Cape Cod Noir - By David L Ulin Page 0,27

a screen window, and some cars in the lot. There was a better view of the lot from the bumper car floor, but every time I was close to seeing who he was talking to, I got blindsided, usually by Ronnie.

13.

This is a picture of the first and only summer group meeting I called in my bedroom. It’s a good action shot. That white blur there is the pillow I threw at the Jersey Reds before snapping the picture.

We started off talking about music. They liked rap, which was typical Jersey, right? Then we talked about Isabella and trying to get her to come with us to the ice cream place on Sea Street. Then we talked about girlfriends back home. None of us had any, although in a fit of personal confession that was clearly out of place, I admitted to having a terrible, hopeless crush on a girl named J.J. Katz. The Jersey Reds thought that was the funniest thing they’d ever heard and spent ten minutes shouting dyn-o-mite like the guy from the TV show Good Times. I kind of lost my status as the leader of the group right there.

Then we talked about our theories of what my father was up to. When I say we, I’m not including Ronnie. He just sat there and didn’t say a word. Most of what was said wasn’t serious and was part of the game, Dad-as-secret-agent-man kind of stuff, until I opened my yap and was again too honest for the moment, too honest for the room. I told them how my father would bet on football in the fall, how he’d bring home from work what he called his football cards. They were white rectangles of cardboard, printed with a list of teams and point spreads. He’d pick four teams, or ten teams, or both, and sometimes he’d let me pick a few of them for him.

I didn’t really know anything about what was happening with Dad, but I think it sounded like I did.

I remember almost telling them about a few months before that vacation, when I was upstairs listening to my parents argue in the kitchen, Dad saying, “It’ll be okay,” and, “I’m sorry,” and Mom too hysterical to understand, until she screamed, “Fuck you,” ran out of the kitchen, and kicked out one of the small plate-glass windows in the front door.

The younger Jersey Red started in again with his yourfather-is-hooking-up-with-another-woman theory. He said my father looked like the kind of guy who could get women to go to a hotel with him. Ronnie still didn’t say anything, but I could tell he was upset. To be honest, I was kind of proud that my dad looked like that kind of guy, and that it somehow meant I was cooler.

I held out my camera and told the Reds that I had evidence and that it wasn’t my dad with some other girl. They asked if I had any pictures of dyn-o-mite J.J. on my camera. That’s when I threw the pillow and took the picture.

14.

Dad came home from a morning jog with a black eye. He laughed and said he slid on some sand, fell, and hit his face off a duck-shaped mailbox. I was surprised he let me take this picture. I don’t think he wanted me to, but what could he say or do with the rest of the family there in the kitchen, pointing and laughing at him?

15.

All right, that’s a picture of the girl from Italy, Isabella, walking away and waving at us. We’d tracked her down and asked her if she wanted to go for ice cream. She pretended not to understand what we were asking despite the Jersey Reds’ embarrassing ice cream pantomime. Which was fine. I got a picture anyway.

16.

There’s a time gap here with the pictures. I can’t remember if there were more photos and I lost them, or if I didn’t take them. Sometimes I wonder how much of this I would remember if there were no photos, no proof.

Here we are eating breakfast at the Egg and I. Everyone looks haggard and frazzled because there were only a few days left to the vacation. The Jersey Reds were gone. It was just us. We were all fighting and annoying each other. And again, maybe it’s only the lens of elapsed time making it all clearer, but we were all on edge. Something was going on with Dad but no one knew what, and no one