Lost at Coney Island

When I was four, maybe almost five years old my wonderful Grandma Jenny, Pauline’s feisty, activist mother whom we called Mommy Jenny or Jenny but never Grandma took me to Coney Island Beach and lost me. We all, my sibs and I that is—loved Mommy Jenny. As an adult I often referred to her as “the Permitter”. In the lives of all five of us Jenny (Jean Chriss Stark) took the grandmotherly role of provider of unconditional love and support. We adored her. It was an incredibly bright and sunny early summer day. There was a light breeze that played with the hems of the flowered summer dresses of the boardwalk promenaders but not enough to blow the straw boaters and sailor hats off their beaux’s pomaded heads. Acrid ocean smells fought with the powerful sweetness of cotton candy. Cotton Candy, what magic—from cone gathering inception to the forbidden consumption (forbidden by my mother who worried about our teeth and later about our weight). I watched the magic accruing while Mommy Jenny talked to the vendor. She knew everyone. And most of them spoke in the funny and endearing way she did. “Efter lunch we’ll hev some”, she told me. I was willing to wait. I knew she had brought my favorite foods in the string bag she carried looped around her wrist. I loved grilled cheese sandwiches, even cold, even when the bread had gone soft and the cheese rubbery. I had watched her packing our lunch earlier while I ate breakfast at the shiny kitchen table in her Brooklyn apartment. French Toast with marmalade. Now I was sitting on the little fold up stool Jenny carried in her satchel that had the straw roses on it. I was in my new blue (my favorite color) bathing suit with an oversized white tee shirt over it to protect my pale skin from sun damage. My nose was covered with the prerequisite white stuff. And my arms and legs had been well smeared with Coppertone for kids. Jenny had dark skin; she had patiently explained to me and did not need the same protection from the sun. She was brown as a berry, had dark hair and dark eyes like my mother, though Pauline’s skin was reddish and she freckled in the summer. Earlier, my very popular grandmother and I had walked together to the edge of the surf, stopping often along the way to say hi—and put our feet in the icy water. Then we very bravely walked in very slowly up to my knees with the surf hitting the backs of our legs. Then she lifted me up by my arms and we walked a few additional feet. We had a game I loved. We huddled down together waiting for the surf yelling , Here it comes!, Here it comes! getting louder and louder as the waves approached. Here it comes! Then she lifted me up and out of the water by my thin white arms that were growing colonies of goosebumps—just at the exact moment the waves reached us,dipping me back in the water again in time for a small wave and then up again and then back and up again many times. Here it comes! as I giggled and screamed with joy. The waves at the edge of the surf were small but looking up I could see the breakers in the distance crashing against the waiting ocean. If I looked, I could not stop looking so I tried to keep my head down and follow the small waves. Afterwards we walked hand in hand along the cool strip of packed sand and across the warm sugary stuff that got between your toes, to the boardwalk where we sat on a green bench and cleaned the sand off our feet with the edge of a striped towel. I was putting on a new pair of sandals bought earlier that week and Jenny helped me close the buckles. I looked up gratefully and that’s when I saw the cotton candy. “You can have some after lunch . . .” I was glued to the big glass box that held the machine that spun the sugar into pink magic. I circled the box with my nose pressed to the glass around and around and when I finally looked up I didn’t see my grandma. I continued to circle the box stopping to ask the cotton candy man over and over again . . . “Where is my grandma? Where is my grandma?” She was gone. I couldn’t find her. I walked along the boardwalk saying her name over and over again. Mommy Jenny, Mommy Jenny, Mommy Jenny. Then I was running and crying Mommy Jenny, Mommy Jenny and screaming Mommy Jenny until I caught my sandal on a raised board and fell and skinned my knee. The shock of falling squelched my tears while a small crowd assembled around me. They were all talking at once. And I couldn’t separate the words. I wasn’t crying anymore even though my knee was bleeding freely onto the boardwalk and making a small puddle. Where’s your mom? What’s your name? What’s your name? Finally a big man in a white jacket picked me up and asked, “Whatsa matta kid? Cat got your tongue?”—And carried me to the first aid station. A boardwalk cop in a blue uniform brought me lemonade AND ice cream. But the cat had my tongue. The words were in my head but somewhere far away . . . the loudspeaker was announcing . . . If you are missing a child please come to the first aid station . . . and then I saw Momma Jenny running towards me. The string bag swinging from her wrist. Jersey City, NJ, 2014