Dear John Read online

  "Water's fine."

  She bent over to grab a couple of bottles. I tried not to stare but did so anyway and, frankly, enjoyed it. I wondered whether she knew I was staring and assumed she did, for when she stood up and turned around, she had that amused look again. She set the bottles on the counter. "After this, you want to go surfing again?"

  How could I resist?

  We spent the afternoon in the water. As much as I enjoyed the up-close-Savannah-lying-on-the-board view I was treated to, I enjoyed the sight of her surfing even more. To make things even better, she asked to watch me while she warmed up on the beach, and I was treated to my own private viewing while enjoying the waves.

  By midafternoon we were lying on towels near, but not too near, the rest of the group behind the house. A few curious glances drifted in our direction, but for the most part, no one seemed to care that I was there, except for Randy and Susan. Susan frowned pointedly at Savannah; Randy, meanwhile, was content to hang out with Brad and Susan as the third wheel, licking his wounds. Tim was nowhere to be seen.

  Savannah was lying on her stomach, a tempting sight. I was on my back beside her, trying to doze in the lazy heat but too distracted by her presence to fully relax.

  "Hey," she murmured. "Tell me about your tattoos."

  I rolled my head in the sand. "What about them?"

  "I don't know. Why you got them, what they mean."

  I propped myself on one elbow. I pointed to my left arm, which had an eagle and banner. "Okay, this is the infantry insignia, and this"--I pointed to the words and letters--"is how we're identified: company, battalion, regiment. Everyone in my squad has one. We got it just after basic training at Fort Benning in Georgia when we were celebrating."

  "Why does it say 'Jump-start' underneath it?"

  "That's my nickname. I got it during basic training, courtesy of our beloved drill sergeant. I wasn't putting my gun together fast enough, and he basically said that he was going to jump-start a certain body part if I didn't get my act in gear. The nickname stuck."

  "He sounds pleasant," she joked.

  "Oh yeah. We called him Lucifer behind his back."

  She smiled. "What's the barbed wire above it for?"

  "Nothing," I said, shaking my head. "I had that one done before I joined."

  "And the other arm?"

  A Chinese character. I didn't want to go into it, so I shook my head. "It's from back in my 'I'm lost and don't give a damn' stage. It doesn't mean anything."

  "Isn't it a Chinese character?"

  "Yes."

  "Then what does it mean? It's got to mean something. Like bravery or honor or something?"

  "It's a profanity."

  "Oh," she said with a blink.

  "Like I said, it doesn't mean anything to me now."

  "Except that maybe you shouldn't flash it if you ever go to China."

  I laughed. "Yeah, except that," I agreed.

  She was quiet for a moment. "You were a rebel, huh?"

  I nodded. "A long time ago. Well, not really that long ago. But it seems like it."

  "That's what you meant when you said the army was something you needed at the time?"

  "It's been good for me."

  She thought about it. "Tell me--would you have jumped for my bag back then?"

  "No. I probably would have laughed at what happened."

  She evaluated my answer, as if wondering whether to believe me. Finally, she drew a long breath. "I'm glad you joined, then. I really needed that bag."

  "Good."

  "What else?"

  "What else what?"

  "What else can you tell me about yourself?"

  "I don't know. What do you want to know?"

  "Tell me something no one else knows about you."

  I considered the question. "I can tell you how many ten-dollar Indians with a rolled edge were minted in 1907."

  "How many?"

  "Forty-two. They were never intended for the public. Some men at the mint made them for themselves and some friends."

  "You like coins?"

  "I'm not sure. It's a long story."

  "We've got time."

  I hesitated while Savannah reached for her bag. "Hold on," she said, rummaging through it. She pulled out a tube of Coppertone. "You can tell me after you put some lotion on my back. I feel like I'm getting burned."

  "Oh, I can, huh?"

  She winked. "It's part of the deal."

  I applied the lotion to her back and shoulders and probably went a bit overboard, but I convinced myself that she was turning pink and that having a sunburn of any sort would make her work the next day miserable. After that, I spent the next few minutes telling her about my grandfather and dad, about the coin shows and good old Eliasberg. What I didn't do was specifically answer her question, for the simple reason that I wasn't quite sure what the answer was. When I finished she turned to me.

