THE FOURTH
OF JULY, 1965
I DIDN’T SEE HER again until the fourth of July. The days in-between were spent either helping my dad set and pull traps or caddying at the golf club. The former earned me nothing but the respect of my father; the latter brought in sizable tips that, after pocketing a little spending cash, I squirreled away for a future that was still unknown at that time.
On the morning of the fourth, after caddying for McClennan on a quick nine holes, I joined my uncle on the beach to begin the preparations for a lobster bake that would take place that evening before the fireworks started. My uncle was a carpenter by trade, but, ten years before, had begun supplementing his income by arranging these holiday feasts. By the summer of 1965, his lobster bakes were almost legendary.
Once he selected the site for the bake, I helped him dig a large pit in the sand, just deep enough for two layers of rocks. Once the pit was dug to his satisfaction, we would cover the bottom with the stones, setting some aside to add a third layer later. On top of this, in the center of the pit, we would pile driftwood along with tightly rolled newspapers to use as kindling. All of these items had already been gathered by my uncle and were piled high in the back of his truck.
“Come on, Jake,” he said, laughing. “Let’s get this shit unloaded. As the saying goes ‘time and tide wait for no man.’”
Nodding, I hurried to the truck which he’d backed down onto the beach.
When everything was unloaded and in place, we covered the pit with a tarp and headed back to his house where the womenfolk were preparing the food.
My uncle, a meticulous man, took pride in preparing a traditional New England bake, right down to the hard-boiled eggs. Our island council mailed out a newsletter quarterly to all cottage owners and regular renters and you could always find an ad for this Fourth of July bake in the March issue. Invariably, it was sold out before mud season ended in early May.
When we walked into the kitchen, dozens of small red potatoes and ears of corn sat on the counter. My mother was at the sink, cleaning mussels, while my aunt prepared the corn, which, for the bake, was a complicated process. First, she had to peel each ear, keeping the husk intact. Then, after discarding the silk, she returned the ear back to its husk, encasing it again. My cousin, Susan, was there too, standing at the second sink, scrubbing potatoes.
My uncle surveyed the scene, then barked some instructions to my aunt. He spoke briefly with my mother, and, assured that all food preparations would be completed on time, motioned for me to come with him. We drove back to the shore to collect the seaweed and rockweed that would be placed on the hot stones and, subsequently, layered between the lobsters, mussels, and other foods.
When the back of the truck was filled with slippery seaweed, we returned to the pit. It was time to light the fire. Once this occurred, it would take about three hours or so for the rocks lining the pit to reach the right temperature, and my uncle left me in charge while he finished other preparations.
Tending the pit at this stage was a lonely task and, to pass the time, I’d brought along a book. It was The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, by an author I’d never heard of before, John le Carré. Our island librarian, noting that I had already made my way through all the Ian Fleming books, recommended this one. I opened it to page one and was immediately swept away. I don’t know how long I sat there drinking in the drama when a soft voice from behind me brought me back to reality.
“Hi, Jake-with-a-J.”
Startled, I turned. It was the redhead. She was barefoot, wearing cut-off jeans and a long-sleeved San Francisco Giants’ T-shirt. On her head, she wore a matching ball cap, from which dozens of red curls had escaped and floated mindlessly around her face in the soft sea breeze. I was disappointed to see her eyes obscured by a pair of large pink sunglasses.
“Hi,” I answered, looking her over. “Aren’t you a little schizophrenic?”
She cocked her head to the side, clearly puzzled. “What do you mean, ‘schizophrenic?’”
I grinned at her. “Well, when you came over on the boat, you were wearing Red Sox gear. Now, you’ve got on Giants.”
She laughed and, with one hand, moved her sunglasses to the top of her cap. Her blue eyes danced merrily as she gazed at me.
“I live with my mom and stepdad in the Boston area. Hence, the Sox. My real dad lives in California, so I root for the Giants, too. Does that make me schizophrenic?”
As she spoke, she knelt in the sand beside me. I carefully placed my bookmark between the pages and closed the novel.
“That’s a good book,” she said, changing the subject. “I read it last fall. Very heavy.”
I grinned. “Yeah, I just started it on our librarian’s recommendation. She said she thought I’d enjoy it more than the Bond books. I think she might be right.”
I shoved the novel into my stadium blanket case and turned to check the fire.
“Is that for the lobster bake?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “My uncle is in charge and I’m supposed to be tending to it.” As I spoke, I added some more driftwood and stirred the embers. “My mom and aunt will be here soon with the food. Are you and your folks coming?”
“Yeah, the rental agent provided tickets with the rental.”
“Ever been to a lobsta bake before?”
“No, but I’ve eaten lobster—well, a lobster tail, if that counts.”
“How about mussels and clams?”
“Mussels . . . they’re the black ones, right?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, I had them once, but not clams.”
We sat talking about food, books, and other innocent stuff, trying to get over our nervousness with one another. I was right about her age . . . she was younger than me at fifteen and a half. Her parents had divorced when she was eight, after her father, a screenwriter, got a job on the West Coast. Her mother remarried a year later. She didn’t say much else about herself or her family, just that they were on the island for the summer.
We were interrupted by the sound of a man’s voice echoing across the beach.
“Andrea!”
We both turned and saw her stepfather standing on the deck of the Sloane cottage, hands on hips, staring in our direction.
“David wants me,” she said. “I’d better go.”
She stood, brushing the sand from her legs and shorts. I noted her toenails were painted a bright pink.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you later, Andi,” I said.
“Yeah, later,” she replied glumly as she turned to go.
On impulse, I reached out and grabbed her hand. “Say, I’ve got to work the bake, but I get dinner, too. You want to sit with me?”
She hesitated for a moment.
“Sure,” she finally said, grinning. “Just you, me, and a beach full of strangers. Sounds cool.”
We stared at each other, still holding hands. Then, she dropped mine and turned to go.
Astounded that I’d had the courage to ask her out, I watched as she jogged down the beach to her cottage. Her stepfather spoke with her for a moment, pointing in my direction, then put his arm around her shoulders and guided her into the house. He followed her inside, taking time to glance again over to where I sat tending the fire. He stared at me intently before, finally, disappearing inside.
I wondered for a moment what his problem was, but put it aside. She was a young girl and he was just being protective. I know my dad would have been that way if he’d had a daughter.
Sighing, I grabbed my book and began to read, hoping that it would help the hours before I would see her again pass more swiftly.