Page 61 of Endless Summer: Stories
“He said he’d see what he could do.” That afternoon, Mouth and Genevieve had joined her family on the beach. Mouth hung out with Tiger and the boys, who were bodysurfing, which left Genevieve with her grandmother and her aunts. Magee was needlepointing under an umbrella, and next to her, Grammy read a Dominick Dunne novel. Aunt Jessie and Aunt Kirby were on either side of the umbrella, so far apart it didn’t look like they were part of the family.
Genevieve set up a chair next to Aunt Kirby. She was honored that her aunt had made the effort to get to their birthday—what a surprise!—but Genevieve quickly surmised that things with her cool aunt were not that cool.
Kirby showed up drunk, for starters, so drunk that she slurred her words, and when she hugged Genevieve, she started to cry, confessing that she was an absolute wreck. She’d lost her fancy Hollywood job, and her girlfriend broke up with her. Genevieve had tried to conceal her surprise—she didn’t know Aunt Kirby was gay! Yes, apparently Kirby’s girlfriend, Tyesha Bradford, had both fired her and ditched her. So Kirby wasn’t really here for Genevieve and George’s birthday; she was here because she’d run out of options.
This was disappointing. Genevieve had placed her aunt on a pedestal, and that pedestal was crumbling.
“Hey,” Genevieve said when she settled in her chair. Kirby was wearing a shocking excuse for a bikini—the bottom was just a string that ran up her ass crack—and she was skeletally thin. Genevieve had always admired Kirby’s long golden-brown hair, but Kirby had cut and permed it. Kirby’s skin was even pastier than Genevieve’s, though her shoulders and ass cheeks were turning rosy. “You should probably get out of the sun. It looks like you’re burning.”
Kirby mumbled something unintelligible. She was half asleep.
Genevieve wandered over to where Mouth and Tiger were standing and watching the boys ride the waves. She overheard Mouth asking if there was any room for him at Tiger Lanes. “I’m an auto mechanic,” Mouth said. “But I’m sure I could run a bowling alley. You own a bunch of them, right?”
Tiger yelled for Puppy to come in closer to shore. “We have thirty-two locations,” Tiger said. He gave Mouth an appraising look, and Genevieve wanted to sink into the sand. Tiger Lanes ran popular TV commercials that used the slogan “Wholesome Family Fun.” Thewholesomehad been Magee’s idea, as were banning heavy metal and punk music from the jukeboxes. (She was a regular Tipper Gore.) But the slogan had been successful. Everyone who bowled, bowled at Tiger Lanes. Tiger was a millionaire. “Give me your number before you leave tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do.”
Once the lobsters and potatoes and corn are covered with more seaweed, then a damp tarp, then sand, Genevieve wants to go back to the house to see if George has arrived. She hasn’t seen him all day or had a chance to wish him a happy birthday. She and her brother have nothing in common—people have always referred to them as “cheese and chalk”—but there are certain things only he understands, such as the fact that every time they have an important birthday, the newspapers write about the tenth or fifteenth or twentieth anniversary of the moon launch (their actual birthday) and of Teddy Kennedy sinking the car on Chappaquiddick (the day after their birthday). Genevieve (and George, she knows) has always felt defined by the launching and the sinking.
“I’m going back to the house,” Genevieve tells Mouth.
“You sound angry,” Mouth says. “Is it because I didn’t buy you a present? I’m sorry, babe. I just didn’t have the money for something nice.”
But you had it for a new shirt and shorts,she thinks.A webbed belt and flip-flops.Genevieve shrugs. “Presents don’t matter.”
“I’ll make it up to you once I get a job running one of your uncle’s bowling alleys,” Mouth says. “I’ll pay all our rent, our utilities, our groceries, and I’ll buy you something nice every week.”
Genevieve blinks.Ick,she thinks. She hurries down the path toward the house.Let George be there,she thinks.Please.
It’s six o’clock, and the clambake is supposed to start at six thirty, but Sallie hasn’t even showered yet, and getting ready takes her an hour… when she hurries.
“Sal,” George says. Sallie is tucked under the sheets and fluffy duvet of the hotel bed, smoking a cigarette, reading the Nantucket Chamber of Commerce guide. “We’re going to be late. We’re supposed to be there in half an hour.”
“Looks like we missed a gallery down on Easy Street,” Sallie says. “William Welch.”
George pulls his bow tie out of his suitcase and stands in front of the mirror. Hehatesbeing late. Even being on time feels sloppy; he likes, always, to be early. Sallie is intentionally sabotaging his birthday dinner, right? She doesn’t want to go—and he has become only too aware that Sallie sets the agenda. They spent the afternoon shopping in town. It’s true that Sallie bought George a pair of vintage cuff links at Tonkin’s, but the rest of the day, they’d shopped only for Sallie. First it was clothes at Eye of the Needle and Vis-à-Vis, then it was off to the galleries. George actually can’t believe there’s one they missed. They must have gone into a dozen, with Sallie leading the way and George following like a dog on a leash.
She had, mercifully, agreed to stop for lunch at the Nantucket Pharmacy sandwich counter. George ordered ham-and-pickle salad on rye and Sallie a turkey club, and they shared a chocolate frappe in honor of his birthday. But then something happened. The bell on the door jingled and George turned to see Cousin Dana walk in.
When Dana saw him sitting with Sallie, she beelined over.
“Hi, I’m Dana Dewberry,” she said, offering Sallie her hand. “A dear friend of George’s.”
George flushed. He and Dana were hardly “dear friends.” “I met Dana yesterday at the hospital,” he said. He gave her a weak smile. “How’s your leg?”
“Better, thanks for asking.” Dana winked at Sallie. “You have quite a catch there. You’re one lucky lady!”
“Aren’t I just,” Sallie said, giving Dana an assessing look. She plunked a twenty down on the counter. “Well, Dana Dewberry, dear friend of George’s, you’ll have to excuse us. We have some more shopping to do.”
“We can go to the William Welch gallery tomorrow before our ferry,” George says to Sallie now. “Would you please get ready?”
“No,” Sallie says, slapping the chamber of commerce guide down on the bed.
“What do you mean, no?” George says. He sits down beside her. “Believe me, I’d rather order room service and lie around naked too, but it’s my birthday party. My family went to a lot of trouble.”
“Ha!” Sallie says. “Magee called a caterer.”
“Even so, it’s my birthday.”
Sallie reaches for his hand, the one not bandaged, the one that has Dana’s phone number still faintly visible across the palm. “While you were napping, I took the liberty of copying down this number and I called it.”
