The Beach: A Novel

By Robert Fedorchek

The Beach is Euclid Beach Park, an actual amusement park in Cleveland, Ohio, on the southern shore of Lake Erie with its exciting atmosphere, thrilling rides, and tantalizing smells of fresh popcorn, taffy, and peanuts.
But it is the Beachs roller skating rink with its magnificent Gavioli band organ that forms the backdrop of the coming-of-age of two teenagers, Peter Skrak and Penny Hathaway. They are befriended by a worldly coupleHamilton Clifford, a World War II veteran trying to establish himself as an artist, and Ellen Mikkelson, a college professor of French, a woman in the midst of a divorce fighting to find her place in the male-dominated culture of the summer of 1956.
While Ellen and Penny develop a mother-daughter-like bond, friction over religion continues between Peters parents, and their lives and his are scarred by his mothers rigid adherence to Catholic teachings.
As the teenagers wrestle with confusion over sex and religion, the veteran and the professor grapple with commitment born of love: he, ready to make it; and she, reluctant. They all reach a turning point, though, when Peter is viciously beaten by his high school nemesis after he comes to Pennys defense at the Beachs dance pavilion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491793930

Robert Fedorchek

Robert Fedorchek is a professor emeritus of modern languages and literatures at Fairfield University; he holds a BA, MA, and PhD. In addition to his first novel, The Translators, he has published eighteen books of translations of Spanish and Portuguese literature. He and his wife live in Fairfield, Connecticut.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 Robert Fedorchek.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The Beach is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and occurrences and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons---living or dead---is entirely coincidental.

{Cover photograph by Robert Fedorchek}

Image Credits of the Euclid Beach Park postcards (that are not the author's):

• Entrance [the Arch] to Euclid Beach Park, #110; The Thriller Entrance, #94; The Flying Turns Entrance, #99; The Chute Over-the-Falls, #123; Great American Derby, #531; and Miniature Train in Sleepy Hollow Village, #105; from the Collection of The Euclid Beach Boys ®.

• The Pier, #146; Dudley S. Humphrey, Jr.

• Photo Credit: the façade of the Gavioli band organ; from the Collection of The Euclid Beach Boys ®.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-9392-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-9393-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016907235

iUniverse rev. date: 06/09/2016

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

To Joe and Irene Klemens,

the friendship of a lifetime.

In memoriam

Sister Mary Marcella, O.S.U. (1888-1974)

Brother John Henry Strickroth, S.M. (1913-1977)

Mister Steve Dossa (1910-1968)

Acknowledgments

I am indebted to John Frato, president of Euclid Beach Park Now, an active organization dedicated to keeping alive the memory of a magical amusement park that once stood on the southern shore of Lake Erie in northeast Cleveland, Ohio. It was a park that, in the halcyon times of its heyday in the first half of the twentieth century, had no parallel, and it has served me well as inspiration for this novel. At the Western Reserve Historical Society in Cleveland, my wife and I, together with our friends Joe and Irene Klemens, were received warmly by George Michaels, operator of the old Beach's painstakingly and magnificently restored Carousel, a project brought to full and happy fruition under the auspices of Cleveland's Euclid Beach Park Carousel Society (www.clevelandcarousel.org), Euclid Beach Park Now (www.euclidbeach.org), and the Western Reserve Historical Society (www.wrhs.org) after the Trust for Public Land rescued it at auction. We also profited from conversation with George, Larry Reichert, and Dudley Humphrey (scion of the D. S. Humphrey family that owned the Park). And Angie Lowrie, Director of Operations of the WRHS, graciously supported my wish to have a photograph of a section of the restored Carousel on the cover of The Beach.

For a number of the interior images I am grateful, again, to John Frato and Dud Humphrey; and for the year-around work routine of Steve Dossa, who tended the great Gavioli band organ of the Beach's roller skating rink, I thank his niece, Linda Rossin.

Charles Ohlin, Director of Operations of the National Packard Museum in Warren, Ohio, kindly provided me with information on the 1956 Packard Caribbean hardtops, one of which---a tri-tone eye-catcher in the same color scheme as the Museum's '56 Caribbean convertible---is owned by a prominent character in The Beach.

I am grateful to Sister Colette Livingston, O.S.U., Archives, Ursuline Sisters of Cleveland, who shared details of the teaching career of Sister Mary Marcella; and also to Ann Mueller, Communications Assistant, Marianist Province of the United States (St. Louis, MO), who researched the life of Brother John Henry Strickroth.

The program notes by Harlow Robinson that appear in Chapter Twenty-one are taken from the July 8, 2007, Tanglewood concert booklet, page 36, and are reproduced by permission of the Boston Symphony Orchestra.

The layout of Euclid Beach Park in The Beach is pretty much as it was in the summer of 1956, except for license I've taken (a few deviations and details) owing to the flow of action and plot. The same holds true for the northeast Cleveland area known these days as North Collinwood, as well as parts of the city of Euclid.

The descriptions of homes, sites, and doings in Bratenahl, Chardon, Chesterland, Gates Mills, Mentor, Painesville, and Ashtabula are products of my imagination.

