Palisades Park

by Alan Brennert

  “Wow!” a boy said. “How many are in there?”

  “Let’s find out,” Adele said with a smile, then reached in and took out a second egg, which she handed to the boy. Then a third egg, and a fourth, and a fifth. There were gasps of delight from the kids as they examined them, then Adele said, “But since none of you are hungry after all that birthday cake, we’ll put the eggs back in the bag and make them disappear until someone—probably me—needs to make an omelet. All right?”

  She took back the eggs, placed them in the bag, then zipped it, spoke a magical incantation, then unzipped it and held it upside down.

  It was empty.

  More gasps of awe and delight from the kids.

  “But really, it’s not such a good idea to make omelets out of disappearing eggs,” she noted, “because when the omelet reaches your stomach, it disappears again—and you’re still hungry!”

  They all laughed at that.

  She went on to make a series of coins, taken from the pockets of the children themselves, disappear from the palm of her hand, then reappear. And when they came back, there were now two coins for each child.

  “This is called getting a return on your investment,” she quipped.

  Toni watched from the doorway, impressed not so much by the magic tricks—she knew that the coins had been “palmed” and that the eggs actually disappeared into secret pockets in the bag—as by Adele’s patter, the way she kept the kids entertained and misdirected their attention when necessary. She had only seen her mother perform her act once, at the Steel Pier in ’58, and she had been good then too.

  At the end, when Adele literally produced a rabbit out of her hat, the kids applauded enthusiastically and the bunny was passed among them to be fondled. Toni saw the bright smile on her mother’s face and knew exactly what she was feeling: the satisfaction of having performed the routine well, the pleasure of approbation, the quiet pride that you could do something few people could. She had told herself a thousand times that these were the same reasons her mother had abandoned them, that she had been driven by childhood dreams even as Toni had … but despite this, she still couldn’t manage to open her heart to her.

  Later, after Dawn’s guests had left and it was just family, Adele spent an hour playing dolls with Dawn as they chatted about hairstyles and dresses and shoes. Toni watched this too, and felt a twinge of guilt and sorrow that she hadn’t been the kind of daughter her mother had so desperately wanted. But at least she had given her a granddaughter whose face would light up when Adele gave her the latest doll, or a new comb for her hair. She was happy that she could do that, at least, for her mother. It hadn’t all been Adele’s fault; Toni had been just as stubborn, resisting her help, rejecting everything she held dear. She’d been a brat at times—she could admit that to herself, if not to Adele.

  Go on, Toni told herself. After she’s done with Dawn, talk shop with her, compare war stories, life on the road. Maybe now you are the kind of daughter she can be proud of. Her mother had said as much, but Toni never quite believed it. She was too afraid it would turn out to be a lie.

  Like all the other lies.

  Anger at those lies held her back, and kept her heart closed.

  She turned away and left Adele and Dawn to play their girlish games and laugh their girlish laughter. As a child Toni would have mocked them. As an adult she longed to join them. But she knew it was too late for that.

  * * *

  Toni had a three-day engagement at the Steel Pier in Atlantic City the last week of August, before the annual Miss America Pageant took over the town. She and Arlan drove down on a Tuesday and had the equipment set up the next day. She knew she would have to call her mother at some point, but for now she put it off to take in one of the pier’s most famous attractions. The diving horse act conceived by Ella Carver’s adopted father continued to this day, as a horse named Shiloh dove headfirst into a huge tank of water, a young woman astride him. Toni marveled at their virtuosity but couldn’t help feeling sorry for the horse—Toni had freely chosen her career, these animals had had no say in their dangerous profession.

  Other than the horses the mid-week attractions at the Pier were “Skip Sigel’s Steel Pier Jazz Dancers,” a troupe of twelve young women dancing to jazzed-up melodies like “Who’s Sorry Now?”, and a young singer named Barbara Ann Mack, who had parlayed appearances on an Albany, New York, television show called The Teenage Barn into a twenty-four-day gig here.

