by Lou Cove
It’s one thing if the Serpico guy gives us crap at the Bunghole, but another thing altogether when Phil Donahue and his audience of little old ladies do it on national TV. Howie holds his own, never backing down, making eloquent points whenever he’s given a chance. And in the end, we still feel it’s a victory. He gave it to the Man.
“Well, kids,” Mama says when they roll the credits, “you just got your first taste of the rest of America. Let’s be glad we live in a place that’s a little more tolerant.”
“Salem?” I ask, incredulous.
“Let’s start with 31 Chestnut,” she replies.
*
Howie returns to Boston to guest on WCVB’s Good Day! Playgirl has him flying in and out the same day to make an appearance in Ontario, so we don’t get to see him, but Mama lets us stay home from school again for the noontime broadcast.
Uncle Rick comes over after work for a drink and says he had to convince the men lunching at the bar across the street from the Sylvania plant to switch on Good Day!—a show they’d never watch. But when it aired, Howie interrupted John Willis right in the middle of the interview to face the camera and say, “I just want to give a big hello to Rick and all the Sylvania guys at the Sports Haven Bar in Salem. I know you’d rather be watching McHale’s Navy than seeing this hippie who got naked for a magazine, but you’re the best and so is Salem!” The guys went ballistic. And John Willis, for the first time in his career, went silent.
The tour rolls on and Howie sends postcards from the road.
“Shook hands with the Prime Minister of Canada!”
“Did event with two Penthouse Pets in Warren, OH, at a van show. I got no $$$ but did get good pair of car speakers.”
“Met Playboy’s Miss August in Hartford. Issue’s not out yet but I predict she will beat all comers. Look for her: Dorothy Stratten.”
Who’s the Stupid Idiot Now?
School ends with a whimper. Salem sheds its chilly cloak and quickly becomes a furnace. Come August, Papa packs us in the car for a summer on Mount Desert Island in Maine, where Howie and Carly will meet us for a much-needed reunion. Amanda and I distract ourselves by searching the side of the road for punny signs of worship: THE WORLD’S GOT YOU DOWN, BUT THE SON ALSO RISES. GOD IS AT THE END OF YOUR ROPE. WHAT IS MISSING FROM CH__CH? U R. SALVATION GUARANTEED OR YOUR SINS CHEERFULLY REFUNDED.
“Wait until you see the place we’re staying,” Papa shouts from the front seat. “You don’t get to be in a place like this unless you’re born into a place like this. But you’re about to be reborn, kinderlekh.”
We take a dirt road up a hill to the house the owners have dubbed The Studio. It’s the smaller of the two houses on the estate, but it’s big enough to sleep all of us, including Howie and Carly, when they get here, and the four Freedmans, who I wish weren’t coming. Although it’s sprawling for a studio, the house is musty and old and not at all the kind of place I would like to be born. But it does have one thing going for it: a freestanding log cabin out back, up the hill. Miraculously, Papa lets me claim it.
I retreat to my new Fortress of Musty Solitude and fill it with familiar odds, ends, and jujus:
• Super Friends sleeping bag, stuffing spilling out, frayed red interior skin as soft as can be.
• RadioShack Realistic SCR-1 complete portable music system (“record your own tapes ‘off-the-air,’ in stereo, any time!”).
• A three-pack of Concertapes low-noise, high-quality blank cassettes for recording stuff off the radio.
• Three tapes I bought from the Record Exchange before we left (Damn the Torpedoes, Born to Run, A New World Record [ELO]) and one from RadioShack (Top Hits of the ’70s, Volume I, including “Black Magic Woman,” “Hold Your Head Up,” “Brandy,” “Baby Don’t Get Hooked on Me,” and “Come and Get Your Love”).
• Atjeh’s bowls, balls, and bones.
• New issues of Vampirella, Doc Savage, Morbius the Living Vampire, and Playboy. This last I swiped from Gramps’s downstairs bathroom before we left. As Howie promised, Miss August ’79 is something different—pure and dirty, blonde hair, brunette pubes, gloss-red pinup lips, Little Annie Fanny boobs, and lonely eyes, missing something (you) while also possessing something (you).
