by Winton, Tom
Theresa asked me to take a walk with her, so we left the others still sound asleep, still entwined in each other's limbs on their blankets.
We shared a smoke, our hair whipping this way and that, taking in the landscape as we trudged hand in hand across the sand. We made our way maybe a hundred yards up the beach when Theresa surprised the heck out of me. She started leading me away from the water, back toward the sand dunes, the desolate sand dunes of Jones Beach. If you’re from 'the city' or Long Island, there’s a good chance you know where they are. It’s a place, not all that secluded, where, for generations some of New York’s more daring young folks have given in to the ancient pull of their hyperactive libidos. I thought it strange that Theresa would even consider fooling around back there. But after we climbed down the backside of the first dune, I quickly realized she had no amorous designs. Sitting face-to-face in the sandy trough, neither of us saying a word for a few seconds, she looked deep inside my eyes, through them and beyond. Instantly, I knew something was wrong, seriously wrong. When I saw the tears start to well up, I couldn’t take it any longer.
“Dammit Theresa,” I demanded in a tone just short of a shout, “What the hell’s the matter?”
"I wanted us to be alone for a little while," she said. "I need to talk to you, Dean."
A single tear then dripped from her eyelash, streaking the side of her face. I leaned forward, put my hand on her shoulder and asked in a much more gentle tone, "What is it honey? Something I did?"
"No, no," she assured me, "things couldn't be any better. I'm happier than I've ever been in my life … but I'm worried. I didn’t tell you last night because I didn’t want to ruin our good time anymore than my mother already had."
"What are you so worried about? Tell me.”
She drew a deep breath, dabbed her cheek with a shirtsleeve, sniffled again and said, "Dean, I'm afraid she might want to move us again."
"No way. What gives you that idea?"
"Remember I told you about my father?"
"Of course."
"And how my mother has been moving us from state to state ever since?"
"Yeeeaahhh,” I said, as a hollow feeling inside my chest started to swell.
“Well, my father's murder had a lot to do with our moving back and forth. No … it had everything to do with our moving. You see, Dean, my mother testified against those men who killed my dad. The police caught them that same night and she picked them out of a line-up. When it came time to prosecute, they had plenty of evidence, the guns, fingerprints, witnessess to the robbery. But my mother was the only adult who’d actually seen the shooter’s face. Sure, as I told you before, I saw it too, but I was just a child and they weren’t about to drag me in on it. They didn’t have to anyway. It was pretty much an open and shut case. My mother’s testimony alone was enough to put that … that one bastard away. But, before that, even before the trial began, we started getting all kinds of phone calls, threatening calls … scary calls."
"Don't tell me they were out on bail?"
"No, no," she said waving off the question, “of course not, they weren’t going anywhere.”
She paused a moment, alone in the gloom of her recollections, then she came back, "They were locked up alright, but they had friends, relatives, whatever. We got calls from a man, twice, and one from a woman, all in one day. They threatened to kill my mother, shoot her, and me too. Of course we disconnected the phone immediately. We were scared like you wouldn’t believe, but then the police gave us round-the-clock surveillance. That helped a lot. Since the phone calls stopped, we thought that part of our nightmare was over, but we were wrong, almost dead wrong."
"Dead wrong, what do you mean?”
Theresa paused, took a Kleenex from her purse and dabbed her pink eyes. I slid closer, laid my arm around her shoulders, and she went on with her dreadful story, "The worst part came three weeks after they buried my father. It was night time, my mother and I were in our first floor apartment watching TV. I actually remember some Disney special was on. Anyway, when a commercial came on, I went to the bathroom and my mother went to the kitchen to make us some popcorn. All of a sudden there was this tremendous explosion in the living room. Dean, it scared the living daylights out of us. Somebody had thrown a Molotov cocktail through our front window."
"Oh my God, you can’t be serious.”