  "And your father still collects coins?"

  "All the time. At least, I think so. We don't talk about coins anymore."

  "Why not?"

  I told her that story, too. Don't ask me why. I knew I should have been putting my best foot forward and tossing out crap to impress her, but with Savannah that wasn't possible. For whatever reason, she made me want to tell the truth, even though I barely knew her. When I finished she was wearing a curious expression.

  "Yeah, I was a jerk," I offered, knowing there were other, probably more accurate words to describe me back then, all of which were profane enough to offend her.

  "It sounds like it," she said, "but that's not what I was thinking. I was trying to imagine you back then, because you seem nothing like that person now."

  What could I say that wouldn't sound bogus, even if it was true? Unsure, I opted for Dad's approach and said nothing.

  "What's your dad like?"

  I gave her a quick recap. As I spoke, she scooped sand and let it trail through her fingers, as if concentrating on my choice of words. In the end, surprising myself again, I admitted that we were almost strangers.

  "You are," she said, using that nonjudgmental, matter-of-fact tone. "You've been gone for a couple of years, and even you admit that you've changed. How could he know you?"

  I sat up. The beach was packed; it was the time of day when everyone who planned to come was already here, and no one was quite ready to leave. Randy and Brad were playing Frisbee by the water's edge, running and shouting. A few others wandered over to join them.

  "I know," I said. "But it's not just that. We've always been strangers. I mean, it's just so hard to talk to him."

  As soon as I said it, I realized she was the first person I'd ever admitted it to. Strange. But then, most of what I was saying to her sounded strange.

  "Most people our age say that about their parents."

  Maybe, I thought. But this was different. It wasn't a generational difference, it was the fact that for my dad, normal chitchat was all but impossible, unless it dealt with coins. I said nothing more, however, and Savannah smoothed the sand in front of her. When she spoke, her voice was soft. "I'd like to meet him."

  I turned toward her. "Yeah?"

  "He sounds interesting. I've always loved people who have this . . . passion for life."

  "It's a passion for coins, not life," I corrected her.

  "It's the same thing. Passion is passion. It's the excitement between the tedious spaces, and it doesn't matter where it's directed." She shuffled her feet in the sand. "Well, most of the time, anyway. I'm not talking vices here."

  "Like you and caffeine."

  She smiled, flashing the small gap between her two front teeth. "Exactly. It can be coins or sports or politics or horses or music or faith . . . the saddest people I've ever met in life are the ones who don't care deeply about anything at all. Passion and satisfaction go hand in hand, and without them, any happiness is only temporary, because there's nothing to make it last. I'd love to hear your dad talk about coins, because that's when you see a person at his b
est, and I've found that someone else's happiness is usually infectious."

  I was struck by her words. Despite Tim's opinion that she was naive, she seemed far more mature than most people our age. Then again, considering the way she looked in her bikini, she probably could have recited the phone book and I would have been impressed.

  Savannah sat up beside me, and her gaze followed mine. The game of Frisbee was in full swing; as Brad zipped the disk, a couple of others went running for it. They both dove for it simultaneously, splashing in the shallows as their heads collided. The one in red shorts came up empty, swearing and holding his head, his shorts covered in sand. The others laughed, and I found myself smiling and wincing simultaneously.

  "Did you see that?" I asked.

  "Hold on," she said instead. "I'll be right back." She trotted over to red shorts. He saw her approaching and froze, as did the guy next to him. Savannah, I realized, had pretty much the same effect on every guy, not just me. I could see her talking and smiling, turning that earnest gaze on the guy, who nodded as she spoke, looking like a chastised adolescent. She returned to my side and sat again. I didn't ask, knowing it wasn't my business, but I knew I was telegraphing my curiosity.

  "Normally, I wouldn't have said anything, but I asked him to keep his language in check because of all the families out here," she explained. "There are lots of little kids around. He said he would."

  I should have guessed. "Did you suggest he use 'Holy cow' or 'Geez' instead?"

