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Authors: Alice McDermott
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Long Island Railroad.” He turned to me and winked. “The children,” he said, “are taking over the world.” His face was all brightness, small white teeth, blue eyes,
pink cheeks, and red lips, flashing lenses catching the changing light.
At the car, we put Billy’s suitcase in the trunk—glimpse of my father’s tackle box and fishing pole and the green army blanket dusted with sand.
My father offered lunch at the restaurant across the street, and Billy glanced at the place over his shoulder, nodding as if it was something he remembered. The intersection at that hour was nearly empty, and the sudden stillness that followed the departure of every train made the sunlight seem anticipatory, somehow: Dodge City at noon, a showdown pending.
“It’s all the same,” Billy said, even as the midday stillness began to fray around the edges: a light changing somewhere, cars once more headed our way.
“No, it’s different,” my father said. “It’s not like the country anymore, more like any other suburb. We’ll go for a drive, you’ll see.”
Inside the restaurant, the air was frosty and dark, and although nearly every table was taken, there was a hush about the place. I shivered as I sat down, and rubbed my bare arms. Billy leaned toward me. “I’ll tell you what’s happening,” he whispered. He held up one finger, lecturing. His lips were remarkably smooth. His eyes red-rimmed but clear. “Everybody here’s been complaining about the heat all summer long and now they can’t bring themselves to complain about the cold.” He sat back a little, a smile working at the corner of his mouth. “Doesn’t that tell you something about getting your heart’s desire?” Then he motioned to the waiter. “Do you think you can adjust the air a bit?” he said softly, with just a touch of a brogue, a souvenir, no doubt, of his trip to Ireland.
“We’re working on it,” the waiter said, exasperated.
When he walked away, Billy pushed out his chair, stood,
and then made a great show of swinging out of his suit jacket and draping it gallantly over my shoulders, saying to the people around us who had lifted their eyes to him, “A bit chilly in here, isn’t it? Don’t you think?” Getting each one to agree. Forming a union, it seemed. “Well, see now, you brought a sweater,” he said to the older lady right beside us. “You’re the clever one.” The jacket smelled of Old Spice and the Long Island Railroad. Shivering, I pulled it over my elbows and felt as I did a small square weight in one pocket—a breviary or a flask.
By the time the waiter came to take our orders, Billy had learned that the old lady with the sweater had lived out here since 1952 and wouldn’t leave the place for a winter in Florida for all the tea in China. And that her companion, who had spent her childhood in Sag Harbor, felt much the same, although she still had her home in Yonkers.
“Well, I haven’t been out here for nearly thirty years,” he told them. The way he said it, this might have been his childhood home as well. The women were sufficiently sympathetic. Sufficiently puzzled. “My wife enjoys the Rockaways, you see, or used to, anyway, before it changed,” he went on. “She likes a place with a boardwalk. And you know how it is, one summer passes and then another and you find yourself saying, ‘Next year, let’s go out there.’ It’s the prettiest spot on earth as far as I’m concerned, but you know how it is, suddenly it’s been thirty years, even though it seems like yesterday.”
As he spoke, he rolled up his shirtsleeves—his pale forearms were sandy with the remnants of a winter psoriasis—took a fountain pen from his breast pocket, and began to scribble a note on the corner of his paper place mat, all the while seeming to give the ladies beside us his undivided attention. He folded the place mat in half, then in quarters, and then folded a neat triangle at the top and tucked it inside. He wrote a
quick
pink cheeks, and red lips, flashing lenses catching the changing light.
At the car, we put Billy’s suitcase in the trunk—glimpse of my father’s tackle box and fishing pole and the green army blanket dusted with sand.
My father offered lunch at the restaurant across the street, and Billy glanced at the place over his shoulder, nodding as if it was something he remembered. The intersection at that hour was nearly empty, and the sudden stillness that followed the departure of every train made the sunlight seem anticipatory, somehow: Dodge City at noon, a showdown pending.
“It’s all the same,” Billy said, even as the midday stillness began to fray around the edges: a light changing somewhere, cars once more headed our way.
“No, it’s different,” my father said. “It’s not like the country anymore, more like any other suburb. We’ll go for a drive, you’ll see.”
Inside the restaurant, the air was frosty and dark, and although nearly every table was taken, there was a hush about the place. I shivered as I sat down, and rubbed my bare arms. Billy leaned toward me. “I’ll tell you what’s happening,” he whispered. He held up one finger, lecturing. His lips were remarkably smooth. His eyes red-rimmed but clear. “Everybody here’s been complaining about the heat all summer long and now they can’t bring themselves to complain about the cold.” He sat back a little, a smile working at the corner of his mouth. “Doesn’t that tell you something about getting your heart’s desire?” Then he motioned to the waiter. “Do you think you can adjust the air a bit?” he said softly, with just a touch of a brogue, a souvenir, no doubt, of his trip to Ireland.
“We’re working on it,” the waiter said, exasperated.
When he walked away, Billy pushed out his chair, stood,
and then made a great show of swinging out of his suit jacket and draping it gallantly over my shoulders, saying to the people around us who had lifted their eyes to him, “A bit chilly in here, isn’t it? Don’t you think?” Getting each one to agree. Forming a union, it seemed. “Well, see now, you brought a sweater,” he said to the older lady right beside us. “You’re the clever one.” The jacket smelled of Old Spice and the Long Island Railroad. Shivering, I pulled it over my elbows and felt as I did a small square weight in one pocket—a breviary or a flask.
By the time the waiter came to take our orders, Billy had learned that the old lady with the sweater had lived out here since 1952 and wouldn’t leave the place for a winter in Florida for all the tea in China. And that her companion, who had spent her childhood in Sag Harbor, felt much the same, although she still had her home in Yonkers.
“Well, I haven’t been out here for nearly thirty years,” he told them. The way he said it, this might have been his childhood home as well. The women were sufficiently sympathetic. Sufficiently puzzled. “My wife enjoys the Rockaways, you see, or used to, anyway, before it changed,” he went on. “She likes a place with a boardwalk. And you know how it is, one summer passes and then another and you find yourself saying, ‘Next year, let’s go out there.’ It’s the prettiest spot on earth as far as I’m concerned, but you know how it is, suddenly it’s been thirty years, even though it seems like yesterday.”
As he spoke, he rolled up his shirtsleeves—his pale forearms were sandy with the remnants of a winter psoriasis—took a fountain pen from his breast pocket, and began to scribble a note on the corner of his paper place mat, all the while seeming to give the ladies beside us his undivided attention. He folded the place mat in half, then in quarters, and then folded a neat triangle at the top and tucked it inside. He wrote a
quick
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