That summer, August 1969, fourteen-years-old, I rode the trolley to the Army/Navy store and bought hip-hugger bellbottoms. I embedded little metallic silver stars down the outside seam and sewed a Siegfried peace patch on the rear pocket. Shoulder-length hair, I sometimes wore my sister’s skin-tight, American flag shirt.
From Philadelphia, we drove the backs roads to the Jersey shore. As we got closer, the pungent scent of marsh meadows and estuaries filled my nostrils. My head out the backseat window, I was free and flying among the brackish tidal creeks and salt hay, the twisting Tuckahoe River signaling we were almost there.
My second-floor bedroom had a paneled ceiling and faded white walls. A window faced the alley and several another cedar-shingled cottages. It was a hot room if there was no wind, or if the wind blew from a direction other than the window. The brown bureau wobbled whenever I opened the drawers, the brass handles tapping, the attached mirror rattling.
Another family across the alley was unpacking their car. Looking closer, through the slit of curtain, I saw a red-headed girl about my age coming and going—her silver braces faintly reflecting in the bright sunlight. I couldn’t keep from watching her.
Downstairs, helping my father finish unpacking our Ford station wagon, I said, “Hey dad, they have a Rambler.” He nodded as he looked at the car—the message of his body language needed no words. Ramblers were different, and different sorts of people drove them. That’s the way things were in our family—them, us. It didn’t matter what. The girl and I kept noticing each other, our eyes holding from time to time.
Moments later, crawling out from the back of the station wagon, I saw her flowered shorts, heard her gentle voice. “What’s your name?”
Standing up, I said, “Mike. I’m Mike.”
“I’m April,” she said. “We’re moving in next door, for the week. How about you?”
“We’re here all week too.” Her parents paused from unpacking, watching us for a minute. Sandaled, they were both thin, wore gray sweatshirts with State College written across the chest.
Her mother called out, her voice equally soft, “April, April.”
“Gotta go now. I’ll stop by after supper. We’ll go down to the water and walk.”
Interested, confused, I said, “Okay.”
A little after 7, at the top step, there was a gentle knock at the screen door, a faint whisper drifting into the kitchen, “Mike, Mike…”
“Popular already?” my mother stated, giving me a blank stare that bordered on smiling. She enjoyed immensely going to the beach—would put on her fluffy bathing cap, wade in the ocean, and with great vigor splash her arms and neck with seawater. It was her time to relax, sit in the evening on the front porch, let the world go by. One night, I thought I saw her smoking a cigarette.
I was happy my father was upstairs hooking up the window fan in their bedroom, bring the cool air though the cottage. A salesman, he still carried a work-tense demeanor, as if still on the job. But after a few days of swimming, walking the beach, he was another person—sunburnt smile emerging over his face, steps light and energetic, calm. He and my mother would have afternoon beer with lunch, dinners by candlelight, mix their cocktails, stay up late.
“Hi April,” I said, looking back as I rinsed off my plate in the sink.
“Guess you were still eating?” she asked.
“All done now.”
“Good,” she said. I could feel something in her eyes as she looked at me, as she stopped me at the screen door, pressed her hand against my chest. “Let’s go before it gets too dark.”
Barefoot, we took off down the alley, jumped over the wooden bulkhead onto the beach. We ran in the surf, among the receding waves, digging our toes in the hard sand, laughing, pulling each other by the hand. Darting along, we played tag, her supple movements too quick for me.
Slowing to a walk, I asked her, “Are you guys from Philly?”
“No, near Williamsport.”
“Didn’t think you were from the city.”
“How so?”
“No accent.”
She said I would love the mountains where she lived because it was another world just like the beach. Different but the same, she tried explaining. All you had to do was use your imagination. Then you could see clearly. Everything could transform. The forest like ocean; the sand like fields; the sky the same airy openness.
When it got dark, she slid her arm through mine, pulled me to her side, said. “I’m cold.” We walked down the alley, over two blocks to the pizza parlor.
We sat in the back booth and drank sodas with straws. She wanted to get married and have children, a house and barn, lots of dogs. She asked if I wanted to get married and without thinking I said yes. We never brought up money, it just seemed like something that was always there, like getting married and having babies. It was just that simple for some.
Later, among the dim glow of houses and blanket of stars, we walked along the alley, back to the beach. Nearby was a lifeguard stand, the wavering, black slate of ocean beyond. We laid between sand dunes. Low in the sky, April pointed out the cup of the Big Dipper, above to Polaris—the North Star: the last star in the handle of the Little Dipper.
“What are your parent like?” I asked April.
“Nice. I love them so much.” She looked at me, her face close to mine. “Do you love your parents?”
“I don’t know. It’s weird sometimes with them.”
