“It’s a gorgeous day, isn’t it?” Mr. Caudell said.
“Wonderful,” David said. “Is there anything we can do before the guests arrive?”
“Just relax, plenty to do later on,” Mr. Caudell said. “I’m certainly glad I’m not on the beach today. I turn lobster red in the sun.”
Sandy came out of the house just then and said, “Oh, hi, I didn’t hear you.”
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” David said.
She was wearing big golden hoop earrings and a blue shift. Even barefoot, she was taller than Mr. Caudell, who came up to about her left ear. David and I were wearing clean chinos, sneakers, and our blue Mr. Porter shirts. The three of us looked very good.
“Whatever happened to that bird you were training?” Mr. Caudell asked.
“His head hit a rock and he was killed,” Sandy answered immediately, and then glanced at us. The glance was significant.
Last Monday night, after we’d discovered the dead gull in the forest, David and I had first gone home to wash and change our clothes. (David’s mother, of course, asked him where he had got all that blood on him. After the incident with the beer, she was convinced that her son was a psychopathic criminal, and I’m sure she assumed he had murdered some innocent old man on the dock. He told her we’d been fishing and had cleaned our catch afterward, hence the blood and gore. She bought it.) We had then gone over to Sandy’s house and asked her to take a walk with us on the beach. Huddled over a small wood fire David built in the sand, we told her it was our understanding that there were to be no secrets between us. (Yes, she said, that’s right, that’s certainly true.) Well, we said, not only had she kept a secret, but she had actually lied to us. (No, Sandy said, how can you even think such a thing?) We can think such a thing, we said, because she had told us the bird had slipped his leash and flown away, when it was plainly apparent to both of us that she had led him into the forest and bashed in his skull.
The wood fire crackled and sputtered into the long silence. The waves pounded in against the shore.
“Why did you kill him?” David asked.
“I don’t know,” Sandy said.
“You must know,” I insisted.
“He was a stupid bird,” she said, and suddenly burst into tears. I watched her twisted face in the light of the fire, remembering our own anger, our own bitter tears after we had pounded the gull beyond recognition.
“I’ll never lie to you again,” Sandy said, and that, after all, was the most important thing about the entire incident, this strengthening of the bond between us.
Her glance now was secretive and assuring. She was answering Mr. Caudell’s question honestly, lying to him of course, but once again affirming our unity.
“That’s a shame,” Mr. Caudell said. “Point of fact, he was a most intelligent bird.”
I was spared answering him by the timely arrival of The Dynamiters, an island rock-and-roll group hired for the party by Sandy’s mother. The leader of the group was a kid named Dexter, whom everyone called Deuce, and who resembled a large sheepdog with glasses. He played lead guitar and sang. The rhythm guitarist was a kid who tried to hide his acne by keeping his head ducked at all times. His name was Phil, and he was a very bad musician who sang backup in a high whiny nasal voice. A kid named Arthur, whose father was a doctor, played bass guitar, and the drummer (the only good musician in the bunch) was a year-round islander whose family owned the plumbing supply store over near Mr. Porter’s. His name was Danny. The Dynamiters were all about thirteen, short and somewhat scrawny-looking, and they arrived with four thousand dollars worth of electronic equipment, including amplifiers and microphones enough to broadcast a signal to Tokyo. Deuce, the leader of the group, shy in the presence of anyone, but especially girls, approached Sandy deferentially and said, “Excuse me, Miss, but where did you want us to set up?”
“I’ll ask my mother,” Sandy said, and went inside.
“Well, so you fellows are the band, huh?” Mr. Caudell observed brilliantly,
“Yessir,” Deuce answered.
“What do you call yourselves?”
“The Dynamiters.”
“I hope you don’t have short fuses,” Mr. Caudell said, and winked at David and me, and then burst out laughing.
“Nossir,” Deuce answered, not getting the joke.
“What instrument do you play, son?” Mr. Caudell asked.
“Lead guitar, sir,” Deuce said.
“Would you care for a soda or something?”
“Not right now, sir, thank you,” Deuce said, and then smiled at me timidly and said, “Hi, Peter.”
“Hi, Deuce.”
“Hi, David.”
“Deuce.”
“Great day, huh?” Deuce said.
“Yeah,” David said.
“Think we’ll be setting up out here on the deck?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “She’ll probably put you down there on the lawn.”
“Gee, I hope our extension cords reach,” Deuce said.
Sandy came out of the house again and said, “Mother wants you down on the lawn.”
“Gee, I hope our extension cords reach,” Deuce said again, and went down to tell the other boys in the group. They held a brief consultation at the bottom of the porch steps. One of the boys — it was difficult to tell which one because they were in a huddle — said in a high squeaky voice, “Well, why the hell can’t we play on the deck there?” and Deuce answered, “Because she wants us here on the lawn,” and another boy said, “I mean, man, they won’t even be able to hear us down here.”
“You fellows want a soda or something?” Mr. Caudell asked us.
“No, thank you,” David said.
“Hey, you look handsome,” Sandy said to me.
“Thanks.”
“You, too,” she told David.
“Here come the first guests,” he answered, and pulled a face.
The first guests were Violet, in a green muu muu, and Frankie and Stuart, the two fags who ran The Captain’s, down near the old ferry slip. The Captain’s was a shack overlooking the bay, and it had got its name because Frankie had decorated it with nets and anchors and lobster pots and buoys and all things nautical in an attempt to disguise the undisguisable fact that it was a shack. Neither Frankie nor Stuart were obnoxious fruits, meaning they didn’t go mincing around or making sexy little jokes about Oh, you’re such a cute one, I’d love to give you such a pinch, the way some faggots do, especially the ones in the city along Greenwich Avenue. Frankie had been living with Stuart for half his life, almost as though they were married. Stuart had a black handlebar mustache, and he never said very much. Frankie was blond, and he made up for Stuart’s reticence, talking almost nonstop in a high grating voice. They were both wearing Bermuda shorts and Italian sports shirts. Stuart also wore a wedding band.
“Hello, boys,” Violet said to us, “what a surprise! Hello, David,” she said, beaming, and David smiled and nodded, and then went inside to see if Sandy’s mother needed any help in the kitchen. I introduced Mr. Caudell to Violet and the others, and then drifted down to the lawn while he mixed drinks for them. Sandy’s mother heard voices and came out of the house. I was talking to Deuce when Sandy tiptoed up behind me and said, “Hi, handsome.”
“Hi, gorgeous.”
“You supervising the band?”
“Yep, getting everything organized down here, yep,” I said, and nodded. “You know ‘Paint It Black,’ Deuce?”
“Sure,” he said. “But that’s like from the days of the chariot races, man.”
“You know your fly is open?” Sandy whispered to me.
“No, but if you hum a few bars, I’ll fake it,” I said, and we both burst out laughing.