Beach Music by Pat Conroy Read Free Book Online Page B

that way.”
    “Tough shit.”
    “My father’s a very unhappy man,” Martha said, leaning across the table toward me. “But he’s got good reasons for his unhappiness and you know that as well as anyone.”
    “Just for the record. I hate your dutiful daughter routine and you don’t have to act like a public relations firm for your parents. Now let’s order.”
    When Freddie came over, he studied Martha’s face.
    “Sorella di
Shyla?” Freddie asked me.
    “Martha, meet Freddie. He had a crush on your sister.”
    “Ah, Martha. Your sister was such a beauty. Such sunshine. You look so much like her,” Freddie said, bowing deeply.
    “I’m pleased to meet you, Freddie. You’re very famous in South Carolina.”
    “We have some nice fat mussels, Jack. Fresh anchovies, verynice.
Calamari fritti
. What would Martha like? Maybe
pasta all’amatriciana?”
    “I’d love to start with the pasta, Freddie,” Martha said.
    “Anything for the sister of Shyla. Welcome to the trattoria. Come back a thousand times. Mussels for you, Signor Jack. Trust Freddie.”
    Freddie moved back toward the kitchen checking every table as he passed, and I smiled at his proficiency. Freddie was like a staff sergeant in the army; others enjoy greater status, but without him the whole operation would come to a grinding halt.
    I turned and looked at Martha, seeing those soft luminous features she shared with her sister. She had the same doe-eyed self-conscious beauty that in Shyla was edgy and explosive. In Martha, it held its breath, tiptoed into view, took one by surprise whenever she released that tightly coiled spring that controlled the nerve centers of her own quiet uncertainty. Even makeup could not hide the trapped, distracted girl masquerading with pearls and a black dress as a woman of the world.
    “My father still blames you for Shyla’s death,” Martha said. “It’s only fair that you know that.”
    “You know, Martha,” I said wearily, “I always thought I’d make a great son-in-law. Fishing trips. Card games. That kind of shit. And I get stuck with that dreary, juiceless, raggedy-assed father of yours. I could never figure him out. But you know all this. You grew up in that hothouse of pain.”
    “Why do you hate me for loving my father?” she asked.
    “Because of your pathetic lack of honesty. The awful and dangerous pretense of loyalty. He’s been poison for you just like he was poison for Shyla and your mother. The women in his life cluster around him, protect him, find virtue in his bitterness. You don’t love him. You pity him. The way I do. Yet I’ve rarely met a grander shit on earth.”
    “Why do you hate him so much?”
    “I pity the dreadful son of a bitch.”
    “He doesn’t need your pity.”
    “Then he’s welcome to my hatred.”
    Freddie arrived with Martha’s pasta and my mussels and hisarrival was both propitious and welcome. Her dish was sharp, spicy, and even had the forbidden pleasure of containing the flesh of hogs. Though a committed Jew, Martha found no reason to follow the dietary laws handed down in Leviticus. For most of her adult life she had fought border skirmishes with her parents over the pig and the oyster. Judaism was precious to her, but she could not pretend to be observant of its many dietary laws.
    “May I try one of your mussels?” she asked.
    “Pure
trayf
,” I said, passing her one.
    “But delicious,” she said as she ate it.
    “What’re you doing here, Martha?” I asked. “You haven’t quite answered that very basic question.”
    “I want to understand why my sister leapt to her death. I want someone to explain to me why her life had become so desperate when she seemed to have so much going for her. Nothing about it makes sense. My parents won’t talk about it.”
    “I can understand that. I haven’t told Leah that her mother committed suicide. I just never could quite get my mouth right to tell her about the bridge. It’s been hard enough to tell her