No Lifeguard on Duty

By Paul C. Bomba

In the summer of 1970, racial unrest in Asbury Park sends three teenage friends into turmoil.

 

It's July of 1970. The decaying beach town of Asbury Park, New Jersey erupts with racial unrest that propels three unlikely teenage friends into turmoil. Adam, Mollie, and Howard struggle with family conflicts and their racial, cultural and class identities in the midst of the chaos. Town and teens will never be the same.

 

When the smoke clears, secrets that brought the trio to this fateful time and place are revealed and continue to intertwine their lives in the years to come. The boardwalk and beaches become the setting for personal revelations, encounters with the dark side of human nature, and brushes with the supernatural.

    

No Lifeguard on Duty will stir a range of emotions and its nuanced treatment of race and class is as relevant today as it was in 1970. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bumper Car Books
• Release date: Jul 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988113416

Book preview

Summer 1970

The Riots

Saturday night, July 4, into the early hours of Sunday, July 5

The Tides They Are A-changin’

An hour after Adam and Mollie surrendered their virginity to each other, they were asleep on the sand in the shadow of Convention Hall. As the tide came in, the sound of breaking waves grew louder but didn’t wake them. It became part of their dreams of summer afternoons on the beach filled with bodysurfing, laughter, and embraces in the water. When sirens in the distance crept into those dreams and couldn’t be reconciled, the young couple slept on, but with an uneasiness that would come again in their wakeful hours and stay with them for days.

This was the first summer after a breakwater was built in front of The Hall to save the concrete pilings that supported its east wing above the beach and ocean. At low tides in years past, you could walk upright under the building in shallow surf, or stoop and plod up the slope of the beach to dry sand. At higher tides, when waves crashed into the columns and engulfed more of the beach, you could still claim a dry spot to sit if you crouched and went farther up the slope. Locals called the area under The Hall’s east wing The Den. Young people, some of them too young, went there at night to experiment with beer, wine, weed, and sex.

The breakwater stopped damage to the pilings, but the beach under The Hall was built up so much that less of The Den had enough headroom for the usual activities. Denizens adapted by expanding The Den east, spilling out onto the new beach between The Hall and the breakwater. They enjoyed drinking, smoking, and talking out there with the added benefit that it smelled less of stale beer and urine. Couples who wanted privacy but found all the space under the building occupied wandered out to the breakwater to find a concealed spot among the boulders at its base. The three-story brick walls of The Hall blocked lights from the boardwalk and sight lines of curious strollers, and its long shadow extended over the entire beach.

Adam and Mollie were fourteen and fifteen in July 1970, a few weeks into the sixth season of a summertime friendship they renewed annually. For both, it was the first summer of venturing into The Den. They arrived there together but came from different places. He was a townie, a year-round resident. His family moved to Asbury Park from out of state, and he met Mollie the first summer he lived in the resort town. She was a bennie. Bennies were tourists, seasonal visitors from northern New Jersey, or in Mollie’s case, New York City. Her family spent parts of most summers here, a tradition that began with her father’s father.

Mollie crossed over from dreams to the present and felt the weight of Adam’s leg and arm across her body. She heard waves breaking yards away behind the breakwater and Adam’s deep, slow breathing inches from her ear. She remembered the last few hours and tried to separate real events from her dreams.

She came to The Den with Adam as she had many nights in recent weeks. They drank beer and talked about things they loved about the Beach Life they enjoyed every summer. They pressed together and turned against the breeze, the ocean spray, and the adult world. She thought of the kissing and petting that began in the last few days. She saw herself pushing at Adam’s shorts, inviting him and pulling him on top of her. She saw this from a point of view outside herself, as if she were watching a movie. She was somewhere between wakefulness and another dream when she thought to herself, Why did I do this? Then she saw herself do it again, but from her own point of view, as if through her own eyes as it was happening.

Adam’s dreams shifted from beach scenes as sirens in the real world grew more frequent and reached him during pauses between crashing waves. In his dream, Mollie pulled him on top of her, and he made love to her again. Then he felt himself floating away from the beach, and he was in his house. The police came and told his father that Adam molested a girl; she lodged a complaint, and they had to take him in. His mother looked on wide-eyed with her hands pressed to her chest. Adam tried to explain that they had been making out and the girl pulled him on top of her. He and his mother began crying as the cops cuffed him and led him away. He looked back to see his father on the porch steps, taking a drag on his cigarette. Then he felt a torrential rain fall on him, and the police vanished.