001.jpg

The Beach was Euclid Beach Park, owned and operated by the D. S. Humphrey family. It stood on a tract of land that abutted the southern shore of Lake Erie, with the main gate near East 156 Street and fronting Lake Shore Boulevard . . .

ONE

T he fistfight took place in the locker room after fifth-period gym class. Bernie Mason, star fullback on the Saint Joseph High football team, had goaded Peter Skrak all year long. So when Peter came into the shower area and Bernie asked his two buddies for the nth time, You guys know what P. S. stands for, don't cha? Peter ignored him. For Piece of Shit, that's what.

After washing quickly, Peter padded over to his locker for his glasses and a towel, and then sat down on the slatted wood bench to dry himself.

Together with his pals, Bernie followed him; again he taunted Peter and again Peter ignored the gibe. Bernie didn't like being ignored. You're dripping water all over my part of the bench. Move it, asshole. He kicked Peter in the thigh, smashing his back into the handle of the metal locker behind him.

Knocked off balance, Peter fumbled with his glasses and fell onto the slippery cement floor. When he banged his elbow, pain flashed through his upper arm, incensing him. With a quickness that surprised everybody, he sprang up swinging wildly, caught Bernie on the cheek, and drove him against the towel rack, opening a cut on his temple.

You son of a bitch! Bernie yelled after seeing the blood on the back of his hand. Then he snickered. Now you get yours.

With a sickening feeling, Peter instantly realized that he had played into his antagonist's hands. Bernie went at him, pummeling him in the abdomen until Peter doubled over, and then he brought him up with a vicious punch on the mouth. Peter put up his hands, palms outward, trying to defend himself.

Beat shit out of him, Bern! Stomp him in the nuts! Slobo, one of his pals, egged him on.

Blood covered Peter's lips and chin; he was reeling, attempting to dodge the blows when Brother Schoenfeld, who had heard the noise, came running in and separated them.

We ain't finished, asshole, were Bernie Mason's parting words.

The school nurse cleaned Peter's face and had him hold an ice pack to his mouth. To be certain he was all right, she then walked with him to Euclid Clinic, which stood only two blocks away on Lake Shore Boulevard. After examining Peter's bruises, the ER doctor affixed a butterfly bandage to his chin.

"J ust answer my question, Peter. Were you the one who started the fight?" Father Bumbry, principal of Saint Joseph High, was seated at his desk. Brother Schoenfeld stood alongside him. Peter and Bernie, again wearing their dress-code ties, were at attention in front of the Marianist priest who brooked no excuses for fighting.

Peter hesitated.

Peter?

Yes, Father, but---

No buts. The principal looked at him sternly.

After Bernie kicked me while I was drying myself on the bench, yes, I started it, Peter said very quickly because he knew that Father Bumbry disliked excuses.

Much to Peter's surprise, the priest turned to Bernie.

That's a lie, Father. You can ask Slobo and Kenny. We were just playing around. Sure, I shoved him a little bit, you know. It happens all the time. I mean all the guys horse around after gym. I didn't kick him. Ask the others.

Peter?

The others are his friends, Peter answered with an icy disdain that surprised the priest.

Am I to conclude then that you threw the first punch?

Peter glanced at Bernie, locked eyes with him. And Bernie saw, not just that Peter Skrak detested him, but also that at that moment Peter Skrak, deep down, was not afraid of him.

Yes, Father.

Father Bumbry sat ramrod straight in his chair, his elbows resting on the desk as he laced his fingers together. The few endless seconds of silence were maddening for both boys, more for the one who had had to admit that he had thrown the first punch.

"I want both of you to go to confession as soon as possible. You need to make an examination of conscience. Bernie, I am going to assume that you fought in self-defense. However, I believe you went beyond defending yourself and took advantage of your size and strength. You will help Brother Rawls for three afternoons in the biology lab. Go up to see him to make arrangements.

You both may leave. But Peter you wait outside the door. Father Bumbry made a phone call to Brother Rawls as the boys were leaving.

Out in the hallway, Bernie turned to Peter. Like I said before, asshole, we ain't finished.

Peter was quiet for a moment, then replied, No, I guess we're not.

Up yours. With a smirk on his face Bernie Mason headed up to the third floor, to the biology lab.

"W hat do you make of it?" Father Bumbry asked Brother Schoenfeld.

Well, Bernie always seems to be needling him. There has to be a reason. I wish I could get to the bottom of it. Peter is right about one thing, though. Slobodan Zornada and Kenneth Wyznewski are Bernie's friends and would, I believe, lie for him.

However, Peter admitted that he started the fight.

He told the truth about throwing the first punch, but I'm not at all certain that he started the fight.

Father Bumbry sighed. All right, send Peter in here. When Peter Skrak again stood before him the principal, not unkindly, spoke. You know full well, Peter, what the rules are regarding fighting. The shove, if indeed shove it was, was not cause for street behavior. Study detention for one week, from three-fifteen until four-forty-five..

Father, I have---

That will be all, Peter.