• Bucky Kerchak, the stuffed monkey I got and named so long ago now, given name for Captain America’s sidekick, surname for the Mangani king and slayer of Tarzan’s father, John Clayton Sr. Evil though he is, without Kerchak there is no Tarzan. Anonymous though he may be, without Bucky Barnes, Cap is just a boring bunch of muscles and a shield. You’re the superlative sidekick, chum. Deputy of Destiny.
• Dusty baggie of clumped pot leaves, stems, and seeds I’ve saved from weeks of pinching, plus water bong, rolling papers, and turquoise feather roach clip.
Atjeh sleeps inside my Super Friends sleeping bag with me, protected from the kind of late-night trouble that might get her evicted from the family for good. Every morning my chest is gouged. This morning she scrambles against me, thick tongue licking my cheek, reeking of the garlic calamari I pawned off on her under the table at dinner last night. I reach up lazily to grab her face and hug her closer. She tries to take a bite out of Bucky Kerchak and I pull the little stuffed monkey away from her.
Howie and Carly still haven’t arrived, so I seek out Papa and he takes me for a drive along the coast to the edge of Echo Lake. He talks a lot about when I was born. What the world was like then, how things have changed, how big I seem to him now.
“I still want to be able to pick you up and put you on my shoulders,” he says thoughtfully. I used to sit there, above the crowds at Fort Sewall summer concerts, holding onto his ears, watching the performers, the expanse of Marblehead Harbor sparkling behind them, for as long as I wanted.
We park in a small lot and quickly disappear into the woods. I move slowly, tired and still chilled, but Papa coaxes me forward. “The quicker you move the quicker you’ll warm up. Then you’ll really be ready for a swim.”
I watch my feet as we move at a steady clip through the woods of Acadia National Park. The trail is quiet, no backpackers or dog walkers to be seen, just beaver-felled trees and the red-white flash of a milk snake flitting under a rotten log.
“Crystal clear waters at twelve o’clock,” Papa says as we emerge from the woods. The lake is huge with massive stone slabs at the edge, angled like Evel Knievel ramps just begging for a jump. “Ready for a swim?”
He sheds his T-shirt, runs up a particularly tall granite ramp, and disappears into the rippling mirror image of the cloudless sky.
Papa’s energy is infectious, and I strip my own shirt and kick off my sneakers. I can smell my pits—a relatively recent phenomenon, one of many. The water in the lake is cold, but nothing like the icy Atlantic that hugs the island. I surface quickly, bobbing and spinning slowly in place.
I take five deep breaths, prepping for a deep dive. On the sixth I go under, head first, and open my eyes. The secrets of the lake are all there, like hidden ruins. Below, I see Papa emerge from behind a huge erect slab in the darkest part of the lake, his white body catching the sun. He swims toward me and waves. I wave back.
As we surface Papa laughs, wiping the lake water from his mustache. I feel like I haven’t seen him for so long.
“God this feels good,” he sputters.
We swim for close to an hour, and I can’t stop. Even as my body grows cold I feel an inexpressible tug from the crystal water. No one else comes. The moment is just me and my long-lost father, diving, rising, diving again.
“Look,” Papa whispers, pointing above us as we float on the warmer surface.
Over our heads a tiny bird hangs motionless on the wind, its wings a gray blur, its belly emerald green. It darts left. Hangs. Right. Hangs. Turns and jets away toward a patch of tall purple flowers in the meadow.
“Hummingbird,” he tells me.
“Wicked.”
“That’s one word for it. Ready to go?”
“Not yet,” I answe
r.
“Me neither.” So we dive under the water again, back to our own new world.
*
We walk back in silence, my heart still beating with the thrill of the lake, my skin cool and alive with new feelings. The muddy path has hardened to dirt mixed with the powder of a million leaves trod, crumbled, and battered by Maine—its rugged weather and countless hikers who have come before us.
“Well, it’s summer now,” Papa says. He stops, kneels, and pulls an aluminum canteen from his knapsack. “Screwed the cap on too tight,” he grunts. “Great.” He twists again.
“Can I try?”
“I got it. Hold on. Oof. Little bastard’s gonna hold a grudge.”
“I can do it.”
