The O'Briens by Peter Behrens Read Free Book Online Page A

boater, carrying his shoes. Men and girls in bathing costumes hurtled into chilly waves. He bought a suit of bathing flannels, black. At a saloon on Surf Avenue he ate oysters, drank two cold mugs of Milwaukee beer, and thought of the girls whose fathers owned shops in Shawville or were professional men, girls he had never spoken to and never would see again.
    He felt like a person without a name. It wasn’t such a bad feeling.
    Standing at the mahogany bar, foot on a brass rail, he bought a bottle of whisky without knowing exactly why and slipped it into his coat pocket. He had never liked the smell of whisky.
    Surf Avenue blazed with thousands of electric lights. Ignoring the hawkers and shills at the arcades and freak shows, he walked back to his hotel, aware of the weight and pressure of the slender, curved bottle in his pocket.
    He had left his window open, and the sheer curtains fluttered in the night breeze. Taking a notepad and pencil from a small leather secretary case, he drew up a chair alongside the window and sat down. He could see the Iron Pier, outlined in electric lights, and the black ocean beyond. Uncapping the whisky, he took a swallow. The taste was bitter, but satisfying in a violent way. He made himself take another drink, then opened the pad on his knee and started writing down the names of his ancestors. He didn’t know many. Then the names of his parents and his brothers’ and sisters’ names, and their birth dates. At last he wrote down his own name, and on the next line
    wife
    then
    sons
    then
    daughters
    Then he began listing all the sums of money he had earned in his life, noting when and where he’d earned them, and whether as wages or profits. He listed his savings, and a valuation of every item in his grip, down to the spare collars and darned socks.
    The room was a place out of time. Everything had paused, and he felt himself within himself, existing without struggle.
    He kept picking up the slim bottle and taking short, sharp swallows. He could see Hope and Kate on the platform at Ottawa, waving, and Sojer Boy, brash and confident, and the Little Priest’s pale face at Fordham.
    Before he could finish adding up his columns, he had fallen asleep, waking an hour or so later slumped in the chair, the flimsy curtains brushing his face. The breeze through the window was damp with mist. Stumbling to the washstand, he splashed water, urinated into a night jar, undressed, and crashed into bed. His head was whirling, but for a few unclear moments he could nearly see the girl he would find, the one he’d marry — the clear one, the cool one, white hands and graceful neck, calm voice explaining everything. Body like a flower — that beautiful, that secret.
    He awoke in the morning to a window painted white with glare he couldn’t face; he had to turn away. He put on the bathing flannels and his coat over them, along with his hat and shoes. The mechanical elevator carried him silently down to the lobby and he marched across the broad verandah and down a flight of wooden steps onto the beach.
    The sand was loose and walking was difficult until he reached the tide line, where the sand was still packed and moist. Slipping off his coat, he folded it neatly, placed it on top of his shoes, and walked down to confront the surf.
    Wading out, he felt the cold biting at his feet, ankles, calves. When the water struck his thighs, he pitched himself into the next wave. The immersion was sharp and stinging. Swimming through the froth was a struggle but he managed to get out beyond the break, where the surface was calmer. He rolled over onto his back and shook his arms and legs, spinning droplets and splashing, tasting the salt on his lips and staring at the cold white moon still hanging in the sky.
    If ever he could cut loose the past, this was where it could be done. Floating on his back in a rolling calm, he really didn’t feel much of anything. Nothing about his brothers