“Yeah… I know.”
Fireflies drifted over patches of dune grass, their fading yellow lights blinking, wavering on the slight breeze, their upward flashing colliding with the silver-violet twinkling of stars. Canvas tents, not far from the lifeguard stand, stored rental rafts, chairs, umbrellas for beach goers.
“I want to go under that one,” she said, pointing to the big blue tent.
“There?” I questioned, studying its triangular shape. “Can we fit?”
“It’ll be fun.” She leapt up. “I’m going to crawl underneath, see what’s it’s like.”
Following her, the instep of my foot hit something sharp. “Ouch!”
“You alright?”
“Stepped on a clamshell. Not too bad though.”
“Hurry up,” she whispered. “Before anybody sees us.” She dropped to her knees, dug a small hole at the side of the tent, scooted under.
I scanned around, didn’t see anyone in the darkness, only the distant silhouette of alley and variety store at the corner.
I heard her faint voice from under the tent. “There’s room. Come on.”
I wiggled under, felt sand stick to my cheek and lips—teeth crunching the course, pasty grains.
Inside the tent was lightless; there wasn’t the faintest outline of April, the smell of damp rubber rafts nearly overpowering. I heard her stacking rafts, clearing a space, the sand cold on my feet. In the tight confines, as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see the faint shape of April, the golden specks of whiteness in her eyes.
“Lay down.” Her hands guided me with a firm, but gentle force. Pushing my shoulders flat against the spongy raft, she got on top of me. Trying to get the last few grains of sand out of my mouth, she pressed her lips on mine, her tongue shooting inside my mouth, sneaking around like a well-trained animal.
Breathing deeply, suddenly warm, I smelled her sweet skin, heard the distant ocean. Without realizing as much, like the meeting of tides, my tongue slipped inside her mouth, moved around with hers. Rising from me, there was the rustling sound of her shirt coming off.
Instantly twisting out of my T-shirt, her pulling it over my head, a feeling overcame me as her warm breasts pressed into my naked chest. Laying flat on me, rising up, moving slowing back and forth, her lips came to mine, my lower lip snagging on her braces.
Limping, pausing on the back step, my foot hurt from the shell cut. I rubbed the dried blood and sand away. Going in the kitchen, quietly shutting the screen door, I noticed a large stain on my blue jeans shining in the overhead light. Washing it out with the sponge I grabbed from the back of the sink, it spread larger against the fabric.
Worse, I could hear Hank and Doris—my parents loud cocktail friends from back home. Depressed at the thought of them coordinating vacations, I hoped they weren’t staying somewhere nearby for the week.
The only way I could get upstairs to my bedroom, out of my clothes, was to cross the living room. Watching them, I wondered if they had hit that level where everyone talks, and nobody listens: when the scotch and martinis seem to have taken control of their mouths?
My father and Hank were proud World War II combatants. Sometimes their boisterous conversations made me think I was watching a John Wayne movie. They smoked Chesterfields and Lucky Strike cigarettes. Doris always had a Salem 100 going, a big glass ashtray nearby. I still wasn’t sure if my mother smoked. But I could envision her holding a cigarette up like a movie star, intricately blowing smoke out of her mouth, like what I had thought I had seen her doing.
Inching from the kitchen, I figured the cocktails were doing their job. I could tell Doris was on her way to the moon—her black, dyed hair all done up in a beehive was coming loose, her thick perfume and non-stop squeaky voice filling the room.
My only plan: act as if I wasn’t there—invisibly keep going for the steps, hope for the best. Perhaps I should crawl? But I wouldn’t be rude or sneaky, just avoid any conversation: that’s what I had always tried—the option of stopping a known death sentence. Besides, parents could smell deceit in their children like a forest ranger sniffs out smoke.
Gliding to the steps, my cut foot still stinging, I thought I was home free—but a floorboard creaked, gave me up, and Doris spotted me.
“Mikey! Mikey… I see you trying to get away. Come over here and say hello to your girl. I want to know what you’ve been up to here at the beach?”
My heart sank as they faced me with a questioning stare. But they were all going to the moon, so I didn’t think they really knew what was going on. I pushed the paranoid thoughts from my mind. As Doris extended both arms for me, I innocently dropped my hands, covered my stained pants.
“Come here sweetie and give me a big kiss,” Before I could move, she was kissing my lips. “Well… how have you been?”
Reeling back, I said, “Oh, just fine.” But she wouldn’t fully let go, the tacky taste of her red lipstick on my tongue. Her swollen brown eyes gazed deeply into mine, as if searching for something lost, or wanting to say something more.
“Honey, what happened to your lip? It’s swollen—and you’ve got a cut.”
“Oh… nothing. Was body surfing and a big wave pushed me into the sand.”
