Excerpt from THE END OF THE POINT
The Army had paved the road. It was the first thing Bea noticed, coming back with the Porters that summer when most other families stayed away-how the rutted dirt, grassy bumps, heaves and jolts, were gone; instead, a ribbon, gray and smooth. Mrs. Porter complained about it; the two older girls did, too. people will speed now, army trucks. A gash on the land, said Helen dramatically. A wound.
Bea didn’t think so. Bea, sitting in the far back seat with Janie half on her lap and one leg asleep from the long trip, was glad for the change. Where are the soldiers? asked the older girls, craning and peering. Where are the U-boats, the enemy planes? if it wasn’t safe, we wouldn’t have come, their mother said, but her voice was vague; she was trailing her hand out the window, gulping in the sea air. And even Bea, who silently resisted coming every year—and especially this one—inhaled and felt the seaside rush, moist and salty, into her throat.
Other things had changed, too; you could see that right off, although the bigger changes, the ones that might make a life swerve or stay on course, did not show themselves until later on. There was a high wooden spotting tower as you drove onto the point, where civilian volunteers took turns staring through binoculars at the sky. There was an army truck parked by the path down to the boat dock, and farther down--shouting distance from the Porters’—a high wooden gate across the road, with wire fencing on either side. On one side of the gate, a soldier, pink- faced, boy-faced; on the other side, another soldier.
Sit nice, Bea said to Janie, for the girl was awake now, leaning out the car window. Who are they, asked Janie. She was eight; it was 1942. She knew nothing about war yet, though something about suffering. No one you should talk to, Beatrice said.
The End of the Point
Bea didn’t think so. Bea, sitting in the far back seat with Janie half on her lap and one leg asleep from the long trip, was glad for the change. Where are the soldiers? asked the older girls, craning and peering. Where are the U-boats, the enemy planes? if it wasn’t safe, we wouldn’t have come, their mother said, but her voice was vague; she was trailing her hand out the window, gulping in the sea air. And even Bea, who silently resisted coming every year—and especially this one—inhaled and felt the seaside rush, moist and salty, into her throat.
Other things had changed, too; you could see that right off, although the bigger changes, the ones that might make a life swerve or stay on course, did not show themselves until later on. There was a high wooden spotting tower as you drove onto the point, where civilian volunteers took turns staring through binoculars at the sky. There was an army truck parked by the path down to the boat dock, and farther down--shouting distance from the Porters’—a high wooden gate across the road, with wire fencing on either side. On one side of the gate, a soldier, pink- faced, boy-faced; on the other side, another soldier.
Sit nice, Bea said to Janie, for the girl was awake now, leaning out the car window. Who are they, asked Janie. She was eight; it was 1942. She knew nothing about war yet, though something about suffering. No one you should talk to, Beatrice said.
The End of the Point
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