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one birder would be operating two or three telescopes, all pointed in different directions. Everyone out there was very friendly and nice and most seemed to know a lot about the birds they’d come to watch and photograph. Some would ask her if she wanted to look through their telescopes: they had them focused on a bird’s nest or bird in a tree or hidden in a bush, sometimes hundreds of feet away. Maybe not that far, but a good distance, certainly far enough away where it couldn’t be seen without a highpowered telescope or binoculars, which hers weren’t. He doesn’t think she ever saw a bird through one of these telescopes, which he did, several times. For one thing, her eyes were bad because of her MS. And because she was sitting in a wheelchair she usually couldn’t get her eye close enough to the lens. A couple of the telescope birders even took the tripod off and held the telescope up to her better eye, is the way he’ll put it—he forgets if that was her left or right—but they could never keep it steady enough to focus it on what they wanted her to see. He doesn’t think she ever even saw a bird through her binoculars. She couldn’t hold them, so he held them to her eyes but could never get them aimed or focused right for her. Still, she liked being on the beach or observation platform with all those serious bird watchers. And every so often a bird would fly near them—one they’d never see around their house or neighborhood, where they also used to take walks to observe birds, or even in Maine, where they went to every summer for two months. And someone would shout what kind of bird it was and later tell her, or someone else would, or she’d look it up in the bird book she always took to the beach with her, what its identifying marks and other things about it are so she could recognize it on her own next time. But they also in Cape May, or at least he did with her, have some of their happiest moments together. Not at the bird observatory but in a restaurant which, once they discovered it, they went to for dinner every night in their three trips to Cape May. It was a fluke or just good luck, chance, whatever it was, how they got to it. The first time they went to Cape May they weren’t able to reserve a room in any of the hotels in town. All of them were booked because of a convention that week, and the bed and breakfasts, which had a few available rooms, were in old buildings with steps leading up to the front porch and more steps and staircases inside. They always brought her portable ramp with them on trips like this, but it was only good for three steps at the most. Also, the bathroom in these B&B’s, the owners told him on the phone, were too small to turn around a wheelchair in. So, because it was the off-season, the closest open lodging they could get to Cape May was a four-story motel about ten miles away. It was an ugly place, with a pink façade and an enormous neon sign in front and tacky furniture inside. But it had an elevator to their floor, a kitchenette to make breakfast in and a roll-in shower in their bathroom, which surprised them—not even some of the best motels and hotels they’d been to had that—and it kept them, along with the free reserved handicapped parking space, coming back to this motel the next two times. What he’s saying is that if they had been able to book a suitable room in a Cape May hotel the first time they went, they no doubt would have walked to a restaurant nearby—several were open—and not come upon this one on the outskirts of town. They were driving to Cape May from the motel their first night there to look for a restaurant to have dinner in and saw a sign for this place along the way. “Think we should check it out?” he said, and she said “What do we have to lose?” They went down a side road. The restaurant’s parking lot was almost filled. If they didn’t have handicapped plates, they wouldn’t have found a spot. “A good sign,” he said. He looked at the menu, liked what he saw, got her out of the van and they went inside. It was a huge place—probably could accommodate a hundred-fifty diners at one time—with a large lobby where they waited for their table to be called. It was crowded every time they ate there, and they always had to wait for a half hour or more, which was fine with them. The lobby had several buffet tables in it, one for shrimp cocktails and tiny crab cakes, another for several kinds of freshly shucked oysters on the half shell, and a third just for martinis and Manhattans. She loved oysters, maybe more than any other food. While he didn’t know how anyone could eat them raw—fried, he liked. He got a half dozen oysters for her and a martini for him and they sat beside a small end table, it seemed, and she ate and he drank. “Sure you won’t have one?” she said. “Five is plenty for me.” “Positive,” he said. “Like a sip of my martini? It’s delicious; just right.” “You know I hate the taste of them.” “Thought I’d offer, though, and same with me your oysters. How are they?” “The best, ever.” After swallowing each one—he’d first squeeze a lemon wedge over it and have to bring the oyster to her mouth with that little oyster fork, holding the shell beneath it till it was inside—she gave a big almost rapturous smile and said “Ummm . . . ummm . . .” and maybe after the second or third oyster “You don’t know what you’re missing.” “I know what I’m missing and I don’t miss it. Did I ever tell you of the time I ate a foul raw oyster at the fish restaurant Oscar’s on Third Avenue and all evening thought I might die from being poisoned by it? Long before we met. Maybe ten years before. My father was in the hospital—Mt. Sinai—and my mother and one of my sisters and I had just come from seeing him there.” “Don’t go into anymore details about it. I don’t want to ruin my eating these oysters. You survived, I’m thankful to say. And not because we wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t and I wouldn’t be enjoying these oysters so much. What kind did the shucker say they were?” “Some local Indian name. Lots of syllables, half of them vowels. But okay, I won’t say anything more about my one bad oyster. Eat. Enjoy. That’s what we’re here for.” So it was that smile of total delight she always had while eating oysters at this restaurant—its name, he forgets too, but he thinks he could look it up online if he wanted to—that made the trip to Cape May for him. The ummms. The look of complete satisfaction. That she was so happy, sitting in her wheelchair in the lobby, smiling at him after being fed each oyster and he saying “I’m so glad you’re enjoying this. I really am. I think I sometimes live just to have you enjoy something and be happy.” “You’re sweet,” she said a couple of time after he said this. “And you’re beautiful,” he said the first time. “I know that oysters, and I can’t say I subscribe to this notion, are supposed to be an aphrodisiac, but I’m the only one eating them. Sure you wouldn’t like the last one?” “Wouldn’t think of it. And I won’t need it, if that’s what you meant. Do you want it to be the last one or should I get another half dozen for you, maybe of a different kind.” “Six is more than enough for me. We have a whole meal to go. And seeing what they do with oysters, I’m sure it’ll be great. Tomorrow. We should probably come here tomorrow night for dinner. Hang out in this waiting area for a while before dinner, even if they say our table’s ready right away, and you’ll have your martini and I’ll have my oysters. And next time we come to Cape May to see the birds, and we have to come back—we’re having too good a time—we’ll come here again and have the same things. Or I’ll have three of one kind of oyster and three of another, and maybe you’ll try one of their Manhattans.” “Okay with me. I like both, and why go anywhere else? This place is as good as they come and I love this room and watching the other people waiting and the surroundings too. The things on the walls. Your personal shucker. Everything.” “And the martini’s that good too?” “I’d have another,” he said, “—by my drinking it so fast and it’s such a large glass too, you know how much I like it—but I want to have wine with dinner and be able to drive back to the motel.” “I wish I was still able to drive. Then you could drink as much as you want.” “Don’t worry about it,” and he held up the oyster fork and she smiled and nodded and he gave her the last oyster. Then he held her hand and drank what was left of the martini with his other hand and said “Cape May’s a great place. I mean, we haven’t seen much of it yet, but it certainly seems like it. Although if it wasn’t for this restaurant, I don’t know.” “I’m glad I like looking at birds so much and suggested we come here,” she said. So they came back to Cape May two more times. She gave up on taking the binoculars the last time. They also didn’t take the portable ramp. Found they didn’t need it. Went to the same restaurant for dinner every time. That would make six times they waited in the lobby there. She always had a half dozen oysters on the half shell, sometimes three of two different kinds and sometimes all of the same kind. He had a Manhattan once but didn’t like the way it was made. Too sweet. The other times he always had a martini, straight up with both an olive and lemon twist in it and made with the best English gin they had or a Russian or Swedish vodka. About a year after
