Sutton

With the Armistice—November 1918—all of New York City becomes Coney Island. People fill the streets, dance on cars, kiss strangers. Offices close, saloons stay open around the clock. Willie and Eddie and Happy join the crowds, but with mixed emotions. The war was the best thing that ever happened to them. Peace means no more need for machine guns. No more need for them.

Laid off again, the boys scramble. They comb the wants, fill out applications, canvass. But the city is crowded with soldiers also hunting for work. Newspapers forecast another Depression. The third of Willie’s life, this one looks to be the most severe. Things get so bleak, so quick, people wonder aloud if capitalism has run its course.

The boys sit on the rocky waterfront at Red Hook, fishing, while Eddie reads aloud from a newspaper he pulled from the trash. Strikes, riots, unrest—and every other page carries a grim profile of another boy not coming home.

One of every forty who went overseas, Eddie reads, won’t be back.

Christ, Happy says.

At least they did something with their lives, Willie says.

Eddie stands, paces. He pitches rocks at the water. Nothin’s blunth changed. We’re blunth right back blunth where we started.

He stops, lets the rock in his hand fall to the ground. He stands still as a statue and stares into the distance. Willie and Happy turn, follow his gaze. Now they too stand slowly and stare.

Happy sprints toward her, removes his tweed cap, bows. She jumps back, but it’s an act. She’s not startled. A coiled cobra wouldn’t startle this girl, you can tell. Besides, it’s Happy. She was hurrying somewhere, walking purposefully, but now, coming upon a specimen like Happy, she’s got all the time in the world.

You gotta hand it to that Happy, Eddie says. He sits, adjusts his hat, checks the poles. Willie nods, sits beside him. Every few minutes they turn and shoot a wistful look at their friend.

Happy brings her over. Okay, you bums, look alive, on your feet. Bess, this here’s the Beard Street Fishing Club. Of which these are the presidents, Mr. Edward Wilson and Mr. William Sutton. Fellas, say hello to Bess Endner.

She’s an ash blonde, that’s how police reports will later describe her, but in the light of late autumn her hair contains every kind of yellow. Butter, honey, lemon, amber, gold—she even has golden flecks in her bright blue eyes, as if whoever painted her had some yellow left over and didn’t know what to do with it. She’s petite, five foot four, but with the graceful strides of a taller girl. Fifteen years old, Willie guesses. Sixteen maybe.

She’s carrying a wooden basket. She shifts it, shakes hands with Eddie, then Willie.

What’s in the basket? Happy says.

I’m bringing lunch to my father. That’s his shipyard right over there.

Some big shipyard, Happy says.

Biggest in Brooklyn. Founded by my grandpa. He came to this country in the hold of a ship, and now he builds them.

Willie stares. He’s never seen such confidence. The next time he does, it will be in men with guns. Eddie stares too. It doesn’t seem to make her uncomfortable. She probably can’t remember a time when people didn’t stare.

She points to their poles. Fish biting?

Nah, Eddie says.

What are you 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 Boardwalk. Willie asks Bess where she lives. Near Prospect Park, she says. Me too, he says. President Street, she says. Oh, he says, well, you live on the nice side. Biggest house on the block, she says, you can’t miss it. Biggest house, Willie says, biggest shipyard. Means nothing to me, she says, it’s not my shipyard, and it’s not my house.

They talk about the war. Bess reads everything. She sits with her father every night, scouring the Times, and she never misses an issue of Leslie’s Illustrated. She says it’s criminal that bankers are balking at President Wilson’s plan to grant Germany a merciful peace. Criminal.

You certainly do have strong opinions, Willie says.

Don’t you think it a shame I can’t express them at the ballot box?

Oh, well, women will have the vote soon enough.

Tomorrow would not be soon enough, Mr. Sutton.

Of course. My mistake.

He tries to steer the conversation away from politics. He mentions the balmy weather. Unseasonably warm winter, isn’t it?

I should say so.

He asks if Bess is her proper name.

I was born Sarah Elizabeth Endner, but my friends call me all sorts of things. Betsy, Bessie, Bizzy, Binnie. I prefer Bess.

Bess it is.

They fall silent. The sound of their shoes clicking along the Boardwalk seems inordinately loud. Willie thinks about the impossibility of knowing anyone, of getting to know anyone, ever.

Say, uh, Bess. Did you know Coney Island was named by an Irishman?

Oh?

Coney is Irish for rabbit. I guess there were a lot of wild rabbits around here once.

She looks around, as if trying to spot one.

Big ones, Willie says.

She smiles weakly.

Wild, he says.

She makes no reply.

Willie racks his brain, trying to remember what he and Wingy talk about. He tries to remember what the hero says to the heroine in every Alger novel. He can’t think straight. He calls to Eddie and Happy. Hey fellas—what should we do next?

How about the Whip? Eddie says.