  She squinted at me mischievously. "You liked those expressions, didn't you."

  "I'm thinking of passing them on to my squad. They'll add to our intimidation factor when we're busting down doors and launching RPGs."

  She giggled. "Definitely scarier than swearing, even if I don't know what an RPG is."

  "Rocket-propelled grenade." Despite myself, I liked her more with every passing minute. "What are you doing tonight?"

  "I don't have any plans. Well, except for the meeting. Why? Did you want to bring me to meet your father?"

  "No. Well, not tonight, anyway. Later. Tonight, I wanted to show you around Wilmington."

  "Are you asking me out?"

  "Yeah," I admitted. "I'll have you back whenever you want. I know you've got to work tomorrow, but there's this great place that I want to show you."

  "What kind of place?"

  "A local place. Specializes in seafood. But it's more of an experience."

  She wrapped her arms around her knees. "I usually don't date strangers," she finally said, "and we only met yesterday. You think I can trust you?"

  "I wouldn't," I said.

  She laughed. "Well, in that case, I suppose I can make an exception."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah," she said. "I'm a sucker for honest guys with crew cuts. What time?"

  Four

  I was home by five, and though I didn't feel sunburned--that Southern European skin again--the burn was obvious when I showered. The water stung as it ricocheted off my chest and shoulders, and my face made me feel as if I were running a low fever. Afterward, I shaved for the first time since I'd been home and dressed in a clean pair of shorts and one of the few relatively nice button-down shirts I owned, light blue. Lucy had bought it for me and swore the color was perfect for me. I rolled up the sleeves and left the shirt untucked, then rummaged through my closet for an ancient pair of sandals.

  Through the crack in the door, I could see my dad at his desk, and it struck me that for the second night in a row I'd made other plans for dinner. Nor had I spent any time with him this weekend. He wouldn't complain, I knew, but I still felt a pang of guilt. After we stopped talking about coins, breakfast and dinner were the only things we shared, and I was now depriving him even of that. Maybe I hadn't changed as much as I thought I had. I was staying in his home and eating his food, and I was just about to ask him whether I could borrow his car. In other words, pretty much leading my own life and using him in the process. I wondered what Savannah would say to that, but I think I already knew the answer. Savannah sometimes sounded a lot like the little voice that had taken up residence in my head but never bothered paying rent, and right now it whispered that if I felt guilty, maybe I was doing something wrong. I resolved that I would spend more time with him. It was a cop-out and I admitted it, but I didn't know what else to do.

  When I opened the door, Dad looked startled to see me.

  "Hey, Dad," I said, taking my usual seat.

  "Hi, John." As soon as he spoke, he glanced at his desk and ran a hand over his thinning hair. When I added nothing, he realized that he should ask me a question. "How was your day?" he finally inquired.

  I shifted in my seat. "It was great, actually. I spent most of the day with Savannah, the girl I told you about last night."

  "Oh." His eyes drifted to the side, refusing to meet mine. "You didn't tell me about her."

  "I didn't?"

  "No, but that's okay. It was late." For the first time, he seemed to realize I was dressed up, or at least as dressed up as he'd ever seen me, but he couldn't bring himself to ask about it.

  I tugged at my shirt, letting him off the hook. "Yeah, I know, trying to impress her, right? I'm taking her out to dinner tonight," I said. "Is it okay if I borrow the car?"

  "Oh . . . okay," he said.

  "I mean, did you need it tonight? I might be able to call a friend or something."

  "No," he said. He reached into his pocket for the keys. Nine dads out of ten would have tossed them; mine held them out.

  "You okay?" I asked.

  "Just tired," he said.

  I stood and took the keys. "Dad?"

  He glanced up again.

  "I'm sorry about not having dinner with you these last couple of nights."

  "It's okay," he said. "I understand."

  The sun was beginning its slow descent, and as I pulled out, the sky was a swirl of fruity colors that contrasted dramatically with the evening skies I'd come to know in Germany. Traffic was horrendous, as it usually was on Sunday nights, and it took almost thirty exhaust-fumed minutes to get back to the beach and pull in the drive.

