put them away."
Eddie put a hand on her shoulder.
"Ma," he said, softly. "Dad's gone."
"Gone where?"
The next day, Eddie went to the dispatcher and told him he was quitting. Two weeks later, he and Marguerite moved back into the building where Eddie had grown up, Beachwood Avenue—apartment 6B—where the hallways were narrow and the kitchen window viewed the carousel and where Eddie had accepted a job that would let him keep an eye on his mother, a position he had been groomed for summer after summer: a maintenance man at Ruby Pier. Eddie never said this—
75
not to his wife, not to his mother, not to anyone—but he cursed his father for dying and for trapping him in the very life he'd been trying to escape; a life that, as he heard the old man laughing from the grave, apparently now was good enough for him.
Today Is Eddie's Birthday
He is 37. His breakfast is getting cold.
"You see any salt?" Eddie asks Noel.
Noel, chewing a mouthful of sausage, slides out from the booth, leans across another table, and grabs a salt shaker.
"Here," he mumbles. "Happy birthday."
Eddie shakes it hard. "How tough is it to keep salt on the table?"
"What are you, the manager?" Noel says.
Eddie shrugs. The morning is already hot and thick with humidity.
This is their routine: breakfast, once a week, Saturday mornings, before the park gets crazy. Noel works in the dry cleaning business.
Eddie helped him get the contract for Ruby Pier's maintenance uniforms.
" What'dya think of this good-lookin' guy?" Noel says. He has a copy of Life magazine open to a photo of a young political candidate. "How can this guy run for president? He's a kid !"
Eddie shrugs. "He's about our age."
" No foolin'?" Noel says. He lifts an eyebrow. "I thought you had to be older to be president ."
"We are older," Eddie mumbles.
Noel closes the magazine. His voice drops. "Hey. You hear what happened at Brighton?"
Eddie nods. He sips his coffee. He'd heard. An amusement park. A gondola ride. Something snapped. A mother and her son fell 60 feet to their death.
"You know anybody up there?" Noel asks.
76
Eddie puts his tongue between his teeth. Every now and then he hears these stories, an accident at a park somewhere, and he shudders as if a wasp just flew by his ear. Not a day passes that he doesn't worry about it happening here, at Ruby Pier, under his watch.
" Nuh-uh," he says. "I don't know no one in Brighton ."
He fixes his eyes out the window, as a crowd of beachgoers emerges from the train station. They carry towels, umbrellas, wicker baskets with sandwiches wrapped in paper. Some even have the newest thing: foldable chairs, made from lightweight aluminum.
An old man walks past in a panama hat, smoking a cigar.
" Lookit that guy," Eddie says. "I promise you, he'll drop that cigar on the boardwalk ."
"Yeah?" Noel says. "So?"
"It falls in the cracks, then it starts to burn. You can smell it. The chemical they put on the wood. It starts smoking right away.
Yesterday I grabbed a kid, couldn't have been more than four years old, about to put a cigar butt in his mouth."
Noel makes a face. "And?"
Eddie turns aside. "And nothing. People should be more careful, that's all."
Noel shovels a forkful of sausage into his mouth. "You're a barrel of laughs. You always this much fun on your birthday?"
Eddie doesn't answer. The old darkness has taken a seat alongside him. He is used to it by now, making room for it the way you make room for a commuter on a crowded bus.
He thinks about the maintenance load today. Broken mirror in the Fun House. New fenders for the bumper cars. Glue, he reminds himself, gotta order more glue. He thinks about those poor people in Brighton.
He wonders who's in charge up there.
"What time you finish today?" Noel asks.
Eddie exhales. "It's gonna be busy. Summer. Saturday. You know."
Noel lifts an eyebrow. "We can make the track by six ."
Eddie thinks about Marguerite. He always thinks about Marguerite when Noel
Eddie put a hand on her shoulder.
"Ma," he said, softly. "Dad's gone."
"Gone where?"
The next day, Eddie went to the dispatcher and told him he was quitting. Two weeks later, he and Marguerite moved back into the building where Eddie had grown up, Beachwood Avenue—apartment 6B—where the hallways were narrow and the kitchen window viewed the carousel and where Eddie had accepted a job that would let him keep an eye on his mother, a position he had been groomed for summer after summer: a maintenance man at Ruby Pier. Eddie never said this—
75
not to his wife, not to his mother, not to anyone—but he cursed his father for dying and for trapping him in the very life he'd been trying to escape; a life that, as he heard the old man laughing from the grave, apparently now was good enough for him.
Today Is Eddie's Birthday
He is 37. His breakfast is getting cold.
"You see any salt?" Eddie asks Noel.
Noel, chewing a mouthful of sausage, slides out from the booth, leans across another table, and grabs a salt shaker.
"Here," he mumbles. "Happy birthday."
Eddie shakes it hard. "How tough is it to keep salt on the table?"
"What are you, the manager?" Noel says.
Eddie shrugs. The morning is already hot and thick with humidity.
This is their routine: breakfast, once a week, Saturday mornings, before the park gets crazy. Noel works in the dry cleaning business.
Eddie helped him get the contract for Ruby Pier's maintenance uniforms.
" What'dya think of this good-lookin' guy?" Noel says. He has a copy of Life magazine open to a photo of a young political candidate. "How can this guy run for president? He's a kid !"
Eddie shrugs. "He's about our age."
" No foolin'?" Noel says. He lifts an eyebrow. "I thought you had to be older to be president ."
"We are older," Eddie mumbles.
Noel closes the magazine. His voice drops. "Hey. You hear what happened at Brighton?"
Eddie nods. He sips his coffee. He'd heard. An amusement park. A gondola ride. Something snapped. A mother and her son fell 60 feet to their death.
"You know anybody up there?" Noel asks.
76
Eddie puts his tongue between his teeth. Every now and then he hears these stories, an accident at a park somewhere, and he shudders as if a wasp just flew by his ear. Not a day passes that he doesn't worry about it happening here, at Ruby Pier, under his watch.
" Nuh-uh," he says. "I don't know no one in Brighton ."
He fixes his eyes out the window, as a crowd of beachgoers emerges from the train station. They carry towels, umbrellas, wicker baskets with sandwiches wrapped in paper. Some even have the newest thing: foldable chairs, made from lightweight aluminum.
An old man walks past in a panama hat, smoking a cigar.
" Lookit that guy," Eddie says. "I promise you, he'll drop that cigar on the boardwalk ."
"Yeah?" Noel says. "So?"
"It falls in the cracks, then it starts to burn. You can smell it. The chemical they put on the wood. It starts smoking right away.
Yesterday I grabbed a kid, couldn't have been more than four years old, about to put a cigar butt in his mouth."
Noel makes a face. "And?"
Eddie turns aside. "And nothing. People should be more careful, that's all."
Noel shovels a forkful of sausage into his mouth. "You're a barrel of laughs. You always this much fun on your birthday?"
Eddie doesn't answer. The old darkness has taken a seat alongside him. He is used to it by now, making room for it the way you make room for a commuter on a crowded bus.
He thinks about the maintenance load today. Broken mirror in the Fun House. New fenders for the bumper cars. Glue, he reminds himself, gotta order more glue. He thinks about those poor people in Brighton.
He wonders who's in charge up there.
"What time you finish today?" Noel asks.
Eddie exhales. "It's gonna be busy. Summer. Saturday. You know."
Noel lifts an eyebrow. "We can make the track by six ."
Eddie thinks about Marguerite. He always thinks about Marguerite when Noel
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