Page 8 of On Fire Island

“Yeah, pretty awesome too,” Matty lied.

Matty’s winter had sucked. I could search for a more sophisticated word butsuckedsums it up too perfectly to bother. Back in September, Matty’s straight-as-they-come father “Tuck” Tucker broke his mother Renee’s heart by running off with his twenty-seven-year-old assistant, Lola. You may think that sounds apropos for a guy nicknamed Tuck Tucker, but his moniker wasn’t a cool pet name lovingly given to him by his college frat bros or his best friend since kindergarten. He literally asked people to call him Tuck and corrected them when they called him by his given name, Arthur, until they finally gave up and gave in.

Tuck is a forensic accountant and Renee is a divorce attorney; pitting the two of them against each other registered a solid 8.9 on the divorce Richter scale. It was truly a cataclysmic event. They nearly killed each other during the proceedings, and both parents blurred all boundaries and shared terrible things about the other with poor Matty. In the end, neither party could bear to give up the one material thing that the other cherished the most. And so, they put the house on Fire Island into a trust for their only child. Obviously, the house still belonged to all of them. Matty was just a kid, and his parents paid for its upkeep and could come and go as they pleased, but legally it was considered his. Tuck and Renee were supposed to rotate their time there—switching up every two weeks. But Tuck still wanted to be with Lola, and Lola wanted no part of Fire Island. Lola, who aspired to an influencer lifestyle, fancied herself a Hamptons girl.

Apparently whatever Lola wants, Lola gets. Tuck rented them a “cottage” in Sagaponack. It was doubtful he would be on Fire Island all summer, and I doubted Matty would leave to visit him in the Hamptons.

“All aboard, Bay Harbor!” the ferry captain beckoned as everybody fell into line. I was excited to get on the boat—excited to be on the water once again.

six

The Four O’Clock Ferry

Pam and Andie pushed their baby and a ton of baby gear aboard the four o’clock boat. The twinkle of anticipation for Oliver’s inaugural ride, not to mention the warm chowder, helped erase the lingering sadness in their eyes from the day’s event. I was glad they had skipped the shiva and headed straight out to the beach. I would have done the same if I were them.

The ferry boats have interior seating below and open-air seating up top. In keeping with their nor’easter dress code for little Oliver, Pam and Andie remained down below. Ben and I only ever sat down below during an actual nor’easter.

I followed Matty, who tossed his bag onto the piles of provisions and climbed the stairs to sit up top with Houdini. Within minutes, an older man, Joel Mandel, slipped into the powder-blue metal bench behind him, his cronies watching intently from afar. They had all been at the funeral, along with Joel—their suits and sports jackets were a far cry from their usual T-shirts and gym shorts or sweats. Joel greeted Matty with a hard tap on the shoulder.

“Matty, Matty, how are you, my young friend?”

“All good, Joel. You?”

“Just came from your neighbor Julia Morse’s funeral, so—what can I say? Not so good.”

“Must have been aw-awful,” Matty stammered.

“It was awful,” Joel continued. “We all went.”

It was bizarre to hear a review of my funeral in person, but oddly satisfying to know that my death affected people. Selfish as that sounds, it would feel horrific to spend thirty-seven years in a place and not be missed when you leave. Before I was diagnosed, when death was just a punch line, I remember Ben contemplating the topic. He joked while surveying the crowd at one of his book launches, “These people will probably be at my funeral, but they’ll only cry if I’m in the middle of writing a trilogy. Whenyoudie, there won’t be a dry eye.” I doubted the first part of his statement was true, but the second was now fact.

Joel motioned to the men sitting a few rows back. They all shot a quick wave to Matty. He shot one back.

“We didn’t go back to Ben’s apartment afterward. None of us could bear anymore.”

“I couldn’t bear choosing who to stand with, my mother or my father, so I skipped the whole thing,” Matty admitted.

“I’m sure Ben will understand.”

I knew he would. Ben wasn’t one to judge. Joel squirmed in his seat and looked back at his friends. They were all watching the conversation with great interest, and it was easy to figure out what was going on.

In our small town, the men, especially, can mostly be divided into three groups—ballplayers, tennis players, and beach bums (surfers and volleyball players included). It doesn’t matter what age you are, what religion or sexual proclivity you subscribe to—these are the basic categories. The men here, along with Ben and Matty,(though both could surf and hit a tennis ball well enough) were in the ballplayers’ group. And Matty, with his powerful stick and cannon arm, was a star. A star they had all helped to create and all took pride in. His father, on the other hand, was a horrible softball player—a fact that had never stopped him from insisting on a spot on the roster for the big Labor Day Homeowners’ Game against the neighboring town. It was this fact—and the intensity of that game—that had Joel Mandel and his cronies all up in Matty’s face.

“So, talking about your parents,” Joel asked nervously, “is it true?”

“That my parents divorced this winter?”

“No, Matty, please, that’s none of my business.”

Matty waited a beat to let Joel squirm. I was obviously completely correct in my analysis, and now Matty seemed to have figured it out as well. He put Joel out of his misery.

“That I got the house in the divorce and will officially be able to play in the Homeowners’ Game instead of my father?”

Joel tried to hold in a smile, but it was useless. A huge grin broke through. He looked back at his teammates and shot them two thumbs up. The men, all three in their fifties or sixties, high-fived each other like teenagers. Matty turned to look at them, and they quickly stifled their reactions.

“Sorry, Matty. It’s been years since we won the big game and, well, your father’s a nice guy and all, but the Strikeout King did plenty of damage.”

“My father’s a prick.”

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