Fire Island

A month before school starts, Katie and I drive Max to Long Island for his three-day freshman orientation. He’s excited. Nervous. But he’s ready.

He walks ahead, talking with Katie, pointing out buildings. He’s showing us around. I fall back, watching him - still sun-touched from his Eurotrip, light streaking his hair. New tee shirt, chinos, new sneakers. He pulls his new wheelie suitcase behind him as we walk down a long concrete ramp to the check-in table.

They hand him a welcome packet and take his photo. He chats amiably with the other students. He seems fine, I think. He’ll be fine. They clip his name tag to a lanyard — a blue ribbon with white lettering: Hofstra University. He slips it over his head. He looks at me. Smiles. Here we go …. I think. Here he goes. He hugs Katie. He hugs me and he holds on for an extra beat. Then he follows the stream of freshmen inside.

Katie and I head back to the car. Then, instead of heading home, we turn south toward Fire Island.

The land opens around us as we draw closer to the water. The sky opens, brightens. We open the windows, let the wind whip our hair around but we can’t hear each other so we close them.

At the ferry dock, we park in the big lot and cross the gravel dirt to purchase tickets. At that little cafe there, we get iced tea and pink clam chowder in white styrofoam cups. It's part of the ritual. We have done this before. Many times — the three of us, usually. Today, just the two of us.

We sit on the dock, under the shade of the corrugated plastic roof. Then, it’s time to board the boat.

There are very few passengers so we spread out on the wide blue fiberglass benches, taking a whole row each. I tip my face to the sun and close my eyes. Katie sits just ahead of me, eagerly scanning the horizon.

We exit the ferry and as we pass the red wagons, Katie starts snapping photos. We walk the sandy paths in bare feet, carrying our shoes. We have no luggage. Just a towel and a bathing suit and sunscreen, tucked in a backpack. We are day trippers — here in the morning, gone by the evening.

We walk all the way to the ocean - we have to. But we are hungry so we walk back to town — to Maguire’s, with the big open deck, overlooking the bay. We order things we can share - vegetables, grilled chicken. We eat with our fingers, talking and planning.

We linger, long after the plates are cleared. I make notes in my sketchbook. Katie is starting a new program this year. In her second year at a new high school, we talk about art class and drama club. She is reading about photography. She tells me, “In the camera, the image you’re looking at is actually a reflection in a mirror.” I don’t understand. She draws me a diagram on a napkin.

We return to the beach and lay our towels on the sand. We swim. I fall asleep on my towel. My nose will peel. We rinse off in the icy cold public shower. We have dinner at Matthews, where we can watch the ferries come and go. Katie sips a virgin strawberry daiquiri.

We catch the last ferry, crossing the black water, watching the lights come on across the bay.

In the car, in the dark, as we speed past the exit for Hofstra, a little gasp-sigh escapes my body.

“What?” Katie asks.

“I don’t know… I just realized Max is going to be living there. Full time. It’s like my body just realized it.”

“Mommy,” Katie purrs, patting my arm, my head. “Mommy…”

—

This is a scene from The End of Men, a memoir I started years ago. The previous chapter, Change Keeps Changing Things, is here. If you’re new to the project, read the first chapter here: Keys. The full list of scenes, in order, is here.

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