Christmas lights. And the girls. Happy has an old ukulele. Whenever a beautiful girl passes by on the arm of a soldier, he purposely hits an out-of-tune chord.
Then, a miracle. The most beautiful girl in the crowd isn’t with a soldier. She’s with two girlfriends. And she recognizes Happy. And Eddie. Then Willie. If it isn’t the Beard Street Fishermen, she cries.
She runs over, dragging her two girlfriends. She introduces them. The first has red hair, pale green eyes, slightly recessed, and thick eyebrows. Double thick. Get a load of this bird, Eddie whispers. When they was handin out eyebrows, she must’ve got in line twice.
But First Girlfriend and Eddie discover that they have several friends in common, so they pair off.
Second Girlfriend, with long brown hair and a snub nose, doesn’t speak, doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t seem to want to be here. Or anywhere. Her aloofness sparks Happy. He takes her by the elbow, turns to wink at Willie. Meaning, Bess is yours.
She wears an aqua blue hat, the brim pulled low, concealing her eyes. When Willie compliments the hat, and her matching blue dress, she slowly raises her face to him. Now he sees the golden flecks. They capture him, paralyze him. He tries to look away, but he can’t. He can’t.
She makes a favorable remark about Willie’s attire. Thank God he didn’t pawn his Title Guaranty suits. Thank God he wore one, the black one, tonight.
They follow their friends up the Boardwalk. Willie asks Bess where she lives. Near Prospect Park, she says. Me too, he says. President Street, she says. Oh, he says, well, you live on the nice side. Biggest house on the block, she says, you can’t miss it. Biggest house, Willie says, biggest shipyard. Means nothing to me, she says, it’s not my shipyard, and it’s not my house.
They talk about the war. Bess reads everything. She sits with her father every night, scouring the Times, and she never misses an issue of Leslie’s Illustrated. She says it’s criminal that bankers are balking at President Wilson’s plan to grant Germany a merciful peace. Criminal.
You certainly do have strong opinions, Willie says.
Don’t you think it a shame I can’t express them at the ballot box?
Oh, well, women will have the vote soon enough.
Tomorrow would not be soon enough, Mr. Sutton.
Of course. My mistake.
He tries to steer the conversation away from politics. He mentions the balmy weather. Unseasonably warm winter, isn’t it?
I should say so.
He asks if Bess is her proper name.
I was born Sarah Elizabeth Endner, but my friends call me all sorts of things. Betsy, Bessie, Bizzy, Binnie. I prefer Bess.
Bess it is.
They fall silent. The sound of their shoes clicking along the Boardwalk seems inordinately loud. Willie thinks about the impossibility of knowing anyone, of getting to know anyone, ever.
Say, uh, Bess. Did you know Coney Island was named by an Irishman?
Oh?
Coney is Irish for rabbit. I guess there were a lot of wild rabbits around here once.
She looks around, as if trying to spot one.
Big ones, Willie says.
She smiles weakly.
Wild, he says.
She makes no reply.
Willie racks his brain, trying to remember what he and Wingy talk about. He tries to remember what the hero says to the heroine in every Alger novel. He can’t think straight. He calls to Eddie and Happy. Hey fellas—what should we do next?
How about the Whip? Eddie says.
The girls think that’s a grand idea. They all hurry down to Luna Park. Luckily the line is short. The boys pool their money and buy six tickets.
The Whip is twelve little sidecars around an oval track. Cables move the sidecars slow, slow, then whip them around narrow turns. Each sidecar holds two people. Eddie and First Girlfriend take one, Happy and Second Girlfriend another, which leaves Willie and Bess. Climbing into the sidecar, Willie feels Bess’s upper arm brush his. One brief touch—he’s shocked by what it does to him.
Will it go fast? she asks.
It might. It’s their best ride. Are you afraid?
Oh no. I love going fast.
The ride starts, the sidecar lurches forward. Willie and Bess press together as it slowly gains speed. The whole thrill of the ride is how slowly it starts, Bess says. They hold tight to the sides, laughing, giggling. She screams as they whip through the first turn. Willie screams too. Eddie and First Girlfriend, one car ahead, look back, frantic, as if Willie and Bess are giving chase. Eddie points a finger and shoots. Willie and Bess shoot back. Eddie is hit. He dies, because it gives him an excuse to collapse his body across First Girlfriend.
Suddenly the sidecar bucks, crawls, comes to a stop. Bess groans. Let’s go again, she says.
Willie and the boys don’t have money for another turn. Luckily, Willie notices that a line has formed. Look, he says.
Oh drat, she says.
The three couples again stroll the Boardwalk.
Darkness is falling. The lights of Coney Island flutter on. Willie tells Bess that there are a quarter million bulbs in all. No wonder Coney Island is the first thing seen by ships at sea. Imagine—this right here is the first glimpse the immigrants have of America.
It’s also the last thing you see when you sail away, Bess says.
How do you know that?
I’ve seen it. Several times.
Oh.
She points at the moon. Look. Isn’t the moon lovely tonight?
Like part of the park, Willie says. Lunar Park.
Bess speaks in the stagy voice of an actress. Why, Mr. Sutton—handsome and clever?
He plays along. I say, Miss Endner, would you mind repeating that?
Can you not hear me, Mr. Sutton?
On the contrary, Miss Endner, I cannot believe my good fortune at being paid a compliment by so fine a young woman, therefore I was hoping I might memorize it.
She stops. She looks up at Willie with a smile that says, Maybe there’s more here than first met the eye. After a slow start he’s turning her. Like the Whip.
The three couples gather at the rail and listen to the pounding waves, a sound like the echo of the war drifting across the sea. The wind picks up. It billows the girls’ long dresses, causes the boys’ neckties to snap like flags. Bess keeps one hand on her hat. Happy gives his hat to Eddie and