Brother Schoenfeld, who had been silent, put his arm around Peter's shoulder and led him to the door. Outside in the hallway, he said, I know the others would stick up for Bernie, but you did the right thing. You told the truth and stood up like a man.

Peter stared at him, and the frustration that had driven him to lash out at Bernie Mason now turned into desperation. A look of panic on his bruised face, he stopped and grasped the knob of the door to the principal's office. He took a deep breath and entered.

Father, please. I have to talk to you.

Father Bumbry heard the emotion in Peter's voice. He was a disciplinarian, but not unreasonable, nor without feeling. He scrutinized Peter's face---the bruised cheek, the bandaged chin, and the swollen lower lip, and beheld an eighteen-year-old who studied and worked hard, a boy who was the butt of much teasing, and a boy who had been unable to gain much confidence in himself in the four years that the principal had known him.

Sit down, Peter. What is it?

Before answering, Peter took another deep breath.

Father, I'll lose my after-school job at Foodtown. The manager's going to let me work from three-thirty to six-thirty every day, later on Fridays, now that it's spring. I can't lose my job. How would I explain it to my parents? I told the truth about what happened in the locker room, but I guess it's my word against the word of the other three.

Keeping his eyes fixed on Peter's, Father Bumbry asked, Do you work Saturdays, too?

Yes, Father.

The priest---pensive and silent---observed him intently, as if he were gazing through a bell jar that covered Peter Skrak's conscience. He stood up and stepped over to his office window. It was an ingrained habit in him to contemplate Lake Erie whenever he had to make a decision. As he looked out at the expanse, whitecaps and waves were washing in, and the far off horizon seemed like a plumb line that had been snapped over the bluish green water. As he turned around he tugged slightly at his clerical collar and then clasped his hands behind his back.

All right, you be here an hour and a half early every morning next week.

Peter was so grateful that tears nearly started in his eyes. Then it occurred to him.

Where? Homeroom doesn't begin until eight o'clock.

Here, in my office, at six-thirty.

You're here that early?

I'm at my desk at six.

Thanks, Father, thank you very much.

You'll have to tell your parents.

Yes, Father.

After a quick visit to the nurse's station for her to examine the butterfly, Peter went up to his hallway locker to leave his knit tie and take his jacket. No sooner had he spun the combination lock than Didy Malone exited the library, calling out, Wait up, Pete.

As Didy told it, his mother had liked the name Thomas but there were already too many Thomases in their family and so she had hit upon the biblical Didymus, and to his friends he was Did or Didy. Tall, red-haired, broad-shouldered, solidly built, and with a face full of freckles, Didy turned many an Irish girl's eye, and had indeed turned those of one in particular, for in the fall of his junior year, at the age of seventeen, Didymus Malone had fathered a baby girl by a comely student at Villa Angela Academy. For this fact alone Didy was famous and held in awe by many of his classmates at the all-boys Saint Joseph High. He and Peter had become good friends when Peter helped him get through second-year Latin.

Jesus H! he exclaimed on seeing Peter's face. What happened to you? But wait, let me dump these books so we can get the hell out of here. I'm dying for a smoke.

Out in the parking lot, Didy glanced around and lit up.

You want one?

I doubt I could hold it between my lips. You know, if Father Bumbry sees you, you're in for it.

Not to worry, Pete, my boy. His office faces the lake not the parking lot.

There's Brother Jenkins at the shop.

He and I are buds. Who do you think supplies him with the occasional cigarette? Yours truly. They reached Didy's '52 Nash Healy convertible and got in. Okay. Tell me what happened.

When Peter finished recounting the fight, Didy slammed the palm of his hand on the steering wheel. You musta snapped, Pete. Brainy Bernie is so much bigger and heavier than you. But I can understand why you're sick and tired of that P. S. routine of his. Jesus H. I wish I'da been there. I mean I know you had to deal with him, but I coulda kept those other two fuckers from egging him on. You remember I tangled with Slobo the Slob. He won't mess with me again. He gently touched Peter's jaw and turned his face to one side. "So our star athlete and star dum-dum said it's not over, huh? We'll see about that. To think that he is actually going to graduate with us. Must be because old man Mason has made a couple of what you might call 'hefty donations' to our Marianist brethren. The word I hear is that he's offered to put in the new track since our boy also lettered in track---to put it in, that is, after his diploma is in hand. You know. Mason Excavating & Paving?"

Where do you come by this information?

I have me sources, Peter, me lad. Come on, I'll give you a lift to Foodtown before I head for Ashtabula.

Thanks anyway, but I need the air. Ashtabula?

Her parents don't have a clue---and keep this to yourself, because only two of Deirdre's girlfriends know about this---but Deirdre and I get along famously with her aunt and I see our little Clare on the weekends that Deirdre's parents aren't out there oohing and aahing over my daughter. After all the grief her mother put her through, and me too, when they found out about the pregnancy. You should see her, Pete. I mean, is there a cuter baby in the world? Anyway, I'll be coming back real late tonight. Are you going to be in any shape to go to the Beach tomorrow?

Yeah, it's my face and my gut that hurt, not my feet. I wouldn't miss it.

Right. See you there.

