Two Beaches

The sun cut through the morning fog hovering above the water greened by vegetation. A rusty steel rail betrayed the lake's past as it had punctured the surface, the other end embedded in the muddy bottom. Near the rail, a walking bridge lay victimized by time: its middle had collapsed into the deepest spot. The steam locomotives once drank from here, but they had long since retired. Now, Henderson Lake had two beaches. The blistered asphalt scorched through Rudy's sneakers, forcing him to retreat to the shoulder of the road. Humidity thickened the air, and Rudy sucked in, then heaved out a weighted breath. He shielded his eyes, glancing up at the high blue sky. Past an hour, still no ride. Occasionally shifting towel rolls from one hand to the other, the five trudged in two groups: Rudy and Sean kept Stanley Joe with them, while Spike and Pete thumbed ahead. If a car pulled over, they'd agreed to converge and beg the driver to cram in all five. Now, Rudy spotted a two-toned Oldsmobile corner off a side road. It coasted to the edge, waiting for Spike and Pete. Sean and Rudy sprinted after the car, Stanley Joe lumbering on their heels. Spike yanked open the front and Pete the back, scampering in and slamming the doors. Gravel flew as the car cut a swath over the sticky highway. Sean twisted his mouth and spat into the dust. “Let's go.” He pulled his radio from his rolled-up towel and switched it on. The Drifters harmonized about the “Last Dance,” and the three plodded single file. Each time a vehicle crackled over the pavement, the trio pivoted in unison, sticking out their thumbs, but no luck. Bobby Darin sang “Mack the Knife” as Sean described what he would do when he got his hands on Spike. But Rudy was too miserable for revenge talk. He gazed at heat shimmering off the road in the distance, thinking of earlier that morning. He'd opened the screen door. The Wonder Bread sign had rattled. He'd groaned: no chilled air, dowsing his hopes of escaping the July steam. Sean had trailed behind, his radio screeching Chubby Checker's “The Twist.” The aroma of bread, meats, cheese, and candy had mingled, swimming in Rudy's skull. Sean had sauntered to the pastry container, removed a glazed doughnut, and tossed a nickel into a cigar box beside the cash register. Rudy held the door for a lady packing a sack, let it slap shut, then copied Sean. Spike was at the pinball machine pushing his fingers against the flipper buttons. Stanley Joe was devouring an ice cream sandwich, eyes transfixed by the steel ball catapulting from bumper to bumper, the machine dinging with each thump of metal against rubber. At the end of a counter a short, stout man adjusted groceries in a cardboard box. Rudy watched him jot onto a pad. The man looked up and said to Rudy,. “How you doin', Yankee fan? Survivin’ among all these Cardinal fanatics?” Spike and Sean glanced over. Rudy forced down a chomp of doughnut. “Mornin', Mort.” The short, stout man turned his attention away from Rudy toward the front of the store. “Stanley Joe, move the butcher block for me?' “You bet, Mort.” The hulking teenager crammed the last of the ice cream sandwich into his mouth and ambled to the rear. “How you doin', Rudy?” he asked through bulging cheeks. “Hot,” answered Rudy, stepping aside. Sean finished his doughnut and strolled to the pinball machine. Spike stopped playing. He glared at Sean, then unrolled a pack of Camels from his shirt sleeve. Sean glared back, switched the radio off, and set it on top of a red pop cooler. “Right here, Stanley Joe,” said Mort, gesturing to a spot beside the meat case. “Sure enough.” Gripping each side, the big blond heaved the legs of the butcher block off the floor, lugged it over and gently placed it, then went back to the front. At the pinball machine, Spike lit up a cigarette, took a drag, then shot a blue-white stream toward Sean. “Quit blowin' smoke at me.” “I'll blow smoke any place I damn please.” Spike drew in and blasted more smoke at Sean. “Let's go.” Sean, fists clinched, jutted his barrel chest against Spike, dwarfing his older but smaller brother. “Knock it off.” Mort tossed a meat hook onto the block. It landed with a clank. “Gonna fight, sell tickets and make some dough.” Spike left the pinball machine, and Sean began playing. Mort motioned at the block. “Had it cut and filed yesterday. Guy set it where it wasn't handy.” Rudy nodded as he eyed the bloodstains decorating the storekeeper's apron. Mort shot his eyes at Spike. “Stop leanin' against the candy case.”Spike shoved away from the ancient glass case. He inhaled, then exhaled a stream of smoke and dropped the butt to the floor, smashing it with his foot “Spike, you have class—all