'74 & Sunny

by A. J. Benza

  “No respect,” I said.

  By this point in the summer, Gino had grown accustomed to my family’s untimely outbursts of anger, love, passion, and insanity. I can’t say he ever felt comfortable joining in, but just seeing his stoic face while my father tangled with Coulter was worth a million bucks. Watching him being able to maintain his emotions made him feel more like a brother to me.

  As we meandered down the canal, Jack and Frankie were talking about heading out to the Sore Thumb, an area that featured the bigger fish because of its vicinity to the biggest inlet to the ocean. As they talked and imagined the type of doormat fluke they might hook in to, they were setting up their fishing poles.

  “Whattya say we stay local and grab some fish and clams and head back home early and make the women happy?” my father said.

  Jack and Frankie wanted no part of that. “Pop,” Frankie said. “I just hooked up three poles with a squid and killie combo and a four-ounce weight. Let’s at least give it a shot in the deep water.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “I feel it, Pop. Look at this high-low rig I just put together. There’s no way we head back home without hooking in to some fluke and bluefish.”

  My father laughed. “You and your Puerto Rican rigs. If you weren’t so good to my daughter, I’d throw that whole pole overboard.”

  Their enthusiasm got the best of my father and as we exited the canal, he opened it up the engine, with the bow of the boat lifting like a rocket as we headed out to the deep, dark fertile waters of the Sore Thumb. We rode the waves that day and followed all the charter boats way out where the Atlantic Ocean flows into the Great South Bay, and mostly suffered the gigantic tugs that the big, invisible fish put on your line. That type of action is usually enough to stay out there, but there comes a point, when the bait runs low and your patience is sapped, that you have to turn your boat toward home.

  Jack and Frankie had caught just enough fish and seen enough action that they were satisfied with our excursion, and listening to my father’s idea of heading back was an idea they were now open to. They were standing in the stern of the boat, filleting the thick fluke and beautiful bluefish we caught, on the boat’s cutting board, while lofting the bloody remains into the air for the screaming army of seagulls that were floating above us.

  “Guys, don’t get rid of the sea robin,” my father said, referring to a prevalent and ugly bottom-feeding fish that had wings and whiskers and actually grunted—almost argued with you—once you brought it aboard the boat.

  “Pop,” Jack said. “I’m not gonna let you eat that fish. Come on, we have enough fluke and blues for a week.”

  My father would have none of it. “Let me tell you something. I don’t believe in discarding a firm-fleshed fish. You take a grilled or pan-fried piece of sea robin and you throw it on some Italian bread with a slice of tomato from the garden with some lemon mayonnaise—and you got a meal fit for a king.”

  “It’s still early, Pop,” Frankie said, tossing the entrails of a small sea robin fish into the air. “And we still have some bait left. It’d be a shame to waste it.”

  “Keep the bait out of the sun,” my father said. “We can use it in a little while. First, I want to make a stop somewhere.”

  “Where we going, Dad?” I said. “Gino and I are feeling a little seasick with these waves.”

  “Just keep your eyes on the bridge, something stationary, and you’ll be fine,” he said. “I’m gonna take you somewhere where the water is flat like a mirror.”

  My father took us through the Dickenson Channel, a challenging bit of the bay that had a sea floor that could rise to a depth of fifteen feet from twelve inches within seconds. You had to really know what you were doing and trust your crew like hell or else risk chopping your propeller to bits by taking big bites out of the bay’s floor. We were headed to a small dot of forgotten land some hundred yards away when my father masterfully cut the engine and relied on Jack and Frankie to use long poles to guide us toward what looked like a scaled-down version of Gilligan’s island. We were no more than fifteen minutes from home, but we might as well have been somewhere in the South Pacific.

  When we finally got close enough and were floating in less than two feet of water, my father hopped out of the boat and asked Gino and me to join him and pull the boat by the anchor until we were on the lip of what looked like some sort of magic fishing hole.

  “Dad,” I said. “What is this place? Why haven’t we ever come here?”

