Barren Island

by Carol Zoref

  Lois stepped in. “There will be time, gentlemen, to resume this conversation, but we must press on before the ice melts.” She stroked Noah’s back and nudged him forward. Joey lifted the box of ice; Yorgos grabbed the food basket.

  “What was that about?” Sofia whispered.

  I shrugged. “How about we ask George?”

  “This is rather charming,” said Lois, when the rows of cottages where we lived came into sight. “Your own little Cherry Grove. Albeit a touch more rusticated.”

  “No cherry trees here,” said Joey. “Just beach plums, strawberries, blackberries. Beach plums and blackberries ain’t ready yet. Strawberries is come and gone.”

  “I believe they have,” replied Lois. She adjusted her hat to better shade her. “To whom do these bungalows belong?”

  “It’s where we live,” replied Yorgos, warily. “My family over here, Noah’s next door. Joey and his big brothers on the other end.”

  “His parents are dead,” added Sofia. “The influenza.”

  Saying “influenza” was like saying “the war”: everyone knew this meant the epidemic, just like everyone knew that “war” meant The Great War.

  “How dreadful for you, Joey,” said Lois. “And how lucky that you have older brothers to look after you.”

  Sofia and I winced, but said nothing. Nor did Yorgos or Noah.

  Thank goodness no one from our families saw us passing. What made me understand that these worlds should never collide? Was it when Lois described our houses as “charming”? I might not have been worldly, but I was not an idiot. Our houses were just a half-step up from shacks.

  We continued down to the beach on the same path we took to go fishing, to gather clamshells, to disappear. It was the same path that I walked year after year with Sofia and Noah and years ago with Helen. Now, for the first time, I imagined what the island looked like through someone else’s eyes. I imagined the quiet beach and the sad, little schoolhouse; I imagined the vegetable garden and the outhouses; I pictured the gatehouse, and the factory, and the men going to work. I saw Katrine and Joey stripping meat from a dead horse; I saw my father butchering what was left of it.

  I could not stand what I saw. I closed my eyes. I was dazed by the smell. Even on Sunday, with the fires banked and the loading shoots empty, there was always the smell.

  I ran to catch up with the others. Lois and Gray had seated themselves on the big driftwood log at the water’s edge. The others were sitting on the sand. “Shall we begin?” said Gray, sounding both impatient and eager. “The best quality, dry London gin, not that awful Canadian bootlegger swill. Thank heavens Roosevelt put a stop to Prohibition. Talk about your New Deal! Ha! Though I confess that there was something much—how shall I explain it—freer about drinking in speakeasies with so many sorts of reprobates. Who among them wasn’t breaking the law!? It was stunning. Now, sadly enough, we’ve been abandoned again to our own indiscretions, to our bathhouses and bars.”

  “They don’t know what you’re talking about,” scolded Lois. “Gray means....”

  “It means he’s a fairy,” said Yorgos, interrupting her. “A stroll in the park for Gray means Vaseline Alley.”

  “As opposed to you, George, who frequents New York’s finest teahouses?”

  Yorgos laughed. “Fat chance. That would be Noah.”

  “They drink plenty of tea at Yorgos’ house; Noah’s too,” added Joey. He did not understand the “fairy” comment. Or Vaseline Alley, or teahouse, or bathhouse. Then again, neither did Sofia nor I.

  Noah blushed.

  “Of course they do, darling,” said Lois. “Now why don’t you try one of my cigarettes.” She offered Joey her case; when he reached for it she pulled back. “Here,” she said, reconsidering. “Let me.” She opened the case, removed a cigarette, lit it with her matching silver lighter, and handed it to him, careful that his fingertips never touched hers. I cannot blame her; his hands were filthy. “Please, Gray; please continue.”

  “Now where was I?” asked Gray, ignoring the tension. “Ah: dry vermouth, of course. The Supreme Court of Appeals of Turin, I’ll have you know, has made it illegal for cafes to sell a martini cocktail unless it is confected from Martini & Rossi vermouth.”

  “That’s in Italy,” said Joey.

  “Exactly so, dear friend.” Gray held the gin and vermouth bottles side by side, as if they were finely cut, leaded crystal.

