by Lisa Howorth
* * *
—
There I was, sandy and sunburned. My back and shoulders stung, but not too badly because Carline had put Noxzema on them, and Daddy had given me a National Bohemian with a few inches left in the bottom, which also helped. I could hear the rattling of Dad’s Evening Star as he turned the pages.
“Dad!” I called through the screen. “Why aren’t there any spiders here?”
“Don’t know, pal. They’re apparently only up in the city.”
“Do you think that’s because spies put them there?”
He laughed. “Where do you get this stuff? Your grandfather?”
“He said that Russians are good poisoners. There was a brown recluse in his office.”
“I wish I’d thought of that!” he said—kidding, I chose to assume. “There are worse things to worry about with the Russians than spiders.”
“I know! They have A-bombs, and Khrushchev said they’re going to bury us. I get really scared whenever I hear a siren.”
Daddy looked at me sympathetically and said, “I know, pal. We all do. But you’re too young to be worrying about that crap—leave it to President Eisenhower; he’s had lots of experience with Russians. Let’s head up to the boardwalk later and play some Skee-Ball.”
“Okay!” I said. I loved Skee-Ball, but you didn’t win any money like you did playing slot machines. Maybe a useless stuffed animal. “Can we turn on the mosquito-zapper thing when it gets dark?”
“Sure, pal.” Then he said, “Here’s something that will interest you.” He began reading an article in The Star about two very rare, scorpion-like creatures that had just been found at the Tune Inn on Capitol Hill. “They’re called pirate vinegaroons and they’re only supposed to live in the Southwest, and they’re poisonous. They’ve taken them to the National Museum so they can study them.”
This news electrified me. “For real? Is there a picture?”
“Nope. No photo. Maybe in the Post in the morning.”
“Cool! I hope so!” I couldn’t wait to report this to Ivan and Max when I got home. It was extremely important news. Maybe there were more vinegaroons around and we could catch one. That would be the jackpot.
Pretty soon the cottage was filled with people. It wasn’t the kind of party I was used to at our house, which was mostly older, dressed-up people like Dimma and Brickie doing a lot more serious talking, drinking cocktails, and only a little dancing. This was more like The Milt Grant Show, with bare feet and beer—everybody bopping, most of the girls wearing short-shorts and the guys wearing Bermudas. Liz had put on her yellow sundress. Highball glasses and beer bottles were everywhere. I wanted the Fabulous Family Fiesta to be like this, except I wanted to be part of it, dancing with Beatriz or Elena. I tried to dance with Liz, who permitted my stumbling around for about three minutes, then said, “See? If you’d let me show you how to bop when I tried to, you wouldn’t look like such an idiot now.” This was true—she’d tried to teach me and Ivan, but Max had made fun of us and we stopped.
I watched from the screened porch hammock, occasionally slipping into the living room to sneak a sip from any unguarded beer or glass. A couple was arguing in a corner, and that interested me, so I listened for a minute, but it was boring—the guy was accused of “looking” at another girl. Somebody changed the record to “The Enchanted Sea” by the Islanders, an eerie instrumental that was popular that summer—all buoy bells, lapping waves, high-lonesome whistling, and mournful guitar. It reminded me of the bay, not the ocean, and made me feel even more dejected. The dancers came together tightly—even the fighters—to bear-hug to the slow music, swaying and kissing. I knew the hammock would shortly be prime real estate, but I wasn’t giving it up.
Dad came out to the porch and said, “How’s it going, pal? Don’t you want to come in and dance?”
“I tried to,” I whined, sorry for myself. “But Liz was mean to me. She’s such a slut.”
“What did you say?” my dad said, incredulous. “Do you know what that word means?”
“Max’s sister said it means a bad girl.”
“It means worse than that. Don’t say it, especially about your own sister, hear me?” He dragged on his Lucky Strike. “Jesus.” Exhaling a dense plume of smoke, he said, “Hey—I want you to meet someone important. I’ll bring him out here in a minute.”
