Our Brothers at the Bottom of the Bottom of the Sea (9 page)

More school papers. More magazines. Nothing interesting. But from within the snug space between the trunk's side and the magazine stack, Ethan withdrew a marbled notebook, one of the cheap kind, piled high at the five-and-ten at the end of every summer, which no one ever brought to school anymore. Ethan slipped it out of the trunk. The corners were scuffed down to the cardboard; the spine had been reinforced with strips of silver duct tape. He opened it carefully, as if the pages would turn to dust and dissolve between his fingers. Inside, he saw page after page of precise handwriting that was exceptionally easy to read, unlike his own. Here, behind an oil tank under the incriminating glare of a clamp light, he scanned pages with dates, pages with places he recognized, pages with people he remembered. Then, when Ethan found it the first time, he knew what he had been looking for all along, bobbing within the waves of words: his name.

Before leaving the hiding space and restoring the boxes in the gap between wall and tank, Ethan retrieved the silver teardrop from behind the trunk, placing it gently on top of the lid. The journal, he carried with him.

 

 

July 9, 2013

Drinking on the beach always sounds better than it really is. Mike organized “a little something” for the crew at the Moon Walk, and in a gesture that said he was ready to move on, he made sure to invite the fairy tale princess.

I think she thought it was a good idea too, a way to show that she was just one of the gang. Things started well: Mike passed along some cold ones from a cooler he had hidden in the dunes. I'm not big on the beach—I almost never go in the water—but I can see the attraction. Many nights, the wind whipping off the ocean is so strong it takes the breath out of your mouth. But last night, the breeze was easy, invitational.

It's strange how a feeling can be shared in a crowd, and at first the softness of the night was reflected in a kind of unspoken goodwill. After two beers, everyone lightened up—it was as if we were all grateful that the tensions of the last couple of weeks were beginning to dissolve.

Eugene, Amy, and Tango pulled some wood out of the trash—driftwood, broken recliners, umbrella poles—and with the aid of some beer case cardboard, they managed to get a fire going. We sat cross-legged around it and kept an eye out for cops, though they usually don't bother with the south end of the island. Tango pantomimed his adventures in last year's hurricane surf, showing us what it was like to get beat up by real waves. Eugene made himself custodian of the beers, opening them for everyone, and Amy, who has more tattoos than bare skin, dropped her imposing goth scowl and actually looked, well, sweet in the firelight. For a while, it was kind of magic—all of us together, having a corny beach moment that for once was real. If I had a girlfriend, this would have been the moment to draw her closer, my arm around her waist, her head on my shoulder. But I didn't, and I felt so good I didn't mind so much. For a while, the mood was mellow.

But it couldn't last. With the third and fourth beers, the joking leaned a little harder. “I'm Tango,” Mike called out, tossing his head back luxuriantly, plumping invisible dreadlocks on his shoulders. In the firelight, a crowd of eyes, like those of wild animals crouching in the midnight woods, shifted to Mike, then Tango, then Mike again. Even with the surf in the background, you could hear the fire pop. Otherwise, there was the loaded silence of people holding their breath.

Tango broke it with an awkward laugh. Now that they had permission, voices surged forward like wedding-party drunks joining a conga line. Eugene did a passable version of me lecturing about gear ratios. “It's all about torque,” he said, squinting his eyes and making a lewd grab at his crotch. Mike got something of a comeuppance from Tango. Tango twisted his face in a snarl, sneered at the sea, and said, “Fuck the water, man. What's the ocean ever done for me?”

Even Diana got in the game. “I'm Amy,” she said, rolling her eyes in exaggerated contempt. It was the least elaborate mocking so far, but it drew the biggest laughs. Amy, perhaps numbed by her beers, didn't respond with the comeback we expected. Ordinarily, we were all a bit intimidated by Amy, what with her tattoos and her dark sarcasm. She could sting, but now she looked a little pale and wobbly. We sensed an opening and within seconds, there was a pile on: Tango laid into Amy about her “sore knees,” and Mike made a knowing reference to a club in Longport and some goings-on behind the back door. Amy played the good sport, smiling—but her eyes went begging for shelter. The evening was cracking up. I got to my feet, brushing the sand from the back of my legs.