of it low. Sweep that up or get out.” Spike did as he was told. Mort reached inside his apron and withdrew a cigar. The storekeeper bit off one end, spat it into a wastebasket behind the counter, then lit up. “Mantle gonna get 61 in ’61, or will it be Maris?” Smoke swirled around Rudy's head, and he shooed it away. “No homers for Mick last night. Maris hit one,” Rudy said as he ran his right palm over his crew cut and brought it back damp. He glanced at the air conditioner. “How come that's not on?” Mort puffed on the cigar and another cloud of smoke surrounded Rudy. “On the fritz.” Rudy watched the screen open, and a boy who seemed as wide as tall plugged the doorway. He slid a comb through his greasy black pompadour. Mort withdrew his cigar. “In or out, Pete. Invitin' every fly in Prairie Grove.” “Yeah, OK.” “How's it goin', Pete?” asked Rudy, meandering to the front of the store. “Cool—everything is cool—except Mother Nature.” He chuckled, slipping the comb into his hip pocket. Sean's pinball skill failed him. He snatched his radio off the pop cooler, switched it on, and walked over to Rudy. Stanley Joe followed. Brenda Lee sang “I’m Sorry.” “Love to spend an hour with Brenda Lee,” Pete said. “More like a couple seconds,” said Spike. Everyone laughed except Pete. "Brenda Lee's a midget," announced Stanley Joe. Sean switched off the radio. “Where'd you get that damn fool idea?” “Out of a magazine Rudy read to me.” “That magazine's full of S-H-I-T,” said Spike. “Watch your language,” said Mort from the rear of the store. “An actual customer might walk in.” The big teenager turned to Rudy. “Ain’t she a midget?” Rudy strolled to the pop cooler, opened the lid, lifted out a Pepsi and pressed the wet bottle against his neck, then let the lid plunk closed as he subtly winked at Sean. “That’s what the magazine said.” Spike gave a dismissive wave. “Aw, you're so full of sh....” He glanced back at Mort. “So full of it your eyes are turnin' brown.” “Yeah, she ain't no midget—just petite,” agreed Pete. “You know—tiny.” “I know what petite means,” Rudy answered, stepping over to the cigar box and flipping in a dime. He swigged the Pepsi, about to josh Spike and Pete some more when the screen door opened. The gang stared. A little black boy and two smaller black girls stepped up to the candy case, examining its contents. Mort was wrapping meat. He clutched the cigar on one side of his mouth and out of the other said, “Rudy, take care of 'em.” Rudy set the bottle on the counter and slipped behind the candy case. “What can I get you?” The four teenagers stared. The children surveyed the assortment of sweets. “Two cents' worth of them candy buttons,” said the boy, placing a rolled-up towel on top of the candy case as he considered his next choice. “Three cents' worth of them wax bottles with that sweet juice in 'em—and a nickel's worth of Double Bubble.” He tucked the towel under his left arm and looked up at Rudy. “That's all.” Rudy shook open a small brown paper sack. He bent down and dropped the candy into it, glancing up through the glass, sending a half-smile to one of the little black girls. Rudy handed the boy the sack. He reached up and laid sweat-coated coins in Rudy's hand. The boy's fingers touched Rudy's palm. Rudy glanced toward the other four staring at him as he counted ten pennies. From the back, Mort shut the meat case. “Thanks, mister,” said the boy. Rudy nodded and dropped the pennies into another cigar box resting on the top shelf of the candy case. He gestured at the towel. “Going swimmin’?” “After we visit our grandma for a spell,” the smaller girl answered over her shoulder as the three left. That morning the other four teenagers had scurried to the front window, gawking as the children crawled into a rattle-trap sporting Missouri plates. The jalopy crept from the curb and limped down the street. “Damn, if that don't take the cake.” Rudy came from behind the candy case. Spike continued: “Jigs comin' to our side of town, helpin’ themselves to what's ours. Crossin’ the river to boot.” “Yeah, them blackbirds walked in here big as you please—ain’t even from Illinois either,” said Stanley Joe, who knew Missouri plates by the color. “This ain't their store.” “Not yours either,” said Rudy. “What you talkin' about?” asked Pete. “Mort didn't care if they bought some candy,” said Rudy. The storekeeper looked up as he wrapped another order of meat. “All I'm sayin' is little coons start comin' around to get candy,” said Spike, “and the next thing you know, big coons will be over here wantin' other things.” “Yeah, like chasin' after our sisters.” “Pete, you don't even have a sister.” “Come on, Rudy. You know what he means. Give 'em an inch