Barnegat Bay - 23. Chapter 23

Maybe a month after Spence had been eating weekday dinners with us, one night after he’d gone back to the brownstone, and Mary and my dad were listening to the radio in the living room, my mother and I were drying dishes in the kitchen. Suddenly, she asked, “Is Spence Ann’s father?”

Instinctively, I said, “Yes.” I knew better than to lie to my mother, except on the tiniest details.

“Wouldn’t he marry her?” she went on. “That doesn’t seem like him.”

“It isn’t. But Mary didn’t give him a chance. She didn’t think it was best for either of them.”

“And she was in love with you?”

“Not then, and you know it. And you and Dad were the first to point that out.” I had to grin at that. “But she is now. And I love her, and I love Ann, and I don’t see anything about to change that.”

Mom said nothing.

“Look,” I continued gently, “you’ll just have to believe us. You don’t need or want the details – they’d turn into gossip. And you and Dad taught us from the beginning never to believe that.”

She smiled. “The things children remember.”

“Anyway, we’re fine. All of us. Mary and Ann and Spence and me.”

She was silent again, then seemed to want to explain.

“It’s just that Ann has Mary’s coloring – the pale skin, light hair, and blue eyes. And you don’t. But I know a lot of families where a child favors the mother or father – especially when they’re babies. When they’re older, it sometimes changes. But then we began to see Spence almost every night, and he looks so much like Mary. The first time I really looked at him, at graduation, I thought they were brother and sister.”

“Fortunately – no.”

And we laughed.

“He’s devoted to the baby,” she went on.

“No more than I am.”

“I never claimed otherwise.”

I studied her for a moment.

“Does this change anything for you?”

“Absolutely not,” she insisted. “Ann’s still my first grandchild. My only.”

“And Dad?”

“We haven’t talked about it yet.”

“But you will?”

She shrugged. “When he notices.”

And we laughed again.

“But what are you going to do about it?” she asked.

I had the answer but needed to think how to tell her.

“Nothing,” I finally admitted. “At least, till Ann’s older. Spence may always be around. And Mary and I certainly aren’t going anywhere. And with all of us soon living together, she’ll have you and Dad, too.”

“Five parents. I hope that’s a good idea.”

“I told you. We’ll be fine.”

“You always were too sure of yourself,” she joked

I couldn’t agree with her. But that was another conversation.

“I’d never think of living with my own parents,” she continued. “Especially in a place like Barnegat. I love being there – and with them – in the summer and on holidays. But it’s too limited a life.”

“What if Grandma and Grandpa needed your help?”

“There are too many other people, closer by. Besides, neither of them would be happy in the city. Especially if all they could do was look out a window.”

“Dad’s parents live in New York.”

“And they always have – they’ll die happily in their apartment.”

“I wouldn’t try to talk them out of it,” I kidded.

“Or even try to help,” she said, smiling. “You know how they like to argue ”

Dad had a brother and sister, both married, with grown children. Over the years, all of us had offered to help my grandparents, and we’d all been refused. That’s where Dad got his independence.

“Anyway,” I went on. “As you said, children change as they grow up. And we’ll see what kinds of questions Ann asks. We know we can’t predict anything. And they’ll be other children. More questions. And Spence’ll get married, and he and his wife’ll have children. So this could get very complicated. But there’s nothing we can do about it now.”

“No,” Mom agreed. “But you’re all intelligent – and reasonable. And I just hope I live to see the answer.”

“You’re going to live for a very long time.”

“Let’s hope.”

“Grandma and Grandpa are in their eighties.”

“And so are your dad’s parents. You’ll live for a very long time, too.”

I just smiled, and we went to bring dessert to Mary, Dad, and probably sleeping Ann.

Three or four months after the gang started working on the brownstone, they began to be offered other jobs. They came from word of mouth, like Larry’s family’s business, or from people watching the new activity around our previously invisible home. The offers mainly came from owners of other newly purchased brownstones or those whose buildings had already been converted to floor-through apartments and now wanted to divide them further.

“They can charge cheaper rents that way,” Dad explained. “Ones people can afford. But they’ll have more apartments to make that up.”

“We could do that with the top floor,” I suggested.

Dad laughed. “I’d never consider that. For one thing, we’d lose our privacy. For another, we’d have to evict Spence.”

