18
Nathaniel has a better idea. “Let’s go to the beach.”
“It’s supposed to rain tomorrow,” Susan says, checking the paper.
“Well, it’ll be that much less crowded, then,” Patrick says.
Nathaniel catches his eye and gives him a minuscule nod, and Patrick catches on: Nathaniel wants to get Susan out of the city, someplace new and different where she won’t be tempted to turn on the television and see footage of either parades or flag-draped coffins.
What he mostly remembers from that summer was that they’d both asked for his permission .
“I’m not secretly in love with you,” Susan said.
“I’m not working through my feelings for you by falling in love with your much better-looking younger brother.
Don’t flatter yourself.” Patrick had said that he loved the idea of his two favorite people being together, and he’d meant it.
Michael bluntly said that he was in love with Susan but wouldn’t do anything about it if it bothered Patrick.
Patrick repeated exactly what he told Susan, then added that it definitely wouldn’t be a problem for him, as he wasn’t interested in women anyway.
And then everything went to hell. Maybe Patrick just hasn’t met the right girl yet.
Doesn’t Patrick want to have a family? What if he changes his mind?
Isn’t he worried about getting arrested?
At that last question, Patrick had spat that it was too late to worry about that, and told him about the raid, about his aunt and uncle refusing to post bail, about how he didn’t know how to go home after that.
Patrick expected—he didn’t know what he expected, but he’d been keeping that secret for years, never sure which would be worse: letting Michael think he’d abandoned him for no reason, or Michael knowing the truth.
But Michael had simply said that he hoped Patrick didn’t go to that kind of place anymore—it didn’t sound very safe. Patrick has never come so close to hitting another person as he did to hitting his brother that day.
But first they’d gone to the beach, Susan borrowing a friend’s car and driving them out of the city. Jones Beach was hot and crowded. They all got sunburned and then spent two hours in wet, sandy bathing suits in traffic back to the city.
Patrick, somehow, remembers it as a good day, one of the best days.
He doesn’t know if that’s because it was one of the last good days, and he’s exaggerated it in hindsight, or if it was good in the uncomplicated way that things only can be when you don’t quite believe it will ever end.
Even Patrick was capable of that kind of hope at the age of twenty-two. Maybe everybody was in 1962.
None of them have bathing suits, so they all go to Macy’s, because it’s the easiest department store to reach on the subway.
“I can’t remember the last time I was in a department store,” Patrick says.
Susan glances sadly at his clothes. “Are we supposed to be surprised? I’ll meet you back here in half an hour.”
It takes Patrick and Nathaniel all of five minutes to find swim trunks, leaving them with plenty of time to visit the children’s department, where they discover that they make swimsuits for babies.
“I need to get it,” Nathaniel says, holding the hanger tight in his hand. “It has a matching sun hat. I’m getting it.”
“Not if I get there first,” Patrick says, and that’s how Eleanor winds up with a swimsuit that will make her look like a strawberry, a matching red sun bonnet, and a hooded terrycloth bathrobe.
“She can’t even walk,” Susan says when they show her. “She can’t even crawl. She could’ve sat in a tide pool in her diaper like all the other babies.”
Before leaving the store, Patrick remembers to buy film for his camera and for Susan’s Super 8.
In the morning, it’s just as gloomy as the weatherman predicted, but they put on their swimsuits and various combinations of t-shirts and shorts, fill one of Mrs. Valdez’s enormous beach bags with snacks and towels, and get on the subway to Coney Island.
It takes an hour, which brings even Nathaniel to the limits of his enthusiasm for subway graffiti, although he spends the entire trip holding the baby while Susan falls asleep, her head on his shoulder.
Somebody left a newspaper on the seat, so Patrick reads aloud the interesting parts of any articles that he thinks Nathaniel will like.
Patrick’s been to Coney Island—not the beach, but the boardwalk.
It’s the kind of place that answers the question What Should We Do Today when the weather’s decent and you don’t want to go to the movies.
People say it’s gone to seed, but there’s something inherently seedy about eating hot dogs while playing rigged games to win painted dolls.
Is there a non-seedy place to pay a psychic a quarter to guess your name, weight, and occupation?
Patrick isn’t sure he’d want there to be.