  “Quality gin and vermouth are imperative because, unlike a gin & tonic, a martini contains nothing to camouflage the taste of an inferior gin. And why dilute a superior gin with tonic water? Have we been posted to the sub-continent? Are we traders in Indo-China? No, my friends, no, and therefore unlikely to succumb to that devilish malaria mosquito.”

  “There’s no malaria on Barren Shoal,” said Joey. Lois’ cigarette was dangling from his lips; a thread of smoke was rising into his nose. “Just mosquitoes. Not all mosquitoes are malaria.”

  “You’ve got one hell of a memory there, Dr. Schweitzer,” said Noah.

  “My name is Joey. Joey Pessara.”

  “Why do you know so much about malaria, Joey Pessara?” asked Lois. She was still dabbing her handkerchief to her nose. Her hat was pulled down as low as it would go.

  “We talked about it when Mr. Boyle put up the gate. Where you met Mr. DeWitt,” explained Joey.

  “I see,” she said, sounding interested but not curious enough to ask what one thing had to do with the other. “Well, you don’t look like a doctor to me anyway. You’re more like a movie star with those Hollywood looks of yours.”

  “You got a cold?” Joey asked, suddenly so self-conscious that he changed the subject.

  “Not at all, Hollywood,” said Lois. “Oh, this?” she asked, referring to her handkerchief. “The odor, you certainly understand, is....”

  “This ain’t nothing,” said Joey, perking up. “You should get a whiff of it on a regular day, when the heat’s up and them work horses is dropping dead in the streets like bugs and the barges are loaded full and the furnaces can’t burn ‘em fast enough and....”

  “Knock it off,” said Noah. It was hard to tell what made Noah more uncomfortable: Lois and Gray seeing us and Barren Shoal and smelling the smell, or us seeing Lois and Gray and how they dressed and how they spoke. It was one thing for Noah to breach their world, even if invited; it was something else for them to trespass into ours. To them this was a grotesque place of sickening smells. For us it was home, never mind how bad it smelled or looked to anyone else.

  “Might I continue before the ice melts?” asked Gray.

  Lois held her handkerchief to her nose with one hand and offered her cigarette case to Yorgos and Noah with the other. I half hoped she would offer one to Sofia and me; I was relieved that she did not.

  “The quality of ice matters as much as the gin, since it will melt somewhat while I’m mixing. The melted water is a concealed but vital component that marries the gin and vermouth. If the ice is made from inferior water, the quality of the martini will be utterly compromised.

  “The lemon, as well, should be fresh, preferably with a thick, stiff, glossy skin. As stippled and rich as a lemon in a Dutch still life.”

  He extracted an unblemished lemon from the food hamper.

  “That’s a Dutch lemon?” asked Sofia, eager by now to hear anything that Gray had to say. And why not: he was charming; he was well-spoken. He and Lois were like no one else we knew. They were urbane. They saw Noah and Yorgos, I imagine, as provincial. Maybe that was the allure. I cannot imagine what they thought of Joey or Sofia or me. I will not attempt to speak for them; it is exhausting enough to speak for myself.

  “Excuse my poor manners, young lady,” said Gray. “The Dutch painted exquisite still lifes in the 17th century: flowers, fruits, fish, game. You shall go, one day, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. You will see the magnificent lemons of ‘Still Life with a Glass and Oysters.’ It is beyond amazing. It is sublime. But that is for another day.

  �
��Now, then: necessary tools include a shaker, proper glasses, a measure, and a freshly sharpened paring knife.” He produced these like a magician, like a surgeon, like a veteran drinker. “A martini should be served in a proper glass. Bear in mind that the traditional glass has functional aspects: its shallow, conical bowl forces one to sip the drink rather than tossing it back in large, vulgar gulps; the stem allows one to avoid holding the bowl, which would transmit heat to the drink, causing it to warm prematurely. Unfortunately, we have with us today only four martini glasses and, therefore, no solution but for the boys and for the girls to share.”

  “I can run back and get some,” said Yorgos. “Just regular glasses, nothing fancy.”

  “Perhaps this is a perfect mission for Hollywood.”

  “They don’t got glasses at his house. They drink from empty tins.”

  “Then off you go, George: posthaste.”

  Yorgos trotted away through the dune grass. Gray continued his lesson.