Adam and Mollie began the night in The Den tucked under the edge of The Hall, sipping beer and listening to the thumping beat of the rock concert in the building above. When several couples crowded in around them, they went off and set out their blanket in a dark spot next to the breakwater. They enjoyed the sound of waves on the other side and a light spray that drifted over the top. When they fell asleep, they didn’t notice as the waves got louder and the spray got wetter, until a wave hit the wall so hard, it flew over the rocks and showered down on them.

Holy shit! What the hell?

There were squeals that turned to laughter, then a scramble as Adam, Mollie, and others nearby collected belongings and pulled on articles of clothing. Just as things calmed down, another big wave hit the wall. Adam had a surge of panic as he knelt and groped in the wet sand for his glasses. Mollie touched him on the shoulder and extended her hand.

Here. Let’s go.

Adam felt for her hand, took his glasses, and shoved them on his face as they ran out of the shadows of The Hall. They slowed to a walk where dim, misty light fell on the beach from the lamps and concessions on the boardwalk. Adam looked behind him and saw older, unfamiliar faces of others who were flushed out by the high tide. He spotted his friend Howard at the corner of The Hall, speaking to a figure in the shadows. Howard turned and ran toward Adam and Mollie until he caught them as they trudged through the sand with their wet things.

Hey, suckers. Isn’t that some shit?

He cracked a smile. Adam smiled back, and Mollie laughed out loud.

Despite his smile, Adam was anxious. It was late; he had an armload of wet stuff, and he was rehearsing in his head what he would say to his parents. Beneath the glow from what had transpired with Mollie, he felt the familiar flutters of worry rising.

So, my people, what brings you to The Den tonight?

Molly rushed to answer.

A little beer and free music.

Music had been part of Asbury’s scene since the town was founded, and in the 1960s and ’70s, big-name rock bands and pop music acts played in Convention Hall. On concert nights, you could sit in The Den to hear and feel the music from the stage above. You could make out the vibration of the bass, rumble of the drums, and general rhythms, but the experience wasn’t high fidelity.

Uh-huh. What about you, Ace? You a Ten Years After fan?

Howard was referring to the act that played that night.

I like ’em alright.

Howard climbed the stairs to the boardwalk, stopped, and spoke over his shoulder.

We better get movin’.

As the other two teens joined him, Howard nodded toward a police cruiser that eased to the curb on Ocean Avenue. The squawk of its radio cut through an unusually quiet night on The Circuit. Normally, there would be a mass of cars heading north before turning left on Seventh Avenue, then left again to go south on Kingsley Street toward The Palace Amusements and The Casino at the other end of town. Several cops would cruise among them, looking for open beer cans and underage drinkers. They would turn on the spinning red light and whoop the siren to pull over anyone who got too frisky when they pulled away from a stoplight. At the moment, there were only a few cars making the loop and just this one cop parked at the curb. Suddenly, the red light went on, and the siren sounded. The cruiser cut left across traffic and accelerated west with its siren blaring over and over, then fading away.

I don’t like this. Somethin’s goin’ down on the West Side. The cops have been doin’ like that for a couple hours. They’re not cruisin’ The Circuit as much. It’s like they check in over here, then take off like that, always headed west.

Howard was right, and the others remembered the sirens they heard before. He repeated his earlier words.

We better get movin’.

Without a word, the three of them wrung out their towels and the blanket as best they could. Barefoot and silent, they went down the walkway from the boardwalk to the street. They crossed Ocean Avenue and headed away from the beachfront, passing on their right a big brick hotel, the once-elegant Berkeley Carteret.

They walked on Sunset Avenue along the edge of three adjacent parks on their left. Bradley Park, named for town founder James Bradley, made up the entire square block across Ocean Avenue from Convention Hall. A statue of Bradley at its center cast its gaze over flower beds, diagonal pathways, and triangles of open grass, toward the impressive building beyond. Neighboring Atlantic Square, laid out in the same manner, filled the next block.

Sunset Park extended from Atlantic Square west for several blocks to Main Street. It was dominated by Sunset Lake, as wide as the park itself at its east end. The lake narrowed and widened again to create an undulating form that extended to all but the westernmost block of the park. The Grand Avenue bridge and a separate footbridge spanned the lake near its middle, and there were several small wooded islands west of Grand.

