As Close to Us as Breathing: A Novel (24 page)

“Me neither,” she said with such sadness he was sorry he’d thought to bring her there.

They began walking, toward no place in particular.

“Where should we go?” Megan finally asked.

Together they looked behind them at the all-Jewish crowd still gathered at Sloppy Joe’s. If they turned away from the water they’d end up in the Irish community of Woodmont’s hills and their situation would be reversed—she’d be in, he’d be out—but not any better. Even the mixed crowd at Anchor Beach didn’t offer a haven; they could be recognized there too easily and word could reach their respective homes.

“Where should we go?” Megan repeated, and this time when he put his hand on the small of her back, as if to steer her, he admitted to himself that he had no idea where they were going.

“I think we’re going to have to leave Woodmont,” he finally said.

On Wednesday they planned to meet up at the eastern border of Woodmont, where they figured they’d be unlikely to encounter anyone they knew. During Howard’s solitary trek toward the border, he sensed with each step that his life was changing. Inexplicably, he didn’t miss his friends but only longed for the sight of Megan, her quick and open smile. When he finally joined Megan just past the little sign that read
Entering Woodmont on the Sound,
technically on West Haven soil but only inches from Woodmont, the two of them settled against a seawall that separated the shore from the road. For a time they sat quiet and exhausted, as if they’d walked a full day rather than just a small portion of the evening, and they stared at the water before them and then at the moon, a slender crescent set loose in the sky. Howard told her about Mark, what a good guy he really was—once you got to know him, he added, taking her hand—and her response was to nod but then say, “I don’t know. I just don’t know about that.”

They grew quiet again for a time, though he still had her hand in his. They stared at the stars, which to Howard seemed as abundant and scattered as the freckles across Megan’s face. As night settled around them, Howard felt a keen desire to kiss Megan, just as he’d done, several times in fact, the week before last. But he didn’t give in to the feeling, didn’t grab her waist and pull her close as in years past he’d done with other girls, the Francine Cohens and Cookie Susteins of yesteryear. Instead, he listened to Nelson’s voice lodged in a competing compartment of his mind: “Don’t be a stupid jerk.” He heard his father’s voice, too, a voice that bubbled up in his mind at moments throughout almost any day, a voice that was telling him right then, “Judaism is all about responsibility.” And so he rose quickly, purportedly to grab a loose piece of shale and skim it over the water, but in reality to put some space between him and Megan. But he quickly tripped and fell in the sand. “Whoa!” he said, laughing, “I’m all out of whack,” which caused Megan to reach out to him, grab his arm, pull him back beside her. When he toppled down they both laughed, and when the keen desire to kiss her returned, only seconds after he’d talked himself out of it, the voices began again, the uncle in his head, then the father in his head, until finally, his head actually aching, the desire to kiss Megan ebbed and he resumed with her a normal conversation.

By the time he got to Treat’s the next day, at noon, the throbbing in his head had returned. I’m heartsick, he told himself sadly, as he lifted ears of corn to shuck, finally understanding as he ripped the leaves from the husks the full meaning of that term. Indeed, he was
dying
to see Megan. That’s what was going on with all that pain. Something about her was actually killing him, he understood. He knew, too, the discomfort was connected to the battle that would surely ensue between himself and his parents should he tell them his girl, the one he was crazy for, was not Jewish. He’d be fighting not only his parents but everyone, each person in the entire universe of Woodmont, in the whole of Connecticut as well, even in the entire world.

Except, of course, for Nelson. He’d always seen his uncle as simply a quiet man, wonderful to him but otherwise quiet. But a man doesn’t arm himself with a lifetime of Tootsie Rolls for no reason, was the beginning of a new thought for Howard, and he suddenly wished Nelson were there and he could ask him a thing or two about his past, something Nelson never went into, as if he had something to hide. This understanding and others had come to Howard since his return that week from Middletown to Woodmont, since he was expected to show the judiciousness of an adult (“Don’t be a stupid jerk”), and especially since he’d stood by Megan the other night at Sloppy Joe’s. Yes, especially since then, something in him was awakening, which was a good thing, he knew, though it also made him sorry for the corollary understanding of how soundly he’d been asleep.