and they'll take a mile,” said Sean. Stanley Joe raked the sweat from his face with his big hand. “Boy, it's hot. Why don't we go swimmin' at the lake?” “Swimmin’?” Spike laughed. “All you do is stand around in the shallow water watchin' the rest of us.” The big boy hung his head. “It's a good idea,” said Rudy. “I could stand to cool off.” Sean agreed, and Stanley Joe grinned at Rudy. “Yeah, besides, I'd like to see chicks in those teeny bikinis.” Pete put a hand to the back of his head and wiggled his hips. The gang roared. Mort looked up. “How do you suggest we get out there?” asked Spike. “The battery on the Ford is deader than an old dog's di...” He peeked back at Mort slicing meat. “Old dog’s you-know-what.” “Let’s buy a new battery,” suggested Stanley Joe. “What with, moron, our sex appeal?” Spike leaned against the candy case. “How about thumbing it?” asked Rudy. “No way—too damn hot,” said Spike. “You have a better idea? We want to cool off and see girls, don't we? It's Henderson by thumb or swelter.” Except for the sound of the meat slicer there was silence. Sean scratched his head. “Rudy's right.” Mort placed a package of meat in a box and shot a glare at the gang. “That's it. Spike, I told you to quit leanin' against my candy case. Now, damn it, you guys hang out somewhere else for change.” That morning, Rudy had chugged the rest of his Pepsi, and the five had filed out of Mort Wohlman's store. Now, he heard Stanley Joe's voice invading his daydream. “There it is!” Rudy looked in the distance and saw the red brick pavilion rising in front of the beach. Ignoring the heat, the hitchhikers took off on a dead run. The sound of Dion singing about a “Lonely Teenager” drifted from the jukebox on the second story dance floor, and the three hustled down a flight of concrete steps toward the dressing area. Rudy yanked off his T-shirt, shoes, socks, J.C. Penney jeans, and underwear, then slid on his trunks. He gathered up his clothes, checked the change in a pocket, and wrapped the clothes in the towel. He stopped at a mirror, dug a comb from his jeans rolled up in his towel, and ran it through his hair. He gave himself a final inspection, then walked out to face the burning sun; being careful though to stand in the shade of the pavilion to avoid the hot concrete sidewalk. Stanley Joe tagged after him. Stanley Joe drawled on, but Rudy paid no mind. A girl in a red bikini paraded by on the grass between the sidewalk and the sand. Rudy looked her up and down. She stopped and smiled. He smiled back. Her brown skin glistened, and Rudy got a whiff of baby oil. The sun's rays had erased the marks of the straps, which dangled untied over her half-covered breasts. She pushed her sun-bleached hair to the top of her head and bunched it there, posing as she repositioned a bobby pin. From the jukebox, the lead singer for the Platters hit the last note of “Only You.” Rudy was about to flirt when Sean joined them, his eyes scanning the lake. “There's my rat brother on the raft. Let's haul ass.” The three hopped across the sidewalk, dropped their belongings in a heap near a bolder sporting a plaque telling the history of Henderson Lake, and raced over the beach, dodging sunbathers and kicking sand behind them. Passing the lifeguard chair, Rudy and Sean dove into the water and swam for the wooden platform floating a hundred feet or so from shore. The water both shocked and relieved Rudy's hot flesh. Sean beat him by a couple of strokes. He pulled himself onto the raft as Rudy came up the ladder attached to the side. Rudy looked toward the beach. He saw Stanley hesitate at the water's edge, then tiptoe in and begin splashing around. Rudy turned to find the others. Spike was heading for the high dive when Sean shot after him. “You goddamn rat, ditching us like that!” People stared. Spike let go of the handrail and dashed for the side. Sean followed him into the water, creating a geyser that splattered drops onto three women tanning near the edge. The brothers surfaced about a foot apart. Sean pushed the palm of his right hand onto Spike's head, dunking him. The lifeguard at the raft, seated on a chair above them, blew his whistle. Treading water with his left hand, Sean strained to hold his brother under with his right. Rudy came to the side of the raft, flanked by Pete. The lifeguard started down from his chair. Spike churned the water. “Sean, let him go,” said Rudy. “Yeah, Sean, we didn't mean nothin'. Just a little joke. The lady didn't have room anyway—with her kids and us. She didn't have room for you guys,” said Pete. Now, the lifeguard was beside Rudy. “You better let go or I'll ban you from the lake.” Bubbles gurgled up and settled on the surface. Sean