Sure you don't want a ride?

I'm sure. Besides, I'm going to get more ice from Nurse Ingalls.

And I'm going to Steve's Sohio to fill up and head out.

T here was a stiff breeze coming off Lake Erie as Peter left the school parking lot and started walking the familiar route to Foodtown. He had had the job since Thanksgiving, setting up stock and bagging groceries. The girls at the cash register asked him what happened; the manager, Mr. Eisen, asked him, which gave Peter a chance to explain why he was arriving late; and Danny Savage and Kevin Hamilton, who punched in a few minutes after he did, also asked. The store, typical of a late Friday afternoon, had filled with shoppers and the aisles were clogged with women loading carts. Peter put on his apron and brought up stock to refill depleted shelves with canned goods, but a half hour before closing time he and Kevin were called to the back registers to bag because the cashiers couldn't handle all the work. Peter had to endure a great deal of good-natured jesting by customers, especially the women shoppers, many of whom knew him and liked him for his courtesy and willingness to cart groceries to their cars without hinting that he should be tipped.

The pain in Peter's midriff was receding, and the swelling in his lip had been kept down by the second ice pack that the school nurse had given him to hold on his chin and lip on the way to work, but his jaw still hurt like the devil. When the store closed, Peter went down to the basement to scrape the chopping blocks in the refrigerated meat cutting room. Using a stiff wire brush, he cleaned the surfaces and raised the grain of the wood. He swept the bits of scrap that collected on the floor with the saw dust that he spread around to soak up blood and pieces of offal and fat.

A little after seven he went outside to bring in all the carts that had been left in the parking lot and on the sidewalk. He had lined up close to fifteen of them, but as he began to push, the first two came loose, rolling toward the street. He was able to brake the others and run after them. One of the carts rolled all the way to Mohawk Avenue, coming to a stop across from the Lucky Strike Bowling Alley. He found it at the curb, behind a car that every boy at Saint Joe's would have recognized---a black, two-door '54 Mercury hardtop, with customized skirts, whitewalls, and spinners that every boy also knew had been lifted from a '51 Ford. Bernie Mason's father had bought it for him, new, and Bernie did all his own work on it. Nobody else touched it, not even for an oil change; he even gave his best friends hell if they closed the door too hard.

Peter was breathing hard, his hands on the handle of the cart. He had heard that Bernie was a good bowler. He looked around. Nobody was walking in the area, no cars were coming. He slammed the cart against the door---driver's side, so that Bernie would have to see it every time he got in his car---and sank the metal rim into the paint and scraped it all the way to the hinge. The gouge was three-quarters of an inch wide. Again Peter looked around; still nobody in the area. Back in the parking lot he examined the cart. Black paint was embedded in the rim. He scraped it off with a stone, placed the cart in the middle of the string, and pushed them all to the rear of Foodtown.

It was Danny's and Kevin's turn to work late that Friday night to stock the store for the Saturday rush. Peter said goodnight to Mr. Eisen and punched out at seven-forty-five. At the pay phone he made a call to Steve's Sohio gas station to set a time to get together with his best friend, Ed Vicic, but Ed was pumping gas and he had to leave a message. Peter was so tired that he wished he had the Studebaker with him, but he never drove it to school; he could have called Sophie, but he decided to walk home.

T he Skraks were one of a handful of Slovak families that lived in an ethnic enclave on Cleveland's northeast side that was dominated by Slovenians, Croatians, Italians, and Irish. The Slovenians looked down on the Slovaks while the Italians looked down on the Slovenians and the Croatians, and the Irish---with Saint Patrick paraded as the captain of the Church triumphant--- tended to dismiss anybody or anything that smacked of Central or Eastern Europe. It was the kind of neighborhood where who you were or what you did mattered less than what you were: your nationality. But on Sundays they were all the children of God, because Monsignor Armona, the pastor of Saint Jerome's, told them they were.

He told all of them, that is, except Peter's father, who had stopped going to Mass many years ago. Shortly after his marriage, Joe Skrak's impatience with the Church had caused him to wash his hands of it, much to his wife Agnes's regret. All the Skrak children---Peter's older brothers Ray and Martin, his sister Sophie, and his younger brother Donnie---had had their father's discontent drummed into them, so when Peter walked into the house and Sophie exclaimed, My God, Pete, what happened to you?, Joe and Agnes heard that it was a fight at school, at the Catholic high school where tuition had to be paid. One hundred and twenty-five dollars a year!

See that? Joe exploded. That's your good Catholic school. Turning his son's head to one side to get a better look, he went on. Goddamnit, I've been saying it for years. For this we send him to a Catholic school. Like that smart-aleck priest said, it's the road to salvation. He'd've been better off going to Collinwood High School. It was good enough for Ray, Martin, and Sophie.

Joe, Agnes said while reaching inside the freezer compartment for ice cubes, there are fights at Collinwood, too. More of them maybe, and maybe a lot worse.

Mom, I don't think the ice cubes are going to help that much now.

Give him something to eat, Agnes, if he can eat. Joe sat on a kitchen stool. How'd it go at work today, son?

