Aquarius Falling

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

May 16, 1964

In a Good Place

Slivers of light pushed their way past the blinds to say morning had arrived. I was on my back staring at the ceiling, running those French words through my head and wondering if she really would call me. Why hadn’t I gotten her number? She told me she lived in a little town called Princess Anne. It sounded like a made-up name. Wendy was in my head, and there was no getting her out. I got out of bed, showered, brushed my teeth, put on my surfer baggies—red with a white palm leaf pattern and a white T-shirt—grabbed my sunglasses, and headed to Melvin’s for breakfast.

            The rough pattern of the boardwalk made itself rudely known to my tender bare feet. Splinters threatened, and protruding nails flashed a warning with their shiny heads. Walking in sand offered safety as the cool grains filled the gaps between my toes and massaged my arches. My feet sank slightly with each footfall and then sank deeper into the cooling relief as I pushed off for the next stride.

            More businesses were taking down the plywood that protected their closed stores during the off-season and were getting ready to reopen. The pedestrian traffic on the boardwalk was still light but heavy with sounds of workmen’s saws and hammers. At Melvin’s, I took a seat at a small table. Harriet came around to fill my coffee cup. She didn’t seem to recognize me from my first visit with Jack and Nick. Her businesslike manner was unchanged—gum-chewing, efficient, and slightly curt.

            “Pancakes, no butter, and a side of bacon.”

            “You got it.”

            I did get a big smile from her, showing off nice teeth with thin lips, something I didn’t see the first time. Her smile was either flirting or just working for a tip; I couldn’t tell. After finishing breakfast, I left a quarter for Harriet and paid the seventy-five cent bill at the register.

            I wandered about and found Bobby’s Surf Shop at the corner of Worcester Street and Baltimore. Inside, the smells of Coppertone, wax, and glue mingled together. New T-shirts and surfer baggies hung from racks while surfboards nine and ten feet long stood straight like giant sentries circled to protect the soft goods. The scene and scents made me think of Wendy, the little surfer girl. Was she really going to call? Was she serious about teaching me to surf? I looked at posters on the walls of beautiful models in bathing suits, and my memory told me Wendy was prettier than these girls. A tall guy in his mid-twenties came from the back of the shop. His bleached blond hair hung over his ears and curled up the back of his neck, but dark roots pushed up from his scalp. He wore a bright blue Hawaiian shirt with a floral pattern of red, orange, and yellow flowers over solid dark blue baggies. The shirt was unbuttoned and revealed a shell necklace on his chest. He had some kind of ropelike bracelet on his left wrist.

            “Hey, dude, need any help?”

            “Nah, just looking.”

I admired a Bing surfboard. It was a redwood board sanded and stained light with a two-inch royal blue stripe, which ran from nose to tail. Between the blue stripes, a one-inch stripe of natural redwood ran the length of the board, with the outline of an eye intersecting all three stripes in the area where you put your back foot.

“You like that board?”

“Yeah, it’s really cool looking.”

“The eye in the center gives the board good karma. You don’t have to worry about sharks attacking you with this one. Its only $120.”