Boardwalk Summer

by Meredith Jaeger

  Paulina set down her tray of enchiladas. “Why not?”

  Mari looked at the dinner table, set with their best china. Ma had put so much effort into making a nice family meal.

  “I told him something upsetting.”

  Jason had texted her after his abrupt exit, to tell her he was flying home to Chicago for a few days. Mari’s stomach knotted at the thought of him confronting his grandmother, but he said he wanted to talk to her in person.

  Paulina dropped her voice to a whisper. “Are you guys okay?”

  “Yeah,” Mari said, thinking back to the text exchange. Jason had assured her he wasn’t mad, only shaken. “He had to fly back home last minute. He’s really sorry he couldn’t make it tonight.”

  Lily came skipping into the kitchen. “Smells yummy! When can we eat?”

  Mari smiled at her daughter. “As soon as we say grace.”

  Ernesto walked into the room. Her father looked out of sorts. He ran a hand through his hair until it stuck up at all angles, and his eyes had dark circles underneath them. Something was upsetting him—Mari could tell.

  “Well, this looks wonderful,” he said, smiling at Lily. But the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  Mari took her daughter’s hand on one side and her mother’s on the other. She closed her eyes.

  “Bendícenos Señor, bless this food which through you in your goodness we receive. Bless the hands that prepare bread for the hungry. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Lily said. “Yummy, yummy in my tummy.”

  As Mari ate, she watched her father. Normally he’d be scooping up extra helpings of enchiladas, flirting with her mom and making Lily laugh. But he was silent at the dinner table, slowly eating the food as if it tasted like cement.

  “Where’s Jason?” Lily asked, as if on cue.

  “He’s in Chicago.”

  “Why’d he go there?”

  “He went to see his family.”

  “But why?”

  “Because that’s where he’s from,” Mari said. “Sometimes people visit their families.”

  “We don’t,” Lily said, chewing loudly. “Our family lives here.”

  Mari smiled. “That’s right. Aren’t we lucky?”

  Paulina had noticed Ernesto’s strange behavior as well, and she reached for her husband’s hand. “Mi amor, is everything all right?”

  He looked up, surprised. “Yeah. Fine.”

  Now Lily was interested too. “What is it, Abuelo?”

  “Nothing,” he said, standing up from the table and taking his plate. “Work stuff.”

  Mari watched her father walk into the kitchen. She bit her bottom lip.

  “I’m done,” Lily said, pushing her plate away. “Can I play?”

  Mari nodded. “Sure. Go ahead.”

  As Lily skipped down the hallway toward the living room, Mari picked up her family’s plates and carried them over to the sink. Paulina followed her. Ernesto sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands.

  Paulina placed a hand on his back. “What’s wrong?”

  He looked up with bloodshot eyes. “Immigration authorities came by my office today. They asked to see my papers.”

  Mari scoffed, heat rising under her skin. “What? But you were born here!”

  “Si. They realized they’d received a bad tip. But you know, some of my guys, they’re undocumented.”

  Paulina rubbed her husband’s back. “You think ICE will come back?”

  He rubbed his face with both hands. “I don’t know.”

  Mari swallowed, her heart plummeting into her stomach. What if there was an ICE raid on one of her father’s construction sites? Those workers had families—children to support who’d have no one to take care of them if their parents were arrested.

  “Why now?” Paulina asked, her brows drawing together. “Who would tip off Immigration? You’ve been running your firm for ten years.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “This happened today?” Mari asked.

  Ernesto nodded. “I’m going to get all my I-9 forms in order, just in case. But some of my guys, you know, they provide false information.”

  “It’s okay,” Mari said, her stomach knotting with the knowledge that it could mean thousands of dollars in fines for her father, and devastating consequences for his undocumented workers. “We’ll contact an immigration attorney. There are nonprofits that your workers can go to and get help.”

  Paulina squeezed her husband’s shoulder. “We’ll get through this.”

  After finishing up the dinner dishes, Mari gave Lily a bath, read her a bedtime story and tucked her in bed. Then she lay awake, tossing and turning, too anxious to sleep. Her phone pinged with a text.

