Page 18 of On Fire Island
“And I’m sorry too, about the crap with your dad this winter. I heard it from the girls at the register.”
Matty looked over at the three girls, plus the longtime cashier Miss Sullivan, bagging and adding and weighing and gabbing, and physically shuddered. I guessed it was at the thought of them knowing it all. I got it. It was a ritual I used to love to listen to, as the register girls would collect the sauciest gossip of the year and spew it out in one long, tawdry diatribe. Not so funny now that my dear friend and her son were the principal attraction—and me, too, I guess. I’m sure my whole awful saga was hashed and rehashed behind that counter, though in a quieter tone.
“Catch you later, Les.”
“Catch you later.”
Outside, an old man pulled up on a brand-new tricycle looking even more curmudgeonly than I remembered him. I assumed it was because of the bike. The last phase of the bicycle journey, the one that sometimes comes with as much kicking and screaming as the first days without training wheels, is, ironically, nearly right back where you started. The tricycle. This time, an adult tricycle. A three-wheeler bought for you by your kids who worry that you are a bit “wobbly” on your two-wheeler, or, even more distressing, a used trike, given to you by the son or daughter of a guy who just yesterday you were playing tennis or poker with,who has now moved on to heaven, hell, or worse—a nursing home. It’s your last bike, no matter how you spin it.
Matty greeted the old man by name, “Hey, Mr.Henry.”
Mr.Henry grunted something inaudible in return and shuffled into the store.
twelve
The Mourning Paper
Matty dropped the paper on the kitchen counter with the bagels and put the herring in the fridge as if it were his own house. He had been at our place countless times and was obviously quite comfortable. I loved it. It wasn’t uncommon to feel that familiar with the houses of Bay Harbor neighbors and friends. In truth, the beach town was just a more-monied generation away from a Catskills bungalow colony, with many of the same norms. I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think the same could be said of the other summer destinations of the Manhattan elite. I doubted the casual drop-in was a thing farther out east. In fact, I would guess the Hampton-goers had an entirely different definition of casual.
If challenged, I bet I could examine the contents of any random Manhattanite’s suitcase and tell you just where she was headed. The largest, a piece of fine leather luggage or a Louis Vuitton duffel, filled with ERES bikinis, matching sarongs, Hermès Orans for day, Manolos for night—the Hamptons. A medium-size wheelie brimming with polo shirts and bright cardigans by KULE or J.McLaughlin, one-piece racers, tennis sneakers, and espadrilles—Connecticut. A large backpack or tote stuffed withthree bikinis, a pair of cutoffs, jeans, a sweatshirt, Birkenstocks, and maybe a cotton button-down—but don’t expect an iron—Fire Island.
Matty quietly hung up the kitchen phone. A bit of a mama’s boy, he couldn’t bear the thought of Ben’s mom calling over and over again to a busy signal, in duress. Ben, meanwhile, grabbed theFire Island Newsand turned to his favorite section—the police blotter. In between a missing cat and a noise complaint he found something worth reading out loud.
THE GOLDILOCKS INTERLOPER STRIKES AGAIN!
Homeowners on Surfview Road summoned the police early Sunday morning to review evidence, including splattered pancake batter and eggshells, that the Goldilocks Interloper had visited their home overnight.
“Why do I have a feeling this is you?” Ben asked Shep.
“Nope, I only interlope here—and not really, even, because...”
“It’s your house,” Ben said, with what looked awfully close to a smile.
Shep flashed a boyish grin in return but was busy exploring our now ancient musical source—an iPod. The archaic device clearly amazed him.
“Shep—you have an iPod?” Matty asked, surprised that the old man was not still sitting in front of a Victrola, I assumed.
“It’s Ben’s. He has it all hooked up through his speakers.” He said it as if Ben was some kind of tech genius to have wired it this way. “He has some Sinatra on here, and some Tony Bennett!”
Shep placed it in the dock and the song “Love Shack” by the B-52s, the inspiration for our house name, filled the room.
Ben looked up from the paper and joked wryly, “Though this seems fitting, no?”
Matty clearly found it funny, but only Shep laughed, and followed with, “Two jokes in one morning. Very good, Ben!”
Ben smirked at Shep, but Matty still appeared stricken. Shep hit him on the back with a little too much oomph.
“You can still laugh here, Matty. We’re the same people we were before our hearts were wrenched from our chests.”
“Sorry,” Matty said. “Want me to show you how to make a playlist?”
“Don’t mind if you do.”
As Matty slowly explained the procedure, the phone rang.
“I think it’s your mother,” he proclaimed guiltily, avoiding eye contact with Ben.
“You’re found. Get the phone,” Shep advised.
