By the Rivers of Brooklyn by Trudy Morgan-Cole Page B

at Coney Island, b’y, they’re all dressed like that out on the beach there. You takes it out and changes once you gets down there.” Ethel squeezed out a smile at that, Jim playing the big New Yorker for his little brother. Jim hadn’t been to Coney Island since, oh, maybe 1922, back when he first came. Long before they were married. Ethel had never wanted to go there, maybe because Rose said she went three or four times every summer and loved it. It sounded cheap, crowded and tawdry, not the kind of place Ethel would like to bring Ralphie.
    Ralphie was staying home today with Jean and her youngsters. Jean and Robert had promised to take the children to the zoo in Prospect Park. All the same, Ethel and Jim had had a fight about leaving Ralphie behind.
    â€œI just don’t see the point, to take a whole day and spend all that money to go to the seaside and not take our own child!” Ethel had said. “We don’t have that many outings and it seems mean not to take him.”
    â€œAnd how many outings do we get, just me and you, no kid?” Jim countered.
    â€œThere’s no need for that! We’re adults now, we have a child.”
    â€œYes, but we’re going with Rose and her boyfriend, with Harold – young single people. It’s not fair to tow a kid along. It’d be no fun for Ralphie and no fun for the rest of us.”
    She could see his point. You had a different kind of fun going somewhere with a small child, or with another family who had children, as they sometimes did with Jean and Robert. She could see, too, Jim’s longing for that other kind of fun, going on dates, going around with other couples, going to the pictures and to amusement parks. Rose’s kind of life.
    â€œIt just don’t seem right,” she said again.
    â€œFine then, we’ll take him with us.” Jim had shrugged.
    â€œI am not taking Ralphie to Coney Island with your sister and her Italian boyfriend!” Ethel had said. “He can stay with Robert and Jean for the day, and that’s final!” She raised her voice to cover the feeling that she’d been tricked into backing down.
    So here they were, eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, all packed to go and still no sign of Rose and the Italian. Ethel felt a little uneasy about missing Sunday School and church, but Rose and Jim had insisted Coney Island was an all-day trip. Ethel’s foot, pinched tight in the pointed toe of her new white summer shoes, drummed a staccato rhythm on the linoleum.
    They finally came at nearly eight-thirty, by which time Ethel had Jim and Harold out waiting on the sidewalk with the lunch basket and all their bags. Rose came sashaying up the street in a bright pink dress that showed her knees and a little pink hat so small it was ridiculous. Beside Rose walked a dark-haired young man in a straw hat with his jacket slung over one shoulder, a young man with a wide smile and a swinging, swaggering step. Jim stepped forward and swept Rose into a hug, swirling her away from the Italian, happy to see her as he always was when she crossed their doorstep every two or three months. Jim and Rose were two of a kind, Ethel thought, just like Bert and Annie. She didn’t know Harold well enough yet to know which kind of Evans he was.
    Harold stepped forward now, letting Jim lead him towards the sister he hadn’t seen in five years. Ethel could see him taking in the changes in Rose: the cherry lipstick, the rouge, the hard shiny voice that sounded more Brooklyn than St. John’s, which Ethel knew was put on.
    â€œEverybody, this is Tony Martelli,” Rose said. “Tony, my big brother Jim, my little brother Harold, and my sister-in-law Ethel.” Rose’s eyes slid quickly over Ethel’s outfit, back up to her face and away.
    Tony Martelli shook hands with the boys and took Ethel’s fingertips lightly, lifting them, grazing them with his lips. Ethel pulled her hand