tightened his grip and increased the pressure. “Sean, it's no big deal—let him go!” yelled Rudy. “I'm warning you, kid.” Sean withdrew his hand and Spike's head popped out of the water, his mouth gaping open. Gasping for air, he struggled onto the raft with help from Rudy. He sat coughing and wiping water from his eyes. The lifeguard gave another warning and started back for his chair. Sean floated on his back, spouting a stream of water between his lips like a fountain. “Damn you to hell, you bastard,” panted Spike. “Hey, that's enough of that talk,” said the lifeguard, ascending his perch. “I'll pound your ass good!” Spike screamed at Sean. “Hey, you two had better quit fighting and cussing.” But the brothers ignored the lifeguard. Sean rolled off his back and began treading water. “Think you're going to pound me, huh? Well, in the words of the late, great Buddy Holly, 'that'll be the day.'” Sean laughed, then said, “Wimp.” Rudy was tired of all this nonsense, and he didn't want Sean kicked out. “I can stay under longer than any of yuh.” He dove in, submerging himself as long as his wind would allow. When he surfaced, Spike and Sean were on the side searching the water along with Pete. For the next hour, they played games and took turns going off the high dive. Finally, they grew bored and hungry. The four dove in and raced toward shore, intending to grab change from their jeans and head to the snack shop. Sean was the first to make it to shallow water. He turned and watched as the others arrived. Stanley Joe waded over to him. Spike rose from the water and glowered toward the beach. Sean and Pete copied his glare. Rudy searched, then spotted three dark figures dashing across the sand and entering the water. Others at the beach stopped and stared. Spike and Pete pumped their legs, splashing water in front of them as they strode onto the sand, tramping up to the lifeguard's chair. “What are you going to do about that?” demanded Spike. He pointed to three black children playing in the water. Pete shoved in front of Spike. “Yeah, they got Coons' Cove.” The bronzed figure looked down, then out at the children splashing each other. Sean and Stanley Joe came onto the sand. Rudy followed them. He turned and recognized the black kids from Mort's that morning. “You going to kick 'em out? Like we said, the coloreds got their own beach, and I ain't swimmin' with 'em here at ours,” said Spike. “Pretend they aren't there.” The lifeguard removed his pith helmet. “Ignore them and they'll go away.” He replaced and adjusted the pith helmet. “Coloreds are tryin' to take over everything,” Sean said to Rudy. “It's a public lake.” “They have Coons' Cove, Rudy,” said Pete. “Yeah, their own beach,” agreed Sean. “Some beach,” said Rudy. “A muddy drop-off with a shack for dressing.” “Jesus, what is your problem? Coloreds don't require much,” said Spike. “Hell no. Give 'em a shack and a muddy drop-off and they're happy—long as some do-gooder don't put ideas in their hard skulls,” said Pete. Rudy didn't respond. He looked down at the sand, then back at the kids playing. “You jigaboos get out of here right now!” Rudy snapped his head up and looked at Stanley Joe. The children froze, tiny droplets of water clinging to their hair. Stanley Joe charged into the lake. “Go on! Get on outta here, you blackbirds!” The children retreated from the water. They dashed across the sand toward a grove of trees near the foot of the old walking bridge. “Damn straight, Stanley,” said Spike. “You chased their black asses outta here.” “Yeah, you showed those little coons,” said Pete. Sean nudged Rudy. “He did the right thing.” Rudy studied the sand. “Go tuh hell—you white trash!” The little boy stood where the beach met the grass. He flipped up a middle finger, then turned and jogged after the girls, who had disappeared into the grove of trees. Stanley Joe ran out of the water and across the beach. He surged onto the grass toward the boy, who pivoted just as the big teenager reached out to snatch him. The boy dodged to the side, causing Stanley Joe to rush past. Then he darted onto the dilapidated bridge, looking over his shoulder as Stanley Joe chased him. Sprinting to keep free, the boy's face registered shock as he reached the aperture, his feet leaving contact with the decaying bridge. He seemed to hover in midair, then descended with his black legs bicycling madly, finally splashing into the water. White swimmers and sunbathers mobbed the bank by the bridge, watching the little boy thrash. Rudy shoved his way through the press of bodies and ran onto the bridge, joining Stanley Joe at the edge of the gap. The little boy's arms slowed, then he went under so that only hair