Sunset Avenue curved left and right with the contours of the lake. Located between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, the park and its namesake avenue interrupted the numbered sequence of straight, east-west thoroughfares that carried visitors to and from beachfront attractions. The parks were attractions in their own right, offering scenic landscapes and quiet respite from crowds and commercial activities on the beachfront. At the moment, lights on the fountain near the east end of the lake were changing colors, and the only sound was a soothing splash of water.

As the trio passed by, this part of Sunset Park calmed Adam as it did on many summer nights. He lived for the beach and boardwalk every summer day, but he often visited this quiet spot before he went to bed. The repeating cycle of colors, the rhythmic sounds of falling water, and the smell of aquatic life that came on the breeze pushed repetitive thoughts from his mind and nervous feelings from his stomach. Tonight, he forgot about the explaining he would do when he got home, and took Mollie’s hand in his.

Mollie quickened her pace with determination fueled by anger that had been with her for weeks and was surging now. She was not worried about explaining anything to her father. She was looking for a confrontation with him and wanted to get it over with. The two boys exchanged a glance as they struggled to keep up. She was a year older and just had a growth spurt, so she had a long stride and high emotions in her favor. She let go of Adam’s hand so as not to be slowed by having to match his rhythm.

Whoa, Sis. You’re killin’ me. Run on ahead if you want.

Howard had a gift for nicknames⁠—Ace, Sis, whatever. They were always slightly ironic but endearing. Anyone who got a nickname from Howard loved when he used it. Mollie’s friendship with Howard came from their common friendship with Adam, but she appreciated Howard in his own right and liked the idea of being his Sis.

Mollie slowed, and the three of them continued in silence until Adam’s mind wandered from the moment again.

What’s goin’ down on the West Side?

Kids throwin’ bottles, breakin’ windows, messin’ with cars and cops.

Why?

Nothin’ better to do on a hot night. Fired up on wine and weed. Pissed off.

There was a lot in Howard’s answer. Adam keyed in on the part about anger.

Pissed off about what?

Howard looked at his friend and marveled at his innocence. It was one of the reasons he loved Adam, but he was too tired to get into this topic again.

Really, Ace? It’s a bunch of angry brothers.

Adam shifted to the part about the cops. The idea of angry people breaking windows troubled him, and a confrontation with police added to his concern. He was wired to avoid conflict, especially anything that involved police.

Why can’t the cops make them go home?

Howard and Mollie exchanged a glance.

Too many of ’em, Ace. Unless the cops start shootin’, it’s gonna go on for a while.

Adam contemplated the prospect of this kind of trouble in his town. The flutters in his stomach came again as he imagined broken storefront windows.

Springwood Avenue?

Uh-huh.

They walked in silence until Adam sensed something approaching from behind. He heard the squawk of a police radio and turned to see a cop car easing along a little faster than they were walking. The red light went on, and the car pulled to the curb. The teens froze with the red light flashing across their faces, and two cops got out. One approached from the front and shined a flashlight straight into their eyes. The other circled behind and swept his light back and forth. The cop in front made mental notes. Teenagers. Beach bums. What’s in that blanket?

Where have you kids been?

The boys hesitated, but Mollie spoke up.

Night swimming.

The cop shined his light on Mollie and scanned her head to toe. Beautiful girl. Hard to tell how old with that towel over her. Cutoffs. Wow, long legs. Must be five ten. He went back up to her face, looking for fear or a sign something wasn’t right.

He shined his light on Howard. Big shoulders. Be careful. He went back to his face, trying to read his mood or intentions. The hairstyle of the day was Afro, but Howard’s hair was cropped close, and the cop saw tension in his temples that extended into the muscles in his neck. He thought to himself again, Be careful.

"Where are you goin’?"

He’s stayin’ at my house.

Those words went past Adam’s lips before Howard could answer for himself, and the cop swung his light toward Adam.

Skinny kid. A little nerdy. Younger than the other two?

Are you Stan Dobek’s kid?

Yes, sir.

Adam’s father made it his business to keep a low profile, but people knew him from the garage where he worked. The cops took their cruisers there for service, and Adam figured this one had seen him and his father together somewhere. The cop shifted his light back to Howard.

What’s your name?

Howard Gaines.

Where do you go to school?

This was a way of asking where he lived.

Just finished Bond Street; goin’ to high school in September.

"Where’s his house?"

He moved the light in Adam’s direction and back.

