Liz never knew.
Later, Suzy would recall that first kiss as if it were an omen. What was it about her that marked her as the other woman? What did he see?
What Suzy never forgot was the smell. It was a sick smell, like something dying almost, like instant powdered milk, nondairy creamer, the milky-baby smell but fake. It leaped into her throat and would not wash away, no matter how fiercely she rinsed her mouth afterward. Each time she kissed boys after that, she looked for the smell. She pretended to kiss them and looked for the smell. Sometimes she would sniff the awful smell and would push the boy away violently and never speak to him afterward. But when the smell wasn’t there, she would be curiously disappointed. It was as if nothing quite erased the initial shock of being kissed by someone who was not hers, a kiss that was stolen, claimed from her flippantly, a kiss so abrasively illicit that she seemed to deserve it, as though she was not worth much to begin with. It stuck with her, the shame, the smell, and came back at odd moments, such as when she stood on the steps of St. John the Divine and saw in the older man’s eyes a clear reflection of herself, terribly young and terribly dissatisfied.
Damian would later confess that he had indeed followed her from the lecture hall. What made him do it? He would never say. He might have been bored, or simply tempted by a young woman who seemed as unmoved as he was by his wife’s lecture, or, more likely, he really had nowhere he wanted to be on that afternoon. Perhaps he wanted Yuki Tamiko to notice him following the girl; that Suzy reminded him of Yuki at nineteen was a minor detail he would have preferred not to see. But he did follow her, which was embarrassingly impulsive for someone so much older and supposedly more sensible. He followed her all the way down the College Walk and along Amsterdam Avenue, to stand before her finally with an awkward smile, which only accentuated his lone dimple, and seemed to her somehow heart-breakingly sad. His stare did not waver, and she stared back, because she thought it might make her appear less young. Finally, one of them burst out laughing—Suzy is not sure which—and soon both were laughing like kids who had cut class and gotten away with it.
Ten years since, and it seems impossible now that she should be alone, no parents, no Damian. She thought that the choice was one or the other, and it was up to her to decide. It never occurred to her then that she would lose both, that she would not be able to keep the one even after sacrificing the other, and that the choice was never really there from the beginning.
All around her, people are gathering their things. 11:37 a.m., Montauk. Outside is the November beach town, empty and forlorn. Between the rain streaks on the windowpane are her parents buried at sea, half rising to meet their daughter here at last.
6.
NOTHING IS AS DESOLATE as a late-autumn beach. The motels with “Vacancy” signs wear the dejected face of the abandoned. The fish-and-chips stands have pulled down their shutters, closed for the winter. Fickle and selfish, the rest of the world has skipped out. Gone are the flirtatious smiles, the bronzed bodies, the neon beach balls flopping down on the bluest water. Girls with names like Tracy and Cindy and Judy no longer hang out at McSwiggin’s, which is the only bar near the train station still open for business.
Even at this early hour, a few men are stooping at the bar, nursing pints. They glance at Suzy but soon look away with the stolid faces of small-town men. Most fishermen hang out at the dock, on the other side of the town, where many bars remain open, lobster and swordfish being their prime catch this season. But the nonfishing locals, mostly Irish descendants, prefer the bars in town, where the grime and sweat of the fishing crowd remain
far away, where they might hang on to their Montauk as a sort of Hawaii for Long Island’s working
Later, Suzy would recall that first kiss as if it were an omen. What was it about her that marked her as the other woman? What did he see?
What Suzy never forgot was the smell. It was a sick smell, like something dying almost, like instant powdered milk, nondairy creamer, the milky-baby smell but fake. It leaped into her throat and would not wash away, no matter how fiercely she rinsed her mouth afterward. Each time she kissed boys after that, she looked for the smell. She pretended to kiss them and looked for the smell. Sometimes she would sniff the awful smell and would push the boy away violently and never speak to him afterward. But when the smell wasn’t there, she would be curiously disappointed. It was as if nothing quite erased the initial shock of being kissed by someone who was not hers, a kiss that was stolen, claimed from her flippantly, a kiss so abrasively illicit that she seemed to deserve it, as though she was not worth much to begin with. It stuck with her, the shame, the smell, and came back at odd moments, such as when she stood on the steps of St. John the Divine and saw in the older man’s eyes a clear reflection of herself, terribly young and terribly dissatisfied.
Damian would later confess that he had indeed followed her from the lecture hall. What made him do it? He would never say. He might have been bored, or simply tempted by a young woman who seemed as unmoved as he was by his wife’s lecture, or, more likely, he really had nowhere he wanted to be on that afternoon. Perhaps he wanted Yuki Tamiko to notice him following the girl; that Suzy reminded him of Yuki at nineteen was a minor detail he would have preferred not to see. But he did follow her, which was embarrassingly impulsive for someone so much older and supposedly more sensible. He followed her all the way down the College Walk and along Amsterdam Avenue, to stand before her finally with an awkward smile, which only accentuated his lone dimple, and seemed to her somehow heart-breakingly sad. His stare did not waver, and she stared back, because she thought it might make her appear less young. Finally, one of them burst out laughing—Suzy is not sure which—and soon both were laughing like kids who had cut class and gotten away with it.
Ten years since, and it seems impossible now that she should be alone, no parents, no Damian. She thought that the choice was one or the other, and it was up to her to decide. It never occurred to her then that she would lose both, that she would not be able to keep the one even after sacrificing the other, and that the choice was never really there from the beginning.
All around her, people are gathering their things. 11:37 a.m., Montauk. Outside is the November beach town, empty and forlorn. Between the rain streaks on the windowpane are her parents buried at sea, half rising to meet their daughter here at last.
6.
NOTHING IS AS DESOLATE as a late-autumn beach. The motels with “Vacancy” signs wear the dejected face of the abandoned. The fish-and-chips stands have pulled down their shutters, closed for the winter. Fickle and selfish, the rest of the world has skipped out. Gone are the flirtatious smiles, the bronzed bodies, the neon beach balls flopping down on the bluest water. Girls with names like Tracy and Cindy and Judy no longer hang out at McSwiggin’s, which is the only bar near the train station still open for business.
Even at this early hour, a few men are stooping at the bar, nursing pints. They glance at Suzy but soon look away with the stolid faces of small-town men. Most fishermen hang out at the dock, on the other side of the town, where many bars remain open, lobster and swordfish being their prime catch this season. But the nonfishing locals, mostly Irish descendants, prefer the bars in town, where the grime and sweat of the fishing crowd remain
far away, where they might hang on to their Montauk as a sort of Hawaii for Long Island’s working
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