  At Toni’s performances the next day, she offered the afternoon crowd the backward somersault with a half twist and the evening crowd got the topper, the cutaway double somersault, piked. After the last show she decided to walk across the boards to Abe’s Oyster House—an Atlantic City tradition—for a nice hot bowl of chowder. But as she stepped up to the old two-story brick building to look at the menu posted in the window, her attention was caught by one of the waitresses inside, serving a table about twenty feet away from Toni. The woman was laying down a plate of steamed clams and another bearing a whole Maine lobster. As she did, her wavy blonde hair fell into her eyes, and with her hands occupied, she blew the hair out of her vision.

  Toni felt a chill colder than the wind off the ocean.

  It was Adele.

  Toni stared a long moment, hoping that she was mistaken, but—no. It was her. It was her mother.

  And it wasn’t even the off-season yet.

  Toni quickly turned away before Adele could see her, and began hurrying down Atlantic Avenue. She walked all the way to Maine Avenue, losing herself in Hackney’s Restaurant, whose vast dining room, it was said, could accommodate three thousand guests. There weren’t anywhere near that many tonight, but there were enough to make her feel safe in a crowd.

  Once again she had looked through a window and seen something she wished she hadn’t—but this time, instead of reacting with fear and anger, she felt only shock and sadness. A terrible, piercing sadness that could not be warmed or blunted by the hot coffee or clam chowder she held in her hands. And for the first time in almost twenty years, her eyes filled with tears for her mother—not for her mother’s abandonment of her, but for her mother herself, and the heartbreak that she was surely feeling.

  24

  Palisades, New Jersey, 1966

  GLADYS SHELLEY, IN ADDITION to being Mrs. Irving Rosenthal, was a talented, successful composer of popular songs and Broadway show tunes who had made several attempts over the years to compose a theme song for her husband’s beloved park. All, sadly, were of fleeting posterity: few visitors ever left Palisades humming “Sunnin’ in the Summer Sun,” “Amusement Park Waltz,” or “Color It Palisades Amusement Park.”

  And then came Freddy Cannon’s “Palisades Park.” Whether inspired creatively or competitively, Miss Shelley, asked in 1965 to write a jingle for the park to be played on local radio stations, finally struck gold:

  Palisades has the rides,

  Palisades has the fun,

  Come on over …

  The melody, like that of “Palisades Park,” was bouncy, fun, and highly contagious: this one you did hum (or sing) after hearing singer Steve Clayton’s breezy delivery. All summer, every summer, it ran on radio and TV in the New York metropolitan area, and for local children growing up at that time—Baby Boomers—it would forever become part of the soundtrack of their childhoods.

  Palisades from coast to coast

  Where a dime buys the most

  Palisades Amusement Park

  Swings all day and after dark!

  If “Palisades Park” was the song that made Palisades famous around the world, “Come On Over” was the hometown anthem that would be fondly recalled, even in adulthood, by millions of children who grew up in New York and New Jersey:

  Ride the coaster, get cool,

  In the waves of the pool

  You’ll have fun, so—come on over!

  Meanwhile, another literary achievement was celebrated at Eddie’s Polynesia on the Palisades, when an elated Jack Stopka
rushed in one day carrying an envelope and a magazine and announced: “I sold a story!”

  Eddie had not seen him looking so animated, so excited, since before he joined the Army. Lehua asked, “What story, Jack?”

  “It was one I wrote for my shrink, about taking my first hill in Korea,” Jack said, almost breathless. “I called it ‘The First Day Up,’ but the publisher is retitling it ‘My First Day in Hell,’ which I guess is punchier.”

  “My God, Jack, that’s fantastic!” Eddie said, coming out from behind the bar. “Who’s publishing it?”

  “Argosy magazine. Here, this is last month’s issue.” He handed his father a copy of the former pulp, which now billed itself as “The No. 1 Men’s Service Magazine” and featured stories like “Hitler’s Solid Gold Pistol” and “Vietnam: Air Cavalry’s Bloody Debut.”

  “It’s not The Saturday Evening Post,” Jack admitted, “but it’s not Man’s Illustrated either, which is where I probably would’ve sent it next.”