Theresa slowly nodded and said, "Yes, I am serious. The entire living room caught on fire instantly. There were flames everywhere. My mother and I had to climb out a bedroom window. Obviously, we got out OK … with no physical damage that is. Anyway, now you know why my mother drinks the way she does, and why we move all the time."
"Yeah, but that was nine years ago. With your phone number always unlisted and all the moving you’ve done those people couldn't possibly find you."
"You’re preaching to the choir Dean. Of course I know that. Tell it to my mother and try to make it stick. It’s the same as you trying to convince your mother she doesn’t have cancer, or that the Mafia isn’t after her family. Anyway, no matter where we lived, be it New York, Florida, or North Carolina, whenever something she perceives as weird happens, she panics. Anything, no matter how slight, involving a black person can set her off. It can be something as harmless as somebody asking her for the time, or directions, or just glancing her way for a second or two, she'll have us packed and ready to move the next day. She's done it! Why do you think we live in College Point and she works there, because it’s all white! We’ve lasted there almost three years now because she’s felt somewhat safe. It’s a record for us, and it makes me very nervous.”
She stroked my hair, pushing it back off my forehead. "I wanted to tell you all this because I love you, Dean, more than I ever dreamed I was capable of loving anyone. You are my life now, and I don't want us to ever be apart."
She then brought her lips to mine. One thing led to another and, despite the risk involved, that Sunday afternoon in 1967 we made love in the sand dunes of Jones Beach.
As they always do in northern climes, the summer months flew by as if they had wings. Fortunately Theresa’s mother did not try to uproot her, but that fear certainly stayed alive. A lot of things happened during that 'Summer of Love'. A hundred thousand people flocked to Haight-Ashbury. Elvis married Priscilla in Vegas. Some of the worst violence in U.S. history erupted in places like Newark and Detroit. I started growing my hair long. Theresa and I both got into bellbottoms and smoked a little grass. Like I said, it all moved so quickly. Before we knew it, autumn arrived and temperatures started to drop. So did the leaves on Sanford Avenue's few trees. But, at about the same time those leaves died, something else was born. Another legitimate fear began festering inside me, and it was growing all too quickly. It had to do with a place called Vietnam. The catastrophe taking place there was becoming worse than ever. The War was escalating. Already four young guys I knew from Flushing had come home in body bags, guys who had earlier registered for the draft in the very same building as I did. Before the smoke would clear, and all the power games were over, tens of thousands more would be gone forever, enough young men to fill Shea Stadium twice. I was determined not to become one of them.
The entire country was tuned into the war. Every night, millions of people, coast to coast, actually watched it on the six o'clock news. In the comfort of their living rooms, they watched actual film footage of the jungle carnage. From their easy chairs, the smell of home-cooked suppers working on their appetites, they listened to the gory statistics as the daily death tolls from both sides were reported. Hearing them day after day, people eventually began accepting these numbers as if they were half-time scores of inconsequential high school basketball games. Americans had come to see so much horror that the horror was gone. Unless, of course, it affected you, or somebody you loved, or worse yet someone you had loved.
Naturally, my family's relief was immense when my brother, Sylvester, completed his twelve months at DaNang that September. He had come out of there
unscathed and was now finishing up his hitch at Homestead Air Force Base in sunny south Florida.
With Sylvester finally safe, it was now time to worry about myself. And isn’t that the worst? Isn't self-worry the most intense, most devastating form of that cruel emotion? Of course Theresa was by my side, always sharing this worry, but she was sharp.She tried to play down its potency by not talking about it. And, as alienated as my parents and I were, they too were worried to death. We constantly heard on network TV, or read in The Daily News, about places previously unknown to us. Dangerous, faraway places with death-rings to their names like Keh San, Phan Rang, Ple Coup, Cameran Bay and many other places we had no business being in.
I didn’t want any part of such a fiasco, but ideals didn’t count for anything unless you happened to be rich or famous. Unfortunately for someone like myself, there weren’t many options, only blue-collar choices; the draft, Canada or jail. Every day was shrouded with fear – fear that my draft notice might arrive in the mail.
