J.’s jeans were torn at the knee, and the exposed skin was turning red. People kept pointing this out to her, but she didn’t seem to care. Rooted to her spot on the porch steps, she leaned back against the black iron railing and basked in the sunlight that felt to all of us like a gift. A mid-March Friday, and suddenly it was clear that winter was mostly behind us. What’s a sunburned knee against the pleasure of a moment like that?
Yes, there is a sun hunger that takes hold in Elkins as winter grinds through its last month, and J. wasn’t the only one feeling it.
A few hours earlier, when I’d noticed how warm and bright this Friday afternoon was growing, I’d decided to knock off work early. I lifted the chaise lounge down from its overwintering hook on a rafter in the shed and unfolded it in the backyard, its legs sinking into the mucky ground.
At this time of day a few months later, it would have been difficult to find unshaded spots in our backyard, but today the branches of our neighbor’s towering oak were still winter naked. There was nothing between me and the sun. I took off my shirt and settled down with a book for what I intended to be just one hour—no need to overdo it—but turned into two.
“You look like you got some sun,” Amy said, after she arrived home from work. She had unlaced her steel-toed boots in the mudroom and walked into the kitchen for a kiss. I was unloading the dishwasher so as not to appear completely useless.
Looking down at my shoulders and arms, I was forced to consider that I might have overdone it.
We noticed J. and a few others on T.’s porch, drinks in hand, and walked down the block to join them. A crowd would build steadily for the next few hours, and the cold keg of beer in T.’s kitchen wasn’t the only attraction. His little house faces an empty lot to the west, so his porch keeps the sun later than anyone else’s, and everyone was sick of winter.
With Amy and me, the foursome became six. More neighbors shambled up the sidewalk, carrying six-packs and insulated cups. Eight, ten. We waved at commuters driving home from work, and some of them pulled their cars over to the curb to join us. A dozen, more. “Just one beer, then I’ve got to get home.” The screen door banged each time Tom went inside for more pints.
C. had gotten dressed in a warmer state that morning, driving home from a family road trip to Florida. On the way to return the rental, her husband dropped her off in front of T.’s. She stepped from the minivan in ankle boots, jeans, a long-sleeved pullover. Soon she was barefoot, her sleeves pushed high up her arms.
The sun-hungriest gravitated to the postage-stamp front yard and the porch steps, where there was nothing blocking the rays beating down. For those who wanted a little shade, there were seats up on the porch behind T.’s outdoor blinds. Different hands adjusted these a little lower from time to time, tracking the downward course of the sun.
Amy and I sat on the steps, with J. I was sure the back of my neck was burning, but the most I was willing to do about it was to unfurl the collar of my polo shirt and shrug my shoulders up to maximize the resulting coverage. The heat of the sun through my clothes stunned me, turned me still as a lizard. I leaned my head back against the railing. My friends’ conversations and the perfume of T.’s good beer filled the hot air around me.
A little later, when I walked home to get Amy a bottle of cider, I grabbed a tube of sunscreen from the shelf by the back door. When I offered it around the porch, there were no takers. A breeze was starting to build, blunting the sun’s sharp edge. The sunscreen sat unopened on a porch step until Amy and I decided to walk home and put some steaks on the grill.
When we passed into the shade cast by the houses on our side of the street, I noticed how insistent and cold the wind was getting. I would have needed a sweatshirt to last another hour on the porch steps.
The next morning, as the coffeemaker rattled and gurgled, I leaned closed to a window, cupped my hand to block the reflection, and peered out into the pre-dawn twilight.
There was a dusting of snow on the grass and the tops of the cars.