Barnegat Bay - 7. Chapter 7

Maybe Claire started to worry about Mary when she and Spence regularly began to break the twenty-five-foot rule. That was always arbitrary, but they’d wander further and further on the beach while Claire and I stayed on the boardwalk.

“Should we follow?” I’d finally ask, when it was obvious Claire was nonchalantly straining to see after them.

Almost self-defensively, Claire would joke, “I can still see them.” Then she’d add, “We can move a little closer if they start heading towards the water.”

It’s not like they were about to go skinny-dipping. Guys sometimes did that – actually, often enough – but late at night, behind a dune or off a sandbar. The worst that would happen on a beach this public and so close to the lights of Jenkinson’s is Spence would take off his shoes and socks, roll his pants legs to his knees, and kick up some water. Maybe he’d playfully splash towards Mary, still safely on dry land. And even from fifty feet, Claire and I would know that was harmless.

For Mary, going into the ocean would be far more complicated. She could easily unstrap her shoes, but she’d have to take off her stockings as well, and I doubted she’d do that. It was simply the wrong place and time. Also, a woman taking off her stockings in front of a man might seem to invite something else.

We’d all seen Mary without her stockings – though in a bathing suit, on Sunday afternoons, after church. She, Claire, and I would come down to the beach with our blanket, towels, and umbrella because the guys were still working. I’d plant myself with the Sunday papers, and the girls would wander from one lifeguard chair to the other, visiting and bringing the guys snacks. But working in her aunt’s store, Mary always wore stockings with her fashionable dresses, and on Friday and Saturday nights at Jenkinson’s, though she wore more casual clothes, those stockings stayed on.

“I think they’re kissing,” Claire pointed out one night. “Have we seen them do that before?”

I glanced towards where Claire was looking and figured the reason she thought Mary and Spence might be kissing was their two separate silhouettes seemed to have merged into one.

“She could just be leaning against him,” I suggested. “It might be breezier along the water, and he could be protecting her in his arms – with her back against his chest.”

That’s practically Puritan,” Claire said, laughing. “Salt water bundling. Or are you covering for him?”

“Why would I do that?” I asked, smiling back. “What’s in it for me?”

Claire played coy. “The chance to get me alone. Distracted. With my guard down.”

“I don’t think your guard’s ever lowered.” I said that grinning, as we raised our jovial stakes. And Claire knew I meant it as a compliment.

Maybe as a sign of her trust in me – and this was made easier because I’d been standing slightly behind her on the boardwalk – she leaned back against my chest. In return, I wrapped my arms around her.

“Maybe I should thank Spence,” I quietly joked – because that was as intimate as Claire and I had ever been. It didn’t seem uncomfortable for her, and it certainly wasn’t for me. And I wondered, “Could we do this for several years before matters went further? Or, if we actually got publicly engaged, would we have to set about turning into a serious married couple immediately after – with all the expected milestones and obligations?”

I turned my head slightly and leaned over to look at Claire, thinking maybe she had an answer. Instead, maybe misinterpreting my intention, she seemed to impulsively kiss me. That was nothing new. We’d kissed before, as publicly, and this one was no more involved. But we soon found ourselves shifting to face each other, with her face tilting up and mine leaning down. And we didn’t even notice the shadows around us until Spence cleared his throat.

“Uh... aren’t you two supposed to be watching us?”

“Yeah,” Mary added. “Aren’t you supposed to be the boring chaperones – here to make sure we wild folk stay out of trouble?”

She was pointing to herself and Spence, and behind her, he quietly laughed. As quickly, Mary giggled. Claire and I laughed right back, but with Claire, there was a slight nervousness to it, as if being caught out of character. That made me grin like the idiot I probably was.

“We’re not the shore patrol,” I insisted.

“More like the sex police,” Spence gibed, unlike him in several directions – speed and openness.

“Hand check,” Mary joked, holding hers wide and innocently beside her.

Claire and I did the same, and Spence joined us. Then we all were uncontrollably laughing, and we hadn’t quite gotten over it when we wandered back on the dance floor at Jenkinson’s.

“What’s up, you guys?” Larry immediately asked.

“Yeah,” Mike seconded. “What’s so funny?”

“They’ve been drinking,” Al put in. “I’ll bet you anything,”

“And you didn’t ask us?” Larry mock pouted.

“Your stuff’s always better,” I insisted.

“Fresher, anyway,” Mike admitted. “He just bought the rubbing alcohol this morning.”

When we finished laughing at that, Mike again asked, “What was so funny when you all came in?”

“Nothing that can be repeated,” Claire told him casually.

