using for bait?
Bottle caps, Willie says. Nail heads. Chewing tobacco.
Water’s kind of icky, isn’t it?
We give the fish a hot shower and a shave before we cook them, Willie says.
She laughs. Sounds delish. On the subject of food, I better run. Daddy gets cranky when he’s hungry.
She wiggles her fingers goodbye. Is it Willie’s imagination or does she hold his gaze for half a second?
The boys stand shoulder to shoulder, watching her walk down Beard Street. They don’t speak until she passes into her father’s shipyard. Then they still don’t speak. They lie back on the rocks and hold their faces to the sun. Willie, eyes closed, watches the golden sun spots float under his eyelids. They remind him of the flecks in Bess Endner’s blue eyes. He’d have a better chance of kissing the sun.
A cat or rat scurries in front of the car. Photographer swerves. What the—? A block later, another cat or rat. So this is Red Hook, Photographer says—people live here?
And die here, Sutton says. In the old days you’d hear two guys at a lunch counter. One would whisper to the other, I dropped that package in Red Hook. Package meant corpse .
Reporter points to a pothole that looks like a lunar crater. Look out .
Photographer drives straight through it. The Polara begins to rattle like an old trolley .
You cracked the axle, Sutton says .
Brooklyn is full of potholes, Photographer says .
Brooklyn is a pothole, Sutton says. Always was .
Reporter points at a street sign. There it is—Beard Street .
Photographer turns on Beard, slides the Polara along the curb, scrapes the hubcap. Sutton steps out, limps across the cobblestones to a raised, railed sidewalk along the water. He steps up, grabs the railing, stands like a dictator about to address a crowd-filled plaza. Now he turns back to Reporter and Photographer, who are staying by the car. He calls to them: What are there, three billion people in the world? Four? You know the odds of finding the one who’s meant for you? Well—I found her. Right here. On this spot .
Reporter and Photographer cross the street, one jotting notes, the other shooting .
Boys, you’re only really alive, in the fullest sense of the word, when you’re in love. That’s why almost everyone you meet seems like they’re dead .
What was her name, Mr. Sutton?
Bess .
SEVEN
Out of work, nearly out of cash, the boys still spend nights at Coney Island, but they skip the hot dogs, the rides. They merely pace up and down the Boardwalk, looking at the Christmas lights. And the girls. Happy has an old ukulele. Whenever a beautiful girl passes by on the arm of a soldier, he purposely hits an out-of-tune chord.
Then, a miracle. The most beautiful girl in the crowd isn’t with a soldier. She’s with two girlfriends. And she recognizes Happy. And Eddie. Then Willie. If it isn’t the Beard Street Fishermen, she cries.
She runs over, dragging her two girlfriends. She introduces them. The first has red hair, pale green eyes, slightly recessed, and thick eyebrows. Double thick. Get a load of this bird, Eddie whispers. When they was handin out eyebrows, she must’ve got in line twice.
But First Girlfriend and Eddie discover that they have several friends in common, so they pair off.
Second Girlfriend, with long brown hair and a snub nose, doesn’t speak, doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t seem to want to be here. Or anywhere. Her aloofness sparks Happy. He takes her by the elbow, turns to wink at Willie. Meaning, Bess is yours.
She wears an aqua blue hat, the brim pulled low, concealing her eyes. When Willie compliments the hat, and her matching blue dress, she slowly raises her face to him. Now he sees the golden flecks. They capture him, paralyze him. He tries to look away, but he can’t. He can’t.
She makes a favorable remark about Willie’s attire. Thank God he didn’t pawn his Title Guaranty suits. Thank God he wore one, the black one, tonight.
They follow their friends up the
Bottle caps, Willie says. Nail heads. Chewing tobacco.
Water’s kind of icky, isn’t it?
We give the fish a hot shower and a shave before we cook them, Willie says.
She laughs. Sounds delish. On the subject of food, I better run. Daddy gets cranky when he’s hungry.
She wiggles her fingers goodbye. Is it Willie’s imagination or does she hold his gaze for half a second?
The boys stand shoulder to shoulder, watching her walk down Beard Street. They don’t speak until she passes into her father’s shipyard. Then they still don’t speak. They lie back on the rocks and hold their faces to the sun. Willie, eyes closed, watches the golden sun spots float under his eyelids. They remind him of the flecks in Bess Endner’s blue eyes. He’d have a better chance of kissing the sun.
A cat or rat scurries in front of the car. Photographer swerves. What the—? A block later, another cat or rat. So this is Red Hook, Photographer says—people live here?
And die here, Sutton says. In the old days you’d hear two guys at a lunch counter. One would whisper to the other, I dropped that package in Red Hook. Package meant corpse .
Reporter points to a pothole that looks like a lunar crater. Look out .
Photographer drives straight through it. The Polara begins to rattle like an old trolley .
You cracked the axle, Sutton says .
Brooklyn is full of potholes, Photographer says .
Brooklyn is a pothole, Sutton says. Always was .
Reporter points at a street sign. There it is—Beard Street .
Photographer turns on Beard, slides the Polara along the curb, scrapes the hubcap. Sutton steps out, limps across the cobblestones to a raised, railed sidewalk along the water. He steps up, grabs the railing, stands like a dictator about to address a crowd-filled plaza. Now he turns back to Reporter and Photographer, who are staying by the car. He calls to them: What are there, three billion people in the world? Four? You know the odds of finding the one who’s meant for you? Well—I found her. Right here. On this spot .
Reporter and Photographer cross the street, one jotting notes, the other shooting .
Boys, you’re only really alive, in the fullest sense of the word, when you’re in love. That’s why almost everyone you meet seems like they’re dead .
What was her name, Mr. Sutton?
Bess .
SEVEN
Out of work, nearly out of cash, the boys still spend nights at Coney Island, but they skip the hot dogs, the rides. They merely pace up and down the Boardwalk, looking at the Christmas lights. And the girls. Happy has an old ukulele. Whenever a beautiful girl passes by on the arm of a soldier, he purposely hits an out-of-tune chord.
Then, a miracle. The most beautiful girl in the crowd isn’t with a soldier. She’s with two girlfriends. And she recognizes Happy. And Eddie. Then Willie. If it isn’t the Beard Street Fishermen, she cries.
She runs over, dragging her two girlfriends. She introduces them. The first has red hair, pale green eyes, slightly recessed, and thick eyebrows. Double thick. Get a load of this bird, Eddie whispers. When they was handin out eyebrows, she must’ve got in line twice.
But First Girlfriend and Eddie discover that they have several friends in common, so they pair off.
Second Girlfriend, with long brown hair and a snub nose, doesn’t speak, doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t seem to want to be here. Or anywhere. Her aloofness sparks Happy. He takes her by the elbow, turns to wink at Willie. Meaning, Bess is yours.
She wears an aqua blue hat, the brim pulled low, concealing her eyes. When Willie compliments the hat, and her matching blue dress, she slowly raises her face to him. Now he sees the golden flecks. They capture him, paralyze him. He tries to look away, but he can’t. He can’t.
She makes a favorable remark about Willie’s attire. Thank God he didn’t pawn his Title Guaranty suits. Thank God he wore one, the black one, tonight.
They follow their friends up the
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