volume 8
Jones Beach Reverie
by Whitney Scott
The smooth waters of Ellison Bay, Wisconsin, barely lap against this beach of rock, not sand, a rock beach formed by the repeated force of water against the cliff face. Eventually the limestone resistance crumbles so that chunks and boulders land haphazardly on top of each other to be broken down, pounded relentlessly by the surf.
Not like the beach of my childhood, Jones Beach, Long Island, where waves large and small slapped hard against the sand. I remember that as a place of tumultuous noises: sounds of the Atlantic Ocean against the sand, the shrieks of seagulls, babies crying, and yelling, always yelling—mothers yelling after their kids, and kids yelling at each other. The adults either did the same, yelled at each other, or spread suntan lotion on their legs, or maybe stretched out against each other on their blankets and smooched, which is what we called it in the Eisenhower 50s. Beach and water were packed with bodies, and a bunch of kids played in that narrow strip of wet sand on the edge of the beach not yet covered by rolling sea, safe from the bodies on the dry area further in. High-risk kids built their roads and towns there, knowing that a sufficiently large wave would soon roar in, smashing their handiwork. No matter, the kids would wander away from the wreckage and find something else to do.
Those of us with an eye to the future, the kids who built to last, chose places 30-40 feet from the water's edge, despite the hazard of so many people planting their bodies so close to our buildings. We knew we'd be long gone before the rising tides washed away our raceways and shopping centers; we understood the detailed turrets and tunnels we delighted in digging would at least survive the daylight hours. So my cousin Michael and I, best friends since we were toddlers, set out one hot August day with a couple of small metal buckets, a tin sand shovel, and two big serving spoons he snuck out of his mom's good silver chest. We were determined to build the biggest, best, and most decorated sandcastle on the beach that day.
Older, but only by seven months, he nevertheless took charge of the overall planning: protective moat surrounding the castle wall, inside of which was the courtyard, stables, and the castle itself. But I would be the boss of the décor, he said. We were New York kids, sophisticated beyond our nine years, and we appreciated, if not the fine distinctions, at least the importance of décor. So being in charge of that part was big stuff. My father, in turn, was in charge of us, which was a joke since he was snoring as soon as his head hit the beach blanket.
This was fine with us, as it meant we could roam further away for interesting pebbles and pieces of cardboard and driftwood for our manor: that's how Michael referred to our project because he'd been reading about life in a Medieval castle. I'd heard about The Middle Ages and knew about knights in armor and their horses, and agreed. We argued, however, about an actual name for it, neither allowing the use of the other's last name, and after much good-natured bickering and a few tossed buckets of water, we compromised on “The Manor”: “Simple, but elegant,” Michael declared loudly with great flourish. When he did, some adults next to us eyed him disapprovingly, I guess because they thought his gestures were effeminate. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten that look.
We wet the sand, spooned it into mounds that we slapped flat with the back of the shovel, then gradually built walls. I'd make one while he scooped out the surrounding moat with my aunt's good silverware, then we'd take turns. Before we knew it, we had a solid foundation of hard, packed sand with three walls and even a turret on one. The last wall was the hardest because we had to figure out how to rig a drawbridge to the main entrance, the only entrance, even though we both knew castles had at least one secret passageway for escape: a long underground tunnel beneath the moat that came out deep in the thick forest surrounding the manor fields.
No matter—first build, then defend—that was our motto. I'd already made a stable area within the protective walls so our horses would be safe, and we were rigging up some sticks and strings to pull the cardboard drawbridge when a bigger boy, maybe 10 or even 12, approached, wearing snug black trunks and what we'd call “attitude” today. He had well-defined arms and shoulders, and thick, muscled thighs, as though he played a lot of sports. His calves were brawny knots that flexed with every step he took. “Here comes trouble,” Michael whispered, leaning toward my ear. “Don't look now.”
But I did. Oh, did I ever. I stared at the stranger's tanned, well-built body and his eyes—my God, those eyes, black and deep as the tar on new roads.
“Babies,” he sneered, concentrating on Michael who gave me an evil glare. “Building a castle—hah!”
