Amber. It was when Amber ordered the bourbon that realized neither of them would be driving home, so they left the car at Spring House and begged a ride home with Back of the House Bobby. No biggie, they’d said at the time; one of them could bike back for the car in the morning.
But currently the abandoned car presents a problem, realizes. She’d planned on driving Myrtle to Mohegan Bluffs,
where they could walk down the steps (good exercise for Myrtle) and clamber among the rocks. Now they must stay closer to
home. She could take her to Mansion or Scotch, but those are likely to be more crowded, and her head is pounding so zealously
that she doesn’t feel like making idle conversation should she run into anyone she knows.
“Dinghy Beach it is,” she says. Myrtle regards with her dark, dark eyes, so dark sometimes they don’t show up against
the black of her coat, and lets out a soft belch. “Excuse you,” says , and Myrtle looks at her beseechingly. She
tries not to look too closely at Myrtle’s graying muzzle, because it makes her sad. The thought of Myrtle ever—well, no. She
can’t think about it.
Making it out the door is no problem, it turns out. Neither is making it down the path that leads to the beach; they are the
only two creatures there, and the fresh morning air begins to revive . Ah. Inhale, exhale.
What is a problem is what happens after leans down and unhooks Myrtle’s leash and lets her run along the crescent of sand.
Myrtle runs at a very un-Myrtle-like pace to the water. You might, if you were being generous, call it a sprint.
Myrtle won’t stop barking and backing away; the relentless noise is hurting ’s already aching head.
thinks what Myrtle is barking at is eelgrass, at first, and she wonders why Myrtle is making such a fuss about it. This dog has seen eelgrass before! Then she gets closer, and closer, and she sees that it’s not eelgrass at all.
It’s hair.
Last night’s halibut turns over and over in her stomach, and she retches in the sand. As she’s fumbling for the phone in her
pocket, screams and she screams and she screams.