  “I was waiting for the right time,” he said. “If the tide is too high, you’ll never see it. If the tide is low enough—like right now—you never forget it.”

  With each step in the crystal clear water, Gino and I were elbowing each other as we got closer. We didn’t care where we stepped or what creature might lie in wait. Gino and I felt like we were walking toward heaven. And for the first time that summer, Gino had actually stopped walking a couple of times to bend down and pluck clams from the bottom.

  “Atta boy, Gino,” Jack hollered.

  “We gotta hurry,” Gino said. “I think I see a wooden diving board in the middle of that island.” He’d come a long way from being afraid to slide down my father’s leg into three feet of water. Now Gino was actually walking ahead of me by a foot or so.

  I cupped my hand above my eyes. “It is a diving board. What is this place?”

  And with that, we took off. Running as best we could in knee-deep water, parting the occasional patch of seaweed, and trying to be the first to—what felt like—colonize this mysterious marsh that seemed to exist solely for us.

  “This place looks like a woman’s perfume ad,” Gino gushed. He was onto something. It didn’t smell like a woman ought to, but with warm, Caribbean-type water and a big, thick diving board that some good soul had anonymously built for other families to enjoy, it certainly was twenty years ahead of Calvin Klein’s TV ads for Eternity. But this wasn’t an infinity pool in some rich guy’s backyard. This was nothing more than a glorified fishing hole tucked within a tiny island of land off the beaten path of red and green buoys in the middle of the Great South Bay. While my father, Jack, and Frankie were raking in clams with their hands and feet, Gino and I finally hit land some thirty yards away. The water we dived into—off the big, thick, plank—was colder and much deeper, but it was clear enough to spot baby eels swimming by, as well as the inevitable blue-claw crab feeding on the bottom. And just when things couldn’t get any more extraordinary, we saw a family of seahorses—which were many miles away from where they were usually found but obviously just as enchanted with the spot as we were.

  I felt like I was gonna see Jacques Cousteau and the Calypso turn up any second.

  “Gino,” my father shouted. “Get some mussels; find some starfish. Bring me back something we can take home and show the girls!”

  That was the summer before Jaws, so absolutely no one was afraid to dive into a mysterious, deep-water hole and go exploring. We got so brazen and so drunk on fun, Gino and I decided to surprise the men and jump off the board bare-assed naked. We got a couple of horns from passing boaters, but we couldn’t care less. This was the most fun we had all summer. And when Gino finally got the nerve to pry a starfish off the side of a rock, he held it above his head for everyone to see. “Uncle Al,” he hollered. “Look! Look!”

  “Beautiful,” my father shouted. “Atta boy!”

  Gino stepped onto the marshland, stuck the starfish to his chest, and screamed out, “I’m Sheriff Benza, goddammit. And this is my land!” He was so happy. I don’t think he even remembered he still had his shorts off.

  It was a beautiful moment, wrapped within a wonderful day. Gino was more than at peace with himself at that spot. It was as if the water made everyone equal.

  It was almost impossible to tear us away from that spot. But with the tide coming in, our little oasis was vanishing inch by inch. We didn’t want to be
lieve it, but we could see it with our very own eyes. My father whistled for us to come back aboard.

  “Ah, crap,” Gino muttered.

  “Ah, shit, is right,” I said, pulling my shorts back on.

  We followed the anchor line back to the boat, stopping to grab a couple of clams on the way in. When we were on board, my father lit up a cigarette and told us we had one more stop to make before we headed home. “Nothing can top that spot, Uncle Al,” Gino said, kissing my father’s cheek. My father smiled gently, pulled Gino in closer to him, and told him to take the wheel.

  “Just go nice and straight,” he said. “I’m right behind you. I’ll tell you where and when to turn.”

  “Can I curse?” Gino asked us out loud, over the hum of the outboard.

  “Of course,” came our reply.

  “Holy shit! I’m driving a boat.” He laughed.