“Honey, honey,” a customer, Mrs. Delmire, was now saying to him. “I’m going to need some fruit as well as that corn. Some peaches, some cherries. Maybe a pound each. When you’re done with the corn, honey. Okay?”

Howard nodded. He rose from the crate he was sitting on and entered the maze of fruit, arranged in a multitude of cardboard baskets. Once he’d collected the fruit he placed it, bag by bag, on the scales beside the checkout counter where Megan was stationed. She looked pretty in her yellow cotton blouse with short sleeves and tiny buttons down the front. She nodded his way then did some quick figuring on a lined pad. Watching her, Howard smiled. This was what he’d been telling Nelson about: her good nature, her quick mind.

Once Mrs. Delmire had paid, Megan turned to him. “Got a minute?” she asked brightly.

He nodded and she took his arm, leading him to the back of the produce stand where they could be alone. They stood beside a stack of empty wooden crates. She leaned her back against the wall of the shed and stood still for a moment, squinting as she looked at him. He stood before her, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed in a sudden bout of anxiety. Was he about to be a stupid jerk? Feeling a desire to reach for her he asked himself this, as if the answer were beyond his powers to determine. No, no, he then assured himself. He wasn’t. He took a tiny step backward, away from Megan.

“I was wondering,” she said, “if maybe tonight we could go even farther into West Haven. Get away from all this.” She looked around her as if speaking of the fruit and vegetables, but he knew she was thinking of the way they couldn’t be a couple in Woodmont. In all probability West Haven was no different from Woodmont, at least when you got to know it, he figured, but he decided not to say as much. Instead he watched as Megan bent her right leg, placing her foot on the wall behind her. Her yellow blouse opened slightly at the neck.

“Sounds good,” he answered, his arms still crossed, his head now throbbing insistently. “But we have a family dinner tonight,” he then added, remembering that in lieu of his father, who was still away, he’d be at the head of the table. “It’s Friday,” he explained to Megan. “So I’ll be a little later than usual. Eight thirty okay?”

She nodded. She dropped her foot and stood upright, her back no longer on the wall. For some reason she looked down. His eyes followed her gaze. As she gradually raised her head he raised his, and the next thing he knew they were standing but a foot apart, looking directly into each other’s eyes. His stomach felt empty and a sharp pang of hunger startled him. He almost felt woozy from it. She took a tiny step his way, so tiny it was something he sensed more than saw. His arms fell to his sides. When he next looked her way her arms were lifting, like birds, up and off of her body; they were reaching toward him and his arms rose as well and met hers. Their hands locked first, but soon they were embracing. He couldn’t figure out how, exactly, this had happened, but there he was, against what he knew was his better judgment, engaged in his first long kiss with Megan—so different from the short, tentative ones they’d shared before. When the hunger he’d just felt returned, almost knocking him sideways, he pulled her closer to him, then closer again, as if she were ballast against this stunning force. Briefly he opened his eyes, curious if he could actually see himself kissing Megan O’Donnell. A part of him wanted the confirmation of knowing that this moment was, in an objective sense, real, and not a piece of the many fantasies he’d been so unsuccessfully suppressing. But her freckled forehead was all he could take in, that and the brightness of the sun glaring from behind her, and soon enough he closed his eyes, returned to the dark.

A few minutes later he was running, back to his neighborhood, his cottage, running, around corners, over curbs, fueled by the pleasure of that kiss. Bob Mathias, he dared to call himself, imagining as his the Olympic gold the young American had ultimately won. Racing straight for the beach, he collapsed when he reached its sands. The day was clear, the sky an extraordinary blue. No one was around. Friday, late afternoon, and the world of Bagel Beach had packed up, gone inside to prepare for Shabbos. But there Howard was. Singular. On his own.

I can do this, he told himself.

Then he looked around again, eager to find at least one other person with him.

A moment later he heard his name being called, and when he looked behind him he saw Davy approaching, throwing a rubber ball and swinging a miniature bat. Wouldn’t Howard come play with him? Davy yelled. “Hey, hey hey,” he called insistently.

What a squirt he was, Howard thought, lifting himself upright and sauntering down to where the sand was hard from the water but not so wet a person would sink. Davy caught up to him and threw the ball his way, then stood some distance from him, bent forward, at bat. Howard gave a toss and Davy whacked the thing soundly. The ball traveled high into the blue of the day and the two stood nearly side by side, heads tilted upward, feet turning to follow the ball’s trajectory.