Howard pointed across the lake.

Over there . . . on Fourth.

Then, to Mollie, Where are you goin’, missy?

Good Tidings Hotel on Seventh.

A colored kid, a tourist, and a townie. Strange.

Is everything alright, missy?

Mollie snorted a laugh and turned it into a cough.

Sorry, yes, Officer. We’re all friends.

She took Adam’s hand, making sure the cop saw. His courage rising, Adam spoke next.

We fell asleep on the beach and we’re late, but we need to walk Mollie home. Could you give her a ride so we can hustle home too?

Adam’s stomach was churning, but the cop didn’t hear nervousness in his voice, which was calm and measured. He was thinking what Adam wanted⁠—that there was no trouble here.

What’s in that blanket?

Adam let the blanket partially unfold and held it out in front of him. The cop was satisfied they were not a threat.

Okay, missy. We’ll take you home. You two, I don’t wanna see you again tonight.

Thank you, Officer. Would you please drop me around the corner from the hotel? I’ll be in trouble already. It will be worse if my father sees me coming home in a cop car.

The cop smiled. Sure, missy.

Adam thought to himself, Perfect.

Mollie turned to him. Let me have the blanket. I can hang it up to dry at the hotel.

This gesture soothed Adam. The wet blanket would be one less thing to explain to his parents. He handed it to Mollie and kissed her on the cheek. The cop shook his head, opened the back door of the cruiser, and motioned for Mollie to get in. The boys watched as the car pulled away and turned right on Grand Avenue toward Mollie’s hotel.

When the boys reached Grand, they turned left to go over the bridge. Halfway across, they passed steps that descended to Saint John’s Island in the middle of the lake. Howard chuckled and uttered its more familiar name.

Screw Island.

I hope Mollie doesn’t get in trouble with her dad.

Relax, Ace. She can handle her old man. So, did you do the dirty deed?

Adam felt himself flush. He wasn’t surprised Howard knew what he and Mollie were up to in The Den. Howard always knew stuff. Adam’s embarrassment quickly subsided.

Yeah.

Ace, you’re lucky. She’s the best.

Adam started a monologue about how he had loved Mollie since they first met but didn’t think of it as love until this summer. He never thought she felt the same. Until now, she had been like a sister, and he had been happy just to be near her.

He turned and realized Howard was gone. He looked back across the bridge, then along the Fifth Avenue side of the lake behind him to the right. There was no sign of his friend. He was not surprised and somewhat relieved. Walking home with Howard would have opened another can of worms with his parents, although he assumed Howard didn’t take his comment about staying at his house seriously. Howard had never been inside Adam’s house, and they never spoke of that. Disappearing might have been Howard’s way of letting him off the hook.

Adam flinched when the cop car sped past with a whoosh, its red light spinning. A half block from home, he looked toward his house and saw the orange glow of his father’s cigarette near the front steps. He saw it grow brighter as his father inhaled. He put his head down, hunched forward at the shoulders, and headed toward that light in the dark.

Sentinels

The cops pulled to the curb around the corner from and just out of sight of Mollie’s hotel. The one who did the talking got out on the passenger side and opened the rear door to let her out.

Thank you, Officer.

We’ll keep an eye on you until you get home.

Mollie smiled to herself and headed down the block. The cop got back in the car and told his partner to ease up to the corner. He watched Mollie walking away in the dim light of the streetlamp that filtered through the trees along the sidewalk, and noticed her long legs again.

Sheesh, she’s already a handful. That kid’s in over his head.

The cops made a U-turn and sped away, their red light on. As Mollie neared the hotel, she made out the figure of Mrs. McKinnon standing tall, straight, and motionless on the porch in her white uniform.

You’re lucky your father isn’t here. It’s nearly three in the morning. What have you been up to? Where have you been?

Where is he?

He stayed in New York to work. He called at eleven, and I told him you were in bed. You know I don’t like to lie and especially not to⁠—

When is he coming?

As a rule, Mollie treated her one-time-nanny-turned-chaperone with respect and felt genuine affection for her, but she was occasionally impatient and dismissive like teenagers can be with adults. This was occurring more frequently this summer as Mollie sought to establish her independence and the role of this woman in her life became uncertain.

"He didn’t say. I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can. It doesn’t matter. You need to get to bed now."