stuck above the surface. Rudy looked across at the lifeguards. The one at the raft was just setting out in his rowboat, while the one guarding the beach had joined the crowd on the bank. The boy's head bobbed back up. The boat was yards away. The boy went under again. Rudy looked down, then plunged headfirst into the water. Henderson Lake surrounded him as he searched for the black boy. Rudy opened his eyelids and was hit by the sting of the water as it pressed dark on his eyes. Now, he felt something slick and fleshy, and Rudy grabbed hold of it. Fighting to get above the gloom, Rudy wrestled the boy. The two parted the water, but only for a second as the little boy thrashed and yanked, dragging both of them under. Where in hell is that lifeguard? thought Rudy. He flung his right arm over the boy's chest, managing to hook him under the chin. The two came back to the top with Rudy gripping as the boy kicked and flailed. Rudy weakened and gasped for oxygen. He glimpsed the boat, still a ways off. Then as he struggled, Rudy spotted the old rusty steel rail sticking above the water, perhaps a half-dozen strokes away. Rudy propelled the two of them toward the long piece of metal. Under they went. Goddamn it, thought Rudy. The fight was ebbing from the boy, but Rudy was also spent. He managed to surface clutching the boy, who choked, coughed, and spat. Rudy stroked with his left arm, the right grasping the boy. Lifeguard? He thought. He had the boy almost to the rail. Rudy reached out and touched it with his fingertips, but his grip loosened and the child slipped back under. Rudy groped. Where is he? God, where is he? He dove under again, pushing his hands around him, searching for the boy. Nothing. He dove deeper. His right hand struck something cold and still. It was the child. Rudy grabbed tightly to the little boy and frog-kicked once, twice, and a third time, rising to the lake's surface. The steel rail was within reach. He grabbed on. The boy lay limp. “Breathe,” begged Rudy. “Breathe.” His body was still. “Please breathe,” whispered Rudy. The boy stirred. He's alive flashed through Rudy's brain. The teenager searched for oxygen as he squeezed the steel rail with his left arm, the right wrapped around the child, the boy's black arms draped about Rudy's neck. The boy hugged Rudy, then coughed and vomited onto his shoulder, and Rudy drew the child closer. The boy flung bursts of air between his blue-black lips. His wet, tight curls brushed against Rudy's cheek. The boat arrived. The lifeguard reached down and pulled the boy into the boat. He struggled helping Rudy. The three headed for shore. The black boy sprawled onto the floor of the boat, his chest heaving. The wooden bow split the water. It hit the bank with a thud. The crowd parted as the lifeguard helped the child onto land. Rudy glanced at the people. He spotted Sean. With the boy staggering in front of him, Rudy pushed past Pete and Spike and the girl in the red bikini. He glanced back at Stanley Joe standing on the bridge watching them. Rudy plopped onto the grass at the foot of the bridge. The white people gawked at Rudy and the black boy for a spell, then they drifted back to what they had been doing: swimmers swam and sunbathers darkened themselves. The lifeguards returned to their perches. The gang lingered for a few minutes longer. Then Spike and Pete headed for the snack shop, followed by Stanley Joe. Sean acted like he wanted to say something important to Rudy, but only said, “See yuh—when yuh catch your wind, I'll see yup.” Then he left too. Rudy and the little boy sat in silence alone at the foot of the bridge. At last the boy rose and walked into the grove of trees. Rudy's eyes followed him; then he looked at the gang disappearing into the snack shop. Back when they came in from the raft, Rudy had wanted an ice cream sandwich and maybe a black cherry pop to go with it. But his appetite had fled him. He rose and gathered up his belongings, hustling to the dressing area, where he pulled on his clothes and hurried back out into the prairie heat. Rudy headed down a different route than the one he'd come on—a longer route, one that the rest of the gang wouldn't travel because it passed by the beach where the black people swam. A ways off, at the pavilion, a fresh number was selected on the jukebox. Sam Cooke's smooth voice reached out over Henderson Lake, telling everyone at the two beaches about men working on the chain gang. As he hummed along, Rudy thought he heard someone yelling his name, but he marched on and didn't look back. “Two Beaches” was published in the literary/art magazine Phizzogs, vol. xxxiv, spring 2012.

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