Sandcastles

The Galveston, Texas, sandcastle competition has been a popular island event since the late 1980s. The American Institute of Architects (AIA) Houston chapter started the competition to raise funds for its educational programs. Due to a lack of funds, this contest has been an on-and-off affair, being canceled and restarted several times.

Terrence and his wife Audrey have visited Galveston four times over the last ten years. However, they have never witnessed this event due to its occurrence in September and their regular stay from February through March. During those four visits, they stayed in four different Airbnbs in four different parts of Galveston Island, from Sea Isle in the far west to a small single-family residence just off the seawall and close to the island's east end.

This story takes place during the most recent of those four visits. That year, they stayed in a beachside Airbnb on Bermuda Beach, at the west end of Galveston proper. The Sandcastle contest was on for that year and would take place in September at its usual location on the island's east end. But Terrence and Audrey will again miss it. They will, however, be involved with one of the entries.

Terrence and Audrey are an odd couple by appearance. She is diminutive, 5’ 2”, best described as tiny, and he is tall, 6‘ 2”, best described as a block. Fortune smiled on them when remote work came into vogue. They both held positions, making them prime candidates to work from wherever an internet connection was available, hence their ability to spend months at locations of their choice. If tiny characterized Audrey’s stature, decisive, stiff, precise, and direct described her persona. Terrence, indeed, was brick-shaped but far from firm as one. A brick is between five and seven on the Mohs hardness scale. Terrence is more like Talc, which is one on the same scale. He was beset from birth by the unknown. As a baby, he was far from sure if that first step was a wise choice; hence, he was almost three before he took it. Throughout school, he never raised his hand; he was frequently sure he knew the answers, but what if he wasn’t right? If the unknown was his millstone, slowing him down and holding him back, it also spurred his imagination as to what exactly was behind that black curtain of the uncertain.

Although they worked from wherever they called home, their schedules did not match. Audrey worked for a company headquartered on the East Coast, and Terrence for a company located on the West Coast. Audrey began work at 7:00 AM, and Terrence at 9:00 AM. This later start gave Terrence a daily opportunity for solitary, peaceful early morning walks on the beach.

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Unbeknownst to Audrey and Terrence, Bermuda Beach had been unofficially designated as a practice field for the sand sculpture contest. The unofficial designation sprouted when Howard Kirk, a long-time seasonal resident of Bermuda Beach, began creating unusual sand sculptures on the beach. Howard, a man in his early 50s with short-cropped dark hair, was slightly built and had a happy demeanor.

Terrence met Howard during the first week of February. As he was walking towards the end of his short, grass-covered drive to begin his first morning beach walk, he noticed a wiry, bespectacled man carrying a plastic Home Depot pail with a few implements in it and whistling the tune from the Andy Griffith Show, which was headed his way from two houses down the asphalted road. Waiting to greet his neighbor, Terrence smiled as he recognized the tune he had heard weekly for years. Having introduced themselves, they continued walking side by side until Terrence turned toward the much shorter and slower man and, with a grin, said, “Gotta get those steps in, see you later,” and off he strode.

Although Terrence didn’t know it, Howard had followed the same path eastward up the beach, stopping a quarter of a mile in that direction. Terrence was a shell seeker and stayed close to the water line in his daily walks. An area of the beach where sea birds swerved and swooped overhead, landing in groups and chattering warnings to each other as intruders approached. He was amazed at the elegance of the gulls both in flight and as they glided in for picture-perfect, graceful landings. Turning around at the two-mile point, Terrence began the return leg of the daily walk and, as he did so, began a rumination that would last until he arrived back at the Airbnb. His eyes no longer focused on the tide-packed sand, and the hoped for a one-of-a-kind shell, such as a Junonia or Scotch Bonnet. His Gaze was trapped in the froth-crested waves attacking the beach one after another.

What is it about that guy, Howard? Something was off about him. Scrawny little dude. Who whistles “the fishin’ hole,” carrying an orange Home Depot bucket filled with little spades and such?

Those few thoughts were playing on a loop as Terrence unknowingly passed by Howard, kneeling on the beach at the front edge of the backshore. He returned home just in time to power up his PC and three monitors and go to work.

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          That evening, during dinner, Terrence mentioned to Audrey that he had met a strange little man that morning and that he was their neighbor two houses down.

“He was carrying one of those orange Home Depot buckets’ like we have and whistling the fishin’ hole.”

“So that’s the tune's name; it’s from Andy Griffith, isn’t it? I saw him this noon; I was sitting on the front deck at lunch when he walked by.” One thing the couple did share was a tendency to make snap judgments. This instance was no different, as both commented that Howard reminded them of someone and laughed when they each said, "Probably a serial killer."

