Summer of '69(40)

“You came!” he says. “I can’t believe it.”

“Of course,” Kirby says, shrugging. “Today is my first day off and it’s an easy walk from the house.”

“Great,” Darren says, and she tries to read his face and his tone to see if he really does think it’s great. “Welcome to Inkwell Beach. This is where I grew up.”

“It’s pretty,” Kirby says truthfully.

Darren’s gaze floats over Kirby’s shoulder, and his smile tightens. Kirby turns to see one of the women from the semicircle standing up with her hands on her hips. It’s a woman wearing a floppy hat.

“My mother,” Darren says, and Kirby’s spirits hit the sand. “She wants me to get back to work, I guess.”

“I met your mother,” Kirby says. She waves but Dr. Frazier just glares. “At your house.”

“She told me,” Darren says.

“Did she say anything about me?” Kirby asks.

Darren shakes his head. “Just that you showed up with Rajani.” He sits back down and stares at the ocean. “She doesn’t like it when I get distracted from my job.”

Is that what she doesn’t like? Kirby wonders. Or does she not like white girls distracting Darren from his job? Or does she not like Kirby Foley, aka Clarissa Bouvier—the name Kirby made up back in Boston—distracting Darren from his job?

Does Darren’s mother know that Kirby is Clarissa Bouvier?

“Thanks for coming to say hi,” Darren says. He’s leaning forward now in an active posture of lifeguarding, and Kirby can see he’s eager for her to leave. “I’ll swing by your house sometime this week and take you to the carousel. Would you like that?”

She should say no. She isn’t interested in riding the carousel, and even if she were, she shouldn’t encourage Darren. A relationship between them won’t work. But, as usual, Kirby doesn’t listen to her own good advice. “I’d love it!” she says. “I’ll see you later this week, then.” She wanders off the sand at the next set of stairs, then stands on the hot sidewalk in a daze.

Was that a failure or not?

Not, Kirby decides. Darren asked her to come see him at Inkwell, and she did. The next move is his.

It’s still early. Kirby decides she will hitchhike to the south shore and pass out on her towel. She’s exhausted.

No sooner does she stick her thumb out than an olive-green Willys Jeep pulls over with a couple sitting up front but plenty of room on the back bench seat for Kirby.

The guy driving is cute; he’s wearing a white polo shirt and sunglasses. The girl has her long dark hair braided down her back. Then Kirby realizes the girl is Patty.

“Hey, Kirby!” Patty says. “Meet Luke.”

Kirby grins. “Hey, Luke,” she says. “Glad to see somebody got this girl out of bed.” She climbs into the Jeep and even feels a small surge of excitement when Patty lifts her hands in the air.

“Katama, here we come!”





More Today Than Yesterday



Sunday, June 22, 1969

Dear Tiger,

I was hoping Dad would bring a letter from you when he came yesterday, but he said none had arrived, which put me in a bad mood and Mom in an even worse mood. She got drunk last night at the Skipper, and not the kind of drunk where she came home singing, but the kind where she came home crying. Nonny slept right through it because she started with her Hendrick’s and tonics at four o’clock instead of five, even though she was supposed to be minding me while Mom and Dad were out. She went up to bed at seven and put in earplugs. I made a peanut butter sandwich and watched My Three Sons in the den.

I hate my tennis lessons.



Jessie crosses this last line out. She will not complain about tennis lessons while her brother is loaded down with forty pounds of gear and slogging through hip-deep water in the rice paddies. Jessie does hate her tennis lessons but most of that hate is due to her experience with Garrison. Just walking into the Field and Oar makes Jessie queasy now. Exalta still refuses to let Jessie use the name Levin when she signs in or when she signs for something, like after her most recent lesson when she went to the snack bar to get a chocolate frappe and a grilled cheese.

“N-three!” Exalta had called out as Jessie headed to the snack bar. “Nichols!”

Jessie had been so furious with her grandmother that while the grill boy’s back was turned, she lifted a package of Twizzlers from the counter and slid it into her skirt pocket. Again, she’d waited for a hand to clamp on her shoulder announcing she’d been caught, but none came.

My tennis lessons started out badly but have gotten better since I asked for a new instructor. Her name is Suze, short for Susan; she was named for Susan B. Anthony, who, in case you weren’t paying attention in history class, fought for women’s right to vote. The cool thing is that Suze is a feminist just like Susan B. Anthony. She told me on the first day that she only accepts female tennis students because the world has enough male tennis stars as it is. She also told me she found out she was being paid less that the male tennis instructors at Field and Oar and she marched right up to Ollie Hayward, the head of tennis, and she threatened to quit if he didn’t give her equal pay. Ollie said yes—probably not on principle, she says, but because Suze is the best player of all the instructors.