Mike blocked me with his bottle. He grinned and asked me where I thought I was going. I could see the flames gleaming off his teeth.

I said it was time to pack it in. There were a few murmurs of agreement.

“Already?” His voice carried an I-don't-think-you're-going-anywhere tone. “It's early, and besides, it's your turn.” Mike waved his bottle before the rest of the crowd. “What do you think, everybody? I don't think it's right, Jason leaving before he's had a turn.”

“Ah, let it go,” Tango said, driving his heel into the sand.

“Wouldn't be right. We have democracy, a participatory democracy.” Mike took a swig from his beer. “There are rules of fair play. At least out here.”

No one missed the reference, Diana least of all. She turned away from their eyes, gazing at a far spot on the wet horizon.

Amy, relieved by the shift in attention, asked who was left.

“Jason to do one. And Diana,” Mike said, pointing at her with his bottle, “to be done. No one's done Diana yet.”

Eugene encouraged him. “C'mon. Let's see you do Diana.”

I said I didn't think so.

“Christ, just do it and get it over with,” Tango said.

“Yeah,” Amy said. “Just do it.”

“All right,” I said. They were all watching me now, and I could feel a kind of heat coming from their eyes—the wolves leering from the underbrush. My hair had blown over my own eyes, and I reached up to brush it aside.

“Ha!” Mike said.

For a moment, I was confused because I hadn't even started, hadn't even thought about how I would “do” Diana, when I realized I already had without even thinking about it. That thing with the hair.

I saw a few faint smiles in the firelight.

“Umm,” I said softly, “could you see if there's tee pee in the restroom and, you know, restock it if, you know, there isn't enough?”

Amy snickered, rocking backward and forward in the sand. I felt a growing confidence.

“Guys,” I said, wringing my hands together, “could you look around for lost balls? I think we're missing some balls.”

“Oh, man,” Tango said. Eugene shook his head in mock disapproval. Mike carried the largest smile, a triumphal arch turned upside down on his face.

I was feeling my beers, their approval, and something more obscure I couldn't name. “We're getting low on balls. Won't someone help me find them? Please, someone, help me find my balls.”

Laughter. Rich but not generous, full of bile and teeth. A crowd of rocking bodies around the fire, hands circling the throats of their bottles.

“Good one,” Diana said flatly when the laughter trailed away. She said she considered herself done. Attention shifted her way, all at once and all together—from many parts, one mind.

“It's just a game,” I said feebly.

Diana raised her hand: stop. She got to her feet. Maybe it was a trick of the light or the way she was illuminated against the sea, but she looked tall or at least taller than I had estimated. “Good night,” she said toward the fire. “I've got to get up early. Look for lost balls.”

They laughed less hungrily this time, and as Diana disappeared behind the dunes, the party spirit left with her. I stayed and finished my beer.

 

chapter seven

island of misfit toys

A shadow crossed the book in Rachel's lap. She looked up from her reading. The barred window seemed filled with a single grin, a mouthful of large yellow teeth rimmed with plump watermelon-pink lips. The eyes, like those of Mrs. K's cat clock, could not keep still.

“Yes?” Rachel asked, hoping her voice might startle the face away. She pushed her book onto a shelf and closed her knees.

“We're going on the rides,” the man said, his hands fluttering up to his shoulders like startled birds. He looked like an oversize boy who had gotten lost and strayed into his mid-thirties; there were creases around his eyes, black licorice strands of hair fell limp over a balding brow. Behind him, a well-rehearsed voice from another man told him to tell the young lady what he wanted. Sitting up, Rachel saw an elderly couple standing behind the grin at the window, their postures molded in patience.

“Tickets!” the man said triumphantly. The couple smiled
—
two thin and similar smiles fully prepared to wait.

