Chapter 31: The Ocean

"Next Sunday?" Lily said. "That's seven days."

"Six and a half," Rafael said. "If you count from breakfast."

She counted on her fingers and accepted it.

By the next Sunday everybody knew.

Stool Nine and his wife. The deacon and his. The bakery sisters. The laundromat lady. The crew.

Raymond, who had bought a beach umbrella and a folding chair and a cooler.

"I've never been to the beach in my life," he said. "Sixty-three years, a dozen blocks from the bay."

"Ocean Beach isn't the bay," Rafael said.

"Then I've never been to that either."

We went in three cars.

Raymond's dented beige sedan, the crew's van and Rafael's pickup.

Lily rode with us, in the middle of the bench seat, in her pink glasses and her whale sweatshirt.

I had a lemon pound cake on my lap in a plastic box.

We crossed the bridge with the windows down.

When we came into the city, Rafael looked at me.

"Which way?"

He was asking me.

The fast way was the freeway, out to the beach and around the park.

The other way was Fulton Street, straight along the park, all the way to the water.

"Fulton," I said.

He nodded once and took it.

The other two cars followed us.

Lily kept up a running list of everything she saw.

"A dog. A bus. A man with a big hat. A lady with a big dog."

Then the park started on our left, all trees.

I knew which light it was before we got there.

It turned red as we came up to it.

Rafael stopped.

Nobody in the truck said anything.

Lily looked at my face.

Then out the window at the crosswalk, the white stripes, the curb by the park.

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