Page 16 of On Fire Island

“Oh, and Shep wants some pickled herring. Not the kind in a jar, the kind from—”

“Behind the deli counter—got it.”

“And charge it to my account. It’s under Julia because there are those other Morses, on Bungalow.”

“Do you want me to ask them to change it?”

“Why?”

Matty turned beet red, realizing he had said the wrong thing and no doubt picturing the wretched scenario for both Ben and the person checking him out with his dead wife’s name all summer. Ben barely noticed and silently rode away.

I didn’t follow him. I had no idea how long this afterlife visitation would last and there was no way I was missing one last trip to the Bay Harbor Market.

eleven

The Market

Born and raised on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, I’ve frequented my fair share of outstanding food markets. In fact, my childhood apartment on Central Park West was a five-minute walk to Zabar’s, Citarella, and Fairway. If you are not familiar with these three Manhattan food Meccas, let’s just say they are woven into the tapestry of the city as much as the Empire State Building or Carnegie Hall.

Every Sunday growing up, my dining room table overflowed with the usual cast of characters: my grandparents, my mom’s great-aunt who lived below us, my father’s widowed business partner, and babka from Zabar’s, bagels from Fairway, and the most exquisite gefilte fish this side of the Hudson from Citarella. We would sit around for hours, noshing and kibitzing and passing around sections of the SundayTimes, owning our culture like the true Upper West Side Jews we were. Even with the Zabar’s/Citarella/Fairway trifecta being such a big part of my childhood, my Fire Island provisioner was still my number one.

The Bay Harbor Market and Liquor Store, the only commercialentities in our small town, were owned by a couple in their sixties, Les and Winnie Biggs. They were the third generation of the Biggs family to own the market. Les’s great-grandfather had won it in a poker game back in the 1920s, when vaudeville actors and moonshine-makers filled the island.

Besides carrying everything one could need, it was arguably the best place to socialize other than the beach. A trip there, whether for a sandwich or a long list of groceries, always took twice as long as necessary on account of the chatting factor. The market itself was nothing much to look at: bright fluorescent lighting, a blue-and-cream-checkerboard floor, and narrow aisles flanked by white wooden shelves. But the Biggses’ only son, Little Les, an unfortunate misnomer as he was anything but, made up for the weak aesthetics. He was beautiful. Tall with sparkling blue eyes, thick black hair, and square shoulders that aligned perfectly with his square jaw. And let’s not even discuss how quickly he can open a produce bag!

From early on, it was obvious that Little Les was destined for great things. He was one of those boys and then men who walked with a purposeful stride—even before it became obvious where he was going.

From the first time he took his place behind the deli counter, the people lined up for him to make their sandwich. Before I tasted one, I was sure that the attraction, for the ladies at least, was in the handoff. The handoff always came with a slow, thoughtful, killer smile. Until I tasted one. It was a good sandwich.

The ability to craft the exact meat-to-cheese ratio, the right touch of salt and pepper, an ideal amount of shredded lettuce, avocado, tomato, and the expertly mixed and applied condiment was not his greatest skill. Baseball took that prize. Les was a greatballplayer. Not just Bay Harbor great, America great, and even Big Les gave in to letting his only son have a few hours off on weekend mornings to play in the town’s game.

Little Les was a major league hitter with a gun of an arm who could whip a ball from third to first before the runner even hit his stride. He was so good, in fact, that to keep the teams fair he had to agree to bat lefty, and even then he stacked the odds.

By the time Les turned fifteen, he was dreaming of playing college ball and possibly beyond. And those dreams were soon achieved. He was recruited by the University of Virginia, and in his junior year there he left to play Double-A ball. A year later, he was playing Triple-A, and it was no surprise when he was called up by the Baltimore Orioles.

The Bay Harbor ballplayers chartered a bus and drove up for his first game. And even though he was only in for the last inning, and struck out, it was a dream come true for them all. He slowly made his way up the roster, and by his third year in the majors he was a starting player until one night when a drunk driver crossed a divider on the highway and sent his car tumbling down a ravine, ending his career and nearly his life.

He returned home to his spot behind the deli counter with a bum left leg and his twinkle extinguished. His stride was no longer purposeful, and he never played ball again, not even in Bay Harbor.

By the next summer, even the sandwiches suffered, and everyone was worried about Little Les. The town’s greatest mavens got together over lime rickeys and canapés and decided that Little Les needed to replace his love for the game with another love. They each found a girl, a neighbor or cousin or cousin of a neighbor and invited them to the beach with an ulterior motive in mind. Withevery introduction, Little Les barely looked up over the counter until week six, when Sally Ingram introduced him to her niece from Westport, Connecticut, Darcy Miller.

“A pound of grilled artichokes and six sour pickles for now, please, plus two racks of ribs and a barbecued chicken for delivery later,” Sally had ordered, adding, “Les, this is my niece Darcy, she went to Chapel Hill.” She turned to Darcy. “Les played ball for UVA.”

The two schools were legendary rivals. Les did a double take at the beautiful Tar Heel and joked, “I won’t hold that against you.”

Sally watched as his killer smile slowly expanded across his face. She had missed that smile.

Unlike the other women who’d been brought around to meet Les, Darcy, who was quite a catch herself, was not in on the scheme. She didn’t bat her eyelashes and blush in front of the dreamy-looking former ballplayer in response to his killer smile and attempt at humor. This got Les’s attention, and when their order of chicken and ribs came out of the oven at the end of the day, Les delivered it himself.

Les stayed for dinner, and possibly breakfast, I was told, and soon thereafter his turkey sandwiches tasted good again. Ben said the joy was back in them. I had noticed a big shipment from Hellmann’s on the freight boat the day before, but I never mentioned it. He seemed so happy that he could taste the joy.

Now, I followed Matty in to the market, where he was greeted with open arms—well, not exactly. As usual, Big Les’s hands were completely full.

“Hi, Les. How was your winter?” Matty asked, with genuine interest.

“Good, but too short.”

Spoken like a man who worked sixteen-hour days all summer long.

---