“Who is it?” Usually my dad’s “important” friends were sports heroes or occasionally musicians, and he had one friend, Mr. Almy, who wrote books. Dirty books, Liz had told me. The sports heroes were okay because I could impress the Shreve boys, and Brickie was interested in hearing about the musicians, but I wanted to read Mr. Almy’s books.
“It’s a friend from Baltimore. He was the only guy who dropped both the Little Boy and Fat Man on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.” He added, “But don’t mention that to him, okay?”
My interest was piqued, but I didn’t really understand why a guy who’d done something like ending World War II wouldn’t want to talk about it. “Why not?”
“If you’d helped kill thousands of innocent people, even if it had to be done to stop a war, don’t you think you might feel a little sad about it?”
“But, Dad, they were Japs.”
“I know that, and they deserved it.”
“Even little kids?” I said, changing tack.
Dad sighed. “The innocent people are what’s called ‘collateral damage.’ It’s terrible and sad, but it’s what happens in wars. Just keep what I told you under your hat, okay, pal?”
Daddy came out with the guy, who didn’t look very heroic to me, just a man somewhat older than my dad in shorts and a brightly flowered beach shirt. I got out of the hammock to be introduced to Lieutenant Jacob Beser and shook his hand like Brickie had taught me. “How ya doin’, buddy?” he said. “Are you having a good time?” He did seem to have sad eyes, but maybe I only thought that because Dad had put sad in my head.
“I’m waiting for it to get dark so we can turn on the bug zapper,” I politely replied. Dad and the guy laughed. “Are you still in the Army Air Force?” I asked. “Do you fly planes?” Maybe I could get him to bring up the Fat Man thing.
“Well, I was a radar specialist, not a pilot.”
“Nothing can stop the Army Air Force!” I sang, and the lieutenant chuckled. “That’s right!”
Emboldened by my entertainment skills, I asked, “So your job was to…fly along, and figure out where to go, and stuff?” My dad, standing behind Beser, gave me a warning look.
“Well, yeah, you could say that.” He smiled indulgently. “Are you interested in military planes?”
“I like spies and eshpionage,” I said, trying to suppress the one thing I wanted to ask about, and not arouse Dad’s temper, which I’d seen enough of on the ride down. I went on, “But I’m mostly interested in collecting spiders. I’ve trapped a few good ones.”
Beser said, “That spider thing is nuts, isn’t it? Do you think the Russians might be behind it?” He grinned.
This distracted me, and I excitedly said to my dad, “See, Dad? He thinks the same thing Brickie does about the Russians!”
Dad was grinning, too. “Maybe they did do it—who knows? Maybe we should send Lieutenant Beser’s crew over there with some spiders for them.” They laughed.
“Yeah! That’s a great idea!” I exclaimed. Then, as if from another boy inside me, came: “I’m sure glad you didn’t drop those bombs on Japan.” Brickie was always telling me to think before I spoke, and I thought I’d been thinking, but somehow in my excitement it just popped out of my mouth.
The lieutenant smiled but didn’t reply. Tipping his bottle up, he glugged the last half of his beer. I was cringing inside.
My dad grabbed Beser by the arm. “C’mon, Jake, let’s get you another beer and do some dancing.” “Stagger Lee” was playing. Dad reached ove
r and flipped on the bug zapper, then gave me a hard thwack on the head.
Lieutenant Beser said, “See you later, bud. Hope you zap thousands.” He went through the screen door, and Daddy turned to me, drawing his index finger across his sunburnt throat.
We never made it to the boardwalk for Skee-Ball, because Dad either was having too much fun or was too pissed at me, or both. I was in disgrace, sulking outside. Someone brought me a plate of ribs to gnaw on. But the bug-zapping was a good show. I uncharacteristically helped a few decent specimens—a big Junebug and a dragonfly—avoid electrocution, and caught a great cecropia moth with my hands as it was resting on the silvery wood shingles. I let it go, maybe as moral chastisement of Lieutenant Beser, king of the zappers, whom I wanted to blame for my downfall. I hoped Dad would catch ringworm from thwacking me. And in my own misery, my thoughts turned to Ivan and Elena, and wondering whether things were okay with them.