It was a whole week before Terrence and Howard would meet again. And as last time, it was due to the morning walk. Terrence was about a quarter of a mile down the beach when he was distracted from his focus on the sand and its possible treasures when the flight of a seagull caught his attention. Following the Lesser Black-backed gull as it swerved to his left, Terrence noticed a flash of orange as the gull flew over the backshore before circling around and back over the water. Thinking it might be Howard's orange pail, he decided to check it out on his return leg.

On the way back, Terrence saw the bucket and Howard with it, who was putting the finishing touches on what could only be called a sarcophagus, the front side of which was carved with the name DAPHNE. Howard explained that this sand sculpture was just a practice and test for the much larger one he would enter in a contest scheduled for September. The plan was to leave it on the beach to see how it would withstand the prevailing winds and rain. As Terrence left Howard, embellishing his work, he heard that now-familiar tune, cozily mixing in with the effervescence of waves cascading onto the hard-packed sand. But now that light and cheerful sound had taken on a plaintive quality all of its own.

That evening at home, Howard removed a scrapbook from the hall closet, the contents of which could accurately be titled his Book of Pain and Happiness. Whenever he created a new sculpture, he added a page complete with photographs, detailed drawings, and methods used in construction. That same evening, two doors up the street, Terrence approached Audry with his recounting of his encounter with their neighbor and explained his concern.

“What if a body is inside that sarcophagus?”

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Giggling, Audry said, “Terrence, no one would hide a body in a sand castle that would sooner than later be demolished by weather or kids.”

“You thought he might be a serial killer.”

“Seriously, Terrence?”

“All right, it was too small for a body.”

With a devious smile, Audrey replied, “Unless it was a child.”

 Terrence lay aside a snoring Audry, sleepless not because of the snuffing sounds beside him; he was used to that. Restless at the statement “unless it was a child, " it was a flashing yellow light tapping on his forehead in a synchronized tactile form.

Howard did not have any trouble sleeping; he never did after he had finalized a sculpture design. The well-being that always came over him at completion was a state of relaxation where no sense of touch, smell, sight, sound, or taste existed. He had honored his act and celebrated Daphne. The following morning, Howard was awakened by a phone call, an anomaly for a loner whose phone seldom rang. The call was from a neighbor of his mother, who had been taken to the hospital early that morning after falling on her way to the bathroom and breaking her hip.

Alarmed, Howard quickly dressed and hurriedly left for the long drive to Ada, Oklahoma. He was concerned not only because of the broken hip and impending surgery but also with his familiarity with hospitals; he was worried about the dangers one might pose for his 80-year-old mother, his only living relative. Glancing in his rearview mirror just as he passed Terrence’s house, Howard saw his neighbor coming out for his daily walk. Slamming on his brakes, he backed up and asked Terrence to keep an eye on his house while he was away.

Two days later, Terrence was returning from what Audrey called his walkabout. Having fought an increasingly stubborn, irritating wind, he noticed that Howard's side door appeared to be open. He was expectant when he passed his house and climbed the steps leading to the side door of the stilt-built home. The door was, as he thought, partially open. As he stood there in a moment of hesitation, a gust of wind struck his back, causing him to lose his balance and open the door wider. The moments earlier, uncertainty promptly disappeared, and he entered the house at the sand room, where two pairs of surf shoes were neatly lined up against the wall. In addition to the shoes, he saw the

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 familiar orange bucket with assorted tools.  A rationale to resist continuing further did not even attempt to penetrate the hydroxyapatite crystals of Terrence’s cranial bones. The house was neat and clean, sparse in adornments. No “life is a Beach” signs, no ocean prints, no shell necklaces, or clear glass containers filled with the same. The living area featured a large TV and two matching, comfortable-looking swivel easy chairs, with a large scrapbook on an end table between the chairs. Moving down a short hallway, Terrence came to a small bedroom on his left, which had a full bath, and then, on the right, a larger one, also with a full bath. The room on the left looked pristine, as if it had never been used. The larger bedroom looked as if someone had left in a hurry, which Howard had.

 After completing his self-guided home tour, Terrence was on his way back through the living area when the large scrapbook caught his attention again. If you had been watching from above, you would not have noticed the slight hesitation in his change of course as he came and sat in the chair beside the end table on which a tan, leather-covered album sat.  Each page of the scrapbook contained a photo of a completed sandcastle. No word explained where, when, or by whom the sandcastle was constructed. However, each design, be it a mausoleum, a castle, or a mansion, contained one piece of information: a person's name. Sitting there in another man's house, looking through a personal scrapbook, Terrence experienced a sourness in his stomach, much akin to the precursor stage of vomiting. Replacing the scrapbook on the table, he arose to leave but quickly sat back down and opened the scrapbook, recording the name on each sandcastle he left Howard's house, making sure the door was locked.