Mollie brushed past the woman, continued through the foyer outside the lobby, and climbed the steps. She closed the door to her room, turned the lock, and sat on the end of the bed, hugging the still-damp blanket to her chest. Emotionally exhausted and without the prospect of facing off with her father, she felt the anger drain from her. She started to weep and buried her face in her towel. She fell back on the bed, rolled onto her side, and curled up.

Muriel McKinnon lingered at her post on the porch. She was relieved that Mollie was safe, and her mind shifted to other concerns. She had devoted much of her adult life to raising Mollie and her older sister, Kathleen. Now Kat was gone, run off last month when she turned eighteen, somewhere out west. Mr. Blake hired some men to find her. Muriel worried about the girl. She imagined where and how they would find her. What if they never find her?

Then there was Mollie, who changed so much after Kat left. The rebelliousness and the boys were typical teenager things, but her father was not a typical man. Muriel feared there would be conflict, and the consequences would be terrible for all of them. She was concerned about the change in Mollie’s emotions. She had always been cheerful, outgoing, and self-assured. Lately, there were occasions when she seemed preoccupied, almost withdrawn, and Muriel had seen her tearing up. Other times, there were outbursts of anger about insignificant things. Living with her meant living in a whirlwind of negative emotions.

Muriel was also concerned for her future with the family. Kat was grown and gone. Mollie was at an age when she neither needed nor wanted what Muriel had always done for her. The Blakes treated Muriel well, and she thought of them as her family, but she knew they wouldn’t need her much longer. Mollie needed a mother, not a nanny, to see her through her adolescent troubles. This had become difficult for Muriel to manage. She always tried to do the things a mother would do for Mollie without overstepping the boundaries of her job. Now, she wanted to hang on to that job for a few years, stay on good terms with the Blakes, and see the girl through to adulthood.

Muriel passed through the foyer and the restaurant, and went up the back stairway near the kitchen. Before she entered her room, she decided to check on Mollie. She turned the corner in the hallway, walked back toward the front of the hotel, and stood outside Mollie’s room. She listened but heard nothing. She knocked softly, but there was no answer. She took a key from the pocket of her uniform, turned it in the lock, and opened the door a few inches. She saw Mollie curled up asleep, breathing deeply and steadily. She reached in, turned out the light, and paused while she fought an urge to enter and kiss the girl on the forehead. She closed the door and walked back to her room, the soft soles of her white shoes falling silently on the wooden floor.

***

Howard made his way along the Fifth Avenue edge of the park, avoiding streetlights and staying in the shadows. He knew it wasn’t a good idea for a Black boy to be in this part of town at this hour, especially tonight. He remembered the cop’s warning. He sat on a bench, slipped on his sneakers, and resumed his trek at double time. At Bond Street, he turned left and exited the park, hoping to make it a half dozen blocks on the narrow, one-way street without drawing attention. He considered pulling his towel up on his head but decided it would look suspicious.

As Howard neared his mother’s apartment, he heard more sirens and shouting in the distance. He was still on the East Side, but Main Street and the railroad tracks that divided the town were a block to his right. The downtown business district on Cookman Avenue was a few blocks straight ahead. Just west of that was the intersection of Main and Springwood Avenue, gateway to the West Side. A block before the school on Bond Street, he bounded up the steps of his mother’s apartment house onto the porch, slipped through the front door, and climbed a flight of stairs to her apartment. As he was about to put his key in the lock, the door opened, and his mother stood before him in the spot where she had been stationed for two hours. She was wearing her nightdress and dominated the doorway with her broad frame. Howard took a half step back. She put her arms around his neck, kissed him hard on the cheek, pulled him into the room, and closed the door.

You are gonna put me in an early grave.

I’m sorry, Momma. I didn’t think you’d be waitin’ up since I was supposed to be stayin’ at Poppa’s tonight.

When I heard about the troubles on the West Side, I figured you’d stay away from there. Why are you out so late? All that boardwalk and beach stuff with your white friends is gonna get you in trouble. White people don’t want Black boys over there.

Adam and Mollie want me there.

Howard knew what his mother meant, and he knew she was right.

Is Poppa alright?

I haven’t heard from him.

Diana and Gregory Gaines were high school sweethearts. They married when they were eighteen, had Howard before they turned twenty, and soon realized they were not compatible. It started with differences in their daily schedules. Diana preferred to live early to bed and early to rise. She found work in housecleaning jobs and was often done by three in the afternoon. From the time he was a few months old until he went to school, Howard went with her. Greg was a night owl. He worked as a piecework clothes presser for two dry cleaners, usually during second shifts. He liked the afternoon starts and was willing to stay as late as necessary to empty the bins of clean, unpressed clothes and fill the racks with finished items on hangers. He made extra money working security at a club on Springwood on weekends.