“Something off-color,” Mike whispered – a deep-voiced conspirator to Al.

“You gotta tell us,” Al insisted.

“It was nothing,” I dismissed. “Something funny we saw on the beach. In the water. It wouldn’t make sense out of context.”

Claire, Mary, and Spence all nodded, to agree with me, so the guys had to let go. Still, when Claire and I were later slow dancing to a gentle song, she asked, “What was that really about?”

I hesitated. I thought I knew and realized that playing innocent would gain me nothing. Claire might even think less of me. “We may have turned a corner,” I admitted – lightly, so as not to panic her.

She smiled to acknowledge that but then confessed she wasn’t asking about that. “Were Mary and Spence really kissing?” she clarified.

I tried to recover. I wasn’t sure how far I needed to retreat, but my pants suddenly felt down around my ankles. I also needed be careful. “I think – maybe – Mary and Spence are as interested in each other as you and I are.”

There was an offer in that and a surrender, and I waited to see how Claire would reply.

“We know when to stop,” she quickly pointed out. Then she looked at me, as if that was a question.

“Do we?” I wondered – though to myself. Or would we just reflexively know – perhaps because of our better educations – to be more careful? I didn’t think it mattered, because I didn’t think we’d get anywhere near the matter that summer. I also knew that I was probably more experienced than Claire, and even though I had her trust, and she might do anything I asked if it was clearly something we both wanted, I still thought she’d wait till after we got married.

Wait. What had I said? When did I even start thinking like that? One moment, I was insisting that reaching thirty would change nothing – because money hadn’t changed, and we were still in a depression. And the next, I was openly kissing someone I possibly seemed to be serious about on a public boardwalk. That acknowledged a huge change and suddenly had me whizzing down the tracks towards “maturity.” But was that what Claire really wanted? And did I?

My parents would be pleased. There was no reason they wouldn’t like Claire. Well, a tiny one. But religion played such an unimportant part in our lives, I doubted that could suddenly matter. My family – and not only my immediate one but in almost all of its extended branches – mainly went to temple for weddings. Even funerals were held somewhere else. And while Claire’s parents could possibly object to me for having a lack of religion – since they were regular, at least outwardly believing, church-goers – to balance that, I was still a doctor. I was an employed, educated man, with an optimistic future. And if it came to it – if that single thing was really what got in the way – I could easily convert. I was sure I could be every bit as devout a Christian as I was a casual Jew.

But the big question was,“Were we ready for these changes?” Claire was, after all, eight years younger than I was, just out of college, and seemingly ready to explore. And there’d be so many adjustments. Could I, specifically, come up to them?

“We would know when to stop,” I quickly told Claire, almost repeating her earlier thought. “Or know not to start,” I went on – both feeling something out and trying to wiggle my metaphorical pants at least back to my knees.

“Exactly,” she confirmed, which both assured and unsettled me. “But Spence has already passed that point,” she continued. “You know what happens on your boat when you’re gone.”

No, actually, I didn’t. I could guess if I wanted. Though I didn’t really care.

“And what do you think happens when I’m there?” I teased Claire instead.

“You sleep.” It was a declaration of fact. “You’re so completely worn out from work, the train, dancing, and all your 4 AM parties that once you fall into your tiny bed, you don’t know anything exists till lunchtime.”

“Sometimes after noon,” I had to confess. “You don’t see me because you’re off doing something or other.”

“Mostly work.”

I nodded, going on. “But, on Saturdays – and Sundays – I don’t really see the sun till it’s well overhead.”

“I knew that,” she said, smiling.

“But how do you know how little my berth is?” I teased again. “You’ve never been below deck.”

Claire again smiled. “Mary’s not the only girl I know in town.” She was now openly laughing. “And Mary’s not the only one who shares my beliefs.”

“You know fallen women?” I jested.

“You want their names?”

“Probably already know them.”

We were joking, a little dangerously, and she pulled back first.

“But I know other girls – with very different values. And who am I to judge?”

She was still grinning, but she meant that, and I admired her for it. Still, it reinforced my feelings about how insulated she was. She wasn’t still living in the age of high button shoes and impenetrable corsets. She knew how the war and the ‘20s had changed so many things, and that they’d changed faster and further in the city than in places as sheltered as Toms River. And it wasn’t just the sudden lack of money and its freedom that was beginning to shift some changes back. But even at my most conservative, I suspected I was instinctively more flexible than she was. She simply wasn’t raised by someone as forward thinking as my mother and as tolerant as my dad.

“Want to run off for the rest of the weekend?” I joked. It wasn’t a test, and if she’d said, “Yes,” I’d be unsure of my answer. But it was only Friday night. “I know a tiny hotel in Nyack,” I continued. “Where no one would ever recognize us.”

