The Last Summer of Love

By Gary Ernst

Set in New York City during the summer of 1970, The Last Summer of Love focuses on one family, the Severns, especially on two twenty-one-year-old cousins, Kiel and Katy. The novel follows the influence on family members of the radically changing attitudes toward gender, religion, authority, war, drugs, and sex. While liberating, these changes also devastate the family and, for Katy, prove fatal.
The novel opens in August as Ed Severn, Kiel twenty-nine year-old uncle, searches the East Village for his nephew. Katy has died suddenly, and Kiel needs to attend her funeral. Ed stops briefly at the apartment of Dora, Kiel’s mother, recently separated from Hal, her husband. She has been struggling to succeed in modeling, a business that rewards youth, and, although it is late afternoon, she has a suitor. Dora does not know where Kiel may be. After Ed leaves, he encounters one of Kiel’s friends on his way to hand out Marxist pamphlets. The youth directs him to the apartment where Ed finds his nephew. Kiel, in the company of an attractive woman in her thirties, refuses to leave, despite Ed’s protests. He tells Ed that he will attend the funeral the next day.
The narrative turns back to late spring. Hal copes with Dora’s rejection by turning to alcohol and religion and clutching traditional masculine values. He views his past as heroic, and lives with his son in perpetual conflict. Hal regards Kiel, in college rather than Viet Nam, with contempt. The hostility is aggravated by Kiel’s allying himself with his mother in his parents’ feuds. After a violent confrontation, Kiel flees and telephones his cousin, Katy.
Katy lives with conservative parents in a New York suburb. Her father has a history of mental illness, and her mother asserts control over her. The cousins have not been close since puberty, when Katy became deeply religious for about a year. Nevertheless, their relationship revives as Kiel exposes her to 1970’s urban youth culture of hallucinogens and multiple sex partners. Katy takes a deep interest in one young man, but he does not share her feelings. Nevertheless, the cousins move from one party to the next until, on a day in July, they find a dead newborn in an abandoned basement. Although the discovery does not traumatize Kiel, it deeply disturbs Katy. She tells Kiel she does not wish to share his type of life, and she returns to her parents’.
At home, Katy tries to embrace the Catholicism of her childhood, but finds it severely lacking. She realizes, however, that praying soothes her, and she begins to spend her afternoons in church. The priest attempts to lead her back to traditional worship, but his ploys only push her further away. After a couple of weeks, she meets two fanatically religious women who seek new ways to bring themselves closer to God. They profess the value of personal ordeals and invented rituals. Katy finds promise in their beliefs, but this has tragic consequences. During a penitential ritual, she accidentally kills herself.
The last section focuses on the hours surrounding Katy’s funeral. Kiel arrives to accompany Katy’s parents, Ed, and Hal to the cemetery. Because of his grief, Kiel begins to sympathize more deeply with others, even with his father. But afterwards, as Kiel and Ed walk to the subway from Hal’s apartment, Kiel stops to talk to two young women in front of a store. The novel end as Ed prods his nephew to come with him, and the women tell him to stay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Ernst
• Release date: Jun 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301379033

Gary Ernst

Gary Ernst is a poet, critic, and professor. He received his PhD from NYU in 1997, and is a member of the Colloquium on Violence and Religion. He has taught writing, literature, history, and humanities in colleges throughout America. The Last Summer of Love is his most recent novel.

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The Last Summer of Love

Gary Ernst

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Copyright 2013 by Gary Ernst

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which has been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Part One: August 24, 1970

Katy’s Gone. Finding Kiel

Kiel’s Places

Office workers rose from the subway onto 8th Street. They lunged and tacked by slow-moving knots of young men and women in cut-down jeans. Ed Severn, a tall, uncomfortably lean man not quite thirty, followed the thinner, sweating throng east along storefronts. He searched faces in the blithe huddles of youths who shared joints, talked, laughed, and paid the bustlers no more heed than stiff manikins in plate-glass windows. Ed made sure he didn’t miss his nephew, sometimes changing direction, sometimes forcing stops or missteps. He ignored muttered complaints.

He had searched all afternoon in the heat.

At Broadway, most of the crowd turned north or south, but Ed crossed, continuing toward Avenue C. He scanned a cluster of young men near the corner, focused on one with chest-length light brown hair, and nearly collided with two others shuffling toward him, arguing. One yanked his rival’s forearm. I’m not going to do you in over $5.00, he said, but I’m busting up any deals I see you doing. A few steps further, a middle-aged man with a horseshoe of grey hair, sat slumped against the wall, drinking from a pint bottle in a paper bag. His thin legs extended like birch sticks from blue pin-striped slacks cut unevenly at the knees. Ed stepped over them.