When summer ended I left my part-time job at the rectory for a full-time gig on Wall Street. Every day I'd ride the subway into Manhattan to this nothing job at a brokerage house. For eight hours a day l sat at a long table, inside a windowless room, hand-counting giant blocks of other people's stock certificates. Other than Fridays at five o’clock, the only highlight of this arduous, mind-numbing sentence was going on the coffee runs. As you can imagine, the days were very long, especially when you factor in the twenty minute walk to the subway and an hour and a half train ride – both ways. That’s almost twelve hours! On top of that (thanks to Theresa’s coaxing), three nights a week after dragging heels out of the subway I had to grab a bus out to Queens College. I'd screwed around so much in high school that my four-year average was a dismal 69%. You needed an 85 average to go full-time, free, to the city colleges. The only other way for flunkies like me was to go nights, get fifteen credits with a B average or better, and then you could matriculate and go during the day for free.
It was a pain in the neck but I was carrying nine credits and doing well. When the first term ended in December, I had a B+ average. Just two more courses and I'd be going full-time, days, which would make me eligible for a coveted college student deferment. But time was working against me.
Chapter 11
To celebrate my excellent grades, Theresa wanted to take me out, Dutch, anywhere I wanted. With little deliberation I decided on a basketball game. So we went to see the Knicks play a rare afternoon game at Madison Square Garden. We watched the home team take a close one from their perennial rivals, the Boston Celtics. As usual, Willis Reed and 'Clyde' Frazier were terrific. So was Phil 'Action' Jackson who hit three baskets in the final ninety seconds to seal a two-point victory for the Knicks. Jackson's unorthodox style sometimes wasn't pretty to look at, but when he scored in the clutch, as he so often did, Garden fans went nutso. Throughout the game, Theresa did her best to appear interested, listening attentively as I explained every consequential detail taking place on the court. But it wasn't until the final three minutes--crunch time--that she really got into it. It was then that she got caught up in the mass hysteria produced by the thousands of fans scrunched inside the Garden. I realize today that such entertainment is nothing more than manufactured sensationalism, but at least back then sports were far less commercialized. And most of the players had class.
When we exited the Garden after the game, it was just like everywhere else we went, legions of lusty male eyes feasted on, no, were taken hostage by, Theresa's stunning beauty. Wide eyes darted from every direction. Young guys, middle-aged, old, it didn't matter. Sometimes all this visual fondling really pissed me off. There had been instances, when my mood had been foul, that I'd called guys out for classless staring. Two or three times, at parties, my self-discipline shot to hell by beer, I'd actually slugged guys who had acute staring problems. But other times, in mellower moods, if the looks weren't overly conspicuous, I actually enjoyed the attention Theresa attracted. It bolstered my own self-image. After all, this rare beauty was mine. Hell, all those other idiots could do was gawk. Only I made love to her body. It was me that had intercourse with her mind also. We always seemed to be on the same wave length, agreeing almost to a T on most everything. Boy, were we compatible! We were both emotional also, over-emotional, although I tried to hide my end of it by acting like a hard-ass around strangers. I firmly believed in that old New York strategy - act like your bad and people won't screw with you.
On the subway ride home from the Garden that Saturday, we were lucky enough to get seats. The IRT was packed with fans going back to Queens. Standing passengers loomed over us, clinging to the handrail, staring at, but not seeing, the advertisements over the windows. Others peered through sooty windows, watching daylight submit to the late autumn dusk. With the heat turned up high and all the humanity crowded into the car, it was pretty hot. I snapped open my jacket and Theresa opened the buttons of her pea coat.