Okay, Dad. Peter set the ice cubes in the sink. I talked to Mr. Eisen and he's going to let me leave at four on Saturdays until school's over. This way I can also work at the Beach again.

That's damn nice of him. By the way, that kid's name again. Mason?

Yeah, Bernie Mason. A conceited jock.

I know of a Mason Excavating & Paving out of South Euclid.

That's the one. His father.

It is, huh? Joe rubbed his chin, quiet for a moment, as though elsewhere in thought. Then he asked, The Beach again? What about working with Ray?

That's not going to happen until maybe the end of June. And I still have to decide about college.

I thought you were accepted at Kent State, said Joe.

I was. I mean, I am. What I have to decide, and soon, is should I go.

You should go, said Sophie.

I'll fix you a cheese omelette, Agnes said to Peter.

Give him some ham, too. The boy's been working.

Joe, today is Friday.

Joe Skrak shook his head in disgust and went off to the living room to resume reading his paper. When the phone rang, Peter picked up, listened for the better part of two minutes, and said, Okay. See you then.

That was Ed, he told them.

Peter sat down at the big oak kitchen table. He watched his mother crack eggs into a bowl and whip them. Sophie grated cheese, put two slices of bread in the toaster, and went upstairs to finish dressing. After the butter began to sizzle, Agnes Skrak poured the egg mix into a skillet. According to Ed Vicic, in face and movement she was the very picture of Greer Garson, a handsome woman at the age of fifty-three who did not look her age despite bearing six children and suffering two miscarriages.

A warm, sensitive, and deeply religious person, she loved her children more than she loved herself, and at the mention of her children, she would often be overcome by melancholy, and the rest of the family knew that she was thinking about Walt, her oldest, who had been killed on Iwo Jima in World War II. Peter often studied her movements in the kitchen. It seemed to him that his mother was always wearing an apron, as if it were a uniform. And in an odd way, it also seemed to him that her Catholicism was a uniform of sorts, official and always on display. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that his mother fervently hoped and prayed that he would continue to be a practicing Catholic. It was not lost on Peter that Ray---and Martin, who lived in San Francisco---had already given it up, following their father's example, and that Sophie only went through the motions to keep peace. That left him, because Donnie had yet to develop any true understanding of religion, let alone faith.

Peter's mother served him the omelette and toast and sat down across from him. Handing him the pepper, she said, Son, I want---

At that very moment she was interrupted by Sophie's return, but Peter already knew. It was going to be a lecture about something whenever she began with Son, I want . . . Could Father Bumbry have phoned his parents? No. The priest knew that Peter would tell them. Was it the pair of shorts? Had she noticed the dried, colorless spots, the stiff feel before dropping them into the washing machine?

Wow, Soph. You look great! She indeed did look pretty, every bit as pretty as Donna Reed, another example of Ed Vicic's penchant for identifying women with famous actresses. In fact, Ed, who treated Sophie like a big sister, often called her Donna, and Sophie, who thought the world of Ed, would---with a smile on her face---call him Robert Stack.

Agnes hesitated a moment, then asked, Sophie, dear, doesn't the sweater call too much attention to your . . . bust?

Oh, Mom, if it were up to you, I'd have to hide them. Her daughter disarmed her with a smile and a hug.

Drinking his milk in one swallow, Peter asked his sister, Is it Nick again tonight?

Yes, nosy. It's--- She turned to her mother. Mom, will you do the two top buttons in the back? She crouched so Agnes could reach. It's Nick.

The one you met at Fenn College?

Yes.

"It's been pretty steady for several months now. But he is a nice guy."

I think so, too. Let me see. She turned Peter's head to examine his lip and chin. I hope that kid gets his some day. Peter kept silent. You said it was Mason again?

Yeah. Peter leaned to his right and still couldn't see into the living room. Has Dad dozed off yet?

Sophie checked. Yes. What don't you want him to hear?

Peter and Sophie knew what would draw an angry response from their father, so they frequently confided first to their mother and let her filter to him, in her soft-spoken manner, what she thought he should know. Peter explained the circumstances of his study detention. No sooner did he finish than a car pulled into the driveway and Sophie put a shawl around her shoulders and left. It was a little after nine.

Peter went to the refrigerator to look for something else to eat. He washed a tomato and bit into it.

Ow! he exclaimed.

Oh, Peter. It's the acid. Oh, dear. I'm sorry. It went right into the cut on your lip. Agnes took the tomato and sliced away the section her son had bitten into. I'll use the rest in tomorrow's soup.

Peter sat down on the steps that led upstairs. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

I thought you were going to quit.

Oh, Mom. He looked away; he wanted to go away. The two choices regarding the lecture had narrowed. Father Bumbry hadn't called.

Son, I want you to go to confession. She was leaning against the sink, her arms folded across a bosom that was even more full than her daughter's, only considerably less accentuated.

Confession. Confession. Twice today, confession. Peter stared at her.

I found the pictures, Peter. The dirty pictures.

The pictures! He thought she had spotted the shorts. My God! How did she find the pictures?