  She smiled, hoping it was Jason, texting her good night. Her stomach clenched when she saw the unfamiliar number—then realized it wasn’t entirely unfamiliar; she had it stored in her phone once, a long time ago.

  I told you not to mess with me. Looks like daddy is going back to Mexico.

  Mari clenched her phone so hard, she thought it might break. Travis Harcourt had gone too far. Angry tears sprung to her eyes. She wasn’t going to take any more of his crap. Two could play at this game.

  “I’M HERE TO meet with Mayor Harcourt,” Mari said, straightening her shoulders as she spoke to the mayor’s secretary. She’d put on her best blouse and a pair of gray slacks and black flats—the closest thing to business attire she had.

  Like the days when she functioned on less than three hours of sleep during Lily’s first year, Mari had woken up this morning with superhuman strength. She would channel her hurt and anger into action.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” Mari said. “But this is urgent.”

  The woman disappeared down the hall, and then returned, a smile on her face. “He has fifteen minutes before his next meeting starts.”

  Mari followed the woman down the hall, grateful Santa Cruz was small and community-oriented enough that she had the opportunity to speak with the mayor in person. Taking a deep breath, she followed the secretary through a glass door into Mayor Harcourt’s light-filled office.

  “Good morning,” he said, standing up from his chair.

  Mari shook his hand firmly. “Good morning.”

  “So,” he said, smiling. “How can I help you?”

  “Do you remember me, from the museum booth at the Beach Boardwalk Centennial Celebration?”

  “Yes,” Mayor Harcourt said, his eyes twinkling. “I knew you looked familiar. You sold a record number of raffle tickets.”

  “Right,” Mari answered. “I’m a resident of Beach Hill, and I’ve collected signatures from over forty neighbors opposing the Cowell Beach condominium development. Not only will the condos change the character of the beach, but also the historic gazebo will be destroyed. We’re not okay with this.”

  Mayor Harcourt nodded. “I understand your concerns. But the developers have agreed to shorten the condominium construction from eight stories to five, so views won’t be obstructed. Beach access will remain public. And the building will be in compliance with all of our green building standards—one hundred percent eco-friendly.”

  “That’s great,” Mari said, looking down at her hands. “And I appreciate all the effort the developers have put into meeting our community needs, but you see, the gazebo has a special significance to me.”

  Mari reached into her purse, removing a drawing of the gazebo that Lily had made. In pink and purple crayon, it showed a couple holding hands underneath the gazebo roof. Up above, she’d drawn stars in blue, and thanks to Jason’s story, a flying unicorn.

  “My daughter is four. She drew this picture of her great-grandparents dancing at the gazebo. Their names were Ricardo and Maria Cruz. It was where they met, and where they had their wedding reception. It’s a special place to our family.”

  Mayor Harcourt smiled as he stared at the drawing. Then his brown eyes met hers. He waited silently, listening—reall
y listening.

  Mari took a deep breath, and then let it out.

  “Back when Mexicans were characterized as gangsters—you know, with zoot suit riots and all that—the gazebo was a safe space. Oftentimes, Mexican Americans were denied entry to traditional dance halls and venues, where they wanted to hold quinceañeras or wedding receptions. The owners would make up reasons why they couldn’t rent the space, but there was no reason other than racial discrimination.”

  He sighed. “Have you thought about contacting local preservation groups? They might be able to help shoulder the costs of relocating the gazebo. Of course, you’d have to purchase a new plot of land for it.”

  Sure, they could go through the trouble of figuring out how to relocate the gazebo, and make everyone happy. But this was personal.

  “No,” Mari said. “The gazebo belongs where it is.” Her heart began to thud again and her hands trembled as she prepared to drop the bomb. “The reason I’m here, though, isn’t the gazebo. It’s your son, Travis.”

  The mayor raised his eyebrows. “You know my son?”

  “I do. We shared a history class at UC Santa Cruz.”

  Her hands shook as she reached into her purse, pulling out the envelope from the DNA testing center where she’d submitted Lily’s hair and Travis’s gum.

  “And he’s the father of my daughter.”