  My father took the wheel back in the deeper water. He was a good uncle; he wasn’t crazy. As we headed east and nearer shore, my father was aiming the boat toward a tiny canal that had signs posted all around: PRIVATE PROPERTY and KEEP OUT. The sun was setting so that the sky on the horizon looked like a mix of orange and pink sherbet. This was always when the anxiety in me kicked in. Where the hell are we? Is someone going to confront my father? Do we have enough gas? Is my mother worried about us? But a couple of stolen glances at my father’s eyes always settled me. He seemed to be more at ease in dangerous situations. But, still, I am also my mother’s son.

  “Dad,” I said. “Should we be here? Can we get arrested?”

  Jack and Frankie laughed. “Yeah,” Frankie said. “This can get us heavy time. Driving down a private canal? How many years can that get us, Pop?”

  “Ten . . . maybe twenty years,” my father said. “Depends how many fish you pull out of here.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said, turning to an equally anxious Gino.

  “If you’re scared, then how should I feel?” Gino piped up.

  “I’m all right,” I lied. “At least we aren’t gonna see any clowns.”

  “Or dolls with busted eyes and wooden teeth.” Gino laughed.

  “Lines in the water, men,” my father told Jack and Frankie nice and quietly. “We might even get a few weakfish in here. I see them breaking water.”

  My father cut off the engine as we drifted down this beautifully cryptic canal with stately waterfront homes to our left and right. All we could hear were the last of the stubborn seagulls sitting on poles and the sound of the men casting out and reeling in their shiny lures.

  “Where are we,” Gino asked.

  “This is Sayville,” my father said with a bit of reverence. “And all the people in these houses don’t want us here.”

  “So why are we here?” Gino said, as he swatted away a swarm of mosquitoes dancing on his hair and face.

  “I want you to meet someone,” he said. “If she’s home and she sees us, believe me, she’ll leave a mark.”

  As we neared the end of the canal, and Jack and Frankie had managed to wrestle in a couple of beautifully colored weakfish, the boat came to a mysterious stop in front of what looked like the back of the White House if it were built on the water. And then, as if on cue, we heard a small engine starting up and within a few seconds an elderly woman was tear-assing toward us in her golf cart right to the edge of her property to make a stand.

  “Here she is,” my father said, his eyes lighting up.

  “Here who is?” I said.

  “Julia Thorne.”

  As it turns out, Julia Thorne was an eccentric eighty-year-old widow who was somewhat of an infamous recluse. My father knew about her only because he had stumbled down the canal years earlier and had gotten a verbal whipping from her for trespassing. But, ever the romantic, the next weekend he drove down her canal again. But this time he brought her steamed clams and mussels to make up for it. They went on to forge somewhat of a crazy relationship. He would play the hapless boater, and she would play up the irate homeowner. But it had become a familiar game to the both of them, unbeknownst to me. This trip was purely to introduce her to Gino and me.

  Mrs. Thorne got out of her golf cart, wearing a giant floppy hat and a thin scarf around her neck. Her hair was long and thick and red as heartbreak, and her eyes were pale blue, almost silver. As she walked toward us, the huge gold bangles she wore bounced from her wrist to her elbow. She held a bullhorn but never bothered to bring it to her mouth. She didn’t make too many appearances outside her home, but when she did, she made sure her performances were memorable.

  “What are you mutts doing on my property?” she demanded. “Every fish you catch, that is, if you even have the mental capacity to know how to fish, belongs to me. Me, Julia Thorne, 315 Mayhew Street, Sayville USA.”

  “This is crazy,” Gino said. “Are we at Greta Garbo’s house?”

  “Do you understand me?” she demanded. “Are you all slow or retarded?”

  As far back as my childhood went, this was obviously another one of the people my father collected. From the sad to the spiritual to the far-flung, he knew them all.

  My father had a hard time stifling a laugh. “Signora Thorne,” he said, “my nephew Gino here didn’t believe a beautiful woman like you existed. My brother drove him all the way from New Jersey to see you and your magic fishing hole.”

