This news electrified me. “For real? Is there a picture?”
“Nope. No photo. Maybe in the Post in the morning.”
“Cool! I hope so!” I couldn’t wait to report this to Ivan and Max when I got home. It was extremely important news. Maybe there were more vinegaroons around and we could catch one. That would be the jackpot.
Pretty soon the cottage was filled with people. It wasn’t the kind of party I was used to at our house, which was mostly older, dressed-up people like Dimma and Brickie doing a lot more serious talking, drinking cocktails, and only a little dancing. This was more like The Milt Grant Show, with bare feet and beer—everybody bopping, most of the girls wearing short-shorts and the guys wearing Bermudas. Liz had put on her yellow sundress. Highball glasses and beer bottles were everywhere. I wanted the Fabulous Family Fiesta to be like this, except I wanted to be part of it, dancing with Beatriz or Elena. I tried to dance with Liz, who permitted my stumbling around for about three minutes, then said, “See? If you’d let me show you how to bop when I tried to, you wouldn’t look like such an idiot now.” This was true—she’d tried to teach me and Ivan, but Max had made fun of us and we stopped.
I watched from the screened porch hammock, occasionally slipping into the living room to sneak a sip from any unguarded beer or glass. A couple was arguing in a corner, and that interested me, so I listened for a minute, but it was boring—the guy was accused of “looking” at another girl. Somebody changed the record to “The Enchanted Sea” by the Islanders, an eerie instrumental that was popular that summer—all buoy bells, lapping waves, high-lonesome whistling, and mournful guitar. It reminded me of the bay, not the ocean, and made me feel even more dejected. The dancers came together tightly—even the fighters—to bear-hug to the slow music, swaying and kissing. I knew the hammock would shortly be prime real estate, but I wasn’t giving it up.
Dad came out to the porch and said, “How’s it going, pal? Don’t you want to come in and dance?”
“I tried to,” I whined, sorry for myself. “But Liz was mean to me. She’s such a slut.”
“What did you say?” my dad said, incredulous. “Do you know what that word means?”
“Max’s sister said it means a bad girl.”
“It means worse than that. Don’t say it, especially about your own sister, hear me?” He dragged on his Lucky Strike. “Jesus.” Exhaling a dense plume of smoke, he said, “Hey—I want you to meet someone important. I’ll bring him out here in a minute.”
“Who is it?” Usually my dad’s “important” friends were sports heroes or occasionally musicians, and he had one friend, Mr. Almy, who wrote books. Dirty books, Liz had told me. The sports heroes were okay because I could impress the Shreve boys, and Brickie was interested in hearing about the musicians, but I wanted to read Mr. Almy’s books.
“It’s a friend from Baltimore. He was the only guy who dropped both the Little Boy and Fat Man on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.” He added, “But don’t mention that to him, okay?”
My interest was piqued, but I didn’t really understand why a guy who’d done something like ending World War II wouldn’t want to talk about it. “Why not?”
“If you’d helped kill thousands of innocent people, even if it had to be done to stop a war, don’t you think you might feel a little sad about it?”
“But, Dad, they were Japs.”
“I know that, and they deserved it.”
“Even little kids?” I said, changing tack.
Dad sighed. “The innocent people are what’s called ‘collateral damage.’ It’s terrible and sad, but it’s what happens in wars. Just keep what I told you under your hat, okay, pal?”
Daddy came out with the guy, who didn’t look very heroic to me, just a man somewhat older than my dad in shorts and a brightly flowered beach shirt. I got out of the hammock to be introduced to Lieutenant Jacob Beser and shook his hand like Brickie had taught me. “How ya doin’, buddy?” he said. “Are you having a good time?” He did seem to have sad eyes, but maybe I only thought that because Dad had put sad in my head.
“I’m waiting for it to get dark so we can turn on the bug zapper,” I politely replied. Dad and the guy laughed. “Are you still in the Army Air Force?” I asked. “Do you fly planes?” Maybe I could get him to bring up the Fat Man thing.
“Well, I was a radar specialist, not a pilot.”
“Nothing can stop the Army Air Force!” I sang, and the lieutenant chuckled. “That’s right!”
Emboldened by my entertainment skills, I asked, “So your job was to…fly along, and figure out where to go, and stuff?” My dad, standing behind Beser, gave me a warning look.
“Well, yeah, you could say that.” He smiled indulgently. “Are you interested in military planes?”
“I like spies and eshpionage,” I said, trying to suppress the one thing I wanted to ask about, and not arouse Dad’s temper, which I’d seen enough of on the ride down. I went on, “But I’m mostly interested in collecting spiders. I’ve trapped a few good ones.”
Beser said, “That spider thing is nuts, isn’t it? Do you think the Russians might be behind it?” He grinned.
This distracted me, and I excitedly said to my dad, “See, Dad? He thinks the same thing Brickie does about the Russians!”
Dad was grinning, too. “Maybe they did do it—who knows? Maybe we should send Lieutenant Beser’s crew over there with some spiders for them.” They laughed.
“Yeah! That’s a great idea!” I exclaimed. Then, as if from another boy inside me, came: “I’m sure glad you didn’t drop those bombs on Japan.” Brickie was always telling me to think before I spoke, and I thought I’d been thinking, but somehow in my excitement it just popped out of my mouth.
The lieutenant smiled but didn’t reply. Tipping his bottle up, he glugged the last half of his beer. I was cringing inside.
My dad grabbed Beser by the arm. “C’mon, Jake, let’s get you another beer and do some dancing.” “Stagger Lee” was playing. Dad reached over and flipped on the bug zapper, then gave me a hard thwack on the head.
Lieutenant Beser said, “See you later, bud. Hope you zap thousands.” He went through the screen door, and Daddy turned to me, drawing his index finger across his sunburnt throat.
We never made it to the boardwalk for Skee-Ball, because Dad either was having too much fun or was too pissed at me, or both. I was in disgrace, sulking outside. Someone brought me a plate of ribs to gnaw on. But the bug-zapping was a good show. I uncharacteristically helped a few decent specimens—a big Junebug and a dragonfly—avoid electrocution, and caught a great cecropia moth with my hands as it was resting on the silvery wood shingles. I let it go, maybe as moral chastisement of Lieutenant Beser, king of the zappers, whom I wanted to blame for my downfall. I hoped Dad would catch ringworm from thwacking me. And in my own misery, my thoughts turned to Ivan and Elena, and wondering whether things were okay with them.
I was up early the next morning, having slept in my bathing suit, and I was scarfing down stale potato chips, sipping from the brownish leftover cocktails and eating the cherries, shunning the clear drinks with olives. The cottage was silent except for the snores of a couple guys asleep on the sofas. The usual disheveled couple lay wound together in the hammock, so I sneaked out as quietly as I could. I knew Daddy and Liz were dead to the world and it would be forever before they were up. I was still a little mad at Dad and hoped to avoid him if he was still mad at me.