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“I’ve had fun.” Her hand squeezed his. “Did you come here a lot when you were a child?”
He could hear the wistfulness. And imagined her as a child. Lost and alone.
“Not often, no. My folks couldn’t afford the time and money for vacations, and they were always stuck in the pub.” He kicked an empty cotton candy carton, then bent to pick it up—hearing the bitterness in his tone. But as he threw the carton in the trash, he felt a little ashamed of his resentment. His parents had always relied on him as a kid to watch over his younger siblings, and they’d never been able to give any of them much in the way of material goods, especially in the early days, when they were working all hours to change a failing business into a going concern. But those family trips to Coney Island had been a high point of his childhood.
“But we used to come here once a year and it was a really big deal, because it was the only vacation we had,” he continued, allowing the old joy to take the bitterness away. “Pop would put a couple of big, old mason jars in the kitchen at the start of summer vacation which we’d have to fill with nickels and dimes and quarters as fast as we could. Finn and the twins would play for change on the sidewalk. I had a couple of paper rounds and did deliveries for Mr. Zunicki at the grocery store, and Faith, when she got to be a bit older, would sell lemonade after Mass. Mom and Pop would put into it, too, tips from the bar, or spare change from the grocery shopping. The deal was, once it was full, Pop would break the jar and we could go to Coney Island for a whole day. But he used to keep us in suspense for weeks, while my brothers would moan and carry on, insisting the jars were full. And then usually, when we’d all given up hope, Pop would come into the kitchen one morning with a hammer. We’d start cheering and whooping because we knew what it meant. Today was going to be Coney Island Day.”
“Please, will you tell me about it? I used to adore hearing Faith’s stories about your family at school, but she never told me about Coney Island Day.” Zelda’s fingers squeezed his, her excitement an echo of the joy that had exploded in his chest when he was a kid and his Pop would arrive in the kitchen with the hammer. “And don’t stint on the details,” she added, her enthusiasm making her sound like a child on Christmas morning. Or even Coney Island Day.
He laughed, feeling strangely proud and humble that he had the story to tell. “Sure, if you want.” He grip
ped her hand, set it swinging, realizing how long it had been since he’d thought of this—such a simple memory, but such a good one.
Why had he always found it so easy to focus on the tough aspects of his childhood, instead of the good stuff?
“Well, once Pop had smashed the jar, we’d run around laughing like loons while we scrambled into our clothes, and mom got Faith ready. Then Pop would send me off with my brothers, hefting the big bag of change ’round to Mr. Zunicki to get all the nickels and dimes changed into dollar bills. When we got back, there would be a ‘closed’ sign on the pub. And we’d all pile into the station wagon and Pop would tell me to count up the money and share it out between me and my brothers and, when she was old enough, Faith, too. But I always had to leave enough over to give myself an extra twenty dollars.’
“Didn’t that piss off your siblings?” Zelda said, outraged as only a younger sister could be. “That you got more than them?”
“Are you kidding me? They pissed and moaned about it every single year. All except Faith, who always stuck up for me, no matter what. But Pop would shut them up, saying I was the oldest and I did the most to help out, so I deserved the extra money.”
How come he’d never remembered that either? That amongst all the responsibility he’d shouldered, and which he’d come to resent once he’d gotten older, there had also been all those small rewards and acknowledgements—which had made him feel ten feet tall when he was a kid.
“I suppose that’s fair,” Zel said, still sounding aggrieved.
“Hey, don’t get too upset. I always ended up sharing the extra money with my brothers and Faith anyway. Who wants to ride the Cyclone on their own?”
“Not me.” She shuddered theatrically. “So what else did you do? Did you spend the whole day on the rides?”
“No, eventually the money would run out, so we’d head for the Boardwalk. Mom would hound Finn and the twins into singing a couple of her favorite Neil Diamond tunes on the karaoke. Pop would stand in line to get us hot dogs for supper so we could eat them on the beach while we watched the fireworks. And Casey always threw up on the car journey home because he’d eaten too much candy.”
Zelda laughed, the throaty purr rich and full. “It sounds like so much fun. What a wonderful family memory to have. I envy you.” He caught the wistfulness in her tone again. And suddenly felt unbearably sad for her.
He’d been devastated when his mom died, the cancer diagnosis had been so unexpected, the swiftness of her death so shocking, and even though he’d been nineteen and just starting college, he’d felt the loss like a wound for years. And because of that, he’d been so mad with his pop, for not noticing how ill she was, for not doing enough to save her. And for falling to pieces when she’d gone.
He’d needed to have someone to blame. But the truth was, it had been nobody’s fault. And while he’d missed his mother, he’d still had his brothers and his sister and even his old man—despite the fact the guy had been hollowed out by grief. What must it have been like for Zelda, who’d lost both her parents when she was so much younger and had nobody to take their place? Least of all her older brother?
Did that explain all the dumb choices she’d made? The wild behavior and reckless misdemeanors? Had it all just been a plea for attention? For affection?
He let go of her hand, and slung his arm round her waist, pulling her round to face him in the darkness. The urge to hold her, to kiss her and keep her safe, overwhelming. “Yeah, I guess it was pretty amazing,” he said.
He looked back across the lot towards the pulsing neon in the distance, the raucous sound of piped disco music carrying towards them on the breeze, and recalled the aching sense of loss he’d felt as a kid when the fireworks had finished and Pop would declare it was time to go home for another year.
Back then, the weeks and months it would take for the summer to come round again and the long days after that before they had managed to fill the jar with enough money to earn another trip had stretched ahead of him like an eternity.
Because he was the oldest, and he knew his parents needed him to set a good example for his brothers, he had never kicked up a fuss the way they did when Pop said Coney Island Day was over. Even though for him the longing to stay had been painful, because he knew once they got back to the pub he wouldn’t be able to be just a kid again for another year.
“You don’t seem too sure,” Zelda said beside him.
He looked at her, the sharp sense of longing returning, but for something very different this time. Zelda had set her damn rules at the start of this weekend, but after everything they’d done together and how much they’d shared and how good she’d made him feel, he knew something now that he hadn’t known as a boy.
Sometimes it was better to break the rules than stick to ones that made you miserable.
“No, you’re right. It was amazing having my family with me back then.”
Almost as amazing as it’s been having you with me for the last three days.
He cradled Zelda’s cheeks, lifting her face to his, and saw the wariness in her eyes as her palms settled over his. “Ty, what is it? You look so serious?”