She quickly volleyed. “If you’ve been to Nyack before, you’d be recognized.”

“Then maybe you know a place?” I kidded.

“I’m not even sure where Nyack is,” she assured me.

“And either does Mary.” I cemented that thought by looking squarely into Claire’s eyes. Around us, people were dancing, the tempo had picked up, and the band was playing loudly. But Claire and I had moved to the side of the room and were maybe having the most serious conversation of our lives.

“I can look after Mary,” Claire told me solidly, and I knew she intended that. But maybe not as diligently if she was distracted with me.

I wanted to kiss her again. I wanted to grin, and drop to one knee, and ask the not altogether silly question that mainly got asked that way in popular songs. But Claire wouldn’t have let me kiss her just then, and if I foolishly tried, she might not give me any other chances, no matter how she actually felt. And if we really were considering marriage – and that soon – the dance floor at Jenkinson’s wasn’t the place to propose.

“Where is Mary?” I suddenly asked instead. I could see Spence. He was dancing with another girl, and they were both showing off their moves. But Mary was nowhere around.

“Probably in the Ladies’ Room,” Claire suggested. And – seeming reluctant – she went off to see. I wondered what she’d think if, when she came back, I was dancing with someone else. I certainly wouldn’t risk finding out. Everything was too new.

It took a while for Claire and Mary to come back, and in that time I could have danced with several women and still been chastely back in my seat. Toward the end of my wait, I was almost tempted to, out of restlessness. Instead, I wandered to where Larry and Mike were trying out variants of old routines. Some of their new audience were the expected younger girls, but there were several guys, and they were all having fun.

“It’s not just a matter of never finding a job,” Larry was riffing. “It’s the idea of being cramped at your parents’ kitchen table, with your wife, and your kids, and your brother and his wife and their kids, and your sister and her husband and...”

He didn’t have to finish. The group was already laughing along. Then Mike topped him.

“And where you gonna find the privacy to have those kids anyway?”

As that set everyone howling, Claire tapped on my shoulder. Mary was beside her, and I could tell they’d been talking – that it hadn’t just been a matter of waiting on the usually long Ladies’ Room line. And I could have asked, or kidded, about what they’d discussed. But I knew that wasn’t how they expected me to behave.

Mary went off to dance with Spence, but when I pointed toward the floor, Claire shook her head. Instead, she nodded toward one of the side porches. It was typically hot inside and getting late, but even more, Claire looked like she didn’t want to shout over the music.

“They were kissing,” she soon told me. “Very seriously.”

“What stopped them?” I asked, and Claire had to laugh.

“Us,” she said. “Mary admitted that she was suddenly worried about what we might think. But when she turned to see if we were watching, and she saw what I was doing, she felt she had to stop me before I embarrassed myself.”

I laughed at that. “Clever Mary.”

“Yes,” Claire agreed. Then she pecked my cheek. “And yes,” she went on. “I didn’t miss what you said before, and I wasn’t in any way avoiding it. We have turned a corner.”

Again, I looked carefully at her, wanting to ask, “And you’re okay with that?” But I didn’t need to. I could see the answer. And after that, Mary, Spence, Claire, and I became more of a foursome, wandering the beach not far from each other, but in separate pairs, all of us out of the glow of the boardwalk lights.

We weren’t so bold as to carry an old blanket or two with us, to be spread as protection from the sand. But we knew there were lifeboats regularly spaced along the shore, some overturned to keep dry and some left right side up for kids to play in. And we could sit on the sand and lean back on the boats or sit in them and cuddle, whatever our moods might be. Also, we weren’t the only couples “looking for seashells.” It was a long beach, and most people our age lived with their families or were vacationing with them.

As Mike had joked, there was no privacy. But that also provided security. And if Claire and Mary didn’t have to look after each other, I didn’t have to worry about Spence. If he could quiet Al, Larry, and Mike with a glance, I suspected the slight advantage of my age and my career could keep Spence under control. Though he seemed all good manners with Mary – or so she reported, and I heard third-hand.

“He’s never done anything you and I wouldn’t think of,” Claire told me, out on the porch. “I’m sure, after the summer, he’ll be rapidly forgotten.”

“You really think so? I guess that’s reassuring. Unless Mary’s seriously interested.”

“I don’t think so. I could be wrong. But I usually know her fairly well.”

Of course, thinking about it later, lying in the warm darkness of my boat, I wondered if that same “after the summer” applied to Claire and me. We seemed pretty comfortable in our almost surprise relationship. But what if that simply faded with the distance of the fall?