Summer of '79: A Summer of '69 Story(14)

Larry grabs the back of Kirby’s head and puts his sloppy mouth on hers like she’s a Big Mac. She pushes him off again. “Whoa, buddy, let’s slow things down a little.” In an attempt to be tender, she reaches up to touch his long, feathered hair. It’s soft and silky between her fingers. Larry Winter has good hair—like David Cassidy—and hasn’t Kirby always wanted to have sex with David Cassidy? She moves her hands so that she’s stroking Larry’s long mustache. He used to be so clean-cut—he was an Exeter squash player when he dated goody-two-shoes Blair—that Kirby can’t help but be delighted by his transformation into a modern man. He isn’t stuck in Camelot like everyone else on this land-that-time-forgot island.

They start kissing again but it isn’t any better and Larry’s hands are sliding down her back toward her…

She pulls away. “Larry.”

He says, “You are so…cool, Kirby. You give off this incredible vibe—sexy, fun, fascinating. I can’t believe I spent so many summers mooning over Blair. I should have been with you.”

The music from the bonfire floats down the beach. “Rebel, Rebel” by David Bowie. This is Kirby’s song. You've torn your dress…Your face is a mess. Who is Kirby if not the rebel of her family? She was the one who protested the war, swore at the cops, got arrested, got pregnant out of wedlock, and dated a rainbow of men, including the “one who got away,” Darren Frazier. Darren ended up marrying Kirby’s best friend, Rajani, and they now have four beautiful children, which was what motivated Kirby to leave Boston and move to New York—where she has managed to push herself even closer to the edge. Misbehaving is the only way Kirby has ever been able to steal the spotlight from perfect achiever Blair, golden only son Tiger, and Jessie, the precious baby.

But now, here is Larry Winter telling Kirby that he prefers her to her older sister. All of the longing and jealousy that fourteen-year-old Kirby with her braces and her acne felt are vanquished—poof!—in that moment. Her attraction to Larry Winter was never about Larry Winter, she realizes. It was about how she felt about herself. The satisfaction at being acknowledged as a sexy, fun, fascinating (this adjective gives Kirby a particular thrill) woman is more powerful than any drug.

“Hey, thanks, Larry,” she says. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I got back to the party.”





8. Looks Like We Made It




Tiger can’t believe it when Magee asks him to bring her a cold beer from the keg and he’s even more surprised when she chugs the entire thing without stopping. Who is this woman and what has she done with his wife?

She emits a ladylike burp and hands him the empty plastic cup. “Another.”

“Another?” Tiger says. “Seriously?”

“Please?” she says. “I want to get drunk.”

“You…?” Tiger can’t believe this. “Are you sure?”

“Your grandmother is dead,” Magee says. “And do you know what advice she gave me?”

Tiger is afraid to ask. “What?”

“She said, ‘When you don’t know what else to do, have a good, stiff drink.’”

Yes, Tiger thinks, that does sound like Exalta.

“And I don’t know what else to do,” Magee says. “We’ve tried everything.”

“But you’ve been so careful with your health…”

“It’s not working!” Magee says. “So I’m going to try the opposite.”

“Okay?” Tiger says. He’s skeptical but he fetches Magee another cold beer and when she finishes that, another. That’s three beers, but Magee isn’t finished. She wants something more, something stronger.

“Something stronger?” Tiger says. “There isn’t anything stronger at this party.”

“The flask,” she says. “In your glove compartment.”

“Ha!” Tiger says. Guess he should have known he couldn’t keep a secret from his wife. There’s a flask of Wild Turkey that Tiger keeps in the glove box of the Trans Am. Tiger offers the flask to any Vietnam vet he happens to meet.

Magee is a veteran of sorts, he supposes. She put in all those hours of service to Exalta.

“All right,” Tiger says. “I’ll get the flask.” He grabs it from the car and he and Magee both take a pull. Magee doesn’t cough or sputter; she doesn’t even grimace. She is tougher than half the guys in the Fourth Infantry.



Later, Tiger and Magee dance in the sand. The song is by the Bee Gees, “Tragedy.” But instead of a tragedy, the night feels like a miracle. Magee is joyfully, ecstatically blotto. She raises her hands in the air, she twirls around, sings along. It takes no convincing for Tiger to lead Magee down the beach with one of the kilim rugs rolled under his arm. They lay the rug out in a secluded spot in the dunes and they make love in a way that they never have before. Magee is uninhibited, carefree, wild. She leaves scratch marks down his back, bites his ear, thrusts right along with him until she screams. Screams!

Tiger falls back on the rug, breathless.

Best of my life, he thinks.

“Did that feel…different to you?” he asks.

“Oh, yes,” she says. She props herself up on her elbow and grins at him. “Mark my words, Tiger Foley: nine months from now, you’re going to be a father.”