Eighth Street ran into Astor Place, and, across broad 4th Avenue, Astor became St. Marks. The commuting crowd thinned further, and Ed glanced from time to time at people across the street. But he felt less secure.

He turned north on 2nd Avenue, and two young men blocked his path. One put out his hand: Spare any change, man?

Sorry. Ed slipped past without eye contact.

He turned east again on 10th Street, passed 1st Avenue, Avenues A and B, his anxiety deepening. At Avenue C, he walked north.

Here, structures stood three to six storeys, the ground-floor stores mostly rented as apartments. Many buildings were abandoned, some wide open, stripped even of door and window frames. Padlocks held shut doors of others, and either cinder blocks or plywood sealed their first-floor windows. Crawl holes sometimes splintered through lower wooden edges. Most spaces between buildings were less than a foot, and cats whirled on hind legs to catch vermin darting in the rubbish.

But before he reached the intersection at 12th Street, Ed stopped to gaze warily behind him and then down an alley four feet wide. A panting, light brown dog, a Shepard mix, some fifty boney pounds, labored to his feet, barked, turned, and ran off. Ed advanced to the grey steel door on the left, a red X newly spray-painted in its center. He pushed, and the chain woven through the empty lock socket and loose doorframe gave way the length of his arm. He twisted under the thick links onto the landing of a walled staircase. The way up was sealed, again with a steel door, this one securely bolted.

He’d been to the basement in late June and had thought himself an interloper, but now he didn’t hear rock music or smell marijuana. His eyes adjusted to the dark grey light as he descended cautiously and stopped at the bottom, fearing muggers.

The basement, sixteen feet across, extended thirty feet, the length of the building. It was cooler than outside and smelled of urine. A small oval puddle, mostly water, dotted with cigarette butts and paper wrappers, marked the center of the cement floor. Recent visitors had scattered debris: a few broken LPs, dark shards of wine bottles, empty cigarette packages, a Barbie doll face down, its plastic flesh glinting in the half-light, the left leg gone. Diagonally across from the base of the staircase, an open doorway led to a basement adjoining, and near it, beneath the frameless window high on the back wall, three young men, obviously junkies, sat hunched forward in a triangle.

When Ed had been here in late spring, the basement seemed a gathering place for college-age kids, a shelter of trust and warm camaraderie.

The man against the wall raised his head. He held a cigarette burnt down nearly to his fingers. He regarded suspiciously the tall, thin trespasser.

Ed advanced a few hesitant steps. Does anybody know Kiel Severn? his voice loud in the empty space.

The man drew on his cigarette, illuminating his dark beard and eyes. He blew a series of smoke rings toward the intruder and shook his head. His companions didn’t stir.

Ed glanced toward the doorway to the man’s right. Is anybody in the other basement? Ed had been in there, led by a young woman to a private space, away from congenial friends.

The man flipped the butt through the doorway and again shook his head. Ed thought it foolish to check. Kiel would have heard his voice and come out. Ed returned up the stairs and stooped under the chain. Back in the alley, he breathed with relief the hot city air with its trace of rotting garbage.

This is futile, he said under his breath. Everybody liked Kiel: he might be with anyone, anywhere. How many places could he look? But the idea that his nephew would miss Katy’s funeral actually hurt.

He decided to walk back to Washington Square Park. He had searched it twice this afternoon, down all its paths, around the fountain circle, even checked the children’s playground. But Kiel bored easily, came and went, so the park was still the most likely place to find him. He visited it practically every day, even in the rain. This would be Ed’s last search. He had wasted almost five hours. He was tired, and his throat felt as if he’d swallowed a handful of dry, crumbled leaves. He thought of the park’s drinking fountains.

Ed trudged west on 12th Street. He remembered that two of Kiel’s friends shared a ground-floor apartment on the street’s north side, between Avenues A and B, although he was unsure of the building. One seemed more familiar than others, and he rang the bottom bell.

A young Hispanic man opened the door. A few yards behind him, two boys eight or nine years old, jumped on an unmade bed, composition books open on the pillows. Ed apologized and walked on.

He turned south on Broadway. He would pass Randall House, the apartment building on the corner of East 9th Street. Dora Severn, Kiel’s mother, lived there. Two hours earlier, the doorman had told him she’d gone out. Now he would try again.

Although last week Kiel had told him that he’d been disowned by Dora again, such disownings were short-lived and lacked effect. Kiel laughed at them: she had disowned him perhaps a dozen times in the last half-year. She would say dramatically, I disown you, and Kiel would get over it more quickly than a scraped knee. A few days later, he’d show up at her door, and nothing would be mentioned.

Ed had only seen Dora once in the last six months, since her most recent separation from Hal, his half-brother. She had his phone number and may have called when he was out.