  She put down the bullhorn and snapped open a butterfly fan and fanned her face a few times, taking a glance in Gino’s direction.

  “That boy is too precious to have your wild Sicilian blood pulsing through his veins, Al.” She called Gino to the dock and onto her property to have a better look. “You’re lucky you look like Leonard Whiting in Romeo and Juliet,” she told him. “Now tell your uncultured uncle that unless he gets me fluke fillet, I’ll have his dago ass arrested for trespassing. And the policemen here are all my friends. I call them and they come.”

  “You don’t want to do that,” he told her, smiling.

  “Why, it is. It is. It is what I want to do.”

  At this point, with Jack and Frankie even chuckling, I knew we were dealing with a fun, crazy old broad. She was harmless and she loved the company, and my father knew that about her. But she did have Gino hostage on her property.

  “What’s it gonna be, Al? The fluke or this fella?”

  My father gave Frankie a wink and a nod before climbing on her dock and handing her a bucket of fluke meat and a couple dozen clams. Thorne inspected the bounty before giving my father a tender smack on the chest. “This’ll do.” She laughed. “Come back anytime, but not anytime soon.”

  “I love you too, signora. Ciao, bella!”

  “Oh, bullshit, you do!” she yelled over her shoulder. “You think you’re the first sailor to lie to me?” Then she climbed in her cart and sped off like a maniac.

  My father and Gino hopped back in the boat, we flipped on the lights to the bow and stern as we made our way back up the canal and turned the boat west toward home.

  Later that night, Gino ate my father’s Sicilian pizza, steamed clams, and fluke fillet with as much enthusiasm as the rest of us. By the time we were done, we couldn’t get to bed quick enough. We were spent. A whole day on the bay will do that.

  “Julia Thorne looks like an old movie star,” he said. “I love her.”

  “She’s a classic, I gotta say.”

  Before he dozed off, Gino whispered, “I feel like Julia Thorne is my favorite actress, and she’s not even an actress! Does that make any sense?”

  “A lot of things didn’t make sense today,” I said. “You had a starfish on your chest with your pud hanging out.”

  When I turned to share a laugh with him, Gino was already out. A slight smile creasing my little cousin’s sleeping face.

  13

  ROCK THE BOAT

  My father made it his point to leave work and get home a little on th
e early side as the summer went on. He was always happiest entertaining people, and with Gino staying with us, it sort of made my father feel like he had a captive audience to perform to. And I don’t think anybody loved it more than I did. I had spent so many nights of my childhood trying to keep my eyes open as my father split his sales job at 10:00 p.m. and finally arrived home around a quarter past. But it was the ritual leading up to his arrival that helped keep me awake. First, my mom or I would open the garage door around nine thirty, so he could pull his Mustang inside and walk in the house through the side door. And once he stepped from his car, he usually started to jingle the coins he had in his pocket, so even if I had dozed off, that unmistakable sound of loose change would snap me awake. Not to mention our dogs would start to go wild at the sound the keys made in his hand. And then, once he finally stepped inside the house, the energy he gave off—whether it was through a joke, a compliment, or a complaint—gave me another hour or so of life.

  “A.J., you’re lucky,” Gino said with a hint of envy. “At least you get to actually see your father every night and hear him tell you all these great stories. Try being the son of a very busy doctor.”

  In the summer of 1974, it wasn’t just me who waited anxiously for my father to come home. It was becoming more and more apparent that Gino was also doing all he could to be there for his entrance and what high jinks might lay ahead. And that didn’t go unnoticed by my father. So there were many nights when he might have passed up a sales commission or two, just so he could spend some quality time with us boys.

  He came home really early one night, took a few shots at the basketball hoop with us, and then ran into the house to change clothes.

  “Dad, what are you doing home so early?” I said, passing him the ball.

  “I got things for us to do,” he said.

  Even my mother was shocked at how early he was home. “Was it that slow at the store?”