  “Congratulations, Jack,” Lehua said, giving him a hug. “That’s quite an accomplishment.”

  “Hell yes! Congratulations, Jack.” Without thinking, Eddie outstretched a hand. For the first time in years, Jack didn’t flinch from it, and his grip was surprisingly steady.

  He proudly displayed the acceptance letter and a check, admitting a little sheepishly, “They only paid me thirty-five bucks for it. But it’s a start.”

  “You’re damn right it is. Being a published author—that’s as good as being a movie star in my book. I couldn’t be prouder of you, son.”

  “Too bad Sis isn’t here,” Jack said. “I’ll have to call and tell her.”

  * * *

  At that moment, Jack’s sister was sitting in the shade of a palm tree outside Ella Carver’s trailer, which now shared space with her tank and tower on a lot in Dania, Florida, near Fort Lauderdale. In August of 1966 Ella would turn seventy-three, and she looked the archetypal grandmother: a nest of snow-white hair framing a tanned, weathered face, her eyes still keen and lively behind white horn-rimmed spectacles. “My eyes are the reason I stopped daytime diving,” she explained to Toni as she sat knitting a scarf for her granddaughter. “The glare of the sun on the water practically blinded me. Now I only do night dives. That’s just common sense.”

  Toni, fresh from a series of Southern engagements in May and June, just smiled. “Where are you performing these days?”

  “Wherever I can. Not as many carnivals around these days, so I do a lot of drive-in theaters—fire diving in between showings of Darby’s Rangers and The Yellow Mountain. Also shopping centers and supermarkets.”

  “I saw how you stumped the panel on What’s My Line?”

  She laughed. “Like I told you once, it’s all about expectations. Nice little white-haired grandma, who’s gonna think she does what I do for a living? Yeah, that show was a hoot.”

  “So no plans to retire?”

  “And do what? Sit and knit? If I stopped diving, I’d die. I wouldn’t be happy settled down in one place for too long. We old-time entertainers … we just live in a world alone, by ourselves.”

  Toni thought of Bunty and was supremely grateful for her family.

  Ella said, “I hear you wowed ’em at the Jacksonville Fair.”

  “Yeah, I started with a backward double somersault, then in the evenings I did a cutaway double somersault, piked. The usual routine.”

  “You know,” Ella said slowly, “there’s a feature you should consider adding to your act. Ever thought about doing a fire dive?”

  Toni started at the word fire. “But—that’s your specialty.”

  “Oh, hell, I didn’t invent it, Bee Kyle was doing it before me. And Billy Outten does a male human torch act. But I won’t be around forever and there ought to be some woman I can pass the torch on to, so to speak.”

  “Ella, I’m flattered, but … fire scares me, you know that—”

  “All the more reason to do it,” Ella insisted. “You can’t live your whole life afraid of something that happened twenty years ago. Back in ’53 I was adjusting some guy wires when the wind blew a high-tension wire against them, sending seven thousand volts through my body. Knocked me cold. But you don’t see me cringing from light sockets, now do you?”

  Toni couldn’t help but laugh. It was true, every time she overcame her fears she had come out stronger in the end.

  “I suppose I could … try it once,” she allowed.

  “That’s the spirit. C’mon, I’ll get you outfitted right now.”

  “You mean—right this moment?”

  “Why not? Wind’s calm and neither of us are getting any younger.”

  Inside the trailer, Ella rummaged through her closet and pulled out a pair of gray woolen tights and a wool shirt. “Here, try these on. You’re a few inches taller’n me, but these tights have stretched some over the years.”

  “Can I leave on my underwear?”

  “Sure, protect the dainty bits if you want. Your hair’s longer than mine, I’d put on this cap too.”

  Toni stripped to her undies, pulled on the wool tights—a little snug, but they did the job of covering her exposed skin—then the shirt, then stuffed her hair under the wool cap. She looked into the nearest mirror.

  “I look like the world’s most pathetic cat burglar.”

  Ella smiled. “Here, put this on.”

  Toni slipped into one of Ella’s canvas jackets. “I always keep two or three of these handy. The canvas gives you an added layer of protection, but they do occasionally get a bit scorched. This is all deductible, y’know.”

