This Side of Water

by Maureen Pilkington

  Contents

  This Side of Water

  Copyright © 2019 Maureen Pilkington All rights reserved.

  Dedication

  Quote

  Phosphorescence

  Float

  Blue Tip Shore Club

  Turquoise Water Behind Him

  In The Beach Chair

  Vapor

  Toward The Norwegian Sea

  Sounds Skimming Over The Atlantic

  Not That Kind Of View

  Dreaming Over The Monongahela River

  Tide Pool

  Nudes In A Green Pond

  Crowded Pond

  Must Be Near The Hudson

  Two Pigs And A Circle Of Palm Trees

  White Caps

  The Water In Alexander’s Eyes

  Holy Water

  Past The Clubhouse

  Effects Of The Waterfront

  Acknowledgements

  This Side of Water

  Stories

  Maureen Pilkington

  Regal House Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 Maureen Pilkington All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Regal House Publishing, LLC

  Raleigh, NC 27612

  All rights reserved

  ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781947548749

  ISBN -13 (epub): 9781947548756

  ISBN -13 (mobi): 9781947548763

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019930301

  All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.

  Interior and cover design by Lafayette & Greene

  lafayetteandgreene.com

  Cover image “Reflections” © by Erin Gregory

  Author photograph by JoAnn Cancro Photography

  Regal House Publishing, LLC

  https://regalhousepublishing.com

  The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Mark Rossi

  Quote

  The sea pronounces something, over and over,

  in a hoarse whisper: I cannot quite make it out.

  — Annie Dillard

  PHOSPHORESCENCE

  FLOAT

  I swam out to the float alone, the one that was anchored farthest from the beach, and lay down between the seagull stuff that had dried in so many spots. From there I could see the beach club members at a beautiful distance. I could see Mr. Fieldings’ orange fish waving above his cabana, and him, sitting in front of his domain, doing accounting on a bridge table in his bright orange bathing suit, the little kind that stretched like balloon fabric over his privates. He used rocks, as smooth and oval as eggs laid from large birds, to weigh down stacks of bills and orders from his liquor store. His wife still wore bikinis and gold loop earrings, because they had no children.

  Mrs. Fieldings was the head buyer for Bergdorf Goodman over in Scarsdale and had me working there on Saturdays, modeling pre-teen dresses. She just pulled me off the diving board line-up one day and gave me this job that paid in clothes. Luckily, my friends never recognized me in a dress without my nose clip and hair as bone dry as the sand.

  The Fieldings were landmarks to my left from my vantage point out on the float—the lifeguard, my center marker on his giant wooden high chair, and the snack bar at the other end, pumping up smoke signals all day long.

  That Labor Day Weekend was no different from others I remembered, with the sky bluer and the view sharper like a true fall day; and every member was eating up their summer quota. I turned away from the club and faced the open Long Island Sound. I put my ear on the hot, salty surface and heard the water lapping against the underside of the float. It reminded me of the sounds I’d heard the night before coming from the orange cabana.

  Fort Slocum stood on a deserted island off to the right about two thousand yards from me. The fort didn’t function anymore, but it stood tall like my father with hands on his hips and a take-no-prisoners attitude. I had heard that the island was infested with rats.

  I heard a sloppy breaststroke coming at me and saw Mary Beth zig-zagging her way out to the float. Every few feet, she stopped and floated on her back for a minute to build up strength so she could make it the rest of the way. I think it was the french fries and dogs that slowed her down. Some of the kids called her Miss Snack Bar ’72.

  “What are you doing out here?” she panted, hanging on to the side, her hair stuck to her cheeks. Her eyes were always scanning the surface for a water rat that might have made its way across the sound for a visit.

  “M.B. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “No.”

  Now she had one leg up, her foot in the white-crusted seagull droppings, but this kind of thing never fazed her.

  “Come on, Nan, help me up.”

  “All right.” I pulled her by two hands, and she slapped down hard on her ribs. “Come up to my office.”

  “What are you doing out here all by yourself?”

  “Thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “The situation.”

  Mary Beth was still breathing hard. Now there was white crust on her elbows.

  “I want to go back,” I said, eyeing the whereabouts of my parents. I could see that Mary Beth was too winded to go now and decided to wait.

  “When are we going to do it?” she asked.

  “Tonight is the last night of the summer.”

  I looked for Mom in her circle of chairs. All I had to do to find her was to look at which direction Mr. Fieldings was facing. He was in a sit-up chair, with Chivas Regal crates piled upside down in the shape of a side table. When you walked by their living room on the beach, you could hear the sound of ice scooping and falling into real highball glasses. He was getting up now, his skin oiled and evenly grilled to perfection.

