O'hara's Choice - Leon Uris [39]
1891—Chesapeake Park
The Ferris wheel stopped and the operator unhooked the bar.
“We’ll do another few rounds,” Zach said.
And away they went, backward, up and up, into a patch of darkness, and the wheel was braked and it stopped and the passengers dangled.
Amanda kissed him with a tongue full of adventure and he met her in midfield.
Let’s fly like this forever and ever! We’ll never run out of kisses or most subtle ways to touch each other here and there in a most decent manner.
There you are, mighty Paddy O’Hara, standing on the dock, hands raised and shouting, “Hip hip hooray!”
Well, I went up the Beatrice K’s pole three times, Da, and I’m a fucking Marine! And then an afterthought . . . I don’t know whether I love you or I hate you, Da.
Can you imagine? The operator of the Ferris wheel wouldn’t even let the Marine pay for his extra rounds.
They walked, him somewhat weak-legged, back toward the midway. Amanda knew full well that Zach’s father had been there with them. As they left the Ferris wheel, they were hanging on to each other in a new and different way.
At the dance pavilion, the blue-plate special was fifty-nine cents, within reason, and consisted of a combination of Maryland fried chicken, a Maryland fried crab cake, and a side of oysters with mashed potatoes, string beans, and “various,” to be concluded with a quarter of a watermelon.
Amanda wanted desperately to slip Zach a five-dollar bill but knew it would cut him to the quick and perhaps dampen the most wonderful day of her life.
Zach had come fully financed for the excursion. He had ironed sixty-two shirts for his buddies at the barracks at a nickel each, added four dollars and ten cents in a poker game, and drew a few dollars from what he had riding on the paymaster books.
“What will you have to drink, Marine?”
“Beer.”
“What year were you born?”
“Eighteen twenty.”
“And you, miss?”
“Beer, 1824,” she said, looking straight at him.
“I’ll bring you a pitcher, it’s cheaper.”
They held hands and cruised with their eyes around the pavilion.
“Who all is here?” she asked.
“A lot of Irish,” Zach observed. “Steel-mill workers from Sparrow’s Point. Lot of Germans,” he continued, “teamsters and dock-workers. See those midshipmen lining the bar?”
“Uh-huh.”
“A Norwegian training ship is in port. Over there, maybe trouble, two tables of single ladies.”
“What do you mean by trouble? Good trouble?”
“Bad trouble. Notice, when the music ends the Norwegians go back to the bar.”
“They’re probably bashful with the language and all.”
“No, that’s not it. They came together and they’re leaving together. They’re taking care of each other.”
“Look, Zach, one of them is leaving with a girl,” Amanda said.
“Let’s hope he doesn’t wake up tomorrow on a Greek freighter heading for Montevideo.”
Amanda’s mouth went agape.
“I draw shore-patrol duty sometimes. We’ve gotten more than one sailor out of a mess.”
“Are you teasing me?”
“We fought a war in 1812 about the British borrowing our sailors without consent.”
“Would you agree if I went to the bar and asked one to dance?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t be jealous, would you?”
“Oh sure, a little bit. That’s not it. I am responsible for you.”
Amanda felt incredibly protected. On to more mischief. He challenged her to a glass of beer. It had a disgusting taste, but her curiosity was aroused. Why is beer so sacred? It’s really not all that bad. Hmm. Hmm.
“Hey, there’s a buddy from my platoon. He and his girl are being seated at a table of strangers. Would you mind?”
“Ask them over.”
Zach zinged out a whistle and shot over the floor. “Hey, Varnik! Over here, man!”
The two Marines fell on each other as long-lost cousins, not as two men who spent all their living hours together.
“Hi, ma’am. I’m Zach.”
“I’m Beth Shaughnessy.”
“Amanda,” Amanda said.
“Casper Varnik,” the corporal said, shaking Amanda’s hand and bowing. “Hey, we got lucky, huh, Beth?”
The party was on. They recounted their daring adventures down the midway.