Page 41 of On Fire Island

“Please don’t let them stop, please don’t let them stop, please don’t let them stop.”

Yes, Ben said that out loud, three times. It was clearly one of those days when he presented as getting worse, not better. At least he was aware of it.

Ben developed an issue with small talk quickly after my diagnosis. I was beginning to wonder if he would ever embrace chatting again. He used to be relatively fond of it, especially when it involved sports. Not with the Kerchaikens though; he never enjoyed talking to them. On the nights that we ventured into town for a scoop of ice cream—him, Moose Tracks, me Graham Central Station—they always seemed to be on line. Mr.Kerchaiken was the kind of guy who started a conversation with, “Did you hear about this?” or “Did you hear about that?” regarding a multitude of things we didn’t care to hear about.

The Kerchaikens made their move, angling from the shoreline to our chairs. The sand had formed a cliff-like wall between the ocean and the beach, making Ben and Shep difficult to access. Ben especially hoped it would deter them, but they were clearly determined to make a condolence stop-by.

The beach configures differently throughout the summer. In June it is often flat and wide, but in late August and early September things can get funky. Sometimes tide pools form: shallow lakes in the sand carrying foam and sea life and a host of children swimming and boogie boarding and catching errant fish withnothing more than nets or beach pails—screaming in delight over what they may remember as the best day in their young lives.

Walls of sand, like the one that appeared today, are fun as well, albeit briefly. I love the feeling of standing at the edge, pointing my toes over the side, and leaning back to slide down the humble cliff on my heels. I counted it as another gift from the island that tickled the kid in me.

The way up, though, is always clumsy and awkward.

After a few failed attempts, the Kerchaikens pulled each other up.

“Fuck,” Ben mumbled, I thought quite audibly.

“I got this,” Shep, the self-proclaimed King of the Conversation Stopper, promised.

Mrs.Kerchaiken spoke first. “How are you doing, Benjamin?” She paused and added in a consolatory tone, “And you, Shep? Such tragedy.”

“I’m doing OK, thanks.” Shep smiled at them mischievously. “But you see that rock over there?” he continued. “The big one that looks like only the ocean could move it.”

They did and nodded.

“Ben wants to bash in our skulls with it and then strap it to his back and drown himself.”

“We should be on our way,” Mr.Kerchaiken responded. The Mrs.was visibly shaken.

“Thanks, Shep.” Ben smiled before putting his earphones back in his ears.

BUMP, bump-bump bump. BUMP bump-bump bump.

twenty-five

To Town!

The summer continued in a two-steps-forward, three-steps-back kind of manner, with Ben enjoying playing ball, sometimes, but lying in my closet in tears, inhaling the scent of my sweaters at others. Matty had gotten no further in his quest for a rubber. And each of Shep’s daughters canceled their visits. They said they would come individually. Shep said he only wanted them together, and no one backed down. Family is often ridiculous.

The only one who was truly happy was Renee. The drummer was still in the picture, and from the look of her, she was having sex, good sex and plenty of it.

“That guy’s hanging around an awful lot,” Ben had commented one morning while he and Matty were on deck at the game. “Do you think it will continue in the city after the summer?”

“I don’t think so,” Matty contemplated. “I’ve never even seen him wear shoes.”

Ben laughed, though I didn’t think Matty meant it as a joke.

“You know, if it gets to be too much, Shep’s offer to bunk with us is good for me too.”

That night, when Renee announced “we” will be staying out for all of August, Matty gave up. He showed up across the street a few hours later with a duffel bag and his mitt.

The meal choices were dwindling, but Shep put in a bit more energy since it was Matty’s first night. He made a fresh salad and some garlic bread and defrosted Elissa Cron’s five-meat lasagna—no one could figure out what the fifth meat was, which was why it was a late taker. The bread was the biggest hit.

Neither Shep nor Ben put much effort into their dinner conversation since becoming partners in grief, but with Matty at the table, their usual routine of lamenting and languishing felt tiresome. Shep did the honor of breaking the ice with a hatchet as opposed to a pick.

“So, your mother’s still banging the drummer?”

“Shep! You need a seven-second delay, like on television,” Ben exclaimed.

---