Greg and Diana also had different attitudes toward living on the West Side. He grew up there. He was at ease among the people, in the stores, and with speaking the dialect of the street. He enjoyed the music and nightlife in the clubs. Diana lived there as a young child but moved several blocks north where the West Side bumped up against ethnic neighborhoods of Italians, Irish, and Jews. There were only a few apartments available to Blacks in this boundary area, but all were better than the ones in the Black ghetto. Greg didn’t mind the living conditions on Springwood. Diana felt the weight of poverty pressing in and wanted better.

When a small apartment became available in the integrated neighborhood near Bond Street School, Diana and Howard moved out. She gave Greg the option to come with them, even though it would have been cramped. He still loved Diana, and he didn’t take this as an ultimatum. He knew it was important to her. She saw that she could make a better way for herself and Howard and was determined to do it. With that understanding, they parted, continued to get along, and promised to raise their son together. True to his word, Greg gave Diana money for Howard’s needs, and the boy split his time between two residences on no fixed schedule.

Do you think he’s okay?

He’s smart enough to steer clear of trouble. It’s you I’m worried about. Why must you be out so late? Why can’t you have your fun at a reasonable hour?

Howard was silent as he hung his towel on a hook in the bathroom, then returned and collapsed on the sofa. He had learned that at his age there was not much she could do to prevent him from keeping his own hours. He figured that as long as he stayed out of trouble with the police and did well in school, she was not willing to disrupt the peace in her home by yelling. For her part, Diana didn’t worry about what Howard would choose to do. She worried about trouble finding him in spite of his will to avoid it.

As Howard closed his eyes, he felt his mother lift his head and put a pillow under it. He heard her open the window farther and flip the fan to a higher speed.

Can you call Poppa and see if he’s alright?

I tried to call him, but there’s no answer at the club. I expect they closed up and he’s home by now. He’ll get word to us when he can. Now, get some sleep.

Diana kissed the boy on the forehead, turned out the light, and retired to her bedroom.

***

As Adam approached the walkway leading to his front porch, he made out his father’s figure in a familiar posture at the foot of the steps. He was in a crouch with one knee lower to the ground than the other. He held a lit Pall Mall between the thumb and forefinger of his cupped left hand, the embers end pointing toward his palm. Adam stopped in front of him and waited.

We’re not gonna do this now. We’ll talk in the morning. Go to bed.

Is that him, Stan? Is he home?

It was Adam’s mother calling from the sofa inside. Stan was careful not to respond too loudly so he wouldn’t disturb or attract attention from the neighbors.

He’s home. He’s fine.

Adam climbed the steps and went into the house, where he saw his mother by the glow of a night-light. She lay on her side with her back against the back of the sofa and her knees drawn halfway to her chest. This was her usual place and position when she wasn’t feeling well.

Come here, now.

Her voice was weak, but her words were strong. Adam knelt next to her.

I have told you to be careful. Careful with the friends you choose, careful with the ocean when it’s rough, careful of the older kids and their drugs and booze. When you’re out this late, I know you’re not being careful.

Adam always felt guilty and regretful when his mother spoke like this. Tonight, he also felt ashamed. He waited to hear if she had more to say.

I love you. Now, go to bed.

I love you, too, Mom.

Adam climbed two flights of stairs to the top floor, which he had to himself. He hung his beach towel over the shower rod and prepared for bed. He went to his room at the front of the house, changed into a pair of gym shorts, and lay on his stomach across the bed with his head and lower legs hanging over either side. He often lay like this when he was anxious because it increased the pressure of the bed on his stomach and reduced the nervous sensations he felt there. But tonight’s obsession produced yearning in addition to worry, and nothing could reduce this new feeling. He replayed the night’s events over and over, recalling every spoken word, trying to hold on to the feelings. Then . . . pop, pop, pop; he was back in the present moment.

His first thought was gunfire. Things must have gotten out of hand on the West Side and spread. Then he remembered it was the Fourth of July weekend. He heard laughter and running footsteps⁠—stragglers, still celebrating. With his mind shifted to the West Side, he imagined what it must be like there.