Since he'd come on the train at Queensborough Plaza, I'd been struggling with myself to not confront the man standing over us, some well-groomed dude in his mid-thirties. He'd been studying Theresa the whole time, and I knew he was getting to her also. For most of the trip she'd been staring into space, wearing her patented disinterested look, not saying much. I'd been stealing glances at him, purposely avoiding eye contact. I knew if we made that connection I'd go crazy on him. I noticed a band on his left ring finger. Dressed casual but neat, he carried an expensive-looking real leather attaché case. I had him pegged, a mid-level executive playing Saturday catch up at the office. But that wasn't all he was trying to play. A lot of perverts get their sick jollies in crowded subway cars, and I'd been watching this one inching his knees, slowly, closer and closer toward Theresa's crossed legs for ten minutes now.
When she had opened her coat, the vee neck of her sweater revealed just the very beginning of her cleavage. Ever since he boarded the train, this clown hadn't even attempted to hide his curiosity. His eyes were buried in there.
I was pissed!
Then, as the train approached the platform at Junction Boulevard, it's brakes grinding and screeching, I caught this guy sliding his foot a bit closer, a phony stutter-step, as he swayed with the momentum of the slowing train. Directly over her now, staring straight down into Theresa's blouse, he leaned a knee on the outside of Theresa's thigh.
That's when I lost it! In one motion, I lifted off that blue plastic seat to my feet. As I straightened up, I realized I'd have to keep rising to the balls of my feet to get into his face. He was about four inches taller than me and probably fifty pounds heavier. But these lopsided stats didn't mean a thing. Had there been six more just like him, it wouldn't have stopped me. The red anger raging inside me negated any sense of caution.
The angry voice of the streets erupted from my mouth, rapid-fire, hard words blasted away. "What are you starin' at, you goofy mutherfucka?"
I didn't have to psyche myself up or fabricate any crazy rolls this time. I was there. Slamming his leg away with an open palm, I said, "Get yaw fuckin' leg outta dere or I'll shove it up yaw sorry ass for ya."
Then I shoved the son of a bitch, hard, with the heels of both hands, and he bounced off the poor bastard standing next to him. "You been starin' at her since you got on da fuckin' train … and don't give me no stunned fuckin' looks neither, lame, you know exactly what I'm talkin' about."
I shoved him again. Of course all the passengers were rubber-necking by now, half of them on their toes, some peaking from behind somebody else, none of them wanting to become another target for this crazed, skinny kid's rage.
By now the jerk's eyes were so wide they looked like bulls-eyes to me. In the worst way, I wanted him to retaliate.
I egged him on. A scowl on my face, the nastiest, meanest scowl I'm capable of, I continued the verbal portion of my assault, "What do ya say me an' you dance, right here? Come on, youuu-biiig-piece-a-shit." I had my fists up now, begging for it. "Come on … come on … le
t's lock asses, asshole."
Right then, the train halted and the doors pulled opened. "Excuse me, excuse me, please … Getting off." Old Mister big-eyes was scurrying recklessly for the closest exit, threading his horny ass through the assemblage of packed bodies, probably rubbing up against a few along the way.
I was HOT, but I felt both good and like shit at the same time. My actions were justified, both in my mind and according to New York street-law, but still, half of me felt like a bully. And that irked me. Why should I feel like a terrorizer after some dipshit twice my size had crossed a well-known forbidden line? Nevertheless, I somehow couldn't shake the guilt
By the time Theresa and I climbed the subway steps beneath the clock on Main Street, darkness had taken its hold. We buttoned up our coats, locked arms and merged into the bustling tide of humanity rushing by on the sidewalk. With Christmas in the air, this shopping district was more abuzz than usual. People, weighed down with bags and packages, still had that holiday bounce to their steps as they gravitated to stores and shops up and down Main and Roosevelt. Under the clock, others waited to consummate meetings with friends, lovers, connections, whomever. A car stopped short, it's horn protesting gratingly as a pack of daring teenagers, fearless and immortal, jay-ran across Roosevelt. Lights from storefronts and signs glowed on the cement sidewalks.