He opened one of the building’s two glass doors. A tall, grey-uniformed doorman blocked his entrance. He wasn’t the same one Ed had met earlier.

I’m here to see Dora Severn.

Severn? The doorman stepped aside so that Ed could enter.

I’m Edward Severn, her brother-in-law.

Wait a second. He stepped to Ed’s right into a room hardly large enough for its small wooden table and two office chairs, and shut a steel door. After a few seconds, Ed heard his muffled voice as he talked on an intercom telephone. He hesitated as he spoke, as if Dora were indecisive or protesting Ed’s unplanned visit. Ed considered telling him through the door to ask Dora if Kiel were there. That was the only reason he’d come, anyway.

The door opened. She’s in 6N. Take the elevator to your right, flicking his finger toward the inside of the building.

Ed followed a hall to the elevators and, on the sixth floor, rang the bell and stared at the large peephole until he heard her disengage chains and turn two locks.

Dora’s smile beamed. She took his face between her hands and kissed him. She had bleached her hair honey blonde, and Ed vaguely resented the new color, expecting the familiar earthen brown. At forty-three, Dora was still, if not beautiful, nearly so, and perhaps the honey blonde added to her allure. Since she’d left Hal, she’d resumed modeling, after twenty-five years. ‘She thinks she’ll do better than Beezy,’ Hal had said dismissively, alluding to the couples’ twenty-year-old daughter, Beatrice, also a model.

Oh, I’m so glad to see you! She hugged him. But you should have called first. I have a guest.

I never got your number.

Hal never gave it to you? He’s so spiteful. She turned for him to follow.

She wore a tan semi-transparent blouse and matching skin-tight slacks that ended at the ankles, the thin material dotted with leopard spots. Ed didn’t see a bra strap and, although fixing his eyes on the back of her head, noticed black panties through the filmy cloth.

He felt with gratitude the coolness inside as two window air conditioners blew and hummed. Except for the mahogany dining room set stuffed into the small area beside a walk-in kitchen, all her furnishings were new. Ed focused on a large coffee table displaying vines and flowers carved into its black slate top, with two red cocktails – Manhattans – resting on coasters. A man about Ed’s age lounged in the center of a white couch, a green couch pillow between his head and the wall, another on his lap. The braided reddish metal of the lamps on polished mahogany end-tables matched the frame of the large wall-mirror that reflected from above the man’s thinning black hair cut short over his ears.

Dora glanced at her reflection in the mirror and pushed a few blonde strands behind her right ear. Her breasts beneath her filmy blouse distracted Ed, even as he gazed at her visitor. This is my ex-husband’s little brother, Edward, she told the man apologetically. I’ve only seen him once since the divorce.

Ed didn’t remind her that she and Hal were legally separated, not divorced. She hadn’t signed the papers.

Dora introduced her guest: This is Mark. He wore grey dress slacks and a white dress shirt opened to the forth button, the sleeves folded above the elbows. The undershirt’s scooped collar exposed a mass of black chest hair. He apparently had come straight from his office. Dora must have hung up his tie and jacket. He made no effort to conceal his wedding ring, and his manicured fingernails glowed.

He remained leaning back as Ed bent over the coffee table to shake hands. Mark looked him up and down, skating the edges of rudeness. You’re her ex-brother-in-law?

Ed nodded, smiling affably.

Sit down, Ed. Dora waved her arm toward a rocking chair in front of a window. The rocker partially concealed a painting leaning against the wall, a seascape done by Hal many years ago.

I haven’t seen you in so long. I hope you can stay for a few minutes. Do you have time for a cup of coffee?

Yes, but I’d like a glass of water first, he said, happy to rest as well as be near Dora.

He answered Mark’s question more fully after she’d gone into her kitchen. She’s more like a step-mother than a sister-in-law. She raised me since I was four. Ed felt the need to joke: My brother brought me to the marriage with his old clothes.

I’ll bet that didn’t make Dora too happy.

Oh no, she was glad to have me, I think. Dora had replaced the mother he remembered vaguely, almost as a dream image.

Where were your parents?

They were around, said Ed, trying to grin.

They didn’t want you?

Shush, Dora said as she crossed the room. She handed Ed a glass of water with ice cubes, and he saw her whisper to Mark as she turned to sit. I wanted him more than anybody, she said. She smiled at Ed and repeated the name she used to call him: ‘Little Moon and Stars.’

Ed gulped down the ice water.

Without breaking eye contact with the new arrival, Dora slid her forefinger up Mark’s arm and under his folded sleeve. Ed acted as though he didn’t notice.

Ed’s a teacher, she told her suitor.

Mark nodded.

Since Dora waited for him to respond, Mark asked, What grade you teach?

College history. I’m on a stipend while I finish my doctorate.