  “Just prior to mixing, carefully carve a thin slice from the peel of the lemon. Cut just deeply enough to include a bit of white pith to give the twist some stiffness; avoid cutting into the yellow pulp of the fruit. Now gently set the twist aside.

  “Noah, please: get the shaker out of the box of ice. The glasses can remain there for now. Fill the shaker half full of ice. Pour two-thirds of a pony of vermouth into the shaker, coating the ice.” Gray raised the measuring glasses to eye level. “Then tip two jiggers of gin into the shaker.’

  “A pony!” cried Joey, laughing and slapping his leg. It had taken a moment for the word to sink in.

  Gray scowled. “Affix the lid of the shaker and agitate in a vertical motion for 10 to 15 seconds. Remove the glass from the ice, holding it in a clean bar towel to avoid spoiling the frost. At last, carefully strain the mixed martini from the shaker into the glass.

  “Hold the strip of lemon peel horizontally, one inch above the surface of the martini, yellow side facing downward. Gently but firmly squeeze along its length, expressing the volatile citric oils onto the surface of the drink. Holding the strip by its ends, twist it into a corkscrew shape, briefly tug on the ends, then squeeze it back into shape. Only then should you gently drop the twist into the glass.

  “And that, my loves, is a martini.” He handed the first one to Lois and started on the next. “I sense that we will be ready for those supplementary glasses at the very moment George reappears. Now girls, be dears and retrieve the delicacies from the basket. Beneath the tablecloth you’ll find a hundred little cucumber mint sandwiches, herbed cream cheese sandwiches, and ham watercress sandwiches.”

  And so there were. Not that we actually counted. Is it ungrateful to say that these sandwiches were not worth the bother? Not that I minded eating them, except the ham, which I bit into and swallowed in a gulp, my penance for throwing caution to the wind and eating pork. But they seemed like a whole lot of trouble for not a whole lot of taste.

  Yorgos reappeared with the jelly glasses. Sofia and I volunteered to use them, but Gray would not hear of it.

  “I could have sworn you girls were paying attention: a martini should be served in a proper glass. The boys shall flip a coin to see who gets the jelly glasses.”

  This was easier said than done: none of the boys had any money and Lois and Gray had nothing smaller than dollar bills.

  “Wait a second!” cried Joey. “We can pick straws!” He jumped up and pulled out a clump of dune grass.

  “Utter genius!” cried Gray, as Joey ripped three pieces of dune grass into equal lengths. He bit off the end of just one to make it shorter. “Lois, dear: would you adjudicate?”

  Lois held the grass while the boys selected.

  “Hollywood wins!” she cried. Joey, of all people, would drink from a bona fide martini glass while Noah and Yorgos drank from junk.

  “Now Lois, again please do the honors of the first taste,” begged Gray.

  “Brilliant!” announced Lois. “Let the games begin!”

  Joey had trouble managing his wide-mouthed glass. He threw the drink back instead of sipping. A good amount of it splashed down his face and his throat.

  “Oh shit,” he said, wiping his mouth and neck on his shirtsleeve.

  “Gimme that,” said Noah. He grabbed the martini glass from Joey and poured half of his own drink into it. He handed the jelly glass to Joey and kept the martini glass for himself.

  Gray mixed a second round. I did not need another. Just a few sips were all it took for the drink to go to my head. I felt happy sitting with the group, pleased by how handsome and beautiful everyone was now that Gray and Lois and their martinis were here.

  Gray was telling a story about the wild parties at the Dark Tower, A’Lelia Walker’s famous Harlem salon at her 136th Street townhouse, when Mr. DeWitt appeared from over the dunes.

  “Join us,” called Lois. She raised her hat and waved to him.

  “Over here,” shouted Noah, patting the sand next to him.

  We must have been quite a scene, what with the gin bottles and tea sandwiches and Gray talking about drinking bathtub gin with the poet Countee Cullen, which was also when he met Lois.

  “Where in hell you think you are?” hollered Mr. DeWitt. “What in hell you doing with these kids?”

  “What are we doing?” asked Lois, smiling knowingly. She looked at Noah, who was looking at Mr. DeWitt.