How many times had Rachel been in their shoes? Too many to count. “How many would you like?” Rachel asked, directing the question at the guardians.

But the woman, instead of appreciating Rachel's understanding, clasped her hands stoically below her waist. “That's for him to say.”

Okay
, Rachel thought, sighing. She knew this game: empower the disabled. She'd been there, done that
—
but from the other side of the glass. Now it was only just that she cooperate.

“Well,” Rachel said, “we have single tickets for one dollar each, thirty for twenty-five dollars, fifty for forty and”
—
she was reluctant to say it, anticipating what would come next
—
“the Big Book.”

“The Big Book!” The man, as Rachel had expected, liked the sound of that. His head rocked back and forth in delight.

The old man stepped forward, making a breach in the back line. Alarm rang in his eyes. “What's the Big Book?”

“One hundred fifty tickets for one hundred dollars.”

“Oh,” said the woman. “We certainly don't need that many. Roger, you don't need one hundred fifty tickets.”

It was too late. “The Big Book! The Big Book!” Roger shouted. His spit rained against the glass.

“Roger
—
”

“The Big Book!”

“So,” Rachel said, crossing her arms. She had tried to avoid this, but they had cast aside her better judgment. “What'll it be?”

“That's up to Roger,” the woman said, a lifetime of resignation in her voice.

“Big Book!”

It had been almost a year, but it was like riding a bicycle, Rachel thought
—
there are some skills you just don't forget. Tickets? Well, fifty tickets come in a nice little booklet too. She slid one under the window and winked at the parents. “Here you go,” she said. “The Big Book.”

The old man reached for them first, the back of his hand mapped with blue, earthworm veins. He presented the booklet to his wife, the two of them thumbing the deck of tickets, then they engaged in a silent conference of glances. Rachel expected one or the other to produce cash or a credit card, but instead she got a dark look, ominous as a storm cloud, from the mother. “Is this the Big Book?” she asked.

“Sure,” Rachel said, still playing the game.

The woman slapped the packet on the counter. “I don't believe it is,” she said. “Roger asked for the Big Book. We will take the Big Book.” Her husband mirrored her iron look and nodded his head in agreement.

All this time, Roger stayed at the window, his hands still fussing at the air around him, but it wasn't likely he remembered why he was there.

“I just thought…,” Rachel began, then stopped. It didn't matter. She swapped ticket packets, pushing the Big Book under the glass. “One hundred dollars,” she said.

The old man produced a credit card. “A nice round number,” he said, smiling.

Rachel tried to smile back. “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

“Say thank you to the nice young lady,” the mother said.

The words struggled out of Roger's mouth, shy and short. “Thank you,” he said, spinning away, a parent now at either arm.

“You're welcome.” Rachel watched them walk away and waited for it, the slip of his hand into his mother's. She had forgotten it
—
that little thing that came after everything, the slip of one hand inside another
—
but it came back, this memory, a bit haggard after a long trip away, yet determined, insisting on its rightful place beside her.

What?
Rachel asked the memory, the ghost hand seeking warmth in hers.
What do you want from me?

*   *   *

It was a little after six o'clock, the sun still ruled the sky, and Happy World was every bit as unbusy as the Playground. Rachel would not admit it to herself, but she had expected an empty space of air and asphalt where the roller coaster stood as solid and rooted to the earth as an old oak tree. There was no yellow police tape or barricade of hastily assembled plywood panels, not even a stabbed-together cross of wood with flowers leaning against it, the kind of impromptu memorial people compose at traffic accident sites. There was just the Rock-It Roll-It Coaster, a glittering tangle of rails under a hot and unforgiving sun.

Yet there were changes. Instead of a single ride attendant, there were now two, both in red Happy World vests, both lazing back against the guardrail killing time before the crowds came. And on an enameled panel leading up to the loading ramp, Rachel found a message, rough and jagged, something someone waiting impatiently on line might have scratched into the paint with a house key or a hair pin. In a sloped print stumbling downward from left to right, as if sliding off a shelf, it said,
Caution, falling children.