Maybe twenty minutes later, I hear this ridiculous singing.
“Shoo-doop ’n’ shooby-doo, shoo-doop ’n’ shooby-doo…”
It’s the opening doo-wop refrain from a tune called “In the Still of the Night,” as done by the Five Satins (B-14 on Uncle Frankie’s golden-oldies-only jukebox at the diner).
“In the still of the night…” The off-key voice comes closer. “I-I-I held you, held you ti-i-i-ght.”
I crane my neck and look over at the boardwalk.
It’s Uncle Frankie! He’s strolling along, flinging out his yo-yo, making kind of sweet Motown moves.
He’s basically putting on a private doo-wop show for the seagulls.
Then he stops, spreads out his arms, and adds in the harmony: “In the still of the ni-i-i-ight!”
“Uncle Frankie?” I kind of croak the words at first.
He seems to perk up his ears. Then he definitely looks my way.
“Down here,” I cry out.
“Jamie?”
“Yeah.”
In a flash, he hops over the railing and comes running toward me, his feet sliding sideways in the sand.
“Are you okay? What happened to you?”
“I dunno. I may have broken a bone in my butt.”
He scoops me up. Uncle Frankie is surprisingly strong. I guess it’s all that yo-yoing. It must pump up his arm muscles.
“What happened?” he asks again, when I’m safe in his arms.
“Um, I ran into a little trouble.”
“Where’s your chair?”
“I don’t know. I kind of lost it.”
He looks me in the eye. I swallow back a tear.
“Okay,” he says. “We’ll worry about that later, kiddo. Come on. Let’s get you home.”
And then he carries me off the beach and back up to the boardwalk.
And you know what? I feel just like I used to when I was a little kid and fell asleep in the car. My dad would always pick me up and carry me into the house.
I feel safe. I know Uncle Frankie will hold on tight.
Just like he said in that song he was singing.