  “It’s okay, Mr. DeWitt. They’re just visiting, like I told you before,” said Noah. “A surprise visit.”

  “You might be visiting with them, but they’re trespassing.”

  “According to whom?” said Lois.

  “According to me. And I’m the gatekeeper. So pack up your fancy selves and your fancy boat and get the hell outta here.”

  “Look, now: you saw us earlier and said nothing about....”

  “I’m saying it now.”

  If there were rules about visitors, none of us knew them. Why would we? Who ever came to Barren Shoal?

  Gray looked at his watch. “Perhaps Mr....” Gray stumbled for his name.

  “DeWitt.”

  “Possibly Mr. DeWitt has a point. This is as good a time as any for us to be getting along.” He stood up and dusted off the seat of his pants. “Granted, it will take a few minutes to tidy up.”

  “That’s what seagulls are for,” I said, though it was probably the martini speaking.

  “Shut up, Marta,” said Noah.

  Joey reached for the sandwiches. “Those ain’t going to no gulls.” He stuffed a handful into his mouth and the rest into his pockets.

  “You have some appetite there, Hollywood,” said Gray. “Perhaps we’ll dine again sometime soon. With these lovely young ladies, of course.” Both Sofia and I blushed.

  “Not around here, you won’t,” said Mr. DeWitt. “You oughta be ashamed, loading them up with those silly sandwiches and swanky drinks.”

  I do not know if Lois and Gray felt ashamed, but Yorgos and Noah were humiliated. They did what Mr. DeWitt told them to do without defying him or threatening to expose him. It could have gone the other way, but it did not. DeWitt had won. Sofia and I followed suit. As for Joey, maybe he was just too stupid to feel humiliated. Lucky him.

  Yorgos, in the weeks that followed, changed his walk from a wise guy to something more determined. Sofia reported that Mrs. Paradissis put dinner on the table when Yorgos came home from the plant instead of when Mr. Paradissis announced he was hungry. She now gave Yorgos the first pull on the bread, the largest serving of potatoes, the best piece of meat when they had some. Even so, Yorgos’ skin turned ashen. His face looked like it was dusted with lime powder.

  “You’re looking like hell,” Joey told him before a month had passed. We were all in the garden after dinner.

  “Hey, brother: I been working the ovens of heaven,” said Yorgos.

  There was a new camaraderie between Yorgos and Joey that left Noah behind.

  “And I’ve been sifting the fruits of the Garden of Eden,” sa
id Joey, equally self-satisfied.

  Sifting the fruits? Where was Joey was getting this stuff?

  He was getting it from an ad in The Daily Worker announcing a rally at Union Square. The quote was from Eugene V. Debs. The boys planned to attend.

  “Maybe Debs will be there,” said Joey.

  “Only if you believe in ghosts,” said Yorgos. “The guy died in ’26.”

  “Mr. Morrow said Carlo Tresca might be speaking,” said Noah.

  “You still wasting time on Morrow?” said Yorgos. “Sierra told you to lay off them.”

  “He’s my uncle’s friend. And he said Tresca might come. He worked with Debs on the Sacco-Vanzetti case, for chrissake.” Uncle David, when he heard about them meeting with Mike Sierra, called them idiots for talking with “the syndicate.” He said that Stanley Morrow was a good man, invested in Barren Shoal already. But to what effect? A couple of years had gone by; the boys were tired of waiting.

  “Wrong, asshole,” said Yorgos. “Tresca worked on it; Debs was in jail. He sent money. What the hell: Debs ran for president from jail.”

  Mr. Paradissis exploded when he got wind of their plans to attend the rally. “You outta your cotton picking mind!” he hollered in English, wincing in pain and holding his ribs. He was outside checking on his beehives. “If Boyle gets word of you boys going to hear Tresca, we’ll all be on the next boat outta here before you can say kiss my ass.”

  “Nikolaou!” said Mrs. Paradissis, who rushed out to see why he was yelling. This was one of the rare times that Sofia’s mother addressed Mr. Paradissis in front of us by name. Formalities mattered a lot to people who had so little.

  “No one’s got to know, Ba,” said Yorgos.

  “Maybe someone sees you, who knows you, who knows Boyle. He puts two and two together, and boom, you’re done, we’re done, no job, no house, no nothing.”