My cousin didn't speak; he hung his head, focusing on the wet sand. I didn't say anything, either, struck dumb by fear and strange excitement.
“You kids can't even build a decent one at that,” the visitor said, curling his upper lip at us in contempt as he strutted around our half-finished creation.
“Like to see you do better,” Michael mumbled, reddening to the roots of his sandy hair.
“What? What did you say?” The tall boy looked down at us, his eyes glittering darkly in the hot, bright sun.
“Nothing,” my cousin said, his arms stiff at his sides.
“Whaddya mean nuthin', squirt!”
Michael's flush deepened to scarlet. It was bad enough that he was doughy-white and pudgy, but he especially hated being short. I wasn't very tall, either, but that wasn't so bad for a girl. Then too, I was more of a tomboy, which was sort of okay, while being a sissy-boy like Michael wasn't. I couldn't understand why adults made these rules about how you could be one way, but not another, and how it all depended on whether you were a boy or a girl.
The stranger loomed over us. “Answer me, half-pint!” His tone took on a greater edge of menace.
My cousin stayed silent, his eyes fixed on the beach, while I couldn't keep myself from looking up at this boy, tall, commanding, steeped in violence. I slid my eyes up past his long, hard legs to the strip of black cloth outlining his body, then shifted my gaze past three or four couples on blankets over to my father, who was still sleeping. I knew he wouldn't hear me if I called to him, not over the noise of the gulls and sea and all the kids. Besides, that would be babyish.
“Leave us alone. It's none of your business, and we weren't bothering you,” I said, trying to sound brave, but horrified at the squeak from my mouth.
“Shut up, you're only egging him on,” Michael hissed under his breath, but not so quietly that the other kid didn't catch it.
“Right, girlie, shut up and let the little baby speak for himself.” If a sneer could have assumed human form, it had. Slowly, his eyes took in the scene around us, sweeping over the sea of anonymous bodies tanning in the bright sun, the little kids digging and filling holes, the lift of arms and heads bobbing in the ocean beyond. Anxiously, I tried to find the form of my sleeping father, but a bunch of people had gotten in the way, and all I could see was the back of his head on our blanket and the slow rising and falling of his bare shoulders.
Satisfied that we lacked any kind of effective adult supervision, the intruder moved closer to my cousin, who visibly flinched, no longer red but deathly pale. Boldly, the bigger boy took another step.
Don't, Michael, I thought. My dad's asleep, and nobody else would care, so don't let him see you're scared. But my cousin fluttered his eyes and raised his shoulder instinctively in self defense—not a lot, but enough to see. No, I thought, no, but I saw the glint in the stranger's eyes and knew there would be no escape from him, for the corners of his full mouth twitched upward, as though he was laughing over something no one else knew. When he took a deep breath, his face briefly relaxed into a blissful smile.
All of a sudden, his right foot flew through the air, collapsing two walls and the turret. A second blow from his left foot shattered our third wall; then he stamped and stomped and ground our moat into a hard-packed hollow with his heels.
“No,” my cousin moaned at the devastation, rocking slightly back and forth. His voice rose to a girlish shriek, shrill with fear. “No, don't. Stop it, please.”
The bully threw his head back with a genuine laugh of triumph over us as he kicked down our drawbridge and the remains of my stable. “C'mon, you little faggot,” he said to my cousin. “We're going to go play in the water.” He hauled Michael up and into the surf by the arm, twisting it until my cousin's mouth opened wide in a scream without sound or breath. “Yeah, we're playing,” the stranger said, laughing. “Just a couple of kids playing in the water.”
He leaned his weight on my cousin, bit by bit, until Michael was down on one knee, then both, then belly-down, facing flat in the surf that covered his shoulders. The stranger lowered himself on top, forcing that small head down in the water. He seemed unhurried, clearly deliberating on the length of time to keep Michael's head down, how many seconds to yank it up by the hair, then shove it back down. My cousin waved his arms and legs, but couldn't really do anything. Every time his head was forced beneath the water, his gulps for air became more desperate during each brief pause, his head wrenched tightly by hair that seemed to drip thick gobs of water. After what seemed like forever, even though it couldn't have been fifteen seconds, I stood and ran toward them. Michael lay pale and trembling in the burning sun.
