by J. J. Murray
“Is there a problem, Pete?”
“No. Um, do you want me to send it as an e-mail attachment?”
“Can you send it as a straight e-mail instead? Our glorious computer techs don’t want us opening any more attachments with all the viruses out there.”
I groan at the tedium to come. “Sure.”
“Can you have it to me by seven?”
“Sure thing.”
“Oh, one more thing. I’ll be bringing a friend tonight, someone who is just dying to meet you. Do you mind sleeping on the sleeper sofa?”
I look at the couch. It opens up to a bed? I could have been sleeping on a mattress all this time. “I don’t mind.”
“Thanks. Uh, could you change the sheets on my bed for me? Extra sheets are in the hall closet.”
Ah, this “someone” is Henry’s steady. “I haven’t slept in your bed, Henry.”
“Where have you been sleeping?”
“On the couch.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s more convenient to where I’m writing.” But murder on my back.
“Well…okay. I’ll e-mail a reply when I receive your work.”
“It may take more than one e-mail to get it all there.”
“Just label them one, two, three, and so on. Talk to you soon.” Click.
As soon as Windows finally hits the screen, I load Word and open Whiter Shade, copying half into one e-mail, the other half into another, labeling them one and two, respectively. “No three for Henry today.” I hit send and wait for Henry’s reply. It doesn’t take long:
I reply to his reply, the ultimate in redundancy:
Heavy sigh. Over the next half an hour, I triple-space and add spaces where AOL slams words together until I’m able to re-send. I should have carpal tunnel syndrome by now. Henry’s reply:
Heavier sigh. This only takes a few keystrokes and is in Henry’s mailbox in less than a minute—what I should have done in the first place. His reply:
What, a waste of an hour? I stand at the window and see a lone brown-gray seagull perched on Elysium’s white picket fence below, its head buried into its neck. It must be cold out. When did I go out last? Oh yeah, Monday. And now it’s Friday. Just like my childhood and marriage: I’m on lockdown all week until I’m freed for the weekend.
I open Promises.doc and go to work. Today’s topic: the summer of 1976.
Chapter 5
The summer of 1976, the summer of Sam Berkowitz
“The killer of brunettes who is eligible for parole next year,” I whisper. “What a country.”
and his neighbor’s talking Labrador retriever,
“Who is probably chasing angelic rabbits in doggie heaven by now.”
the summer of Elton John, who sold out an entire week at Madison Square Garden,
“Buh-buh-buh Benny and the Jetsssssssss,” I sing.
the summer of Romanian gymnast Nadia Comaneci, boxer Sugar Ray Leonard, and decathlete Bruce Jenner in Montreal,
“Who got himself a nifty Wheaties box.”
the summer of a buck-toothed presidential candidate
“Who never got into an elevator alone with a woman.”
who had a brother named Billy,
“Who had a beer named after him.”
the summer of Cincinnati’s Big Red Machine that would sweep the Yankees in the World Series,
I’d like to blame Sam Berkowitz for that. All those women in blond wigs trying not to be brunette in the stands at Yankee Stadium must have made it hard for the Yankees to see the ball.
the summer of Frampton Comes Alive!
Now that was a phenomenon I have never understood. Of all the outstanding music that came out of 1976, when George Benson’s Breezin’ and Stevie’s album kicked ass at the Grammys, a nobody from England makes a live two-record album singing uninspiring songs like “Show Me the Way” and “Baby I Love Your Way”—and sells thirteen million copies. No, I did not feel the way you did, Peter Frampton.
For Peter Underhill, however, none of that mattered. All that mattered that hot summer was baseball, baseball, and more baseball—and a girl named Ebony.
When the Captain signed up Peter for baseball, Peter was amazed.
“It’ll do you good to get out of the house this summer,” the Captain said. “And it’s an American game that every American boy should play.”
Most games were played at Southdown Elementary or Milldam Ball Park across the road from Milldam Bait and Tackle, just a quick run through the woods behind Peter’s house. And attending every game was Ebony Mills, a girl who Peter wore two pairs of underwear for. She was his biggest and only fan, the Captain always having some excuse for not watching.
“Are you going to watch the parade, sir?” Peter asked before the annual march of Little Leaguers down West Shore Road.
“Uh, no. Gonna slap some more varnish on the Argo. The interior’s looking ragged.”
“Are you coming to our first game, sir?” Peter asked on opening day.
“Uh, no. Heard a hitch in the Volvo”—the Argo’s engine—“the other day we were out. May have to have it rebuilt by the end of the summer.”
“Coach says I may get to pitch some today since we’re playing the Phillies,” Peter told him midway through the season. “They’re in last place, and we beat ’em eighteen to nothing last time.”
“Uh, no, Pete. Gonna put up some new rigging. Probably take most of the morning. I want to get that mizzen up right this time.”
“We’re playing the Mets today, Captain,” Peter told him near the end of the season. “They’re in first place. If we beat them, we’ll be tied and have to have a play-off game.”
