The Beach Girls (15 page)

He put a firm and gentle hand over my mouth and when he took it away, I could keep from talking. He helped me off with what my shaking hands hadn’t been able to manage. He got me into the bunk and I was shivering, and I got a twitch in the muscle of the calf of my right leg so that the whole leg kept leaping about like a mackerel in the bottom of a skiff. Christy, the great courtesan. He held me gently and patiently until the shivering stopped and the little motor in my leg ran down. Then he kissed me.

I don’t know how it was. I’ve got the weirdest sort of memory. I know the lyrics of a hundred songs, and a lot of them are not terribly nice, but what else goes with my
laryngical croak? I can remember the pictures in my first reader, clear as clear. But when the big things happen, my mind seems to be turned off.

I do know that for a while it was two living things. And it became one entity, with no more thee and me, or thine and mine. And it had the feeling of being
meant
to be that way, as if there was something forlorn and drab about being just one separate thing by yourself all alone. And I felt that all of me had been combined. All the layers of self, so separate, were stirred into one broth, and so I was able to be present at that time and place in a way I had never been present before. A supra-awareness, and good because all the selves were for giving, not taking.

I can’t avoid using some of those silly, overworked, sappy words. So I have to say some of it was tender and some of it was savage, some of it was sweet and some of it was fierce as growling.

I am supposed to have a good imagination. And I’ve read the analogies they write where they compare the end of it to the sea, or music or fireworks or the earth shaking and so on. But it wasn’t like that. I felt proud that it was so good, and then it became better and then it became incredibly better, and when I knew there was no enduring it, it suddenly swooped up so high that I was beyond any place where I could sort out comparisons about the sea and aerial bombs and so on. It was just a gigantic, indescribable, prolonged
something
that was happening to me, so important that I didn’t even know my own name, or what I was, or where I was.

But my memory of the mechanics is utterly blank.

I didn’t really crawl all the way back into my own skin until we lay side by side, my head on his arm, my heart slowing to an easy canter. I felt unbearably smug. In kindergarten, when you were very good, they would send you home with a gold star stuck on your forehead. I wanted one of those.

“Christy, Christy, Christy,” he whispered.

“I know. Don’t talk. I just want to feel like this. Like a lump of butter. Golly.”

In a little while I opened my eyes and lifted my head a little. The moon had moved. It came down through the oblong portholes and made one patch on my breasts and
another on his hairy knees, both patterns of light moving slightly with the tiny shifting of the
Ruthless
at her mooring.

I hoped he was looking at me. They’re the best of me, I think. I looked at him and couldn’t see where he was looking. Our heads were in darkness.

So suddenly it startled me, he grabbed me and slid me down until my face was in moonlight. He braced himself up on one elbow and said, “You’re beautiful, Christy.”

I covered my face with my hands. He took my two wrists in his hand and pulled my hands away and said, “I mean it.”

Old leaky-eye Christy. I snuffled and said, “I knew nobody was ever going to say that again.”

“Whoever says it sees what I see. And it’s not hard to see. Not obscure at all.”

“I better look again.”

He kissed the wet eyes. “Oh, Christy.”

“Just you remember it was my idea, hear?”

“I wonder just how good the idea was?”

“What?”

“Don’t snarl at me. I meant—biologically.”

“Oh,” I said dreamily. “Oh, that.”

“Don’t you think you should—”

“Uh-uh. I’m too comfortable.”

“But Christy!”

“Somehow I don’t care. He’ll be born smiling.”

He lay back. “Okay, okay, horrify the Chamber of Commerce. How big are those brothers?”

“Monsters, every one Short tempers, too. Very protective.”

“And conservative?”

“Highly.”

He held my hand. I felt nifty. Without particular thought, I said dreamily, “I guess I’ll have you marry me anyway.”

Suddenly he was laughing so hard he shook the bunk. I sat up and said, “What’s so hilarious, old buddy?”

When he could speak he said, “I just remembered … what you said. About no … claims. Wow!”