The girls think that’s a grand idea. They all hurry down to Luna Park. Luckily the line is short. The boys pool their money and buy six tickets.

The Whip is twelve little sidecars around an oval track. Cables move the sidecars slow, slow, then whip them around narrow turns. Each sidecar holds two people. Eddie and First Girlfriend take one, Happy and Second Girlfriend another, which leaves Willie and Bess. Climbing into the sidecar, Willie feels Bess’s upper arm brush his. One brief touch—he’s shocked by what it does to him.

Will it go fast? she asks.

It might. It’s their best ride. Are you afraid?

Oh no. I love going fast.

The ride starts, the sidecar lurches forward. Willie and Bess press together as it slowly gains speed. The whole thrill of the ride is how slowly it starts, Bess says. They hold tight to the sides, laughing, giggling. She screams as they whip through the first turn. Willie screams too. Eddie and First Girlfriend, one car ahead, look back, frantic, as if Willie and Bess are giving chase. Eddie points a finger and shoots. Willie and Bess shoot back. Eddie is hit. He dies, because it gives him an excuse to collapse his body across First Girlfriend.

Suddenly the sidecar bucks, crawls, comes to a stop. Bess groans. Let’s go again, she says.

Willie and the boys don’t have money for another turn. Luckily, Willie notices that a line has formed. Look, he says.

Oh drat, she says.

The three couples again stroll the Boardwalk.

Darkness is falling. The lights of Coney Island flutter on. Willie tells Bess that there are a quarter million bulbs in all. No wonder Coney Island is the first thing seen by ships at sea. Imagine—this right here is the first glimpse the immigrants have of America.

It’s also the last thing you see when you sail away, Bess says.

How do you know that?

I’ve seen it. Several times.

Oh.

She points at the moon. Look. Isn’t the moon lovely tonight?

Like part of the park, Willie says. Lunar Park.

Bess speaks in the stagy voice of an actress. Why, Mr. Sutton—handsome and clever?

He plays along. I say, Miss Endner, would you mind repeating that?

Can you not hear me, Mr. Sutton?

On the contrary, Miss Endner, I cannot believe my good fortune at being paid a compliment by so fine a young woman, therefore I was hoping I might memorize it.

She stops. She looks up at Willie with a smile that says, Maybe there’s more here than first met the eye. After a slow start he’s turning her. Like the Whip.

The three couples gather at the rail and listen to the pounding waves, a sound like the echo of the war drifting across the sea. The wind picks up. It billows the girls’ long dresses, causes the boys’ neckties to snap like flags. Bess keeps one hand on her hat. Happy gives his hat to Eddie and plucks his ukulele.

I don’t wanna play in your yard

I don’t like you anymore

You’ll be sorry when you see me

Sliding down our cellar door

They all know the words. Bess has a fine voice, but it’s quavering, because she’s cold. Willie takes off his coat and wraps it around her shoulders.

You can’t holler down our rain barrel

You can’t climb our apple tree

People drift toward them, adding their voices. No one can resist this song.

I don’t wanna play in your yard

If you won’t be good to me

With the final notes Happy makes his battered ukulele sound like a ukulele orchestra. Everyone claps and Bess squeezes Willie’s bicep. He flexes it bigger. She squeezes it harder.

Heavens, First Girlfriend says, looking at her bracelet watch, it’s late.

Bess protests. First Girlfriend and Second Girlfriend overrule her. The three couples follow the crowd toward the trolleys and subways. Willie and Bess begin to say their goodbyes. Then find themselves alone. Willie looks around. In the shadows of a bathhouse Eddie and First Girlfriend are entwined. Behind a fortune-teller’s booth Happy is stealing kisses from Second Girlfriend. Willie looks at Bess. Her eyes—pools of blue and gold. He feels the earth tip toward the moon. He leans, touches his lips softly to hers. His skin tingles, his blood catches fire. In this instant, he knows, in this unforeseen gift of a moment, his future is being reshaped. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But it is happening. It is.

At last, on the street, the girls stand facing the boys. Thank you for a lovely evening. Nice meeting you. And you as well. Merry Christmas. Good night. Ta ta. Happy New Year.

And yet Bess will be seeing Willie in just a few days. They have a date. The girls walk off, First Girlfriend and Second Girlfriend on either side of Bess. Willie watches them melt into the crowd. At the last second Bess turns.

You can’t holler down my rainbarrel, she calls.

You can’t climb my apple tree, Willie calls back.

She sings: I don’t wanna play in your yaaard.

He thinks: If you won’t be good to me.

Sutton looks at his reflection in the water. He realizes it’s not his reflection, but a cloud. Did you know Socrates said we love whatever we lack? Or think we lack?

Socrates?

If you feel stupid, you’ll fall for someone brainy. If you feel ugly, you’ll flip your lid for someone who’s easy on the eyes.

You’ve read Socrates?

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