When I was a boy in the mid-50's we lived in Southwest Philly in a neighborhood of brick row houses with marble stoops, concrete sidewalks, asphalt streets, and not a shade tree in sight. Every summer my parents would take me to Atlantic City to escape the heat and spend a week with my Uncle Ray and Aunt Martha. I had three brothers and three sisters, and we each got our own week alone at the seashore, a welcome break from a happy, but crowded family.

The ride to Atlantic City was a joy and meant time alone with Dad, which was a luxury. I remember crossing the massive Benjamin Franklin bridge and looking out the opened window and down through the metal grid at the huge ships tied up on the Delaware river far below. Then would come the stink of the pig farms off the Black Horse Pike, followed by a long pastoral stretch of highway past the truck farms of South Jersey, with tomato and produce stands on the side of the road. There'd be a stop for a cold bottle of Coke and then, as we neared the seashore, the air would become misty and the temperature would drop 10 or 15 degrees. Soon the briny smell of ocean and the tang of creosote-dipped pilings filled the car. The shore was wonderful, as close to heaven as I've ever come to on this earth.

I think my parents sent us to the shore to absorb Aunt Martha and Uncle Ray's steady and kind natures, along with the sun, salt air, and sea breezes. Uncle Ray was a gray-haired, emaciated man, quiet and stoic, a housepainter by trade. Aunt Martha was big-boned and fat, talkative, and very kind. In all the years I'd visited them I had never heard a harsh word uttered in their house. And this summer, with the exception of Tommy, all my uncle's and aunt's children were grown up and had joined the service, although there was always the chance that one of them might get a leave from the Army or Navy and come home for a visit.

Tommy was autistic. I didn't know that at the time, of course. All I knew was that he was odd, a boy about two years younger than myself who would sometimes suddenly scream horribly loud, holding his head in his hands as if the sounds only he was hearing were about to shatter his eardrums. Sometimes he would sneak up behind me at the dinner table, grab the meat off my plate and race into the next room to eat his prize, cackling like a triumphant leprechaun. Aunt Martha would laughingly make light of his behavior and leave the table to see to him. Then Uncle would refill my plate and everything would be fine. I, of course, being only ten, had no idea of the stresses that Tommy's behaviors put on my uncle and aunt, for they dealt with him so lovingly and gently.

On this visit, when we got here Tommy was away at his married sister's house. My dad excused himself after our initial greeting to walk up to the boardwalk and "stretch his legs" after the long drive. I went alone upstairs to cousin Al's room where I would be staying. When I had finished unpacking I came down the back staircase and walked into the middle of an argument. In the kitchen, Aunt Martha's eyes were red from crying. She was shaking her head and neither she nor Uncle saw me.

"I can't," she said, her voice unusually loud and angry. "I can't, Ray."

"Jesus," said Uncle Ray. "Face it, Marty, this has to be done!"

"Not while I draw breath," shouted Aunt Martha. Red-faced, she rushed past me to the stairs.

Uncle Ray frowned with concern when he saw me. He tried to smile. "Sit down, Paul." Then he gave me some cold chicken and macaroni salad for dinner. "Would you like some iced tea?"

I nodded.

After he poured the tea, he left the room. I sat in the kitchen alone until after the ice cubes in my glass had melted. I was upset by their fight and wanted nothing more than to return home.

Outside, the sun had set, and cold damp air poured through the screens, chilling me. My dad returned. I told him what had happened and that I didn't want to stay, wanting instead to ride back with him later that evening. Without answering, he led me into the living room and turned on the TV. Then he, too, disappeared.

I watched the TV blankly, worrying about what I had witnessed. I had never seen my own parents fight, and Uncle Ray and Aunt Martha had always seemed so perfect to me, like the saints I read about in the Catholic school catechism. I watched the TV, not knowing that next year when I would return, Tommy would no longer live here, but would be in an institution. But at the moment, all I knew was that I was anxious and upset and didn't want to stay.

A half-hour or so later my dad and Uncle Ray came down the stairs and sat on the couch. Wordlessly we watched some detective drama on the TV. Upstairs I could hear the occasional creak of the floorboards as Aunt Martha went from one room to another.

After about ten minutes Uncle Ray said, "You ready, Dave?"

My dad nodded, getting to his feet. "C'mon," he said to me.

 

I followed them outside, wondering what they had planned. The night sky was overcast and the air damp as we got into Uncle's pickup truck. I sat in the middle as we drove along Pacific Avenue. We passed through the downtown section and saw people dressed in flashy clothing going in and out of brightly-lit bars and clubs. Then we came to an unlit part of Atlantic City I'd never seen before. A half-dozen shabby clapboard apartment buildings sat forlornly in a cul de sac. The boardwalk came to an end here and the empty, darkened beach stretched away to the north.

Uncle parked on a gravel lot and we got out. The ocean rumbled steadily. In the dim streetlamp light I could see a large, dark shape near the water. We headed for this and climbed up onto some big black boulders that stretched out from the sandy beach. We walked slowly in the poor light, careful of the cracks between the boulders, some of them big enough for a child to fall into. Soon there was water on both sides of us.

Dad pointed to the calm black water on the left where bits of seaweed and sticks floated slowly seaward. "That's the bay," he said, as we continued walking toward the end of the jetty, stepping boldly over the gaps between the boulders.

The water on the right side seemed to grow more agitated. After another hundred feet or so, phosphorescent white combers were crashing against the jetty, some of them so violently I could feel the boulders shudder beneath my feet. Dad nodded towards them. "Those waves are from the ocean," he said. He took my hand and the three of us went out past the other people, all the way to the very end.

Uncle Ray and Dad turned away from the wind and cupped their hands to light their cigarettes. At the tip of the jetty, the sea boiled as if two giant sea monsters were fighting beneath the surface, neither of them strong enough to prevail. As we watched the black water roll and leap I found myself thinking of the earlier exchange between Uncle Ray and Aunt Martha. This wild display of nature seemed to hold some clue to that. As my dad and Uncle Ray watched in silence, I felt that the dark waters held some answer for them as well. We watched for what seemed like a very long time.

Then Dad crushed his cigarette beneath his shoe. "This is where the ocean meets the bay," he said to me.

I nodded, saying nothing. Overhead the sky had opened, shapeless grey clouds slowly moved inland to reveal a vast starry sky. Tomorrow the beach would be jammed with bathers. I could already feel the warm sun on my face, the scratch of sand beneath my bare, city-tenderized feet, and smell the familiar perfume of suntan lotion on the people passing by.