Sutton - J. Moehringer R.

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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

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