I'm disappointed, Peter. That you had such filth. That you brought it into the house. It must have been a sick person who gave them to you. The unthinkable things those people were doing. I didn't tell your father. I just threw them out. You have to go to confession, son.

Agnes spoke these last words sympathetically, as if she were helping him heal the cut on his lip.

Mom, will you---

No, I won't. I don't want to know anything about them, and I don't ever want to see anything else like that again. You know that I never go around looking into your rooms, but this morning after I ironed your shorts and tee shirts, I emptied your drawer to see which ones were wearing out. There was a bulge under the liner, so I looked. Now. Not another word. It's a sin of the worst kind, Peter, and I want you to go to confession tomorrow. The sympathy that had been in her voice had changed into a sternness that seemed directed beyond Peter himself.

Mom, I'll be at the store from seven forty-five until four. Afterward I'll need to take a bath, and then I have to be at the Beach between six-thirty and seven.

You make time after supper and before you go to the Beach, or you don't go to the Beach.

It was a prohibition that his mother had never made before. Peter was stunned.

I won't have time for supper. A lot of people go to confession on Saturday. I'll get something to eat at Crosby's.

Agnes did not respond. Stubbing the Pall Mall out on a Skrak Hardwood Floors ashtray, a subdued Peter said,I'm going up to take a bath. Where's Donnie?

Next door, playing with Philip.

There wasn't a room in the house that was as neat as Peter's, not even Sophie's. He always made his own bed, always kept his desk uncluttered, and whenever the ash tray had three cigarette butts in it, he always emptied it into the wet garbage below the kitchen sink and wiped it clean. So his routine of undressing fitted into the pattern of orderliness in his room: coat on a hangar, trees in his shoes, and a wood hanger for the trousers, at the cuff. He took his shirt, socks, and underwear and walked, naked, into Donnie's room and dropped the soiled clothing down the clothes chute.

The bathroom, recently enlarged and renovated by Joe and his brother Ray, and painted by Peter, featured four additions that Sophie had long importuned her father to include: double sinks, a storage closet, an outflow fan, and a full-length mirror. Peter paused to look at himself in the mirror. At five-ten and half he was, except for Donnie, the shortest of the Skrak boys. Slight of build, with no more than one hundred forty-eight or one hundred fifty pounds on his frame, anyone could see why Didy Malone was surprised that Peter had taken on Bernie Mason. With close-set blue eyes covered by glasses that gave him a slightly owlish appearance, with Joe's round face and Agnes's light brown hair, Peter had one feature that he had inherited from no one and that made him self-conscious to an extreme---overlarge ears. They were nowhere near as large as those of Walt Disney's Dumbo, as he sometimes claimed, but they did stick out. Peter, though, had taken a bold step suggested by Sophie. Going against the tide of fully eighty percent of the boys at Saint Joseph High, he was no longer sporting the ubiquitous crew cut, but was letting his hair grow in so that less attention would be called to his ears. The growth pleased him. He even half smiled at himself, despite his lip.

Peter hadn't been in the tub two or three minutes when he heard a door slam downstairs followed by a rapid climb up the stairs. A quick knock and Donnie came in, saying, I gotta take a leak.

He was in such a hurry that he didn't look at his brother until he had finished urinating.

Holy cow, Pete! What happened?

For the third time Peter recounted the locker room fight, repeating the expletives that he had omitted when relating the details to his parents and sister.

I hope you get back at that prick! Although he had just turned twelve, Donnie liked to use grown-up language with Peter.

Close the door. You're in trouble if Mom hears you talking like that.

She doesn't care. Dad cusses all the time.

I'm telling you. Don't let her hear you saying 'prick.' It really upsets her. I know. He sank down in the tub, only his head above the water. What are you going to do now?

Nothin.' Mom says I gotta get ready for bed. Shit and double shit. He left only to return within a minute. When are you going to take me to a game to see the Indians play? Remember, you said you would.

The next time the Yankees are in town. So you can see Mickey Mantle.

Donnie, have you undressed yet? It was their mother.

Almost, Mom, he answered on the way to his room.

I t was close to ten o'clock when Peter put on a clean pair of Levi's. While removing socks from the bureau, he paused to glance at the family picture taken the previous summer to celebrate his parents' thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.

