Page 88 of Stony Point Summer
“Shh. We’ll manage. Remember, have hope. It gives our dreams wings.”
“Oh, Elsa.” Celia shakes her head. “I’m not a dreamer.”
“Iwon’thear of that, so you listen closely,” Elsa says. The muted sound of distant waves lapping at the beach fills a moment of silence.
Until finally, Elsa lifts hidden, clipped paperwork from her booth seat. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”
thirty-two
— Then —
10 Years Ago
Headed Home that August Day
The Path
HE MURMURS THE WORDS AS his pencil moves across a canvas-bound scrapbook page.
Vital.Versus.Vulnerable.Vibe. A sea breeze lifts the man’s wavy hair as he continues penciling his litany.Vast.Victory.Violence. He wears a faded concert tee over cuffed jeans. Alone, he stands on a long concrete walkway leading to a monument. Looking up from the page, he then sketches that massive sculpture. It’s black granite, eleven-feet tall—and forms the singular letter V against a backdrop of harbor water and Long Island Sound beyond. His pencil brushes over the page. The muted sound of distant waves fills the air.
As he’s finishing the sketch, a man seeming in his fifties comes up behind him.
“Neil. What’s going on?”
Neil turns to the man standing there. “Hey, Dad.” His father’s workpants are dusty; his tee, loose. He wears construction boots, and a tape measure is clipped to his belt. “Hope I didn’t pull you off a big job,” Neil says.
“Laying a patio in Old Black Point. I’ll pick up with it when I get back.”
“Okay, good. And thanks for meeting me here.”
“Hereis right. Was surprised when you called and said you were in New Haven. At the Vietnam monument.”
Still holding his scrapbook, Neil turns toward the distant sculpture. “What a place, man. It’s a powerful sight.”
“I stop by here sometimes. Maybe read the names of the fallen etched in that granite. The MIAs. And I think of my comrades in the jungle.” The older man looks from the monument to his son. “But why’dyouend up here?”
“I was headed home, on the bike,” Neil tells him while tying a piece of fishing line around the scrapbook’s canvas cover. “Took a turnoff in New Haven to stretch my legs. And to call you. Didn’t really want to talk at home, so I’m glad you came.”
“Been worried about you, Neil. You’ve been gone a few days with no word.”
“Working something out, Dad.”
“Figured as much. Sounds serious.”
“It is.”
“Come on, then.” The older man hitches his head toward the granite monument. “Let’s walk.”
Their first steps are quiet this warm afternoon. The sun beats hot; Long Island Sound sparkles in the distance. The father says nothing, but it’s obvious what he’s doing. He’s giving Neil space for his thoughts. His words.
And what words they are.
“I’m getting married.”
His father stops, right there on the pathway.
“I am,” Neil says.