* * *
——————
I was up early the next morning, having slept in my bathing suit, and I was scarfing down stale potato chips, sipping from the brownish leftover cocktails and eating the cherries, shunning the clear drinks with olives. The cottage was silent except for the snores of a couple guys asleep on the sofas. The usual disheveled couple lay wound together in the hammock, so I sneaked out as quietly as I could. I knew Daddy and Liz were dead to the world and it would be forever before they were up. I was still a little mad at Dad and hoped to avoid him if he was still mad at me.
The day was going to be excellent; the morning haze was already burning off. I grabbed a red canvas raft and went down to the beach. Almost immediately I found a long, used rubber at the water’s edge—a thing I’d never found at the “polluted” bay—and stashed it in my bathing suit pocket to show the boys back at home. We weren’t exactly sure how rubbers worked but we enjoyed theorizing. A huge ship was moving quickly, way out, and I wondered where it was going. Baltimore? The Caribbean? Brazil? At home I’d tell Beatriz that I’d seen a handsome green-and-yellow ship going to Brazil, flying both American and Brazilian flags, people waving from the side. I guess the leftover cocktails had fueled my imagination. The waves were perfect for surf-riding—not too big but not too small. I wasn’t allowed to go in the water alone, and the lifeguard wouldn’t be on duty until later, but if I stayed close to shore, I reasoned, what could happen?
I grabbed my raft, dragging it through the surf until the water was waist-high. I climbed on and paddled out to where the waves were swelling before breaking. Steering the raft around to face the shore, I positioned it at the top of a swell, just under its crest, and the breaking wave rocketed me to shore. I was triumphant—usually Liz or Dad had to tow me out to catch a wave, but now I’d done it myself. I caught wave after wave. I wished my dad and Liz could see how well I was doing.
The big ship had disappeared, and it was just me and the sun and water and my competent surf moves; I imagined that I was the very cute James Darren in Gidget, another movie Elena had taken us to the Hiser to see. Could I possibly stand up on my taut little raft? I paddled out and easily got to my knees and waited for the next swell. As I rode down into a deep slough, ready to stand, I suddenly realized that the approaching wave was enormous; it seemed ten times the size of the others. I quickly flopped onto my stomach and tried desperately to paddle up over its crest, but it was too late. The huge wave broke over me, thundering down and tearing my raft away from me. I went under, squeezing my eyes shut and holding my breath, and was tumbled over and over, thrown against the rough bottom. I felt my bathing suit being ripped off. I struggled to right myself and reach air, but I was still being forced down. My breath gave out, and I sucked in water and sand. Finally my head broke the surface and I gasped raggedly for air. To my horror I found that I was not being pushed ashore but was now being dragged out into another slough, a wave looming over me. My feet searched frantically for the sandy bottom, and I started swimming shoreward, but the gigantic wave pounded me again. I felt like a pair of Keds in the washing machine—slam, slam, slam. The relentless waves kept coming—they became monsters hell-bent on destroying me. I inhaled more water, coughing desperately, and was terrified, knowing that I was in real trouble, alone and helpless. I fought with every bit of strength I had, but was exhausting myself. The turbulence wrenched my arms and legs—it was so painful I stopped flailing and tried to tuck into myself and float, but the water was far too rough. I felt tiny, a sand crab torn from the shore, at the mercy of the infinite ocean. I gave up, waiting with a weird calm for whatever came next.