Joe Skrak had been twenty-one and Agnes Hossa seventeen when they married. Peter still found it difficult to fathom what it meant to be married at that age. He himself was going to be nineteen in one month. Peter's father had his arm around his mother's waist. Agnes was wearing a sky blue satin dress and matching heels; around her neck was the string of pearls that her husband had given her as an anniversary present, the first one since their twenty-fifth. Joe, in his rented tuxedo, was natty and smiling. In contrast to his wife's high cheeks and softness of expression, his face was round and the confidence and self-assurance that shone in his eyes bespoke cunning. On his right were Ray, who last summer had finished his apprenticeship as a cabinetmaker and had started his own business, and Debbie, who, more than a daughter-in-law, was like a second daughter to the Skraks. They were a study in contrast. Ray, at six-three, some one hundred ninety pounds, broad-chested, with brown eyes, and brows so dark brown and bushy that they looked like caterpillars, in a double-breasted suit, and Debbie, a striking blonde, with eyes as green as translucent jade, five-six in heels, and wearing a tan and white polka dot dress with a sweetheart neckline, her smile as wide as Ray's. Martin, the tallest in the family at six-four, was at Debbie's right; slender, like Peter, with a narrower face than Joe's, blue eyes that danced with merriment, and a jutting jaw, he wore a single-breasted suit with a crisp Windsor knot in his tie. He had flown from San Francisco to surprise their parents. Sophie stood on Agnes's left; a brunette with long, lustrous hair, a petite nose, and the same high cheeks as her mother, she was in heels, a high-belted yellow dress with a generous décolletage, and had a thin gold chain around her neck with a peridot pendant, her smile relaxed, unforced. Sophie had her left arm around Peter, who looked excessively stiff and solemn in his summer-weight slacks and sport coat, the knot of his tie the Windsor that Martin had taught him, and still in a crew cut, and ears still prominent. Peter in turn had his left arm around Donnie, who was in a short-sleeved white dress shirt and a blue rep tie, looking happy like his sister, not self-conscious like Peter.

Peter pushed the frame with his finger to change the angle. He sighed. Mom sure doesn't tell Dad to go to confession And she doesn't tell Martin or Ray or Soph, but she tells me. Why doesn't she lecture them? Is it because I'm only eighteen? And just because she's my mother she can tell me I have to go to confession?

P eter was descending the stairs when he heard Ed Vicic saying, Hi, Mr. S.

Hello, Ed. Come on in.

Let me do a better job of wiping my shoes.

How's Steve treating you?

He's keeping us busy, that's for sure. I've changed the oil and filter on your Conestoga and brought it back. Here's the key. I figured Pete could give me a ride over to the station where I left my Chevy. Oh, and Mr. Willis put it on your bill.

Thanks a lot, Ed. I appreciate it.

Any time. My pleasure, really.

The entire Skrak family liked Ed Vicic, Peter's best friend ever since the seventh grade at Saint Jerome's parish school. He was hard-working, pleasant, and came from a good Catholic family. He had had a tough time of it after his father died. It was all that Helen Vicic could do to find a job, and in the end it was Joe Skrak who had recommended her for the one that she still held. She had managed to keep Ed and his sister, Donna, in the parish school, and Ed had been working after classes at Saint Joseph High ever since the beginning of sophomore year, taking whatever burdens he could off his mother. At six feet, he stood an inch or so taller than Peter, and was fuller in the chest. And Sophie was right, turning Ed's Hollywood tables on him; he did have curly hair like Bob Stack and the same winsome smile. Ed was also blessed with an easy sense of humor, personality the girls called it; and he was, like Stack, a good-looking devil, a doll in the opinion of some of the same girls.

Where are you two going? It's nearly ten-thirty.

To Manner's to get a couple of milkshakes and then Pete'll take me to the station to get my car.

Just remember that it's Friday and that both of you boys have to get up early in the morning to go to work.

Yes, Mom. Peter sounded impatient.

Okay, Mrs. S.

T he Skraks were a Studebaker family because a cousin of Agnes's, and Sophie's godfather, owned Lake Shore Studebaker at East 260 Street and Lake Shore Boulevard, and he sold them automobiles at his cost. Joe was on his second, a '54 Conestoga station wagon; Ray owned a '53 Champion; Sophie had only two months ago bought herself a two-tone white and gold '56 Golden Hawk because Uncle Lou, as she called him, was letting her pay his cost in monthly installments without interest; and Peter was the proud custodian of a '54 Commander Starliner V8 hardtop, two-tone green, dark top, light bottom.

Custodian because the Commander belonged to Martin, who had left it in Peter's charge when he returned to San Francisco, or rather to Sonoma. Lucky enough to have been put in a typists' pool in Sasebo, Japan, during the Korean War, Martin had made a very good friend from San Rafael, California, and had bought---with money borrowed from his parents---a one-third interest in a mustard-making venture with him and another Korean War vet from Sonoma.

Didy came in to fill up and told me what happened, Ed said as Peter backed the Commander Starliner out of the garage. And he wasn't the only one to come to the station today. All kinds of people did. I saw Jane Russell this afternoon, and she asked me to tell you that she's looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. And our boy Bernie showed up about an hour ago.

Peter smiled. Really? Jane Russell?

A t the back of Manner's lot, behind the restaurant, traffic noise from Lake Shore Boulevard was a faint hum. Empty shakes sat on the tray outside the window on the driver's side.

I don't know why it got to me more than other times. It just incensed me, you know? I didn't think. I reacted. Not a smart thing to do.

On the other hand, maybe it was. It puts him on notice. The fat lip will go away. I think it was a brave thing to do, Pete. Do you remember telling me a while back that you wondered if you were afraid of him? Well, you can put that notion to rest.

Maybe. Silent for a few seconds, Peter added, I will say, though, that all things considered, Father Bumbry was pretty decent about it. But he was in a bind of his own making because, after all, I did throw the first punch. On the other hand, I think he believes, or suspects, what he couldn't say to me---that Bernie was lying about kicking me.