  The mayor laughed, then looked at her as if he’d been splashed in the face with a bucket of cold water. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  Mari pushed the envelope toward him. “We spent the night together in college, the summer of our graduation. He had a big party at his house on West Cliff Drive. He said you purchased it for the water polo team.”

  The mayor’s face drained of color as he pulled the paper from the envelope and looked over the series of letters and numbers. At the bottom of the page in bold it stated: Probability of paternity: 99.9998%

  His eyes narrowed. “How did you get this?”

  “Travis spat out a piece of gum and stuck it on the table at the city council meeting,” Mari said, a sharp edge to her voice. “I submitted it with some hairs from my daughter’s hairbrush. I’m sorry to go to such extremes, but, you see, I told Travis he was going to be a father four years ago. He wanted nothing to do with Lily.”

  Mayor Harcourt let out a deep breath, and then rubbed his eyes. He turned to Mari, the friendliness in his voice gone. “Why should I believe your story?”

  “I understand. It’s a shock. Listen, I have a year’s worth of emails that I sent to your son, with pictures of Lily attached. I begged him to meet her, told him I would take full financial responsibility, I just wanted her to know her dad.” Mari’s voice broke on the word “dad.” She covered her mouth with her hand.

  The mayor reached for a box of tissues and pushed it toward her. His eyes softened. “Take one.”

  Mari did. Then blew her nose. She laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation. “Honestly, I wasn’t ever going to tell you about her. But then Travis threatened my father. Immigration authorities showed up at his construction firm.” She pushed her cell phone toward the mayor. “Here, look at this text message.”

  His eyes widened, and then narrowed.

  Mari smirked. “Is that how you want your son treating people? By the way, my father is a U.S. citizen.”

  The mayor said nothing. His jaw set in a hard line. He’d recognized his son’s phone number. Sure, she could have faked the text message, but Mari hoped the mayor could tell she being was one-hundred-percent honest.

  Eventually, he cleared his throat. “Santa Cruz is proud to be a sanctuary city. We don’t want any of our residents to feel unsafe here.”

  Mari stood up. “Your son has made it clear he wants no involvement in my daughter’s life. But he needs to leave me alone. If my father’s construction firm receives any more threats, or visits from ICE, I’ll be contacting you.”

  As she turned to leave, Mayor Harcourt looked shell-shocked.

  “Wait.”

  Mari turned around. “Yes?”

  “Here’s my personal email address,” he said, frowning as he scribbled on the back of a business card. “If you could forward me those emails where Travis said he wanted nothing to do with . . . his daughter . . .”

  Mari nodded. “Of course.”

  She took the business card from him, exhaled a deep breath and stepped away from his desk. Mayor Harcourt’s cheeks colored. “Can I keep the drawing?”

  “Sure.”

  The mayor might not be ready to accept that he was Lily’s grandfather, but Mari already felt lighter. She’d told the truth. And right now, that was all she could do.

  Chapter 29

  Violet Harcourt

  June 1943

  My overalls clung to my body in the sticky summer heat. Unlike Santa Cruz, where the coastal breeze smelled like sea salt and sunshine, Gary, Indiana, stank of dead fish and soot, the summer air thick with humidity. The town was made up of old brick factory buildings, belching black smoke into the sky. A pang of longing hit me—my dream of sandy beaches and blue water.

  A shrill whistle sounded as I walked toward the steel plant, signaling an end to our break. In this industrial town nestled against the shores of Lake Michigan, I’d found new strength and purpose. Three years ago, I’d stepped off a Greyhound bus with nothing to my name save for a cotton dress and a pair of saddle shoes. I’d been frightened and alone. Now I had friends and a steady paycheck—a new life, a safe haven.

  Securing employment in my condition had been difficult; initially I’d concealed my pregnancy under loose dresses and thickly knit cardigans. The supervisor of women employees, Mrs. Stoner, came to know me as the other gals at the factory had—as Vera Sweeting, a farm girl from Oregon. I constructed my story like a Hollywood character: I had been put in my unfortunate position by a young farmer, the baby conceived in a barn, then I’d been sent away in shame by my family, who had disowned me.

  “Hallo, Vera!”