I wasn’t thinking that I was dying—I wasn’t thinking at all—but understood that I was losing. Faces of people I loved appeared to me, most vividly my mother, and her voice, reciting the poem: “What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from you.” Then my dad’s face appeared, larger and more distinct than the others. I was lifted up from the water—was I flying?—my back being thumped. I began choking. My eyes opened to see that it was my actual father, who hoisted me to his chest and held me tightly, rushing me out of the waves. While sloshing wildly through the breaking surf, Daddy threw me upside down and kept punching me on the back with his fist. I coughed up seawater, sand, potato chips, bourbon, and cherries, which ran down Daddy’s legs into the water. I breathed, and he righted me, saying, into my face, “I got you. I got you, pal. Take it easy.” I was naked, clinging like a chimp to my father. My father. I buried my face in his freckled pink neck, tasting its saltiness and coughing. As we reached the sand, I looked out to sea and could just make out my red raft, which seemed as far away as the ship had been. Liz stood on the beach crying. I didn’t cry. Daddy wrapped me in a towel and carried me in his arms back to the cottage.
9
I spent the last day of the beach trip lying in the cottage hammock, my multitude of bloody scrapes painted with mercurochrome, nursing a hangover. I got a lot of treats and attention. Carline played my favorite 45s, and Liz and Dad played cards and Monopoly with me. I was amazed that no one was mad at me for drowning.
* * *
—
Back at home, I continued to recuperate. I was really sore and had a cough. I was dying to tell the boys about my drowning and about the pirate vinegaroon, and I was mad that Brickie had taken the Post to work before I could look for a photo. And, of course, I had the rubber to show off—Liz had found my bathing suit washed up on the beach but fortunately hadn’t checked the pocket. Dimma, concerned about my cough, was making me stay inside and rest and wouldn’t even let the boys come see me. I shouldn’t have told her that a sand crab or a minnow had probably gone down my windpipe. But I was still feeling rough enough that a day of incarceration didn’t seem so terrible.
Liz hadn’t teased me—yet—about what had happened, especially about losing my bathing suit, which I took to be a measure of how scared she’d been. She didn’t even tell our grandparents, because it would have gotten Daddy in trouble. Dad had immediately told Dimma that I’d “had an accident.” I guess he’d had to tell Dimma something because of what I was calling my “open wounds,” but he’d simply explained, “John got a little scragged by a wave.” Dimma seemed concerned, but thank God hadn’t wanted to give me an enema and had only said, “Well, I’m sure he was doing something he wasn’t supposed to.” Daddy had let it go at that.
“If you’re still coughing tomorrow, we’re going to see Dr. Spire,” Dimma said that evening. Dr. Spire meant shots, and maybe taking off my pants. I whined, struggling to suppress a cough, “No, Dimma! If there’s a sand crab in my lungs he’s dead by now.”
“Never mind,” she said sternly. “And either you let your grandfather get that splinter out of your foot now, or Dr. Spire can do it tomorrow. It looks infected.”
“No, it’s not! It’s better and I can feel it coming out.”
“You heard me,” she said, and gave me a goodbye kiss.
“Thanks a lot, dear,” Brick
ie said to her sarcastically. He looked at me and shook his head.
Dimma was going out for the evening—playing bridge, I guess, although I noticed she’d forgotten her score pad, which she never was without. She looked pretty in her new dress from Claire Dratch, a pale-aqua shirtwaist with small bronze polka dots, which seemed dressed up for bridge. I don’t know where Liz was—spending the night with a friend, supposedly, but she most likely had sneaked up to the Youth Center on Wisconsin to hear a band, or make out.
Brickie and I were having what he called “Bachelor Night,” which meant that he’d make hamburgers and hash browns for dinner and we’d eat Honeymoon ice cream and watch TV together.
Brickie loved Peter Gunn because Gunn was a private detective who dressed cool and had a lounge-singer girlfriend and sometimes in the lounge there were real-life famous jazz musicians playing. I would rather have been watching Sugarfoot or Bat Masterson, or Brickie’s other favorite show, Behind Closed Doors, which was based on the experiences of an actual U.S. naval intelligence officer who caught spies and busted up Russian plots, but for some reason it had gone off the air. Brickie, who knew the guy the show was based on, said either he’d run out of stories or the Russians had gotten him. But I let Brickie have his way, and if we watched Peter Gunn I’d get to stay up later.
“Okay, mister,” Brickie said. “Let’s get this operation over with before our show comes on.”
“Rats, Brickie. I don’t want to!”