"Didy told me something this afternoon that's a real hoot. Georgie Kozar hates Bernie's ass with a vengeance, and he's heard about this P. S. nonsense, so he's thinking of taping a big sign to our boy's locker: B. M.= Bowel Movement."

Peter chuckled. "I'm laughing, but that is definitely not a good idea. Taped to the locker? For the whole school to see? He'd pin it on me for sure. We have to tell him to forget that idea."

Now. Even bigger news. Bernie came into the station for gas and his Mercury has a---

---and his Mercury has a scratch, a gouge, nearly an inch wide, that runs from the door handle on the driver's side to the hinge at the fender. I know. I put it there.

You put it there? asked an astonished Ed.

Peter related to him how he had rammed the door with the shopping cart.

Ed shook his head in wonder, and then broke into a wide grin. As Didy would say, 'Jesus H!'

I wanted him to hurt, I wanted him to feel helpless to fix something on the spot.

You accomplished that. He was screaming bloody murder. 'I catch the miserable fucker that did this, I'm gonna skin his ass alive and cut his nuts off.' That and a few other choice pronouncements. True to form, like the lap dog he is, Slobo was there adding his two cents in similarly refined language. Sometimes I think it's a sin, figuratively speaking, to be in their company.

Speaking of sin. You remember those pictures, where there are two couples doing sixty-nine?

How could I forget?

Mom found them and threw them out. I was a fool for keeping them in the house. I should have locked them here in the Commander's trunk. Anyway, how was I going to tell her that Ray gave them to me? I couldn't do that. So, like Father Bumbry, she too tells me that I have to go to confession. She says to me, no confession, no Beach. Can you believe that?

Wow. That's putting it on the line.

One other thing. This will amuse you. She said she didn't tell my dad. You know why, don't you?

Sure. If I know him, he would've wanted to see them himself.

Exactly.

More news. Denny Cowens came in for gas and you'll never guess who was with him.

Peter lit another Pall Mall. Denny had gone to grade school with them and also attended Saint Joe's. I couldn't begin to guess. He can get just about any girl he wants by flashing that dimple smile of his.

You won't believe this one. Ed paused and shifted on the bench seat to face Peter directly. Our Collinwood High cheerleader, Miss Laurie Bilandic.

Peter opened his eyes wide. From what I saw of her at the rink last year she's too nice to hook up with him. And drop-dead gorgeous. You're pulling my leg.

No, I'm not. And she is indeed nice, not at all stuck up, as some guys have said. She's come into the station a couple of times with her mother for gas. I think she got a bum rap from some of those assholes who wanted to get into her pants and struck out.

I'll bet you're right. When they bad-mouth girls like Laurie it means they didn't get anywhere.

I've been thinking about asking her out myself. A big grin spread across his face. Why don't you ask Felicia and we'll double.

Peter slouched back on the seat and heaved a sigh. I don't know. You honestly think she'd go out with me?

Of course. Why wouldn't she? Come on. I'll ask Laurie for next Friday and you ask Felicia. What do you say?

Peter wavered.

Look. If she's busy or says no, then you'll ask someone else. Laurie may say no, or be busy. We're not going to know if we don't ask.

Let me think about it. I'm sure I'll see her tomorrow, too. He paused. I've also gotta think about something else. You've known for a long time that you want to study pre-law at John Carroll. But me . . . I wouldn't know what to study at Kent State. I mean, I've done pretty well in our College Prep program, but no field of study excites me. Sophie tells me that isn't important. She keeps saying that exposure to different disciplines, different horizons, different pursuits will open new worlds to me. But, Ed, you know that with my dad's flooring business I've been around wood and woodworking practically from the time I started to walk. And now that I've been helping Ray and learning how to use all kinds of woodworking tools, I like it. It gives me a real sense of satisfaction to see a piece of walnut turn into a table leg, to rabbet and glue two pieces of wormy chestnut and turn them into a cabinet door. And, boy, does Ray ever know his stuff. You should see the beautiful oak fireplace mantel he did at one of those old brick houses on East 222 Street. Peter sighed. Anyway, I have to decide pretty soon. But let's go. We both have to work tomorrow.

T ogether with Ed, Peter had been an altar boy for two years at Saint Jerome's and he still remembered when the old church had been jacked up and moved to the playground while the new, and present, church was being constructed. And he associated much of his confusion and torment with Saint Jerome's. He sat still for a moment, both hands on the steering wheel of the Commander, staring straight ahead, pondering what to say. Then he sighed and stepped out. No sooner did he lock the car than he heard a very familiar voice.

Why, Peter Andrew Skrak! How nice to see you.

It was Sister Agatha, his eighth grade teacher, coming out of the side entrance of the parish school and heading toward the convent.

In her late sixties, but still lively and energetic, Sister Agatha was the nun that Peter respected the most because she was religious and human, not sanctimonious and forbidding. Looking down at her---she was that short---he saw the same wrinkled face, her ears and the temples of her wire-rimmed glasses hidden by the starched white wimple that encased her forehead and spread out