“You stinking, rotten kid,” I said, hurling myself at the big kid, pounding with my fists, biting at him wherever I could. When I felt my teeth nip his earlobe he yelled, pushing me off into the shallows and leaving me there with my cousin to gasp and splutter in the heat. The last I saw of the big jerk was the swing of his butt as he left in long, sweeping strides down the edge of the beach.
Somehow, I half-dragged Michael, my best and dearest friend, to the remains of our sand fortress and helped him sit up. Leaning him back against me for support, I held him to me and felt the ragged edges of his breath pull and catch and rasp and painfully release over and over again, his wet back heaving against my sandy chest until his breathing finally slowed and his color looked more like it should.
Carefully he moved from my arms, turned, and sat facing me.
“You're okay,” I said, close to crying from relief, totally unprepared for the savage punch he landed on my shoulder.
Just enough to put me over the edge, the tears spilled over and down my face as I almost toppled backward and said, “What did you do that for?”
My cousin glared darkly at me. “For everything,” he said. “For what you did.” I must have looked blank because he continued, “For fighting: hitting him and biting him, and all.” Michael's eyes blazed navy blue into mine, and I knew then why my cousin had clobbered me. It wasn't because I'd punched or bitten that stranger—it was for the way I'd looked at him.
* * *
A few days later, school started for both of us. Because our homes were in different parts of the city and we went to different schools, and because, uncharacteristically, neither of us asked to visit the other that fall, I didn't see my cousin again until Halloween when his mom took us trick-or-treating. My mother made me go as Snow White, even though I'd wanted to be a dwarf, and Michael whispered to me that I looked stupid. Other than that, we didn't speak.
The close confines of my nana's house at Thanksgiving reunited us—that and the adults' assumption that we would hang out together as we always had on holidays. The absence of any other kids assured that, and fortunately our games of checkers ended in a draw and on a friendly note. A week later his dad took us to the dime store so we could buy presents for our moms, and we ended our excursion doubled up in laughter over some joke we shared, along with an ice cream soda that had two straws, one for each of us. By Christmas day my cousin and I happily spent a whole afternoon playing Monopoly, once again confidants and the best of friends. We must have gone to the beach again the following summer, but I can't remember; besides, we had both started forming closer bonds with friends from school, not family.
* * *
Years later, I sit by this bay and picture my cousin, who grew into a tall man, graceful and thin. Many called him elegant. An accomplished designer with an architectural firm in Chicago , he was among the first to benefit from the protease inhibitor “cocktail” for HIV. He loved his job, almost never missed work, and maintained his own place in Andersonville ; even his T-cell count improved once he adjusted to the new mix of medications. From all appearances, he'd regained his health and continued working his way to more and more challenging assignments until one night, on his way home from a gay film festival, two men jumped him, breaking three of his ribs, puncturing a lung, and beating him until his face was barely recognizable. They were long gone by the time he was taken to the hospital emergency room and pronounced dead on arrival. His wallet was found to contain over $200 in cash plus credit cards. Though robbery clearly had not been the motive, the Chicago Police were hesitant to call it a hate crime.
* * *
The wind has sharpened over the bay now as whitecaps form; soon most of these rocks will be submerged. Slanting shadows lengthen, adding volume to the bulk of these limestone monsters.
I think of my cousin and this place, guessing he would have liked it, would have wanted to build with its rocks, imagining him carefully constructing a sweep of long, low sea wall. Michael would have worked slowly, painstakingly fitting rock to rock with precision for maximum strength against the pounding force of wind and waves.
The sun falls deeper into the horizon. Shadows grow longer, completely covering the low stones in the hovering dusk. Boulders assume the shape of ancient dwellings fallen from the cliffs above, and I wonder how it might have been if we had built with rocks instead of sand, though knowing, in the end, there is no difference.