  “Along with my hospital bills?”

  “Quit bellyaching. I’ve been doing this fifty years and all I’ve gotten is a few burns on my hands. C’mon, I keep the gasoline packs out back.”

  Holy shit, Toni thought, I guess I’m really doing this.

  Outside, Ella opened a metal case containing two gasoline packs. She strapped them onto Toni’s back and showed her how to ignite them.

  “You’ve got to gauge the wind—you can’t have a stiff breeze blowing the flames every which way. When the packs ignite, it’s going to feel like there’s a fireball on your back, ’cause there is. Don’t let the sudden heat panic you. Don’t seize up. Just look down at the tank and jump.”

  “What happens if the flames set my clothes on fire?”

  “They won’t. They’re too busy consuming the oxygen around you, and you’re protected, for a little while, by that canvas jacket. The trip takes only three seconds and the water extinguishes the flames.”

  Toni took a deep breath and began climbing up Ella’s tower.

  This is crazy, she thought. I’d rather have Cliff Bowles shoot himself out of a cannon over my head! But she kept climbing, listening to the slosh of the gasoline even as she accustomed herself to its extra weight and how it altered her center of gravity—she’d have to adjust her posture accordingly when she was preparing to jump.

  Once on the top platform, she looked down into the tank and saw Ella standing on the side. “Gauge the wind, honey,” she called up.

  Toni focused on the wind direction and speed—the fronds of palm trees below her were barely moving. “Light wind, two knots at the most.”

  “Then light the fuse and jump.”

  Toni took several deep breaths, then ignited the packs.

  There was a WHOOOSH of air that rocked her on her heels—she struggled to keep her footing firm—as her back was enveloped in hot flame, tremendously hot. She felt it more than she saw it—a few angry orange flickers at the corners of her vision—and, with a quick assessment of distance, she immediately jumped off the platform.

  She plummeted straight down, trailing fire, the air around her rippling with heat. The fall felt longer than it ever had, then she dropped like a hot coal into the water. The flames sizzled as the water quenched them and turned to steam, raising the water temperature by thirty degrees.

  Once the shock of it had worn off, she was ecsta
tic: she did it—a fire dive! She’d been a genuine human torch. Jack would have been so impressed! She swam excitedly over to the ladder, climbed up and out of the tank, and found Ella waiting for her as she descended the other side.

  “How’d I do?” Toni asked.

  “Not bad, for a first-timer,” Ella said. “By the end of the week we’ll have you jumping into a tank full of flames.”

  Toni felt as if her stomach had just plummeted another ninety feet.

  * * *

  “Okay, let me get this straight,” Jimmy said, an obvious strain in his voice. “You strap a couple of gasoline packs on your back, set them on fire, then jump into a tank filled with gasoline that’s also on fire. That about cover it?”

  They were sitting in their living room, it was past ten in the evening, and the kids were in bed—the first chance they’d had to discuss this since Toni had driven her truck and trailer into the driveway late that afternoon.

  “The flames are in a ring around the rim of the tank,” Toni explained. “There’s plenty of open water for me to jump into.”

  “Define plenty.”

  “At least six feet. And the waterspout extinguishes all the flames.”

  “You better hope.”

  “Honey, I’ve done this now about fifty times down at Ella’s place,” Toni said. “Sure, it sounds dangerous, and it is, but not if you practice the same kind of precautions I do when I’m making a regular dive.”

  Jimmy, looking equal parts frustrated, annoyed, and scared, said, “Goddamn it, I think I’ve been pretty open-minded about these stunts of yours, but it doesn’t stop me from worrying that you’ll miss the tank, or break your back, every time you climb that damn ladder. Now you want me to worry about you burning to death, too?”

  “You knew what I did for a living before you married me, Jimmy,” she said, adding with a smile, “You even invested money in me.”

  His tone softened. “I’ve got a lot more invested now.”

  “Honey, I swear, I never take any risk that might take me from you and the kids. I’ve performed this stunt safely dozens of times, and I was taught by someone who’s done it thousands of times.”