Summer Of 42

S u m m e r o f ' 42 S u m m e r o f ' 42 Herman Raucher Copyright © 1971 by Herman Raucher Cover image © James Carroll / Brand X Pictures / PictureQuest This edition published by Barnes & Noble Digital, by arrangement with Herman Raucher All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the Publisher. 2001 Barnes & Noble Digital ISBN 1-4014-0086-8 To those I love — past and present chapter 1 He had always intended to come back, to see the island again. But the opportunity had never quite presented itself. This time, however, with a break in his schedule and with events moving remarkably in his favor, he had driven far up the New England coast to see if the magic still prevailed. Aboard the old ferry his Mercedes convertible earned the icy nonchalance of a half dozen craggy islanders, for very few new cars ever make that crossing. Cars that come to Packett Island are usually well into the varicose stage of their lives, and as such, they are by time and temperament unconcerned with a return trip to the mainland. "Cars come to this fuckin' island to die." Oscy had said that. Oscy, the big deal philosopher. And it was as true in 1970 as it had been in 1942. He studied the faces around him, each turned to the wind, taking the breeze full face. It was apparent that none aboard remembered him. But then, he was barely fifteen the last time he forked over the twentyfive-cent fare. And in the intervening years much had changed, including the twenty-five cents, which was 5 herman raucher now a dollar, and himself, which was now forty-two. How, then, could anyone remember him? The nerve. The Mercedes moved with disinterest along what purported to be the Packett Island Coastway, for the speed limit was thirty, hardly a challenge for an exhumed LaSalle, let alone a hot Mercedes-Benz. To his left were the familiar dunes, sulking in the grass, incongruously scattered with the uncatalogued refuse and bleached timber that the sea could toss so casually across the road whenever it felt so disposed. And to his right, the sea itself, choppy and graygreen. And large. Very large indeed. One of the largest in the world. The luxurious car turned the bumps into cotton as he looked through the broad windshield at the odd glaze ahead. It was midmorning, but the sun hadn't been informed, and the fickle mist could be counted on to fritter about for a time or two before giving way to what, in those parts, was referred to as day. Visibility was confined to a struggling halo of brightness that extended no more than fifty yards in every direction. Yet the sea winds were already pushing in, and the mist was grudgingly giving ground, retreating inland in spiteful little gushes. He could see the fog move, herding its lumpy shadow before it, and the heavy-hanging gray curtain showed small signs of perhaps lifting to blue. A silhouette appeared, crouched on a high dune a short distance up the sea side of the road. A house, cedar-shingled and indomitable. A 6 summer of '42 house far off, yet so well-remembered that he could recreate it in his mind nail by nail. Dorothy. I love you, Dorothy. He stopped the car and stepped out, listening to the affluent sound of a Mercedes slamming its door. He looked down at his Gucci loafers, forty-five dollars. He had come a long way, none of it easy, but all of it worth it. He headed toward the beach-side dunes, leaving the road to walk along the high-rising crests. When his Guccis filled with sand, he removed them, plus the corresponding socks, which he then stuffed into their respective shoes. He had done that before around there, a long time ago. He sank his feet into the good sand, and his toes flexed like cat's paws. He took off his navy blazer and slung it over his shoulder, and in this manner did he walk