All these days are disappearing. There’s never enough time with Sarah and she still won’t touch my business. Never enough time with Howie and he still hasn’t really explained how our partnership will proceed once he flies back to Berkeley. I keep trying to formalize both relationships but the next thing I know Mama’s putting a plate of Elvis sandwiches in front of me, arm around my shoulder, kiss on my keppie, reminding me that “Tonight’s our last night. Birthday night, and all together.”
“All that’s missing is Dick Clark,” Howie says, pecking Mama on the top of her head as he walks by. “But I’ll take the Hunan Princess over him any day.”
Mama blushes and Papa says, “Hey! You’ve got plenty. Keep your hands off my one.” He points to his MARRIED T-shirt, but he doesn’t move any closer to Mama.
The adults dress up in the evening, fill baskets with food and drink, then go up to have a pre-party cocktail with Sarah’s boss, the jerk on the hill. Carly sews two pairs of white drawstrings for my parents and presents them to Mama and Papa as a going-away, wasn’t-this-a-wonderful-year? gift. They immediately slip into the loose pants and model for the group. Papa tops his off with a navy blue sweater dotted by sailboats. It’s uncharacteristically preppie, but something on Mount Desert Island is rubbing off on him. Mama wears a matching white snap jacket with Nehru collar. Uncharacteristically hip, but then, she’s let her hair down more than usual this summer.
“Do we have to spend time with that inbred blueblood?” Howie asks?
“Gotta kiss the ring,” Papa slaps him on the back by way of encouragement.
“Listen,” Steve, the wine connoisseur, says to Howie. “I’ll bet you ten bucks this guy’s going to have a wine cellar to kill for, but it will be filled with crap. So when he serves you his pricey vinegar, I’ll give you the signal and you tell him ‘it lacks a certain varietal character’ and he’ll know the hippies know more than he does about grapes.”
“It’s a plan,” Howie agrees.
When they return we are all given something to carry down to the dock for the end-of-everything party. Papa’s peppering me with more queries than I can answer. “Nice way to celebrate your birthday, tonight, isn’t it? New Year’s Eve in August? All together? Hard to say good-bye. But a good summer, don’t you think? Memorable summer? What was your favorite part? I’ve got a few favorites. Favorite parts. But I want to know yours. Yours first,” he urges as we make our way along the wooded trail.
I look at him curiously, wondering why the hell he’s talking a mile a minute. “Yeah, I wish we could stay forever…”
“Not realistic. Everybody’s got to work. But work is good for you. Builds character. Not to say that a bit of vacation doesn’t, too. This has been good for everyone, I think. Gives you time to think. Relax. Remember what’s important in life.”
“I think it’s important to—”
“Also reminds you what you can do without. Why are we living? What’s it all for? Need to sort that out, make decisions, act. You can’t wait forever for life to just turn out the way you want it to. You have to grab it. Don’t abide boredom, Louis. Understand what I’m saying? Don’t let it rule your life. That, and anyone else’s expectations. They don’t matter in the end, and if you follow the desires of others you never realize your own. You need to make a move. Take a stand. Don’t apologize. See?” He catches a breath in the midst of the stream of words. I stare blankly at him now. “What? Am I talking too much? It’s not me. Sorry. See…” he slows, pulls me out of the group trundling down the fragrant, wooded hill. “We had a bit of a party with our wealthy friend up the hill.”
“OK.”
“How did that Sarah end up treating you? Chastity buckle loosening at all?”
“What?”
“I just mean, did you get a little more relief? You can’t expect too much at this age, but at the same time it’s not fair to have to suffer.”
Howie appears alongside us. “That guy’s a dick,” he says to Papa.
“Who?” Papa asks over his shoulder, his cautious shuffling down the hill turning to a flat-out run.
“Richie Rich Cokehead.”
“Did you tell him it lacked a varietal character?” I asked.
“NO. I was all ready to show that snoot. But every bottle that came out Steve just kept shaking his head, giving me the ix-nay. And then the flush fucker pulls out the Château Lafite Rothschild and even I know it’s slam dunk. The rich keep on keeping on, Hutch.”
“You’ll be rich by next year,” I assure him.
Everyone flops down in the center of the dock. David snuggles against Mama, who stares off to the edge of the harbor.
Steve and Enid arrive a few minutes later, moving slowly. She holds her head kerchief against the breeze and settles down next to Mama. Steve wraps a flannel blanket around her, though it’s one of the warmest nights we’ve had.
“Start with the ’61 Château d’Yquem,” Steve says.
Papa passes glasses around to the group, pours apple juice for the kids. “Here’s to friends,” he says as the sun drops. “Thank you for being with us through thick and thin. We love having you here.”
