Day 96

A chapter from one of my novels-in-progress (the working title is Coming Home) has been published in Newtown Literary, another print journal. The chapter was published as a short story titled, “The Treehouse.” It is about an alcoholic mother who get’s banished from her home. Her spouse worries that if she doesn’t stop drinking, she might hurt one of their children. The story takes place in India where the woman attempts to drown her misery in more alcohol. Then one night, drinking copiously with a friend, she recounts the previous summer when she built a tree house for her eldest daughter. 

Newtown Literary publishes authors with a connection to Queens, New York. I may not live there anymore, but I’ll always be a New Yorker, no matter how long I live in New Jersey. I got the acceptance email months ago, way before Dad got sick. I had been excited at the prospect of possibly participating in a reading in Queens. How cool would that have been, a nice easy drive for my parents to come and see me. But alas the pandemic came and took my father and shut down the world. So there will be no reading, and this will be another piece of mine Dad will never read.

Yesterday, driving back from the city, it was obvious that the world is waking up. The traffic was still no match for pre-pandemic days, but I did hit a few spots where the back-up was more than a few minutes. A drive that took me only 80 minutes a month ago took 100 minutes last night.

I woke this morning to a misty fog. As I was walking and reading the Phantom Tollbooth (how is it I only discovered that book now) a man stepped out of his house and as he opened his car door he called me to, “Hey! It’s great to see you reading a book.” Is reading really that scarce now that I call attention to myself doing it? Or is reading while walking just such a bizarre combination of activities that people can’t help noticing?

My hair was getting shaggy, and I don’t want to go to a barber. I know they are opening up, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe. So I asked my son to cut my hair. I was surprised at how quickly he agreed, not a single word of complaint. I handed him Dad’s clippers and he went to work with a smile. A few times it felt like he was ripping the hair out of my head, but mostly he did well, especially since it was his first time using clippers. I’m sure Mom will be angry that I asked him to shave my head, but I can’t keep it long just because she thinks it’s wrong for me to wear it so short.

Today, I saw a glimpse of the boy my son used to be at the beach, the joy he always experienced when his grandfather was with him. He asked if we could please go to the Treasure Beach in Peconic. I was happy to take him. Unlike the bay at Veterans’ Beach, the beach in Peconic is right on the inlet and so the water is deep. It’s also exceptionally scenic. My son used to like helping Dad set up the beach umbrellas. This afternoon, he took the umbrella from me (I finally remembered to pack it) and declared the job was now his. As soon as the umbrella was up, he dove into the water and swam across the inlet in search of treasure. A man fishing on the beach turned to me said, “He swims really well. It’s so good to see a kid that good.” I thanked him, although I was a bit surprised. My son can get around and he can stay afloat for some time, but his strokes aren’t exactly pretty. Mine never were either. But perhaps it was more my son’s confidence that made him look good. 

Obviously, he didn’t find any treasure, not the coins and jewels he had come to expect. When he returned to me he accused, “It was you, wasn’t it? You used to hide the treasure?” But he didn’t wait around for an answer. After I ate my lunch, I went into the water with him. He asked me to push him across the inlet on his alligator and I did. On the opposite shore, I kicked minnows out of the water — returning each one before it died. My son tried but quickly gave up. When I was a year or two younger than him, I spent hours at the beach “fishing.” Every day, I challenged myself to see if I could catch more minnows than the day before. I was never bored at the beach. But my son is different.We walked along the water to where the shore was teeming with sand crabs, scuttling away from us to scurry into their holes. I caught one, to show my son. And then he got one. He also found whelks washed up on the beach but still slithering in their shells. Not wanting them to die, my son tossed them back into the sea. So he may not have found the treasure he was looking for, but it would be inaccurate to say he found no treasure at all. He enjoyed studying the seal life. 

Back in the water, he wanted me to tip him off the alligator again and again. I was happy to hear him laughing. As he swam to the surface one time, he looked out over the sand and caught a glimpse of the back of an old man wearing a reddish-pink shirt, the same color as Dad’s Assateague’s tee shirt, a shirt he often wore to the beach. The man also wore a gray baseball cap, so much like Dad’s, that my son commented, “That looks like Grandpa.” I started to speak, but he cut me off, “Don’t say anything. Let me pretend, just for a minute. Okay?”