Boardwalk Summer

by Meredith Jaeger

  He settled in the driver’s seat, closing his door loudly.

  “My darling,” I said, my heart pounding. “I’ve missed you so much. I’m terribly sorry for how I left, but now that you’re here, I suppose you want to talk.”

  I looked at my husband’s somber profile. He sat in silence.

  A cold feeling passed over me. “Charles?”

  The slap came faster than I could block it, my cheek smarting.

  Charles’s eyes shone with rage.

  “You thought you could leave me? That you could divorce me? And then you step out with another man?”

  My heart dropped into my stomach. “Charles, please.” These were not the loving words I had received in his telegram. “I can explain.”

  But in truth, I had no explanation for Benny Bronstein that would appease Charles. Heaven help me, he would be livid. How had he known?

  Shoving his key in the ignition, Charles started the car, the engine rumbling to life. Panic set in as I tugged at the door handle.

  “Unlock the door.”

  Whipping around, he gripped my arm so hard that I cried out in pain. His fingers dug into my flesh, in the spot where bruises of months past had faded. “You’re coming home with me, you lying, cheating whore. If you hadn’t embarrassed me, I wouldn’t have to punish you. But mark my words, you will be punished.”

  “Let go,” I whimpered, pulling my arm back.

  Charles released his grip, returning his hand to the wheel. As he pulled away from the curb, I watched the Tropicana grow smaller in the distance, its palm trees fading in the rearview mirror. I thought of Roxy waiting inside, wanting to hear how my audition had gone. What would she do when I didn’t return?

  Nothing. She would find another roommate and wouldn’t give me a second thought. Hollywood was cold like that. I should have confided in her about Charles. But I’d been too frightened to tell anyone the truth. No one knew the danger I was in.

  “You’ve become gossip column fodder,” Charles spat. “Necking in the bushes with a goddamned Jew. How do you think it felt for me to read that? Do you realize what this could do to my reputation?”

  My hands trembled. In the past, Charles had accused me of infidelity, and his suspicions had never been true. But now I had made him feel a fool. I swallowed, hard. My mouth felt dry as cotton. “Charles, we can’t continue like this. You have a sickness. You frighten me. I intended to file for divorce, remember?”

  “Divorce,” he spat, pressing his foot down on the gas. I gripped the sides of my seat as I watched the speedometer needle climb higher and higher. “I abhor the notion. You belong to me. I thought I’d made that clear.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone that I left you?”

  “What I do is my business!” Charles shouted. “How would that appear to people, you leaving me?” He laughed, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the wheel. “After I discovered your spiteful note, it didn’t take me long to find out you’d run away with that pathetic comedian. I walked into the dive of a restaurant where you used to work, and your sad little waitress friend told me all about your grand adventure.”

  Dot. She’d been there the night of the party. Thank God, Charles hadn’t spoken to Ricky. With his abhorrence of Mexicans, he could put Ricky in much danger. Evie had counseled me to keep my distance from Ricky after marrying Charles, and she’d been wise to do so.

  “What did Dot tell you?”

  “That I was a wonderful husband for allowing you to pursue your acting dreams. That used-up little piece of trash looked at me like I was a king.”

  “Please don’t call her that. She’s my friend.”

  “You don’t have any friends,” he said, revving the engine. The car jolted forward, nearly rear-ending the Oldsmobile in front of us.

  I shut my eyes. “Slow down. You’ll get us killed.”

  “You’re lucky I haven’t killed you already.”

  He said it with such conviction, a chill traveled from the crown of my head to my toes. I fought the urge to place a hand over my belly. If I told Charles that he was going to be a father, would his eyes soften, and would he slow down the car?

  Dreaming this baby would change things between us was only that—a foolish dream. With his paranoia, I mightn’t be able to convince Charles the child was his. I cringed, waves of hurt and humiliation washing over me. Charles became infuriated if I so much as talked to another man. And now he had proof another man had touched me.

  A tear slipped down my cheek, my heart clenching for my little olive.

  Charles’s jealousy fueled his rage and cruelty. This time, he would kill us both.