I tried to hang onto my annoyance, but I couldn’t. I knew how crazy it had sounded. But, damn it, when you feel smug, you sound smug. So I helped him laugh it up.

Later he put the palm of his hand on my tummy. Just
as I was hoping that he appreciated its hard-won flatness, several thousand sneaky little electric worms began to hurry all over me, traveling just under the skin. I felt as if any minute I would start to glow bright blue. I gulped, spun toward him, and tried to dig a hole in his chest. And I remember even less about our second production. But I do remember thinking, just as the world began to become too immediate to think about, that it was going to play hell if from now on any little touch activated those thousand-watt worms. I’d spend most of my declining years in a state of semi-consciousness and brisk abandon.

When I met him on the dock the next day at five thirty, I suddenly felt, standing there in the sunlight, as if I had been issued an undersized fig leaf. I wanted to hide under a bait bucket. Then he smiled, and I wanted to sling him over my shoulder and gallop to my cave with him. He explained why it had been essential to phone me eleven times at the C of C. Just to say hello, of course. I explained the little bruise over my eye. I had walked into a window wall. I said let’s go swimming first. He didn’t have to ask before what. I always say an intelligent girl never, never makes herself too available. That’s what I always say. But what if you’ve fallen way behind, because he took so long to show up in your life, and, without being ego-centric, only smug, you feel you have uncovered a rare natural talent? What about that?

The year after Jess died, the citizens of Stebbins’ Marina gave a surprise birthday party for Alice. It was a genuine surprise that first year. And almost a surprise the second year. By the third year it was a tradition.

As with all new traditions, it takes a few years to make all the necessary adjustments. It was decided that the celebration of her fifty-first birthday would be the biggest, best and smoothest yet. Though it was still called a surprise birthday party, no attempt was made to conceal the preparations from Alice.

On Friday some men from an awning company came and put up a big rental tent—a gaudy three-sided affair—in the open space between the shower buildings and the big apron which ran along the shoreside end of all four docks. A big trestle table was set up in the tent as a bar. Men from a lighting outfit came with all the floodlights the dock wiring system could handle and set them securely in place where they were least likely to be damaged.

It had been learned that the combination of the dimness of the docks and the spirit of holiday had been, in a few instances in the past, unfortunate. The expenses of the tent and the wiring, the kegs of beer, the bartenders, the rental glasses, and a stupendous quantity of cold buffet, to be doled out a banquet at a time, were guaranteed by the permanent residents. For the last four years the investors had made a profit. Half the profit, by tradition, went to buy a present for Alice, and the rest went into a closed party a week later, a party by invitation only.

Everyone who knew about the party—and who had
five bucks—could come. Your ticket was the five dollar bill. In return the back of your hand was firmly stamped with indelible ink. In return for your five dollars, you were entitled to all the beer you could drink, at a nickel a glass, provided you brought the glass back to be refilled. If you didn’t, your next beer cost you two bits, and you took better care of your glass.

On previous years Helen Hass had proved she was the person to handle the money. She did not drink. She would spend the afternoon and evening going back and forth through the crowd at a slow trot, bent forward from the waist, looking for unstamped hands and collecting money to shove into the office safe.

If you refused to pay, some muscular charterboat operators would grab your arms, run you all the way to the edge of the parking lot, and see how much elevation they could give you. Lew Burgoyne and Sim Gallowell held the record, having, in 1957, cleared three sedans with one cooperative heave of a rather small drunk. Only the most stout of heart returned after such a definitive dismissal.

The other way to leave violently was to pay your money and then behave outrageously. But such were the standards of behavior that to be so treated was a rarity and considered a distinction. A plump little tourist man achieved that honor in 1956 when he solemnly set the tent on fire. They threw him into the lot three times before he made it known that he merely wanted to get back to his boat over at B Dock and go to bed. So they threw him onto his boat.

Paying customers were also entitled to partake of the buffet, join the ‘talent’ show, fall off the docks as they saw fit, get thunderously drunk, beat each other’s faces in, pursue members of the opposite sex with all the vigor at their command, sing, belly-dance, roar at the moon, and fall down unconscious.