That evening at dinner, Audrey noticed an unusual zoned-out state in her husband and wasn’t about to let him reside there a moment longer when she said.

“Okay, what did you do?”

And it all came out, including the following names inscribed on the base of each sand creation. Irene, Florence, Shelby, Monroe, Victor, Franklin, and Eugene.

“What if those are the names of little kids buried in the sand underneath each sandcastle?”

“Terrence, you know Howard will be away for a while. Tomorrow morning, on your little walkabout, dig up the sarcophagus. Now get up and do the dishes.”

With eager anticipation of discovery, he set out the following morning. From the Airbnb, he had no small garden spade or hand rake to dig into the sarcophagus, so he brought a couple of wooden kitchen cooking utensils and a kitchen fork to excavate. Arriving at the sand art, he was pleased to see it was in perfect condition, not disturbed by nature or man.

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As he began to chip away at the sand, the same sourness in his insides that he had experienced in Howard's house returned. Having removed the entirety of the stylized human figure, he was left with the rectangular base, which measured five feet by six feet and was twelve inches deep. The alkalinity of his action, excavating the human figure, had reduced the sourness, but the expectation had only risen with the removal of each clump of sand. With a heart-pounding frenzy, he tore at the compacted base until he reached the hardened surface on which the base had sat.

With the decompression created by a task completed, Terrence nonchalantly used his flattened palms to brush aside the loose sand on that hardened substrate. With a sigh, he gathered his meager tools in his left hand, and as he did so, a flash of pink caught by the cones in his eyes’ retina brought him to a halt.

It was thirty-two inches in length, hard plastic, and female.

As soon as he returned home, he showed Audrey the doll.

“We should call the police, said Terrence.”

“And do what? Tell them we found a plastic doll on the beach?”

Audrey's job involved researching grants for municipalities; she knew how to locate relevant information.

“Terrence, let me see if I can find out anything. We don’t have much to go on, but I’ll try.”

Knowing Howard's address, a quick search of property records listed Kirk as his last name. It was also easy to find a list of sandcastle contests that Howard had participated in at various beach towns in the United States. A search for Howard's occupation was fruitless. Howard was found on Google as a winner of several sandcastle contests, but no further information was listed, and no Wikipedia page was found.

“I am afraid I can’t find anything that indicates Howard to be a baby killer.”

“But something is wrong, people; just don’t go burying plastic baby dolls underneath sarcophagus sand art for no reason,” replied Terrence.

“I am sorry, I tried.“ Terrence was unwilling to let go of this unknown and finally asked Audrey if she had searched for commonality amongst the names on Howard's sculptures. “No, I haven’t.” “Will you do it now?”

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She found that according to AI, the only thing those names had in common was that they were all monikers for hurricanes. Terrence still wanted to go to the Police, but with a little effort, Audrey convinced the depleted Terrence of the folly of doing so.

Two days later, Howard returned. Terrence saw Howard on the beach three days later, rebuilding the sand sarcophagus. Walking over to the familiar spot, Terrence said, "I noticed the old one was gone. What do you think happened?”

“Tanya told me.”

A suddenly queasy Terrence said, “Whose Tanya?”

Howard was always startled when a man the size of Terrence was aquiver; it didn’t seem natural. If Terrence had been a short, thin person with ill-defined musculature, as he was, he could understand it. That said, Howard had to admit, he enjoyed the sight.

“Tanya is my friend; she lives nearby and helps me create the designs for my sand creations. She saw you destroying this. Where is my doll?”

Terrence, turning aside, stumbled, catching himself with one hand as it sank into the sand. He began his escape, running away. Howard sat and watched with a frustrated smile, knowing it would be a long time, if ever, before he saw Terrence again.

Terrence did not leave the house for a week, fearing both a knock on the door and being seen outside. Finally, with Audrey's coercion, he ventured out for a short beach walk, but only after seeing Howard return to his house from the beach.

Relaxed to be back on the beach, the rolling surf reducing but not removing the seemingly ever-present shame.

“Terrence?”

Looking up, Terrence saw an older woman, someone's grandma for sure, he thought.

“I am Tanya. Let’s talk, or rather I’ll talk; you listen.”

Walking side by side, Tanya began.

“First, you will put the doll you took on Howard’s upper deck when Howard is absent. “

“Now I will tell you about my friend. First, he is a good, quiet, and private man; whatever you think he did, he didn’t.”

“But why?”

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“Shush, he earns his living as an EMT and has worked in many different towns and cities. Those names you saw in his scrapbook are some of them.”

“But how?”

“Clam up, kid. As an EMT in each of the cities named in the scrapbook, he either saved or attempted to save a child, and he honors those children or their memory in his sand art.” Now get on with you.”

Crushed with shame, Terrace haltingly trudged and wobbled his way back to the Airbnb.

The End