“Go ahead,” he snuffs, a note of exasperation atop the invitation. I put my palm over the cap, hold the canteen to my chest, and twist. “See? It’s not going…”
I feel my breath release with the cap, a little splash of water reaches up to my chin.
He chuckles, gazes up at the leafy quilt over our heads. A hot breeze nudges the branches and a few rays of radiant light break through and scatter along the floor of the forest. “Or maybe I’m just getting older? Hm? I know you are.” We start back, Papa trailing behind this time, talking as much to himself as to me. “How the hell did that happen? When did I get old?”
“You’re not old,” I call over my shoulder as I jump across the last wet bull’s-eye of what had been a broad puddle.
“Oh?”
“No. You’re only thirty-eight. There’s a kid in my class whose dad is fifty-two!”
“His dad had him when he was forty? Huh. That’s like if I decided to have a fourth kid next year.”
“Would you?”
“Not on your life. I mean, I love my children. You know that. But this is work.” Pause. “I mean, the best kind of work there is. I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. I’d never trade you.”
“Is that an option?”
“No! Of course not. That’s not what I meant. I only meant that three is enough. Three is great. I love my three children and that’s a good number, a good group for spreading my love around to. Don’t want to spread it too thin.”
“And Mama,” I say.
“What about Mama?”
“Three children and Mama. To spread your love around to.”
“Of course, Mama. You, your brother and sister, and Mama. And like I said, you’re getting older … We’re almost at the end.”
“The end of what?”
“Of the trail. I mean, the point where the trail splits ahead. Keep a lookout.”
I Can Handle One More
Howie and Carly arrive, naturally sparkling but also subdued. They’re full of countless stories from the victory tour, encounters with stars and sycophants, yet there is a feeling of deep exhaustion at their core. For the first time, I can see a slight hint of effort behind their affection. Unconditional love, conditioned by new demands on a previously unencumbered life.
We flip through their latest photographs together after dinner, and I am reminded of that first night, almost a year ago, when scenes from their exotic existence together unfolded on an illuminated sheet tacked to the wall.
“I wish I could have gone with you,” I tell them.
“It was something to see,” Howie replies. “Ain’t easy being handsome for a living.”
“What about the wardrobe?” I ask. “Did you get it yet?”
“Not yet, gringo. Still waiting on that prize. But how about this velour jacket? Scored it at the big flea market in Berkeley.” He turns around to show the Japanese dragon embroidered in the soft black material on the back.
We ooh and ahh and keep looking at pictures until Amanda stands up suddenly.
“It was better with you here,” she says. “There, I mean. With us. You should stay with us.”
“Oh, we missed the Coves!” Carly tells us. “You are our numero uno familia segundo.”
“A-fucking-men,” Howie testifies.
I look to my parents, Mama teary, Papa nodding approvingly. I’m grateful they’ve made this happen, again. And here in a musty summer house six hours north of Salem I am aware, for perhaps the first time, that where we are is less important than who we are with.
*
Steve, Enid, and their kids arrive a few days later, adding a new layer of chaos. The adults pad around in their Docksiders, sample the wines Steve collected on his recent vineyard tours, take turns cooking odd foods: salmon pâté balls stuffed in avocado holes; greasy green beans with chunks of garlic; blueberry ginger cookies; chicken with burnt skin; scallion pork dumplings, burnt in the pan. They drink, play Yahtzee and shoo us away.
Howie is the center of everyone’s attention. “What’s Phil Donahue like?” “Who did you meet in Hollywood?” I scoff. Where were they when we were posting fliers and lobbying voters?
I finally manage to get him away from the group and show him my cabin.
“It’s a score!” he says. “Bachelor pad extraordinaire!”
“I like having a place to myself,” I confirm. “Separate.”
Howie lays on the bed, stares at the ceiling, and runs his hands through his hair. “Kind of like your Secure Position?”
“It is,” I say, not having made that connection but in total agreement.
“I’ve been thinking about that notion,” he tells me. “All this time on the road, I’ve been thinking about where my secure position is.” I want to suggest Chestnut Street but I know that’s not where he’s going. “I’m thinking it might not be LA. I’m not getting the good vibe there. But that’s where the work is. I don’t know, we’ll see. But if I’m honest, it’s Berkeley. I’m home there.” I nod, knowing and resigned. “You need to come out. California! You haven’t been there since … when?”