  Chapter 20

  Marisol Cruz

  2007

  Turning down Younger Way, Mari’s flip-flops slapped against the pavement, a stack of flyers tucked under her arm. True to his word, Jason had made one hundred copies and printed them on bright blue paper.

  With the sun warming her shoulders, Mari smiled as she took in the stunning view of the Pacific Ocean from Beach Hill. This really was the most desirable neighborhood in Santa Cruz, and Abuelo had put down roots here. She had an easy downhill stroll to the ocean, the historic Santa Cruz wharf and the Beach Boardwalk.

  In the distance, Mari saw surfers and boogie boarders enjoying the waves at Cowell’s Beach, a much tamer spot than where the experts surfed at Steamer Lane, by the lighthouse. She hadn’t taken up surfing, but she loved to ride her beach cruiser along West Cliff Drive with Lily in tow behind her.

  So far, she’d had luck with every neighbor she’d spoken to about her petition. Almost everyone opposed the condominium development, agreeing that the character of the beach would be ruined, along with views of the ocean.

  Stopping in front of a Craftsman-style bungalow with a brick porch, Mari pulled a flyer from her stack. She rang the doorbell and waited.

  A woman in her sixties pulled the door open, her green eyes twinkling behind her glasses. She pushed her white-blond bob behind her ear.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Hi,” Mari said, handing her a flyer. “I’m your neighbor. My name is Mari Cruz. I live over on Second Street. Have you heard about the recent luxury condominium development that’s set to be built on the site of the historic gazebo?”

  The woman opened the door wider. “Have I ever. The nerve of the mayor!”

  Mari handed the woman a flyer. It had been Jason’s idea to add “Join 2007 Swanson Grant recipient Mari Cruz in the fight against City Hall.”

  “My grandparents met at a dance at the historic gazebo, and it’s a special place to me. They had their wedding reception there, which is why I’m so passionate about saving the structure.”

  The woman’s face lit up. “Your family is from Santa Cruz? I’m third-generation. My name’s Judy.”

  Mari shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Judy. Can I count on you to join me in signing this petition to fight the development?”

  “Absolutely,” Judy said. “Give me a pen.”

  MARI RETURNED HOME with aching legs, invigorated by her fight against Travis Harcourt. The first part of her checklist had been completed: getting neighbors to sign the petition. Sitting down at her desk, Mari opened her laptop, ready to set her grant process in motion. She’d reached out to the Latin American and Latino studies department on the UCSC campus, as well as the art department, looking for students willing to help with her diorama project. Hopefully they’d be passionate about it, and eager to add the opportunity for recognition offered by the Swanson Grant to their résumés.

  Mari checked her inbox. She’d posted on a local neighborhood forum, asking if anyone had family who’d lived by the Beach Boardwalk in the 1940s, and if they would be willing to share their memories on film.

  Though no one had responded yet, Mari smiled seeing an email from Karen E. Smith. Doing a little Internet research had paid off.

  Dear Mari,

  I read your email regarding the Swanson Grant. First of all, congratulations! Though m
y mother did not live in Santa Cruz year-round, she spent every summer there during the 1930s and 1940s, at a beach cottage our family owned at the time. She is 88 years old and currently resides in a nursing home in San Jose. You are correct in that she is the very same Evelyn Hastings who was nominated Miss California in the year 1940! She would love to have a visitor. In fact, recording her memories is something I have been meaning to do. Please reach out to me if you would like to arrange a time to meet. I’ll be out of town next week, so the sooner, the better.

  Sincerely,

  Karen Smith

  Mari clapped her hands together. She itched to ask Evelyn how well she knew Violet, and if she’d also known Abuelo. She composed another email to Karen, eager to set up a time to visit Evelyn Hastings at her nursing home.

  After reading several artists’ responses, and looking through their online portfolios, Mari decided which two she wanted to work with. Both were young Latinas, eager to create a meaningful piece of art for the community. Mari smiled. She’d done more today than she had in the past four years. And it felt fantastic. Meeting Jason had set off a chain of events: applying for the grant, talking to her neighbors, standing up to Travis, making new friends. She’d walled herself off for so long. Now that she’d started to let people in, it felt nice to be a part of the community.

