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NINE

T he pack of men in loosened vests and cockeyed hats, carrying bottles and shout-singing a drinking song, stumble up the boardwalk toward the boys. They are rowdy, punching one another in the shoulder and thwacking one another on the back. A biplane putters in the sky above them, and one looks up and points at it, stopping the others. “The Red Baron!” he shouts, and the other men shout, too. “Shoot it down! Shoot it down!” Looking skyward, they seem to lose their balance on the boardwalk, stepping dangerously close to the edge, until the biggest one, with a mustache that extends beyond his chin, takes one step too far and falls over, landing next to Eddie with a thud. The impact kicks sand into Eddie’s eyes. He leaps up blindly, banging his head on the edge of the boardwalk.

And then, just as suddenly as they appeared, the men are gone. The boys are gone, too—Francis and Vincent and Charlie and the rest. The little girl is gone. The attractions are gone, the roller coaster, the bathhouse, all gone. Eddie is once again in his sneakers and jeans, sitting on the beach beside the boardwalk, his Polaroid at his side. Below him, a small group of seagulls fights angrily over a bare chicken bone in the sand, their flapping wings knocking against an empty beer can, ting ting , ting ting .

“Shit!” Eddie spits. He was having such a good time. Feeling so brave. Like he belonged.

And now he’s alone again.

He has no idea how to get back to the city, or how long it will take. Not that he wants to go back there anyway, unless it means finding Francis again. But he can’t just sit here. He’s back in a time when time moves, and Cookie will be waiting.

The boardwalk, so vibrant and active just minutes (decades, a century) ago, is splintered and faded now, quiet, melancholy. Only a few weatherworn shops are open, lazy vendors selling tie-dyed T-shirts and steamy hot dogs. The sun is too bright again. He sees a stand selling cheap sunglasses, just five bucks a pair, but his pockets are empty.

Off to his left, a sign for the A train points the way. If it comes quickly, he’ll be back in the Village before long.

The station is empty, so no one notices Eddie slipping through an open exit door and onto the platform for free. He thinks of Francis when he does it, of the thieves and hustlers. Now he’s got a past, too, however small.

Soon he’s in a train car, sitting across from a woman with pink hair and a cat in a carry-cage, his desperately sleep-deprived head drooping to his chest as they roll across the bridge over Jamaica Bay, bound for Manhattan.