“And here’s to the Man of the Year,” Mama adds.
“You mean me?” Papa mugs.
“I mean Mr. Gordon. Thank you for spending this year with us. The two of you … you’re family…” She chokes painfully on the word, smiles sadly. “Family now. And no one wants to lose family…” And then she starts to cry, in front of us all. I feel it, too.
“Oh, my sweet Hunan Princess,” Carly says, hugging Mama tightly. “It’s just the end of the chapter, not the book.”
“Can we look on the bright side and toast to the other man of the year here?” Howie’s voice rises over the soft weeping all around us. “This marvelous boychik is thirteen today. That’s man stuff. And I know there’s no bar mitzvah here but we can do a little ritual ourselves, right?” He looks at me seriously: “You are circumcised, though, aren’t you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Good. Because that’s what my dad would call a shanda for the goyim. And it’s the least fun of all the mystical Jewish rituals we have. I’d much rather put you on a chair and carry you around while we dance the hora than pull out my shearing scissors.”
“Maybe later,” Papa says. “Let’s try the pâté first.”
“Pâté, shmâté. This is our boy,” Howie presses on, adopting a Russian accent, “joining the legion of strong-like-bull men! But also joining the human race with his heart and his generosity intact. You are a special someone, Louis Cove. And we love you. L’chaim!” he shouts, and everyone raises a glass and repeats, “L’chaim”—to life.
Uncomfortable with the attention, I lie back on the dock. The sun is tucked halfway into its horizon, turning the sky-screen blue, then indigo, then orchid. Going for beta. Leaving alpha behind.
I look back over my shoulder at the group: Mama stretched out, lying back on her elbows and looking out at the harbor. Matty, Amanda, and David rooting around in the bags of potato chips and Fritos. Enid huddled close to Steve, trying to stay warm in her robe even though the rest of us are in T-shirts. Howie and Carly kissing. Papa serving cheese and stuffed olives, pouring drinks, gracefully sliding along the dock in his Docksiders. Sarah promised she’d be here …
I turn back to the water, stare deep into its cold, clear depth. I can see the bottom, maybe ten feet below. A crab shoots out from under the dock, senses me, and disappears. As the world darkens I see sparkles below suspended like stars shimmering, winking on and off unexpectedly, and the display sucks my breath away. Fallout from Three Mile Island, I wonder? No. Too beautiful. My heartbeat rises and I turn again, ready to tell everyone about the magic dust bringing the sea to life—a million stars shimmering right below us—but then think better of it, wanting to keep the secret to myself a few minutes longer. It is so alive and inside me, the same feeling I had when I was in my cabin at four in the morning, with Sarah all over my skin and in my mouth.
“How about some fireworks?” Papa asks. “Our neighbor on the hill gave me some. And he’s bringing more.”
“There are fireworks down here,” I say.
“What do you mean?” Amanda asks, sliding alongside me. Everybody moves in my direction and the dock swings around to compensate for the shift. “Oh, look. There really are fireworks in the water!”
“Poseidon’s lighting up his candles for you, my man,” Howie declares, arms open, accepting me as I wrap against him. “Happy birthday!”
“Happy birthday,” Papa echoes. I turn to look at him, seeing me in the arms of another man, and my heart heaves with guilt. I break from Howie, smelling of wine and sea, to hug my father. And he hugs me back, hard. His love as strong as ever.
Just then, Sarah appears on the dock in cutoff shorts and a white T-shirt knotted above her waist. “Happy birthday,” she whispers and kisses me on the cheek. The whole dock hoots in approval.
“This is literally the most magical place on earth,” Carly says, staring into the dazzle of the phosphorescent water. And then she begins to sing that song again:
Love of my life I am crying,
I am not dying,
I am dancing.
Sarah pulls me to her. “I wish I could go home with you. Your family … they’re not like other families. Definitely not like mine. I want to be part of this one. Part of yours.”
It’s OK, I think. It’s actually OK.
Mama and Enid join Carly and sing.
Dancing along in the madness,
There is no sadness,
Only the song of the soul.
And then, just like on the record, we all leap into the chorus, exchanging partners, spinning until the dock is spinning with us, louder and louder beneath the last bit of life left in the sky.
And we’ll sing this song,
Why don’t you sing along?
Then we can sing for a long, long time.
Why don’t you sing this song?
Then we can sing along,
Then we can sing for a long, long time!
Out of the corner of my eye I see the rich guy from the mansion on the hill. He has appeared silently at the shoreline, a cigar clamped between his teeth and two live roman candles under each arm, unleashing a spray of blazing magnesium red fireballs over the blackening water.
“Happy New Year!” someone shouts. “Here come the ’80s!”