  “THIS WAY,” a nursing home attendant in a pink uniform said, leading Mari down a carpeted hallway. Mari’s mom had let her borrow the car for the drive over Highway 17 to San Jose. Swallowing, Mari tried to dispel her nerves. Evelyn didn’t know her from Adam, and she might not take kindly to having a stranger show up.

  The attendant stopped in front of the door at the end of the hall. She beamed. “Evelyn is such a peach. We all love her. Her health isn’t great, but her mind is sound and she sure hasn’t lost her sense of humor.”

  Pushing the door open, the attendant ushered Mari inside. “Here she is. I’ll leave you two alone. Evelyn, you have a visitor.”

  Mari stepped inside, finding a wisp of a white-haired woman reclining in bed, veined hands with pink manicured nails settled across her lap. She turned toward Mari, her brows drawing together, her blue eyes struggling to place her.

  “Good afternoon,” Mari said, extending her hand. “My name is Marisol Cruz, and your daughter Karen said it was okay if I paid you a visit. Is that all right, Evelyn?”

  Evelyn straightened, and then cocked her head toward a chair. “Karen sent you?”

  “That’s right. She responded to an email I sent her. I’m interviewing elderly people about their memories of the boardwalk.”

  “Do you live in Santa Cruz?”

  “I do,” Mari said, taking a seat next to the bed. “On Second Street. I live in the house my grandfather built. His name was Ricardo Cruz. He was a stunt diver at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk in the 1940s.”

  Evelyn’s eyes widened. “Ricky Cruz? He was a pal of my dear friend Violet. I didn’t know him well, mind you, but I remember him. Is he still alive?”

  Mari’s throat tightened. Evelyn had known Abuelo, and that was a special thing. “No. He passed away a few years ago. But he had a very happy life. He was a wonderful man. He loved being a grandpa.”

  Evelyn’s eyes glistened. “So many of my friends have passed away. It’s very lonely to be the last one left. How kind of you to visit me . . . what did you say your name was? Maribel?”

  “Marisol. But you can call me Mari.”

  She smiled. “You can call me Evie. My dear friend Violet used to call me that. Every summer I would stay at the bungalow my family owned, right across from the boardwalk. The Giant Dipper was so close, it would shake the walls!”

  Mari smiled. “Do you mind if I record our conversation? I won’t if you’re not comfortable, but it’s for my grant project.”

  Evelyn nodded. “Sure. I suppose that’s all right.”

  “Thank you.” Mari removed a tape recorder from her purse—a relic of the eighties, but decidedly less intrusive than a video camera. She pushed the button to begin recording. “How did you meet Violet?”

  “We were teenagers when we met one summer. She asked to borrow my suntan lotion. We would ride our bicycles to visit each other. And we spent every weekend together at the Beach Boardwalk. Did your grandfather ever tell you about the bands that played? Oh, the dancing! Did I tell you that Violet was a beauty queen, and so was I? We did pageants together, you see.”

  Mari smiled. “Your daughter told me. Actually, I was hoping you could tell me a bit more about Violet. I read that she left for Hollywood to become an actress. I think she wrote my grandfather a postcard once she arrived in Los Angeles.”

  Evie’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, she went to Hollywood before . . .” Her voice cracked with emotion when she spoke again. “She took off like a thief in the night.”

  Mari swallowed. Maybe it was better to leave the past alone, especially if it was upsetting this poor elderly woman.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mari said. “I read about Violet’s death in the paper. We don’t have to talk about her if it’s too painful. But I was hoping you might give me more of an idea of who she was and what she was like.”

  Evie blinked back tears. “It’s all right.” She smiled. “Violet was a hoot. She was beautiful, a talented singer and dancer, determined to best me at everything. She dreamed of seeing her name in lights, on the marquee of a theater.” Her eyes clouded. “After she married her husband, Charles, she changed. Became more withdrawn.”

  “How so?”

