beach and boardwalk together, but these mostly pleasant excursions are interrupted by occasional flashes of anger from Dolores. This anger comes to a head when Bobby, in a breezy, sardonic tone, informs Timmy that our Cherry Hill house is a “city-block long.” Mrs. Dasher, who’s spent much more time in the city than my brother, having lived in the same northeast Philadelphia row house for twenty-seven years, finds this observation patently offensive, and tells my mother about it. In sight of Mrs. Dasher, my mother tells Bobby that this isn’t true, that this isn’t nice, though she doesn’t sound entirely convinced. “So it’s half a city-block long,” Bobby says, and rolls his eyes. And Mrs. Dasher jerks Timmy home by the arm.
Two weeks later we’re driving down Bay Avenue in Ocean City. Pointing to a dull Colonial under construction, Bobby says, “yuck.” To which Mrs. Dasher, who’s driving, wrenches back her head and says, “Robert Lisicky, I’d like to see the kind of house you live in someday.” It goes without saying Bobby is appalled. The Dashers accuse him of being competitive, stuck-up, but within months they sell their Anchorage Point house and move into a two-story contemporary in Seaview Harbor, the more expensive lagoon development down Longport Boulevard, which my father had turned his back on sixteen years before.
***
We’re the last of the old guard in Anchorage Point. All the others—the Foxes, the Fortes, the Caceeses, the Muscufos, the Sendrows—have either moved south to Delray Beach or simply died. With the passage of casino gambling in Atlantic City, a half hour away, the houses are occupied year-round now. Newer residents, mostly casino executives and their families, are drawn to the waterfront property, now in high demand because of EPA rulings restricting the dredging of wetlands. Many of the original California ranchers are all but unrecognizable. Second stories are thrown up overnight; huge landscaped pool decks extend toward the water. Some houses are entirely torn down, replaced with floodlit bunkers. Ronald Reagan is president, and size seems to be more significant than modesty or understatement. One teardown is reportedly on sale for $325,000. The strangest thing about these developments is that we’re virtual strangers in our old neighborhood. The DePalmas or the Denelsbecks don’t appear to care that we’ve been here since the early 1960s, that we’ve stuck it out through tropical storms, water problems, difficult days when the post office refused to deliver our mail.
Still, Mrs. Fox isn’t quite forgotten. As late as 1986, a dozen years after her departure, we hear an anecdote from Joan Britt, who happens to run into us at the Acme. Joan is the kind of senior citizen we’d all want to be: attractive, alert, and perky, all undercut with a pleasing subversiveness. She’s one of those people who makes you feel grateful that she likes you, because you know that she just doesn’t give it away.
My mother and I draw closer once Jane starts in on her story. 1961, and Mr. and Mrs. Britt are dining with Astrid and Warren at the Sandpiper Pub, a once-exclusive oceanfront restaurant that has since become a nightclub with an ominous reputation. (Two years ago a college kid was stabbed repeatedly behind a Dumpster.) As Mr. Fox leaves for the bathroom, Mrs. Fox places both hands on the table and leans forward.
“I hate my life,” she whispers.
The Britts smile uneasily. After all, the couples aren’t close. Isn’t this just one more instance in which Mrs. Fox is dramatizing her circumstances? They don’t know what to believe. They ask themselves, Has she been drinking?
“I hate my life. Are you listening to me?”
“Astrid, no —” says Mrs. Britt.
“Some days I just want to throw myself into the lagoon.”
Then Mr. Fox returns to the table, and she’s once again talking in a cheery voice about replacing the carpet with Karastan rugs.
This tale, which we
Two weeks later we’re driving down Bay Avenue in Ocean City. Pointing to a dull Colonial under construction, Bobby says, “yuck.” To which Mrs. Dasher, who’s driving, wrenches back her head and says, “Robert Lisicky, I’d like to see the kind of house you live in someday.” It goes without saying Bobby is appalled. The Dashers accuse him of being competitive, stuck-up, but within months they sell their Anchorage Point house and move into a two-story contemporary in Seaview Harbor, the more expensive lagoon development down Longport Boulevard, which my father had turned his back on sixteen years before.
***
We’re the last of the old guard in Anchorage Point. All the others—the Foxes, the Fortes, the Caceeses, the Muscufos, the Sendrows—have either moved south to Delray Beach or simply died. With the passage of casino gambling in Atlantic City, a half hour away, the houses are occupied year-round now. Newer residents, mostly casino executives and their families, are drawn to the waterfront property, now in high demand because of EPA rulings restricting the dredging of wetlands. Many of the original California ranchers are all but unrecognizable. Second stories are thrown up overnight; huge landscaped pool decks extend toward the water. Some houses are entirely torn down, replaced with floodlit bunkers. Ronald Reagan is president, and size seems to be more significant than modesty or understatement. One teardown is reportedly on sale for $325,000. The strangest thing about these developments is that we’re virtual strangers in our old neighborhood. The DePalmas or the Denelsbecks don’t appear to care that we’ve been here since the early 1960s, that we’ve stuck it out through tropical storms, water problems, difficult days when the post office refused to deliver our mail.
Still, Mrs. Fox isn’t quite forgotten. As late as 1986, a dozen years after her departure, we hear an anecdote from Joan Britt, who happens to run into us at the Acme. Joan is the kind of senior citizen we’d all want to be: attractive, alert, and perky, all undercut with a pleasing subversiveness. She’s one of those people who makes you feel grateful that she likes you, because you know that she just doesn’t give it away.
My mother and I draw closer once Jane starts in on her story. 1961, and Mr. and Mrs. Britt are dining with Astrid and Warren at the Sandpiper Pub, a once-exclusive oceanfront restaurant that has since become a nightclub with an ominous reputation. (Two years ago a college kid was stabbed repeatedly behind a Dumpster.) As Mr. Fox leaves for the bathroom, Mrs. Fox places both hands on the table and leans forward.
“I hate my life,” she whispers.
The Britts smile uneasily. After all, the couples aren’t close. Isn’t this just one more instance in which Mrs. Fox is dramatizing her circumstances? They don’t know what to believe. They ask themselves, Has she been drinking?
“I hate my life. Are you listening to me?”
“Astrid, no —” says Mrs. Britt.
“Some days I just want to throw myself into the lagoon.”
Then Mr. Fox returns to the table, and she’s once again talking in a cheery voice about replacing the carpet with Karastan rugs.
This tale, which we
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