  I waved to the woman who’d called out, Agata Mirzljack, a Croat with two young children, her face obscured by goggles. My heart swelled, thinking of my precious Olive, who enjoyed playing with Agata’s children, Ana and Jacob. Rosy-cheeked and delightful, my daughter had become my world. With my blue eyes and Charles’s dark hair, she was the most beautiful baby, born on an April morning, her lungs strong. I’d cried tears of joy, seeing her perfect, angry red face, and vowed to protect her forever.

  The end of my pregnancy had been difficult, that first winter in Indiana brutal. The temperature had dropped to twenty degrees, blizzards blowing icy-cold wind through the gap beneath the windowpanes in my boardinghouse. I’d thought of my fine coats in Santa Cruz, collecting dust in a closet. Or perhaps Charles had discarded them.

  Upon my arrival in Indiana in September, I obtained work as a secretary in the steel plant, submitting my employment paperwork with the number on the “specimen” Social Security card from my Woolworth’s wallet. That January, when I could no longer conceal my growing bump, I feared Mrs. Stoner would let me go. But she kept me on, rolling her eyes when I waddled from office to office.

  I’d been so skittish my first year, even after seeing my death reported in the papers. Looking at my smiling pageant photo, I no longer identified with that starry-eyed girl. No matter the similarities in our faces, I knew she was gone. And slowly, I became Vera. I continued to dye my hair black and to keep it short. These days, it was covered by a scarf, and like the other gals, I had no need for frivolity.

  Putting on my hard hat, I looked around at the women who’d become my companions. Since the bombing of Pearl Harbor, everything had changed. When I started here, I was one of a few girls. Today, laborers in dirty overalls cleared the tracks outside the factory of debris, all of them female. Some had husbands overseas, some had children, and others were unmarried. But all of us sweated near the blast furnaces, directed giant ladles of molten iron and poured red-hot ingots. We were black and white, Polish and
Croat. We were women of steel.

  Waving at Agnes and Emmy Lou, I fell in line behind them, walking into the factory. Sweat trickled down my back as I entered the burning heat of the boiler room. Flapping belts and buzzing welding guns grew louder. The furnace blazed, and women wearing protective masks and goggles welded steel parts, sparks crackling.

  “Say, Vera,” Emmy Lou called over the noise. “Do you remember your first day here as a riveter, when Agnes razzed you?”

  Agnes laughed. “Ha! You didn’t know up from down.”

  I smirked, pulling on my protective gloves. “You asked me to get you a left-handed hammer, and I looked for it in earnest for a good ten minutes.”

  We took our seats in an assembly line, drills in hand. The movement came naturally to me now, easy as breathing. Attaching rivets to sheets of metal, we worked on what would become an aircraft sent to fight the Nazis. With sweat dripping down my brow, I felt pride in the strength of my arms, the same pride reflected in the grit and determination of every face in the room. To think we’d been considered the weaker sex.

  I remembered how I’d complained to Emmy Lou, a college girl from Iowa, of factory heat on my first day.

  “It’s no hotter than a kitchen,” she’d responded, her smile bright as her pink lipstick. Back then I’d sat next to Klara, a grandmother from Hungary with reddened, chapped hands. My heart had broken, fearing the work was too much for her. But Klara was stronger than an ox, a fact she reminded me of often. Now she spent her days looking after my Olive, who was a rambunctious toddler and kept Klara on her toes.

  A familiar sadness settled in the pit of my stomach when I thought of my mother. Though she wasn’t a warm woman, I pictured her holding Olive in her arms, a smile on her face. I had robbed her of that opportunity, and I had broken Evie’s heart. Did Evie have her own children now? Surely she did—she and Frank would make lovely parents. And Ricky, had he met a sweetheart? Did he have a family of his own?

  I’d mailed him a postcard during my first trip to Chicago with Agnes and Emmy Lou. The city had dazzled me with its bright lights and smartly dressed women in hats and furs. The soaring skyscrapers and jazz joints were such a welcome break from the dreary landscape of Gary. At first, I’d been too frightened to mail the postcard, but I wanted to send Ricky a sign I was all right—I had made it to a safe destination.