  “Well.” Evie clasped her hands. “She stopped riding her bicycle to visit me. I rarely saw her alone. Often we would have dinner with Charles and my husband, Frank. Charles was a charming and powerful man. He owned the Oceano Golf Club. Violet never wanted for anything . . . yet she seemed unhappy.”

  Mari scooted forward in her chair. “Was she happy when she entered the Miss California beauty pageant?”

  “Oh yes,” Evie said, smiling. “She was so very excited to win. But you see, we were both married at the time, and that was against the rules. Violet couldn’t keep up the lie, so she withdrew and asked that I attend the Miss America pageant in her place. She told me she was keen to start a family with Charles. But then . . .”

  “She left for Hollywood?”

  “That’s right. Without telling me! And we were quite close. Bosom buddies, you could say. It hurt when she left like that. Frank came home one evening, told me he’d spoken with Charles, and that Charles had given Violet his blessing to pursue her acting career. But it didn’t add up. Charles had never been supportive of Violet acting. He was a possessive man.”

  “Did Charles try to control Violet?”

  Evie frowned. “When she returned from Hollywood, yes. I tried to visit, but every time she gave me some kind of excuse. ‘Oh, I’m feeling ill, come back later.’ For weeks, she stayed indoors. I happened upon her once while she was grocery shopping, and she flinched like a skittish horse.”

  Evie paused to take a breath, and then shook her head. “I was thrilled to see her. I asked her about Hollywood, about her actress friends, but it was like pulling teeth. Normally she’d chat my ear off. Something wasn’t right.”

  “Do you think Charles was hurting her?”

  Evie closed her eyes. When she opened them, her gaze was sad. “We didn’t speak about abuse in those days. Didn’t call it by its name. I asked her if everything was all right at home, and she assured me that it was. But looking back, I wish I had done more. Charles was her only relationship, you see. I’d had a beau or two before I met my Frank. I don’t think Violet knew that love wasn’t supposed to feel like that . . . to feel frightening. She always wore long sleeves, up and quit her waitressing job as soon as she got married. But she loved that job.”

  Mari thought of the photograph she’d found of Abuelo, his arm around Violet’s shoulder in her waitressing uniform.

  “Did she befriend my grandpa when she worked as a waitress?”

  Evie nodded. “I
believe so. Violet was friendly with all the Beach Boardwalk performers. Ricky showed up one day, and he fit right in. Did you ever see him dive? He was incredible!”

  Mari laughed. “No, he was in his sixties when I was born. I would have loved to see him dive, though. I have pictures.”

  “Hand me that cup, will you, dear? This talking is making me thirsty.”

  Reaching for a plastic cup on the bedside table, Mari handed it to Evie. The old woman placed her mouth on the straw, making a sucking noise. “That’s better.”

  Mari held her breath. Then she asked the question she knew would be the hardest. But she needed an answer.

  “Do you think Charles killed Violet?”

  Evie brought a trembling hand to her chest. “She wasn’t pushed from the cliff, if that’s what you mean. Did Charles drive her to do it? Maybe.”

  They sat in silence, and Mari felt the weight of Evie’s grief. How horrible, to have lost a friend to suicide, and to feel at fault. But what could Evie have done? Even with today’s resources of crisis hotlines and women’s shelters, many women returned to their abusers, only to end up dead.

  “I’m sure you were a wonderful friend to Violet,” Mari said, patting Evie’s hand reassuringly. “Thank you for sharing your memories with me. Why don’t you tell me about some of your happy times with Violet?”

  Evie smiled. “There were so many. When the new Woolworth’s opened in San Francisco we were over the moon. We went on opening day and bought matching leather wallets. I felt so cosmopolitan walking around that department store, and then on the train ride home, we shared a box of Cracker Jacks and laughed the whole way.”

  “That’s lovely,” Mari said, imagining young Evie and Violet giggling on the Suntan Special while it chugged through the Santa Cruz Mountains.

  Closing her eyes, Evie lay back against the pillow. This amount of talking had exhausted her.

  “Thank you,” Mari said, turning off the tape recorder. “It was very nice to meet you, Evie.”