History? Mark twitched with contempt.

He’s going to be a Doctor of History, said Dora, motherly pride emerging playfully, well compensating for Mark’s scorn.

That’s not a real doctor, said the man beside her.

Well, it’s a Ph.D. Ed forced a smile. It’s not an M.D., but some medical doctors have Ph.D.s too.

Mark’s mouth twisted in exaggerated disbelief. Why would a real doctor have a Ph.D.?

Dora tried to help: An M.D.’s based on performance. A Ph.D.’s based on ideas.

You mean an M.D. makes more sense. Mark peered at Ed. At least you could make money with an M.D. Maybe buy some new clothes.

A Ph.D. looks good on a shingle after an M.D., Ed said agreeably.

Mark seemed dissatisfied with the answer but pressed no further.

The teapot began to whistle, and Ed handed Dora his empty glass as she hurried to the kitchen.

The men were silent until she returned with a small mug of coffee, lightened with milk. Mark ogled her torso, and Dora smiled at Ed’s frown. She handed him the hot mug. Ed sipped through the steam and burned his tongue. He put the coffee down on the slate table’s corner, determined to let it cool. I’m trying to find Kiel.

Kiel’s my son, Dora told Mark.

I thought it was just you and your daughter. A couple of models.

Kiel doesn’t live with me. He’s supposed to live with his father, but he’s not there most of the time either.

Mark nodded.

He just shows up here every few days and eats me out of house and home. It’s like getting hit by locusts. Usually he brings his cousin, too, and they both eat me out of house and home. She’s like a boll weevil, fitting little pieces of food in her mouth, then, next thing you know, all the cheese and crackers are gone. He just gobbles everything down. It’s like getting hit first by boll weevils then by locusts.

Dora enjoyed making such comparisons, and Mark laughed in appreciation. Ed smiled too, realizing how much he’d missed her. It rarely seemed that her derisions betrayed malice when they targeted Kiel. But no one had told her about Katy. Hal didn’t call you? Ed asked.

Him? Call me? Fat chance. I have to call him every week to make sure he sends me my check. I think I should get another fifty dollars a week now that he finally made Battalion Chief. I deserve a raise for all those years.

He should have told you, Ed said gloomily. Katy died yesterday.

Oh, no. Dora looked away. Except for Ed, Dora had refused to have anything to do with her in-laws for the last five years. Recently, though, the cousins had gotten close again, and Dora had seen Katy perhaps a dozen times when she’d visited with Kiel. She was like my own daughter, she said.

Ed nearly reminded her how little she had seen her niece in recent years, until this summer.

We lived down the block from Katy’s family in Rosedale, Dora said, turning toward Mark. When Katy was growing up, she practically lived at my house. She used to fly around like a bee in a box. You couldn’t get her to stop and sit. You know what her first word was?

Mark shook his head.

‘Da-da,’ she said. She believed that this was Katy’s attempt to say Dora, but hesitated to say so as Ed lifted a skeptically brow.

She really loved her father, said Ed. He hoped she wouldn’t tell him again that Da-da had as many sounds in common with Dora as it did with Daddy.

That was her first word, Dora continued, but her second was ‘Kie-u.’ She was trying to say ‘Kiel.’

What happened to ‘Luh-la’? Ed’s half-sister’s name was Lucille.

That’s not a word. It’s just a sound. Dora was emphatic. And who calls their mother by their first name anyway?

Kiel calls you ‘Dora,’

That’s only because he always heard you call me that. She turned toward Mark. Katy couldn’t stand being around her own mother. She always wanted to be part of my family. She would be with me and my kids all day, then would have to go home to that beast.

I always remember her playing in the yard with Kiel, Ed said. Nobody could separate them until they started high-school.

She wanted to be part of our family. There was that time when Katy was seven or eight and brought home a kitten. Do you remember Ed?

Of course he did. Dora had eroded that story down to a pebble like all her stories about his half-sister. He nodded as Dora continued, turning from him to her suitor.

Lucille her mother never told her she could keep it, and after Katy did something she didn’t like, Lucille brought the kitten to the pound. Then she told poor little Katy: ‘I never said you could keep that little girl kitten.’ With a mother like that, no wonder she wanted to be part of my family. She gazed at Ed. You didn’t see it much because you were always off with your friends or up at The North Pole. At nineteen, Ed had won a scholarship to the University of Toronto The North Pole. All you saw was Katy playing with your little nephew.

In earlier renditions, Ed’s sister had exchanged the kitten at the pound for another a black male that Katy had named Midnight – because Lucille wouldn’t pay $10.00 to have the female spayed. Didn’t they get another kitten? Ed asked.

Yes, but so what? She got rid of the one Katy loved. She added in a sympathetic drone: "A little