But it’s seedier than he remembers. The colors are faded and the paint is peeling.
Maybe it’s the cloudy weather, but the crowds are thin.
A bunch of stalls are shut down. It looks like the Parachute Jump closed since the last time Patrick was here, but it’s still standing, looming and quiet.
Some property developer demolished the rest of Steeplechase Park a couple years ago.
That same dickhead bought up a bunch of buildings and evicted everyone in order to put up some ugly high-rises.
If there’s one thing that Patrick’s learned from ten years in this city, it’s that around every corner is a dickhead trying to stop you from having fun in public, especially if you aren’t middle class, white, and visibly straight.
The plan is to buy three ice cream cones, rent an umbrella, lay out their towels, and—Patrick isn’t sure about the rest. The water will be cold. Eleanor’s barely old enough to sit up, and probably won’t have much fun besides her usual amusements of being tickled and held.
Before they can do any of that, Nathaniel sees the roller coasters.
“It’s been twenty years since I’ve been on one of those,” he says, eying the Cyclone like he’s sizing up an opponent.
The Cyclone is an enormous wooden deathtrap that looks like it might fall over if you lean on it too hard. Patrick hasn’t been on a roller coaster of any kind since junior high. He isn’t even too crazy about it when taxi cabs take sharp turns.
But Nathaniel watches the cars fly along the tracks as if it doesn’t look like an obviously bad idea.
“You got nervous on the escalator at Macy’s,” Patrick says. “How can you think that looks like fun?” He gives Susan a pleading look but she shakes her head. She’s always hated roller coasters. She won’t even go on the Ferris wheel.
Nathaniel glances between them. “I want to see if I can,” he says, and Patrick isn’t going to argue with that. “Do we have time?”
“We don’t have a schedule,” Patrick says. “The ocean isn’t going anywhere.”
“I could go for a ride and meet you back here for ice cream. There isn’t a line.”
“I’ll go with you, if you want company,” Patrick says.
Nathaniel still doesn’t like going anywhere farther than the grocery store by himself, but the truth is that Patrick will go wherever Nathaniel goes, unless he isn’t wanted.
That’s just the state of affairs and he probably ought to get used to it.
“Really?” Nathaniel asks, one corner of this mouth twisting up. “Susan, will you take our picture?”
Susan does better than that. She takes the Super 8 out from under Eleanor’s carriage and makes a movie of them waiting in line, waving at the camera, paying for their tickets, getting into the back row of the horrible little train car.
The seats are plain wooden benches with a metal rail that lowers over their laps. At the front of the car are parents with two kids and a high school-aged couple. They all look like sensible people without any kind of death wish, but looks can be deceiving.
Patrick forgot how loud roller coasters are. At no point are you allowed to shut your eyes and forget exactly how rickety the entire contraption is. That doesn’t mean he won’t try.
“You can open your eyes,” Nathaniel says. “The ride hasn’t even started.”
Patrick doesn’t want to be a spoilsport, so he opens his eyes.
“You can keep them shut, it’s fine,” Nathaniel says. “You’re being very brave.”
Patrick attempts to sink in his seat, but the ride operator comes around and lowers the safety bar.
You’d think they’d start out slow, but the first drop is a dramatic plummet.
Everyone on the ride screams, but Nathaniel gasps and starts laughing.
Patrick clutches the lap bar. There’s nothing to stop them from sliding against one another when the ride makes one of its sharp turns.
Nathaniel being next to him isn’t a novelty; Nathaniel touching him isn’t even a novelty at this point.
It’s distracting, though, enough to take the edge off the certainty of disaster.
Nathaniel’s hand closes over Patrick’s on the bar. “You’re doing so well.”
“Don’t patronize me,” Patrick complains, which only starts Nathaniel laughing again. The ride makes another drop. Nathaniel doesn’t let go of Patrick’s hand until the ride stops. There’s nobody who can see.
“So,” Nathaniel says when the car finally stops. “It turns out I hate roller coasters. Let’s go find somewhere nice to be sick.”
Susan reveals her true monstrous nature by filming them as they get off the ride, their hair windblown, their faces probably green. Patrick gives the camera a rude gesture. Nathaniel grabs Patrick’s hand and pulls it out of view. “Eleanor will watch that someday.”