  I wondered what he saw in Mom when he had a wife like Mrs. Fieldings. Mrs. Fieldings always seemed to be waiting for the punch line, ready to burst out, and something was always swinging from her—a tiny gold chain-belt on her waist, the strings on her bathing suit that unraveled and fell to her golden sides, those earrings. Her entire orange bikini was made of triangles with a bow tied on each hip. Mom’s was practically a skirt. But more than all of that, Mrs. Fieldings was really nice to me. I worked with her. I knew her. After my hours were done, she would take me to the pink-striped restaurant in Bergdorf’s, which looked just like an ice cream parlor, and buy me the Kitchen Sink.

  Mary Beth was staring at me, her cheeks on the verge of purple. “You sure it was them in there last night? Maybe it was Cheryl and Joe or someone from their group. They’re always sneaking into the cabanas at night.” Mary Beth was trying to make me feel better.

  “No, I doubt it. They’re going away to college, and they’ll be able to do it anytime they want.” I dove in and swa
m back to shore freestyle. When I got there, I turned around and saw Mary Beth was still halfway out, floating on her back.

  I walked past the new tennis court, which was now crowded with women’s doubles, their volleys hanging in the air too long. I found Dad behind the snack bar, in the horseshoe pit with the rest of the guys. My heart went out to him, knowing what I knew. He looked so content with a beer in his hand, the tattoo on his arm of an old ship bobbing and weaving over his muscle. He was almost as tan as Mr. Fieldings.

  “Hey—sweetheart!” He waved for me to come over. When I got there he said to the guys, “Look at the arm on this kid.”

  He handed me the horseshoe. “OK, I’ll give you a little leeway. Stand over there.”

  “Still tough,” one of the men said.

  I looked at my audience before I walked up to my spot. Mr. Patella had burgers stuffed in the sides of his mouth, doing a Marlon Brando. All the men had bloated stomachs, their belly buttons pulled like the knot in a balloon—except for Dad’s, still tight as a drum. He liked to say his muscle tone came from laying sheet rock, not lying in the sun. Sometimes I saw Cheryl, the best-looking teenager who hung out at the lifeguard shack, checking him out.

  “Shoot,” Dad yelled. His streaked hair was glistening and the comb marks made deep rows as if a miniature plow machine worked the land of his head.

  I stood on my marker and gave my best shot. I heard an immediate clink. A hit. This meant that Dad would give me a swig of beer. I walked to the keg area, confident. The men cheered and when I turned to catch Dad’s eye he was observing Mr. Patella’s impersonation of President Nixon before he noticed me and handed me his cup.

  I left the pit and found Mary Beth in line at the snack bar. “You didn’t wait for me, Nan. You never do.”

  “My Dad was waiting for me, but I’m finished now. I’ll meet you on the wall.” I was lightheaded from the Michelob I had guzzled. Draft beer served the best head.

  Mary Beth arrived with a whole tray of stuff for us. The sodas spilled and made the hot dog rolls soggy. We sat on the wall that separated our club from The Blue Tip Shore Club and watched the crowd down at the snack bar. The tide was getting low, and I smelled the muscle beds. Here came Mom, walking real slow, her bob tied back in a scarf because she thought this made her look like Elizabeth Taylor. She and the actress seemed to be gaining weight at the same speed.

  The great thing about our wall was that no one even looked over there; it was far enough away from everything. Gloria Gaynor played on the loudspeaker from next door, so we even had our own music. Over the wall was a rock pile where Mr. Fieldings collected his paperweights, and I could see splatterings of orange paint here and there.

  “So, here’s the plan,” I said to Mary Beth, helping myself to her french fries. “And listen up because you have a key role. Without you, I can’t catch them. At nine thirty tonight, when it gets dark, meet me behind the lifeguard shack under that tree. That’s when they go in. Everybody else will be up at the clubhouse and they’ll think they’re safe. At nine forty-five we’ll check for sounds, and if we hear them going at it, we’ll follow through with Part Two of our plan.”

  “Then what?”

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Look over there,” I said, fully inspired. There was my mother—her usual club soda and lime in one hand and a tuna salad sandwich in the other—with her girlfriends, the ones who gave Mrs. Fieldings the daggers. Up came Mr. Fieldings with his Ray Bans on and still a little wet from his swim—he swam religiously every day even in crummy weather. He headed directly to Mom, taking the soda from her hands so she didn’t spill.

  “Oh my god,” said Mary Beth. “Go get your father. Now. He’ll catch them talking.”

  “Big deal. Talking. What’s that going to prove?”

  “Well, I guess talking looks innocent. But, watch his thing. Maybe it’ll rise up,” she said, demonstrating with her finger.

  We watched his thing.

  Mary Beth knew more than I thought. Some of my friends were that way. You assumed they didn’t know about any of that stuff, meanwhile they’d already been to second base.

  “I know,” Mary Beth said. Now she had my attention. “Maybe they’re making a plan about tonight. Where to meet and all that.”

  “Yeah, right. With everyone standing around them.” How was I going to count on Mary Beth tonight if she couldn’t understand the workings of a basic cheap affair?

