Free That Old Cape Magic by Richard Russo

the last half of June, because he recalled it had been warm.
    “At least they’re over on the other side,” his father said, indicating the two children playing outside that cottage. His parents never made any secret of the fact that they loathed children, and that the whole compound was organized around a rusty swing set and jungle gym they took as an evil omen indeed. Even before they were finished unpacking the car, Griffin, changing into his bathing suit in the tiny upstairs bedroom under the eaves, heard his mother say, “Good God, here they come.” And sure enough, the whole family from across the way was trooping through the playground, clearly intending to welcome the newcomers. Griffin hurried down to meet them.
    They were the Brownings, they said; the mother and father were both teachers from somewhere in western Massachusetts and roughly the same age as Griffin’s parents. The kids were a boy, Peter, and also a little girl. Mr. Browning wondered if they were thinking about buying the cottage, indicating the FOR SALE sign leaning up against the porch. “God, no!” Griffin’s father replied with a shudder. While the cottages were identical, the Brownings apparently took no offense, even though they themselves were part owners of the one they occupied, they explained, along with two other couples that taught at their school. The cottages were all individually owned, looked after in the off-season by a local caretaker, but most were rented for at least a month or two in the summer, and there was always a nice mix of people.
    “You must be teachers, too,” Mr. Browning said, indicating the institutional decal on the rear window of the Griffins’ car.
    “University professors, actually,” his mother said, clearly anxious to set them straight on this score.
    Mrs. Browning, a tall, beautiful, olive-skinned woman, touched her husband’s elbow then, saying they were heading to the beach, and since their boys were about the same age, would Griffin like to come?
    “Go on,” his parents said in unison.
    That was the beginning. By the end of the day he and Peter Browning had become fast friends. Every morning, when his parents were reading the newspaper (his father drove into town early to pick it up, along with fresh pastries, though he kept forgetting he was supposed to get a box of Griffin’s favorite cereal, too) and having breakfast with Al Fresco, they’d hear the Brownings’ screen door creak open on its unoiled hinge and Peter would shout across the playground, “Can you come over?”
    “Have fun,” his parents said, by which they meant,
Leave us in peace
.
    Except, wait, that wasn’t true, at least not at the beginning. On their second day, when Griffin was again invited, midmorning, to go to the beach, his mother had said no, that he should stay with them. They’d be going to the beach themselves, right after lunch. So off the Brownings had trudged, a big cooler swinging between the adults, the little girl (why couldn’t he remember her name?) skipping on ahead, Peter shouldering a big mesh laundry bag full of towels and colorful beach toys and looking devastated as he waved goodbye. When Griffin wanted to know why he hadn’t been allowed to go along, his mother explained that people like that always wanted something in return for kindnesses, and she had no intention of playing
that
game.
    Two interminable hours later, Griffin and his parents, not nearly so well provisioned, emerged from among the dunes, and heglimpsed the Brownings a hundred yards down the beach to the left. “Go right, go right, go right,” his father said, nudging him forcefully in the other direction and pretending not to notice the entire family standing up and waving. “They teach
junior high,”
his mother explained when Griffin asked why they weren’t being more friendly. “Do you know what that means?” He didn’t, but understood he was supposed to. Was it that people who taught, say, kindergarten didn’t