“He’ll move out eventually.”

“But he just moved in. And he’s young.”

At first, the guys turned down these jobs. They had to. They had the brownstone. “But it’s hard passing up work,” Larry admitted. “With so many people looking for it. So I’ve at least been giving the painting offers to my dad.”

“And uncles,” Mike put in.

“And when they’ve gotten too many, they’ve started training their sons – and nephews.”

“They’ve been wanting to do that anyway. But there wasn’t reason.”

“And none of them wanted to be painters.”

“Like us.”

“But it’s something,”

Overhearing, my mother asked, “What about their nieces and daughters?”

Larry and Mike looked at each other. “None of them volunteered,” Larry faltered. But even he knew the answer was dumb.

The work on the brownstone was also helped by one of my patients. When I was making a house call for his youngest daughter, he noticed the paint spatter on my shoes.

“Where else have you been going?” he joked. “A factory?”

When I explained why almost everything I owned showed signs of construction, he reminded me, “I am an electrician.”

“I didn’t forget that. But I didn’t want to impose.”

“Work isn’t imposing.”

So without in any way mentioning how much his family owed me, I told him where my dad’s office was and told my father at dinner that the man might be stopping by.

“He sure did,” Dad reported the next evening. “He was waiting in the hallway when I came out of the elevator.”

“Do I have to ask?” I went on.

“Let’s just say we worked something out – something that’ll pay your bill and give him a decent wage.”

“And maybe a profit?”

“I think so. Though with how little he’s asking, we can finish things I was planning to delay for several years.”

In the same way, when Mary’s father heard what we were doing, he said, “I’m sure you haven’t thought about this... And I know there’re plenty of guys who live closer... But if you let me look at the job, I might give you a price on the plumbing that’ll surprise you.”

“We didn’t want to take advantage of you,” Mary explained when were visiting Toms River.

“You’re not taking advantage.”

It was a version of what my patient said

“But you always have work,” Mary went on. “And it’s a long ride.”

“We don’t have to come home every night – we can find a boarding house. And Billy and I can share a room.”

Mary’s oldest brother had followed their father into the business.

“But it may take three or four weeks.”

“That’s all right. We have small jobs here that we do extra work on – without charging more. But it’s really just to keep us busy.”

“Don’t give him too much,” Mary warned my dad, when we were back in the city. “He has a reputation for being a very good businessman.”

“Though not in a bad way?” my father joked.

“No. I’ve never heard anyone complain about his work.”

So in the same way we got an electrician, we got a pair of plumbers. And rather than letting my father- and brother-in-law stay at a boarding house, my parents added to the bargain.

“We have a spare room – in a building with an elevator. Or two cells next to Spence on the fifth floor.”

“Fortunately, they’re not stupid,” my father added. “So they won’t be disturbing you,” he told Spence.

“They’ll be walking those stairs enough,” Spence said, laughing.

As it turned out, Mary’s dad and brother lived weekdays with my parents for over a month.

“It was a good way to get to know them,” Mom said. “And a better chance than we’ve had before.”

“They like you a lot, too,” Mary offered. “Though they wish you...” she was looking at my dad, “...weren’t so good at cards.”

“He’s always beaten us all,” I admitted. “He can do all that counting in his head.”

By late May, the brownstone was finished enough for my parents to move in. The street level floor wasn’t ready because we were using it for storage, so we put off moving my office till September. By then, the building would be settled enough to bring in patients. Also, Mary’s and my things could wait till July – partly because she and Ann were already on Barnegat, but more, because there was less of it.

“We can move it overnight,” I bet her. “At most, a couple of days.”

“Claire and I can help – if you want.”

“Why interrupt your summer?”

She happily gave in on that.

There was also no point in moving our things till my parents had finished. Though once their kitchen was packed, instead of trying to eat either at their apartment or in the brownstone, we ate dinners at my place. That only lasted two weeks.

Mike and Larry supervised the moves, using some of their younger cousins for labor. Against all logic, Spence and Al had decided to be lifeguards again.

“It’ll save your parents some money and give us a change.”

“I never thought I’d say it,” Al admitted. “But it almost feels good to be baking in the sun.”

“Better than smelling paint all day.”

“Or breathing plaster.”