“Since I was five.”
“It’s time, amigo. It’s time. You’ll see. The people are decent, nature is everywhere, and the girls are cute as can be. We’ll eat tacos, walk the Golden Gate, and hit the naked beach near Pacifica!”
“Can I stay with you?” I ask, ready to fly.
“As long as you want. Any time you want. Just ask the folks.” He sits up and puts an arm around me. “You have a second home there.”
“It’ll be my ninth, but that’s OK,” I tell him. “I can handle one more.”
*
These moments with Howie are fewer than I would like, but I have a new distraction to occupy my time and thoughts. The nanny working for the family in the mansion up the hill grabs my attention by the throat. I’ve seen her coming and going on the path, little kids in tow, all blonde hair and white teeth, but we’ve yet to meet in person. That hasn’t stopped me from making her virtual acquaintance in the privacy of my sleeping bag. As Penny made me forget myself and Gretchen made me forget Penny, so the summer goddess on the hill has possessed me anew. I forget what is missing and obsess about what might be.
Then one night, Yahweh decides to show mercy. He brings the vision to my cabin door in tight jeans and white Izod concealing a body built for a centerfold.
“Hi, I’m Sarah. From LA,” she tells me.
“California?”
“Maine.”
“LA’s in California…”
“Lewiston-Auburn, silly. We call it LA.” She walks over to my RadioShack Realistic SCR-1 and presses EJECT. “Damn the Torpedoes? I don’t know this one,” she says, holding the white Tom Petty cassette. “Do you like James Taylor?”
“Sure,” I say, nodding. I like anything right now.
“Maybe I’ll bring some by…”
“Sarah!” A gruff command from the top of the hill, plainly urgent.
“I have to go,” she says, suddenly scared and already out the door. “Maybe we can hang out after my kids go to bed?”
I look for her over the next few days but she never shows. I sneak up to the mansion on the hill a few times, even knock once, but no one answers.
“What are you doin
g up there?” Papa says when he sees me ambling back down the dirt road one morning. He’s wearing a red T-shirt with gold deco lettering: MARRIED.
“Nothing. Just looking around.”
“For the babysitter?”
“Who?”
“I saw her. Give me a little more credit than that. I don’t blame you. But I think they went sailing for a few days.”
“Oh,” I frown.
“I want you to take your brother and sister down to the dock,” he says.
“Babysit?! It’s vacation,” I whine, but he flashes Papa eyes and I know I’ve lost.
*
I’m the only one who knows how to put a worm on a hook, and I do so dutifully. “I don’t want to fish,” Amanda sighs. “Me, too,” David echoes. “I don’t want to.”
“Just fish,” I tell them. Just shut up and fish.
My experience fishing has taught me that this activity is typically 99 percent waiting and, if you’re lucky, 1 percent fish. But Mount Desert Island isn’t typical. This is a place where hummingbirds visit you while you swim and summer goddesses appear at your door. So I shouldn’t be surprised when a silvery school erupts beneath us. Suddenly, it’s impossible not to catch a fish. Just drop a line and pull. It’s thrilling. Magical. Until it becomes the scene of an epic fish massacre. After five minutes of hooking and landing we are inundated with dozens of flopping fish. Back at the house Papa informs us that our gift of thirty-seven slayed pollock is all but worthless.
“The only thing mushier than grilled pollock is oatmeal. Maybe we can make a stew.”
He does, and it is disgusting. I go to bed hungry.
Sarah finally returns around eleven thirty. The lantern is still burning, as it has been each night before, but I fell asleep a while ago. “Are you awake?” she whispers, closing the heavy log door against the settling cold.
“Yup,” I assure her, rubbing my eyes.
“OK if I come in?” I nod eagerly, sitting up and trying to get my bearings. “It smells kind of fishy in here.” I shrug. “I brought some music. Where’s your player?” she asks, pulling a white cassette from her back pocket. Mud Slide Slim and the Blue Horizon. I pop it into my little deck.