“Have you been up to no good?”
“Of course not.”
“And you weren’t even going to say hello to me?”
“Well, Mrs. McKay…”
Escape imminent, I managed to break her grip on me. But Hank’s voice boomed: “Hey Mike—get the hell over here!”
“Mr. McKay…” I shuffled over to Hank, glancing towards the stairs, to the refuge of my bedroom.
“Life treating you good old buddy?”
“Pretty good I guess.”
“What… don’t you know?”
“Things are great?” I said. “Sure they are. We’re at the beach, aren’t we?”
“Limping, huh?”
“Stepped on a clamshell.”
“A seashell can do that?”
“Seems so.”
“Still got that longhair, huh?”
“Yep.”
His creeping stare turned into a wide mayhem of nicotine-stained teeth. “Keeping your nose clean, are you?”
“Trying to,” I said, straight-faced, worried he might’ve known what I had been doing with April.
“Did you hear that, Bud? Just a chip off the old block.”
Lighting another cigarette for Doris, my father didn’t look at me. My mother, bleary-eyed, sat on the large vinyl sofa, the dim haze of table lamp and drifting cigarette smoke fanning across the ceiling, her shadowy outline frozen in the dark glare of picture window.
“How ‘bout a shake?” Hank said, jabbing his bear-like hand at me, his barrel-hard stomach fixed like a rock over his belt. His sagging blue eyes carried a sallow film; his cheeks flush from scotch; his grin sinister. I could tell old man moon was shining down on him, howling, pulling him to the stars, just as he had done so many times before.
Each and every time I saw Hank he wanted to shake. He’d go at me fast, his pale, dead lips tight as he’d work my smaller palm deep into his big mitt—my knuckles rolling on top of each other, cracking, burning. Fighting back, I’d sometimes get him gritting his teeth, as if I might win. Maddened, he would merely tighten his vise-like hold, his reddened face boiling.
He’d out squeeze me in the end: even if I managed to step in close, act crazy like him, snatch his hand, push hard into his grip. It wasn’t long before he’d whittle me down, have me begging for mercy. Dropping to my knees, pushing, pulling, I’d never shake free.
Only then would he let me go—my hand swollen, reshaped before my eyes.
My father, watching, remained silent. A testament to my manhood.
“Maybe next time?” Hank said, reaching for his drink, his eyes tingling, bright, oddly youthful. But he would be short of breath, his exuberance fading. And there was always the saddened expression of Doris and my mother as they sat wordless, witnessing the mismatch.
Then Hank seemed to rise from the ashes. “How ‘bout the left hand?”
“Not tonight sir. As usual, you’re too much for me. I’ll get you someday though,” I said, grateful it was over, hoping it would never happen again, and ran to the steps.
“But Mikey…” Doris called out. “Come back here.”
April would come by early in the morning and we’d have cereal with bananas or peaches. I’d watch her lean down, the tangled ends of her hair sometimes dipping into the milk, and she’d raise her hand nonchalantly, hold her hair back behind her head, continue without looking up, the sound of spoon gently tapping the side of bowl.
We would swim and take long walks and fall asleep on the hot sand, our towels spread next to each other. The sky was so clear it seemed another world—and in a way it was—then a single white cloud would go by, momentarily block the sun, and you’d realize how wonderful it was that you were at the beach.
There was an enclosed outdoor shower and a small room around the back of our cottage, a white but rusting machine and dryer. On the last day, April and I covered the window and louvered glass door with our towels, turned the warm water on us, stayed together until the water went cold.
That evening, at April’s house, we sat at the dining room table and ate our supper, drank lemonade, passed bowls of food around. There was no cocktail hour, no cigarette smoke, no loud voices—only the silent comfort of each other.
I told April’s parents I was going to visit, and they smiled at the notion of us eventually getting married, having children, lots of dogs, a big barn.
But I wouldn’t tell my parents about anything like that. When the day came, I would just go. I would have the ring—snitch one that wouldn’t be missed from my mother’s jewelry box, clothes hidden and ready, and I would just go.
The next morning, when we were packing up to leave, my father went on about the lawn needing to be cut; my mother talked about me getting ready to go back to school. I told my parents how much I liked April. My mother didn’t think it a very good idea for a boy my age to be thinking about girls so much. My father nodded, went on about the garage needing to be cleaned out.
All I had to do was go. Just go. Not think about it. Talk myself out of it. Go. And as soon as you go, change occurs. It’s not fair how we can know this or come to understand how change happens. When and why? But wisdom comes early to a few, late to others, never to many. And if you’re lucky, well then, you just are.
Mark Aufiery was born and raised in Philadelphia 67 years ago. He has lived in Maine for the past 15 years.