Free Famous Builder by Paul Lisicky Page B

my desire for solitude and separation. Or could it be that fluidity of land, water, weather, sky? There’s nothing better than returning to our house after we’ve spent a hectic week in Cherry Hill, the suburb that we’re supposed to like, but actually don’t. Far from the brutal playground, far from Sister Miriam Veronica, who humiliated me before my second-grade class because I had a Go Port folio instead of the required Pee Chee brand—all our petty anxieties disperse once we hit the bridge and pass the Coppertone billboard. (That pigtailed girl and her round white butt always elicits a song from us: Get the fastest tan that anyone can. …) To the east: the beaches of Longport and Margate. To the west: the bustling marinas, the bright blue generating station, the shining expansive water. No more claustrophobia, no more repetition and rigidity. Walking through the back door, I breathe in that reassuring closed-up house smell (mildew? crawl space?) and creep into the room I share with my brothers. Bobby and I lie in our respective twin beds, with Michael on the folding cot in the middle, thirsty and pleasantly carsick from the 55-mile drive. We rest beneath screens beaded with moisture. Sleep never takes long. I press my scalp into the damp flat pillow and try to name what I hear: rose vines creaking in the breeze, a line chiming against a mast, the moaning of the drawbridges as cars pass over their grids.
    And Mrs. Fox’s rituals and rites are a part of this experience. The next morning I wake to the suck-slam of her jalousie door, to which she has added a device that plays a jingle when it opens. I crouch on my bed, chin pressed to the sill, and revel in my role as spy. She’s working hard today, but not any harder than usual. Down on her hands and knees, she scrubs down the asphalt driveway with a bucketful of Tide. She’s in her regulation day uniform: tight tight shorts, candy pink tube top, and a white sailor cap with a turned-down brim. She scrubs harder now and peppers her exertions with soft grunts and a curious utterance that I’ve learned to imitate: ish. She glances up at a cabin cruiser, breathing in the dim smell of spent fuel.
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    Early on, I know that Mrs. Fox’s struggles are compounded by the fact that she doesn’t drive. It’s two miles to the Somers Point Center, and she’d rather stay at home than be seen walking along the shoulder of Longport Boulevard. No wonder she’s always sending my mother on some little errand, a loaf of Arnold Bread, some Taylor Pork Roll. More often than not it’s for a six-pack.
    “Which brand again?”
    “Piels,” she says, passing the five-dollar bill over the fence rail. “Buy the boys some candy with the change.”
    The request inevitably comes on an occasion when Mr. Fox is away in Huntingdon Valley or out on the boat fishing. Since he’s due in at midnight, she consumes all six cans in quick succession, “tinkles,” as she puts it, then takes herself to bed.
    My mother bristles at these requests, but complies anyway. For some reason, she always stops at the closest place and leaves us in the car. It’s not quite a package store, but a taproom in which she must walk past the older men at the bar, most of whom fall silent upon her entry. Only a few nights ago she sat behind the wheel to inform us that one of the men had called her “stacked.” I couldn’t tell whether she was delighted or appalled, or some combination of both.
    “Be back in a few hours,” says my mother.
    My brothers and I walk to the car and dream about what kind of candy to get with Mrs. Fox’s change: a Tootsie Roll pop, some Pixy Stix, Fleer bubblegum. But as I turn around at the gate, I see Mrs. Fox pinching and twisting the skin of her palm, as if to say hurry.
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    We watch Exercise with Gloria , which comes on every morning at nine following the Today Show with Hugh Downs. Although the program’s clearly designed for women and their special needs (the opening segment