“Got it,” Howard called, only to be surprised when Davy countered, “Nope, I got it.” The two of them were in a battle then to make the catch, and they rushed forward into the water, where the ball was now falling. Just as Davy jumped high, Howard jumped higher and clenched the ball with one hand. At the same time he pushed down on Davy’s head, causing him to go under, and when Davy recovered, shaking the water from his face and still calling, absurdly, “I got it, I got it,” the two lunged at each other and Howard released the ball so he could reach for Davy. As Howard grabbed him, he was thinking of Megan, of how smooth her skin had felt. Howard was still wearing his work pants, which didn’t make sense, but he didn’t care; he stayed where he was, teasing Davy, lifting him over his head, telling him he’d better watch it, he was going to throw him well past the horizon, and with those words Bob Mathias came to mind again, his strength, his endurance, his age, exactly Howard’s, just two months out of high school and life for them both—at least right then—something golden, golden.

The brothers raced out of the water and began chasing each other along the shore, Davy in pursuit until Howard stopped in his tracks, turned, and charged at Davy, who then jumped and screamed before setting off as if for his life.

Mark Fishbaum then arrived, clad in bathing trunks and carrying several towels. “Come on,” he said to Howard, cutting off the chase. “Let’s get a quick one in before it’s too late.”

They hadn’t seen each other since the night at Sloppy Joe’s. Howard stood still, his arms crossed, his breathing heavy.

“You coming?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know,” Howard told him. “We have to talk.”

“Talk?”

“I thought you were my friend, Mark.”

The two stared at the ground rather than at each other. Howard dug his toes deep into the sand.

“I
am
your friend,” Mark said. “I just don’t want you to do something that gets your head chopped off.”

Howard stared past Mark at the cottages behind him, then at the hills rising beyond. “You know me,” he said, his gaze back on Mark. “I’ll just grow another one.”

But then Davy ran to them and Howard didn’t want to say anything more. He nodded Mark’s way, the gesture an assent to go with him.

They carried the Sailfish to the water and within minutes had the boat rigged and ready to launch. Davy had stood by them the whole while, holding a loose line when necessary, offering a hand as the sail went up.

As Howard and Mark walked the boat out a ways, Davy began following them.

“Where you going?” Howard asked, turning back to Davy.

“Can’t I come?” Davy asked.

“Not today, buddy. Got some things to talk to Mark about.” Howard looked at Mark, who shrugged. “Besides, Davy, this is going to take a while,” he said. “I’ll take you on a better ride tomorrow.”

“I can’t come?”

“Not today.”

“How come I can’t come?”

“Come on, now. I just told you. Now get going. I think I see Mommy. There she is. She’s waving.”

Davy turned and in just that moment Howard and Mark set off. Of course Ada wasn’t there. When Davy turned back he jumped up and down in the water. “Liar!” he called, and then, more desperately, “I wanted to come too! I helped!”

In a moment, though, Davy had stopped the pleading and jumping and had begun a slow retreat out of the water. As the youngest kid he was used to being picked up and put down; that’s what was always happening to him, or so it seemed to Howard as he looked shoreward, toward the little brother who now turned back toward the boat to offer one more wave good-bye.

“Listen,” Howard yelled toward him. “I’m going to take you for a ride tomorrow. A long one. You hear?”

Seated beside him, Mark said, “Two heads. That’s like having two lives, Howard. You ready for two lives?”

But Mark was wrong, he knew. It was one life. His life. He was about to tell Mark that when he turned shoreward once again and there was Davy, standing where the waves hit the sand, picking up stones and skimming them across the water’s surface, and weirdly enough Howard saw in Davy something of himself, the kid self that in just those last days was feeling about a million years away. Two lives: then and now. Maybe Mark was right. “Ready enough,” Howard told his friend, his voice heavy, his hand unsteady on the tiller. “Hey!” he then called behind him to the ever-shrinking image of Davy, but just as he did the Sailfish caught a breeze, the movement of the boat picked up, and the little boy on the shore, bending now to gather more stones, could no longer hear him.