  I pushed open the door to the house without knocking. Two guys seated on the couch watching baseball heard me come in.

  "Hey," they said, sounding uninterested and unsurprised.

  "Have you seen Savannah?"

  "Who?" one of them asked, obviously paying me little attention.

  "Never mind. I'll find her." I crossed the living room to the back deck, saw the same guy as the night before grilling again and a few others, but no sign of Savannah. Nor could I see her on the beach. I was just about to go back in when I felt someone tapping my shoulder.

  "Who are you looking for?" she asked.

  I turned around. "Some girl," I said. "She tends to lose things at piers, but she's a quick learner when it comes to surfing."

  She put her hands on her hips, and I smiled. She was dressed in shorts and a summer halter, with a hint of color in her cheeks, and I noticed she'd applied a bit of mascara and lipstick. While I loved her natural beauty--I am a kid from the beach--she was even more striking than I remembered. I caught the whiff of some lemony fragrance as she leaned toward me.

  "That's all I am? Some girl?" she asked. She sounded both playful and serious, and for an instant, I fantasized about wrapping my arms around her right then and there.

  "Oh," I said, feigning surprise. "It's you."

  The two guys on the couch glanced toward us, then returend to the screen.

  "You ready to go?" I asked.

  "I've just got to get my purse," she said. She retrieved it from the kitchen counter, and we started for the door. "And where are we going, by the way?"

  When I told her, she lifted an eyebrow.

  "You're taking me to eat at a place with the word shack in the name?"

  "I'm just an underpaid grunt in the army. It's all I can afford."

  She bumped against me as we walked. "See, this is why I usually don't date strangers.
"

  The Shrimp Shack is in downtown Wilmington, in the historic area that borders the Cape Fear River. At one end of the historic area are your typical tourist destinations: souvenir stores, a couple of places specializing in antiques, a few upscale restaurants, coffee shops, and various real estate offices. At the other end, however, Wilmington displayed its character as a working port city: large warehouses, more than one of which stood abandoned, and a few other dated office buildings only half-occupied. I doubted that the tourists who flocked here in the summer ever ventured toward this other end. This was the direction I turned. Little by little, the crowds faded away until no one was left on the sidewalk as the area grew more dilapidated.

  "Where is this place?" Savannah asked.

  "Just a little farther," I said. "Up there, at the end."

  "It's kind of out of the way, isn't it?"

  "It's kind of a local institution," I said. "The owner doesn't care if tourists come or not. He never has."

  A minute later, I slowed the car and turned into a small parking lot bordering one of the warehouses. A few dozen cars were parked in front of the Shrimp Shack, as they always were, and the place hadn't changed. As long as I'd known it, it had looked run-down, with a broad, cluttered porch, peeling paint, and a crooked roofline that made it appear as if the place were about to fall over, despite the fact that it had been weathering hurricanes since the 1940s. The exterior was decorated with nets, hubcaps, license plates, an old anchor, oars, and a few rusty chains. A broken rowboat sat near the door.

  The sky was beginning its lazy fade to black as we walked to the entrance. I wondered whether I should reach for Savannah's hand, but in the end I did nothing. While I may have had some version of hormone-induced success with women, I had very little experience when it came to girls I cared about. Despite the fact that only a day had passed since we'd met, I already knew I was in new territory.

  We stepped onto the sagging porch, and Savannah pointed to the rowboat. "Maybe that's why he opened a restaurant. Because his boat sank."

  "Could be. Or maybe someone just left it there and he never bothered to remove it. You ready?"

  "As I'll ever be," she said, and I pushed open the door.

  I don't know what she expected, but she wore a satisfied expression as she stepped inside. There was a long bar off on one side, windows that overlooked the river, and, in the main seating area, wooden picnic benches. A couple of waitresses with big hair--they hadn't seemed to change any more than the decor--were moving among the tables, carrying platters of food. The air held the greasy smell of fried food and cigarette smoke, but somehow it seemed just right. Most of the tables were filled, but I motioned toward one near the jukebox. It was playing a country-western song, though I couldn't have told you who the singer was. I'm more of a classic-rock fan.