  “Look, look,” Mary Beth said with a new confidence. “Now they’re alone.”

  Maybe Mom gave her friends the high sign and they left them there to chat. Mom stood there, brazen with that tuna sandwich on the paper plate, her hips hidden under that long gauzy skirt. One thing my mother had that Mrs. Fieldings didn’t have? Boobs. And, plenty of them. The cheaters stood there chatting, with my poor father right around the back of the snack bar, in the horseshoe pit, probably in a slump.

  “Oooooooh,” Mom yelled, and we jumped down from the wall with high expectations. Her pickle wedge fell in the sand and they both bent down to pick it up at the same time. Their heads banged. Mr. Fieldings’ laugh was gargly from all those cigarettes.

  I started to have my suspicions about this whole thing when Mom suddenly always had to get to the liquor store. My father would yell, “I better not catch you in there again, Chris. I better not find more empty bottles!” Stuff like that. But she didn’t care; she’d go anyway. She even took me with her a few times, and I watched the love birds talk about wine. Mr. Fieldings would bring her a deep red bottle from the back of the store, and, with his cheek next to the label, they’d coo.

  Now Mr. Fieldings pointed to an out-of-the-way snack table, and they both sat down. Seeing them together, sharing that sandwich, I couldn’t concentrate on the second part of my plan. Mom put her thumb in her mouth and sucked off the tuna fish like she always did.

  “Hey, Nan. NAN! You know, your mother looks exactly like Elizabeth Taylor. She’s even got those eyes,” Mary Beth said.

  “Well, they’re the same type, if you know what I mean.”

  That night, with the lifeguards off duty, Mary Beth and I climbed up onto the lifeguard chair. From there, our float looked as untrustworthy as a rubber raft. The sun was going down, coloring the horizon salmon-pink, and the Good Year Blimp still hung in the same spot above us as it had all day like a bloated fish.

  It was about eight thirty and the tide was nice and high now. Mary Beth was licking the salt off her arm. I realized then how much I would miss her. We were both going into seventh grade, but because I lived in New Rochelle and she lived in Yonkers, we never saw each other during the school year. Once Memorial Day came, we always picked right up where we had left off the year before.

  We heard the theme from The Godfather playing over at Blue Tip.

  “Oh, I loved that part!” Mary Beth was scanning the water’s surface again.

  “What part?”

  “When Al Pacino marries the beautiful Italian girl? In Italy? I love Al Pacino. You see them do it on the bed. Then, he’s always trying to teach her how to drive? And she really stinks? Then she goes out into the car one day, with a big smile, she kind of bops on the seat—she goes all by herself like she’s going to surprise him? And the car blows up. Al Pacino flips out. Wants to kill everybody. It’s so sad I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “You mean you actually see them do it? You see it go in? Wait a minute. How did you get to see it?”

  “I went with my parents.”

  “They let you see that?”

  Mary Beth stood up on the seat of the chair in her rat-sighting stance, and I thought we were going to tip. “I see one! I see one! I told you!”

  “Come on, let’s go down. You go first. Go down backwards. Real slow.”

  When she reached the sand, I jumped from the third rung, feeling it in the ankle that I’d broken over the winter.


  “I don’t see any,” I told her with a rock in my hand. “Besides, if they can make it all the way over here from Fort Slocum, we should put them on the swim team.”

  All I had to do was say I saw rats and I’d never get her to swim out to the float tonight. It had become our territory since the older kids lost interest in it. We were supposed to meet out on the float at nine fifty—after we caught Mom and Mr. Fieldings sucking it up in the cabana.

  We roamed around the empty beach; the sand felt rocky underfoot and seemed to be getting rockier every summer. I wondered about all those pictures of turquoise water and powdery sand. Palm trees.

  The pool was “L” shaped, the diving area in the short part, and tonight, the underwater bulbs were all lit. If anyone was sitting up in the blimp—although Mary Beth said it was run by remote control from a tower somewhere—they would look down and see a fat, neon L. The kiddy pool was fenced off and usually yellow by noon. Then there was a mountainous hill that rose and rose like the stomach of a gigantic bear sleeping on his back in the middle of Castaway Shore Club. At the top of the hill was our clubhouse, a wooden mansion, with huge picture windows and crooked floors, that used to be the home of one New Rochelle family in the old days, like the rest of the clubs that lined this strip. The clubhouse windows glowed, like the eyes, nose, and sour grin of a jack-o-lantern; the thunderous music of the live band drifted down to where we hid under the only tree on the beach, behind the lifeguard shack, where we made our plan.

  “It’s almost time,” I said, holding a stick in my finger, puffing on it and squinting one-eyed, the way Mom smoked. “Chickening out?”

  “No, it’s just that, well, we already know what they’re doing. So, then we’re really not catching them, if we already know about it.”