Summer of '69(112)
After he deals with the luggage and Kirby gets her ticket, he gathers her up in his arms. Kirby is shocked.
“There are people around,” she says.
“I don’t care.”
He does care—that’s why they are where they are. What Darren means is that he doesn’t care because he doesn’t know the people here. They’re tourists, and most of them—although not all—are white. There are families trying to comfort crying children who have been awakened too early; there are honeymooners snapping Polaroids; there is an elderly black couple, the woman’s husband leaning on her as they shuffle toward the ramp.
“Darren…”
“I’ll see you in the fall,” he says.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Just one date,” he says. “Let me take you to Mr. Bartley’s Burgers. Okay? It’s legendary. Or if you’d rather, we can go to the Rathskeller…”
“Burgers are fine,” Kirby says. She would never admit it to him but she feels happy that he wants to see her back in the city. And one date can’t hurt.
Darren kisses her goodbye and the kiss is longer and more intense than she anticipates. Soon, they are necking; it feels so good she can’t tear herself away. She senses disapproving stares from the older black couple, or maybe she’s imagining it. Maybe it’s the summer of 1969 and things are different now and a black boy and a white girl can kiss in public and nobody cares.
“Right on!” a voice says. Kirby breaks away to see a very tall, very skinny guy about their age with a huge Afro of orange hair. He’s wearing rainbow-striped velour pants with a matching vest and a black top hat. He’s in his bare feet. He gives Kirby and Darren the thumbs-up and says, “Love is all you need.”
Kirby feels pretty good as she boards the ferry. The foghorn sounds, which always plucks a sad string in Kirby’s heart because it usually means she’s leaving Nantucket. Today, however, she’s going to Nantucket. She will rest her head tonight in her bed on her island; she still has six weeks of summer left. She will get to meet her new niece and nephew; she will make herself useful driving Jessie around; she will do her best to plant some revolutionary ideas—like racial equality—in Exalta’s fusty old brain. She’ll make Exalta listen to some Bob Dylan. And maybe, just maybe, this summer will end up being one that people write songs about.
As Kirby stands on the bow of the ferry, something catches her eye. A man. A woman with the man.
She’s surprised, because she thought she was past the point where she stared hungrily at every man who remotely resembled Scottie Turbo. But apparently not, because what draws Kirby’s eye is the crew cut and the impossibly strong, square stance, like a man built from bricks. At first, Kirby isn’t 100 percent sure. She edges closer. There are plenty of people on the deck, so she can easily spy while still blending in.
He turns, and his profile is a punch to her gut. Unmistakable. Kirby grabs the railing for support. Scottie Turbo is on this ferry. Which means he was on Martha’s Vineyard. She’s surprised by this. When she told Scottie her family had a house on Nantucket, he made a face and flicked his nose.
“Snobs,” he said. “Those islands are infested with them.”
She’d had a difficult time imagining bringing Scottie Turbo to All’s Fair and introducing him to her grandmother. She’d tried to picture him complimenting the mural in the living room or appreciating Exalta’s collection of whirligigs; tried to envision Scottie at a table at the Field and Oar Club, ordering a gin and tonic. She’d come up empty.
The more socially and economically democratic atmosphere of the Vineyard must have been okay. Kirby wonders where he stayed, then conjures up a nightmare scenario in which Scottie and this woman walk into the Shiretown Inn while Kirby is working.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
After a moment, Kirby’s shock subsides enough for her to properly evaluate the woman. Wife, she thinks. Not girlfriend. She can tell by how almost uninterested in each other they both seem. They rest their forearms on the railing side by side, not touching. The wife has pale hair, though she’s not quite as blond as Kirby and her hair is chopped blunt at the shoulders, much like Exalta’s. Kirby edges a little closer to get a better look at Wifey; to do this, she positions herself behind Scottie’s back. Wifey has sallow skin with ruddy spots on her cheeks. She wears no makeup and her eyes get lost in her face. She’s plain. She looks a little bit like Scottie himself. They have the same coloring, the same grim set to their mouths, as if they’re perpetually expecting bad news. What does she do for a living? Kirby wonders. She doesn’t seem working class, but neither does she telegraph the kindness and empathy of a nurse or a teacher. Probably she’s a secretary. Yes, Kirby thinks. She seems organized and efficient, and she is no doubt indispensable to her important boss—an executive at a manufacturing company or maybe a real estate mogul. She can probably type a hundred and ten words a minute and take shorthand; she brings him his coffee and orders his lunch and picks up his dry cleaning. Maybe Scottie is even a little jealous of her boss because she is so devoted.
Kirby is simply projecting here; she has no idea what Wifey does.
Is there anyone in the world more fascinating than the woman you lost out to? Kirby wonders. She can’t figure out what Scottie sees in this woman.