“Uh, not today, Pete. Gotta do something about that creak where the head partition meets the cabin ceiling.”
That creak was a problem my father never solved. The man talked to that creak for years, and on overnight sails to Block Island, he had to wear earplugs to get any sleep. I liked that creak, mainly because it was a mystery the Captain couldn’t solve, and because it also had a rhythm, like the clanging of the bells on buoys in the sea-lanes.
When Peter made the all-star team, he told the Captain where (Milldam Ball Park) and when (11 A.M. on Saturday) the game would be played, and the Captain said he’d try to be there. “Ain’t making any promises, Pete. The dinghy’s outboard needs some work, and you know the stove needs cleaning.”
I know why he signed me up—to get me out of his way that summer—but it still hurt. It still hurts. I wasn’t a bad ballplayer and even hit a ground ball home run into the parking lot at Southdown. I fielded most of the balls hit to me, had an accurate arm, and threw more strikes than balls when I pitched. He never saw me play, not later in high school, not once in college. And he never asked me how I did or how the team did. The Argo, which had replaced Mom, had also replaced me for the Captain’s attention and affection. The sailboat seemed to be my father’s therapy, because though he didn’t talk about Mom’s departure, he was drinking and sailing away that sorrow—and I wasn’t invited on the trip.
The phone rings. It has to be Henry.
“Hey, Henry.”
“This is some funny stuff, Pete. But I just have to know how you’re going to get them together.”
I haven’t thought about that at all. “I want to surprise you, Henry.”
“Oh, come on, you have to tell me.”
I have to tell myself first. “I want to keep you in suspense.”
“It will be in some off-the-wall place, I hope.”
“Definitely, and you’ll be the first on earth to know, right?”
“Right.”
“So…will you run everything by the managing editor?”
“Sure will. This has promise. How does a twenty-five thousand-dollar advance sound?”
Shit. I made advances of $80,000 on the other two. “Just twenty-five?”
“Look, Pete, times are hard with all that’s happened. And it’s been a long time since Desiree’s
last novel. I’ll try to get you more, but I’m not making any promises.”
“Do what you can.”
“Let’s not dwell on it now, okay? Desiree Holland is back, and it’s cause for celebration! We’ll have to have a party tonight, okay?”
A party to celebrate a book I can’t say that I’m writing? “Sure.”
“See you soon.” Click.
Will it be a party of three…or a party of two with a third wheel?
Peter stopped looking for his father after the second game of the season, and he got used to playing for Ebony, his audience of one who yelled his name and cheered “Seven” around the bases. He also became friends with Simon Lloyd, a tall black kid on his team who went to Finley Junior High and thought that Ebony was “dyno-mite.”
“She your girlfriend?” Simon asked Peter after the first game.
“Yeah.”
“You must be goin’ to church, man. Your prayers are bein’ answered. She got a sister?”
After games at Southdown, Peter would walk Ebony home through smooth streets and past air-conditioned, aluminum-sided houses of eyes staring out from between custom drapes and blinds. They didn’t hold hands (“Cuz you’re sweaty, Peter”), and they parted ways before getting to Grace Lane.
Each parting was the same. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “You’re welcome,” she said. She’d twist the white friendship bracelet that she had woven for him and that she wore for him because Peter didn’t want the Captain asking any questions about it. Then she’d smile and sigh. He’d sigh, smile, and reach out to touch her hand, which she would pull back. “Bye,” she’d say. “Bye,” he’d say.
“My God, we were so shy,” I whisper. “And cute. We were definitely cute together.”
But after games at Milldam Park, they strolled through the woods, hand in hand, past the Orlando dance studio where girls frolicked behind picture windows in a round house surrounded by trees. Peter and Ebony took as long as they could to wind up the path to the shady space under the deck behind Peter’s house, and once there, they kissed, they held each other, they learned about each other’s bodies, they dreamed, they found peace.
“I didn’t know you got a tan,” Peter said, admiring the whitish stripe on Ebony’s wrist under the friendship bracelet.
“Of course I do. All people tan. The sun smiles on us all, Peter.”
“Some more than others,” Peter said, tickling Ebony’s stomach.
“Careful now,” she said, grabbing his hands. “You know what might happen if you start messing down there.”
“What might happen?”
She sighed. “I might jump your bones.”
Peter, who had learned to control himself by reading the phone book in his mind, smiled and pinned her to the soft leaves under the deck. “Or I might jump your bones.”
She kissed his chin. “You like my bones?”
He kissed her cheek, sliding his hand under her T-shirt, caressing her velvety stomach. “Yes.” He slid his hand higher, daring her with his eyes to stop him.
“You like my titties, too, don’t you?”
His hand reached the edge of her bra and stopped. He slipped one finger under the elastic and felt her heart beating as fast as his.
“Go ahead, Peter. They won’t bite.”
“Are you sure it’s okay?”
She nodded.
He felt her heat seeping into his fingers, which immediately reminded him of the fires of hell. He pulled his finger back as if it were on fire. “Uh, I better not.”
“Why?”
“Cuz…cuz I don’t want to go to hell.”