Stan stayed at his post, and if anyone had seen him there in the dark, they would have seen his steel-blue eyes narrow as he took a long drag and gathered his thoughts. If Vera or Adam had caught sight of him, they would have recognized that look, along with the extended drag and extra-large quantity of exhaled smoke above his head. He was envisioning something, trying to anticipate it, and was working on a decision.

Be careful with this one. Don’t push too hard. Don’t try to control him. Put him in the right situation, and he’ll make his way. But do somethin’ soon. Vera’s a nervous wreck. He flicked his butt into the gutter and went inside.

Vera was asleep. Stan climbed the stairs and prepared for bed. On his way from the bath to his room, he stopped by the empty back bedroom and flipped on the light. He looked at the pictures of his older son on the dresser and the wall. Victor was wearing some kind of uniform in many of them⁠—baseball uniforms, track singlets, and in one picture, his olive-green army uniform. Stan turned out the light and went to his room. He studied the picture on his dresser of Vera and him on their wedding day. She looked glamorous with flawless makeup and dressed in a simple, perfectly tailored suit. He took stock of himself. He was square-shouldered, fit, and fighting ready in his uniform with the stripes of a master sergeant. As he lay down, his last thought before he slept was that he had been lucky, and he thanked God. There were only a few things he would change about the last fifty-one years. A few things . . .

Sunday, July 5

A Man of Means

Halfway through the holiday weekend, Patrick Blake admitted he had no intention of spending it among the riffraff of Asbury Park. He was in the middle of negotiations to sell his family’s chain of grocery stores, and that provided a convenient excuse. When his father died two years ago, control of the business passed to him and his older sister, and he started to free himself from things that came with his dependence on the old man. If he felt any obligation to maintain his father’s summer traditions for the sake of his daughters, it was lessened by at least half when Kat ran off. And he was pretty sure Mollie was tired of the old, worn-out Asbury scene. Once they sold the business and tied up loose ends, he hoped to repair his relationships with his daughters and lead a life of greater leisure and indulgence. He thought to himself, Just a few loose ends . . .

Patrick sipped coffee and looked out the window at the neighborhood around his Upper East Side Manhattan four-story row house. His parents moved here in the 1930s. They occupied the entire third floor, which included a spacious bedroom, a large sitting room, a small kitchen, and a study, where Patrick now sat. He spent his childhood in this house and moved back in with his daughters in the 1950s. Until recently, he occupied a modest bedroom on the fourth floor that he had as a child, as well as his sister’s childhood bedroom across the hall, which was converted to a sitting room. After his mother died in ’67, followed by his father less than a year later, Patrick took over the third-floor suite. He enjoyed its roominess, elegant furnishings, and large windows. The second floor was devoted to common areas: a formal parlor, a dining room, and a large kitchen. The girls each had their own room on the first floor, next to Muriel’s and across the hall from a great room that opened onto a garden at the rear of the building.

Patrick’s father’s will specified that he and his sister owned and controlled everything jointly, including the one-hundred-year-old home. Patrick intended to keep living here, but he had not settled on a financial agreement with her. He could buy her out or pay her rent for her share of the house. He wished his father hadn’t entangled him so much with his sister, but he suspected he did it to exercise control over him from the grave. Loose ends.

Patrick turned to the portrait of his parents hanging next to his desk and shook his head. He saw himself in his mother’s features and stately gaze. She sat erect in her chair with her chin up. Margaret Blake was Welsh English. She had thin, pursed lips and an upturned nose. Her expression conveyed the confidence of aristocracy even though she was not born to it. She married a man who worked hard to make money, and she adopted the look and attitude of someone who always had money. She traveled to Europe without her husband and gave up on summers at the New Jersey shore in the 1950s. Patrick chuckled to himself when he thought of one of her favorite quips: No one of any redeeming social value is in Asbury Park.

Patrick shifted focus to his father standing behind his mother, his hand on her shoulder. He had the face of a peasant with eyes too close together, ears too large and turned outward. He was mostly Irish with some English blood. His ancestors had arrived in the nineteenth-century waves of immigrants who provided cheap labor for the menial and dangerous work required to build the country.

By the time Declan Blake came of age, the country despised the Irish less, and his ethnic cohorts were ascendant in New York politics and commerce. With seed money from his family, he started a grocery business. It thrived in the roaring twenties, and he saved every dollar he could. When the Great Crash came, he had cash, and people were selling things