If you had no taste for beer, you could bring your own bottle, hand it over to the bartender with your name on it, and buy it back, with setups, at two bits a paper cup. Or you could keep it on your boat, or a friend’s boat.

It had become larger each year. As this one fell on a Saturday night, it was anticipated that it would be the biggest yet. All tourist craft were warned that if they
valued their lives, their night’s rest, and the honor of their womenfolk, it would be wise to find another anchorage.

The police cooperated by staying away.

Perhaps the wide popularity of the birthday party was in part due to the time of year. The hot months bring tensions and a flavor of potential violence. This was release.

One change had been made this year. Instead of using an area at the neck of one of the docks for the talent show, Sid Stark had offered the rear deck of his big Chris. It was a flush rear deck, high over the dock. He had an elaborate high-fidelity system aboard. He had a technician come out and rent him a floor microphone and what other electronic gadgets he needed to tie it into his big speakers, which were moved up to the flying bridge. Special spots were rigged to illuminate the improvised stage, and everybody agreed that it was a splendid innovation. It was obvious that a few people might get accidentally pushed off D Dock, but it was wide enough to hold a throng, and besides you could see the stage clearly from shore.

It was expected that this year some of Sid’s friends from the entertainment world would add a more professional flair to the program. And it was hoped there would be fewer amateur strippers. When the show was over, Sid’s tapes would provide the music for the fiesta.

Because it was Saturday, the official starting time was pushed forward to three o’clock, thus guaranteeing that there would be a certain almost predictable percentage who would miss seeing the shades of night.

Billy Looby spent the week readying his ‘gallery.’ Men only. No children. That stipulation was redundant. Children were not permitted at the party. No one wanted the responsibility for warping little minds. The walls of Billy’s room in the end of the storage shed were papered with such intemperate examples of pornography, most of it from Havana, that strong men had been known to stop dead just inside the door, gasp and look sickly. It was Billy’s hobby, and he arranged them in as telling a way as possible, determined to see that no man felt cheated by his fifty cents admission fee.

On Friday morning, at high tide, a Texas yacht out of Galveston inched cautiously into the basin. It was as big
as anything that had ever stopped there, a little over a hundred feet of converted Canadian cutter, named
Do Tell
. The only place for it was alongside the T at the end of D Dock. The yacht was bright and smart, the crew brisk in uniform. Alice looked it up in Lloyds and found, as she suspected, that it was corporate owned.

She went out and told them what they might be getting into. She guessed there were perhaps two dozen people aboard, a lot of sun-brown, slow-talking men, the majority of them in their middle years, and a smaller number of leggy girls, all of them young. A lament of the wide prair-ree played softly over the yacht’s speaker system.

The men and young girls lounged on the decks with tall drinks and one of the men said, “Ma’am, this is just plain fool luck, that’s all. Never yet run from a party and we’re not about to start. I’d say no matter how rough it gets, we’ve seen rougher one time or another.”

On Saturday only the
Bally-Hey
and the
Jimmy-Jan
went out on a half-day charter. All day charters were, for once, refused. During the early part of the day a dozen cruisers and fishing boats from marinas up and down the Waterway moved into the basin and tied up at the places Billy Looby found for them. This was too good to miss. If it lived up to other years, it would provide local conversation for months. As the basin became more crowded, the feeling of expectancy increased.

The committee, this year, had consisted of Gus Andorian, Helen Hass, Joe Rykler, Amy Penworthy and Orbie Derr. They had all worked hard, except Joe. He had been worse than useless, forgetting to do the few things that Helen, the chairman, had given him to do. In Joe’s emotional absence, occasioned by his very obvious, very intense and very unsuccessful pursuit of Anne Browder, Lew Burgoyne had filled in.

At one o’clock, two hours before the official time of the opening of the party, the committee met on Gus’s old
Queen Bee
.

“It won’t rain,” Orbie said firmly. “I got the noon report out of Miami.”