Ebony slapped his hand off her stomach, pulled down her shirt, and sat up. “What’s this about hell?”
“I’m afraid I’ll do something bad.”
She crossed her arms. “You’ve been doing something bad with me every time we get together under here, Peter.”
“I have?”
She smiled. “Sure you have, and so have I. I have had the most wicked thoughts.”
Peter swallowed hard. “You…have?”
“Uh-huh. Like I want to do it with you so bad it hurts.”
Oh…whoa! “I’ve been thinking the same thing, and I know I shouldn’t be thinking it.”
“Thinking it and doing it are two totally different things. Just cuz I want to doesn’t mean I’m gonna do it. And I’m not.” She bit her lip. “Not yet anyway. I might let you get pretty far though.” She took his hand and pulled it under her shirt, placing it on her right breast. “It’s soft, isn’t it?”
Peter held his breath. “Y-yeah.”
She slid his hand slowly to the other. “Just as soft as this one, huh?”
He nodded.
She pushed his hand gently down her stomach, stopping it above her shorts. “You feel where I’m stopping you, Peter Underhill?”
He nodded and exhaled deeply. “Yeah.”
“That’s as far as you go, understand?”
“Yeah.”
“You try to go any farther, and we’re gonna be fighting.”
“I won’t go any farther.”
She giggled. “But if you don’t try, I might start thinking that you don’t like me.”
Peter’s heart hurt. “But I do like you.”
“Do you more than like me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love me?”
Peter had never truly loved anyone in his life. He admired his mother and her courage to leave, and he respected and feared his father, but admiration, respect, and fear weren’t love. “I think I do.”
She sighed. “I think I love you, too. But we can’t be going any farther until we’re sure. Agreed?”
Peter smiled, his chest loosening. “Yeah.”
They lay on their backs beside each other, staring up at the bottom of the deck, fingers touching.
“What are you thinking about right now?” she asked.
“How glad I am that you don’t want to do it with me.”
She giggled. “You hear what you just said?”
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant,” she interrupted. “I’m glad you don’t want to do it with me either.”
“But I do!”
She rolled over on top of him, and he wrapped his arms around her. “I know you do.” She pushed his hands down until they cupped her buttocks. “Squeeze hard.”
Oh GEEZ…and I’m wearing a cup!
“You just go off again?”
Peter nodded, his breaths coming in spasms.
“From just one little squeeze of my butt?”
“Yeah.”
She rested her head on his chest. “I better not be grabbing your butt then. You’re liable to drown me or something.”
A door slammed above them, the door to the kitchen slammed, the door to the kitchen slammed and rattled and footsteps came down the narrow path to the deck and
I hit file-save and quit, shutting down the laptop.
I have to get out, got to get out, haven’t left this cell in four days, unshaved, unshowered, same clothes, got to blend my smells with the swells, be Prufrock for a spell with my Levis rolled, got to get to Swinburne’s “Mother and lover of me, the sea to close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me,” got to get the f—
Where’s my notepad? There. Pen. Scribble on a corner. A black ink squiggle. Jacket? I don’t even care if it’s cold outside! Screw the jacket, I’m out.
I hit the door running, slamming it behind me, the Poet nowhere in sight, the stairs disappearing, the gate opening, my feet running on Green Walk, my bare feet (where are my shoes?) running to the water, to the shore, to the sand, to see—
Infinity.
Is the tide out or in? Is the wind from the north or south? Why am I the only one—
Oh yeah, it’s October, it’s cold, and I’m wearing a Steelers sweatshirt with ratty jeans rolled up, my bone-white feet tracing paths in the sand where the water meets the land.
I plunk down in sand soake
d as if with tears under a flame-red sky and watch my hand ripping across the page:
cold briny devil and the deep (calling to deep) blue sea,
wind the color of water tasting of sea foam,
tide neither out (exposing the dead, the dying)
nor in (erasing the dying, the dead),
sound of a single seagull, hovering, silent wings
like slow-motion helicopter blades,
smoke from Manhattan,
a thousand fearful wrecks…
cold sand, white/brown/black sand melded together,
an endless sea of faces stretching east to west,
green foam covering small collisions of land and sea,
the seventh wave approaching,
the sixth wave, my generation
nearing its end and on its way out,
the seventh generation
crashing onto these teeming shores…
cold shell, Daedalus’ logic with a string,
ocean in one ear, echo in another—
what behemoth, what leviathan swims just offshore
beneath the surface, watching me, circling me,
with fins of lead and crooked inviting fingers
opening screen doors and stalking me…
how often my toes dangled as bait for the vast unseen,
how often I was spared to sleep with the fishes,
what behemoth, what leviathan spared me…
cold painting, Winslow Homer’s Breezing Up,
boy furled in a sail, secure but inert,
yearning for what he fears,
on the sea but not sailing,
his captain a king, a god on the sea,
but on land, on land nothing…
cold rhythm here where man’s control stops,
a justice, cruel, cold, uncompromising—
“that would be the life!”—