Larry and Mike took weekends off to go to Barnegat, often riding the same trains with me.

“We deserve this after our work,” Mike said, stretching on a seat. “And it’s fun to pretend we can afford it.”

“We’re doing all right,” Larry allowed.

“Are we still living at home?”

“Yeah,” Larry admitted.

“Then we’re not doing all right.”

“I know two rooms that are available,” Spence offered, when we were all gathered on the beach. “I can probably get you a few dollars off.”

“There’s no way I’m gonna live in a room so small I have to back out of bed.”

“There’s plenty of space.”

“Not if I drop something.”

“And there’s only four hooks for your clothes.”

“Six. But you know I use the other rooms, too.”

“Which you couldn’t – if we were there.”

“So now it’s my fault,” Spence poked.

“And you have a desk in one of those cells. And all your books.”

“My enormous library.”

“More than I own.”

“And my desk’s a vanity Doc’s parents were going to give away. And I had to rebuild that bookcase because it was falling apart.”

“But we practically killed ourselves, hauling a wardrobe up two flights.”

“I’m willing to share it,” Spence offered. “Now how nice is that?”

“As nice as we’re refusing.”

“Even if we’re rude .”

“Even if it means staying at home for another year.”

“Pretending we like it.”

“It’s nice living with a family,” Spence pointed out. “Or it will be, in September.”

Larry and Mike conceded that. Meanwhile, when they were on Barnegat, they slept on my boat – one up on deck. Even after I offered to make arrangements with my relatives.

“Naw, we’re used to being around each other,” Larry said. “And it’s easier.”

“Though it feels like we’re still in the cottages. And between this and my parents, I feel like a monk.”

“Not a priest?” Larry cracked.

“Priests have better sex.”

“You’re damned to Hell. Again.”

“That’s probably okay. There’s probably no sex in Heaven – because everyone’s too pure. So even if I had really bad sex in Hell, I’d be ahead.”

Claire also joined us on weekends, driving in on Saturday and staying through Sunday night.

“I’m hoping for a few weeks off in August,” she claimed. “But it depends on Dad.”

“Your parents are always here for August.”

“And Mom stays longer each summer. And Dad used to close the lumber yards, if only on weekends – so the guys could get some time off. But they’d rather have money this year, so he wants me there to supervise.”

“Can’t other people do that?”

“Yes. But Dad has me at an advantage.”

Claire did manage to stay the last two weeks of the summer, but we almost all left after Labor Day. Mary and Ann stayed a bit longer to close up the store, then moved directly into the brownstone. I’d been sleeping there since early July but hadn’t unpacked more than I needed because I knew Mary and Claire would want to arrange our floor – our bedroom and the ones we’d be using as our sitting room and guestroom. We also needed to decide where Ann would be sleeping.

She was still in her bassinet in our bedroom but would soon need a small crib. There was the fourth bedroom on our floor for a nursery, but it seemed too early for that – and even moving her to the next room seemed far. It was also odd having to go down a floor to take a bath or shower. Fortunately, one of the things Dad was able to add a few years ahead was a half-bathroom for our floor – another toilet and sink.

“It’s bigger than mine,” Spence said. “I can wash my hands sitting down.”

“Can you imagine the three of us sharing that?” Mike jabbed.

Al never thought about joining the guys. He liked living at home and being pampered. “Besides, I can’t afford to leave. I’m starting law school at night, and it costs more than City.”

“Anything’s more than free.”

“This is considerably more.”

He was going to Fordham, not far from his parents, two nights a week and most of Saturdays. Meanwhile, he was back helping Mike and Spence clean and cart and build and paint. Larry had begun to separate himself from that, so he could organize and run what was turning into a small business. And so he could start to combine that with his father’s and uncles’ work.

“The four of us will pretty much do anything I can find,” he told me. “Though my dad and uncles want to stick to painting.”

“And your cousins?” Mary asked.

“When they work for us, we’ll be the bosses.”

“Capitalists,” Mike cracked. “Le petit bourgeois.”

“Spell that,” Al challenged.

“Spell it? I can barely get it out of my mouth.”

By mid-September, my office was finally moved, and – as promised – Dad and I were free of paying rents. Except what I was paying him and Mom.

“But cheaper. See?” Dad almost bragged.

“You’ll have to ask my accountant.”